Thinking

Rhalkyr settles a cat of black ink into the crook of his left arm as he stares at
enormous eyes of the Greev, pacing about the massive orbs in slow, faintly erratic loops, ever
keeping his masked face directed towards them, no matter how he turns and shifts.
Rhalkyr abruptly comes to a halt, collapsing into a cross-legged seated position,
facing the eyes. With the blunt, thick fingers of his right hand, he taps out a slow, steady rhythm
upon the side of his thigh, gazing fixedly at the malignant spheres of forest detritus.

You think to yourself: Always, the woven jungle. Always, that internal construct born of things most
beloved, most revered. Increasingly, obfuscation, distraction - distress. Obsession. The mist
permeates the wilderness entire, winding insidiously through the boughs and roots of silken, twisted
trees, suffusing the blessed peace of shadow with cloying grease.

 The Greev, that most unwelcome of guests, remains, looming over all like a
baleful titan. Upon a distant cliff, the tiger - or a child's awkward interpretation of one, at
least, all lumpen lack of grace and malformed ineptitude. The eyes are as chips of broken glass
pushed clumsily into clay, asymmetrical in form and alignment, but united in the unwavering glare
they direct at the Greev.

 Flick, flick, flick. A poorly striped tail, an uneven serpent of shoddy clay,
thumps and twitches in agitation, back and forth, back and forth, keeping time with the beat of his
heart. A voice, mocking and endlessly lovely, "Knowing that, is the subject of that vision the
Greev? Or someone else?" Some/one/. Not some/thing/. A giant spider. Another voice, cool and rich,
but lent a warmth by the fond regard he feels, "It portrays that the Greev feels through vibrations
in a web." A web. A web. A web. Does it await, even now, lurking?

 Does he sit upon one of its strands? Has he stumbled across it, set it to
thrumming, like a blind fly, while the massive arachnid watches? A literal web, as one of Her
children weaves, or less so? Does it sense on strands of aether? Through the roots and vines and
branches of the forest? Through the eyes and senses of lesser arachnids?

You think to yourself: A dramatic sigh, a glimpse of pale flesh, as fine as marble. "What shape did
the Greev take?" A grin. "It looked like a giant spider to me, that's for sure." It does not
necessarily imply that the source of the thoughts, the wreath's vision presence, is a /giant/
arachnid. It could be as little as his thumbnail, but did Khasur not say /a giant spider/, twice?
Difficult to discern whether the repetition of phrasing was intentional, or meaningless.


You have emoted: Tap.Tap. Tap. As constant, as unshifting in its implacability as the glittering
stare of Rhalkyr's eyes upon that of his obsession.

You think to yourself: The vivid image of Khasur, when he had asked of his theory of the Glomdoring
triumvirate, of the threefold Goddess, Greev, and the Glomdoring. She had stepped forward, had she
not? Was that not a sign of his brushing near something important, something true? She had taken
time to answer, as well, with none of the lurking mockery present, gazing up to the sky. Was there
something there?

 What had he said, precisely? The wording could be important, here. He knew,
after all, how the placement and timing of a word here, a carefully selected phrase there, could
bend and twist meaning into wildly differing shapes. "Blackpetal, is, the Greev." Then, Khasur's
voice, "No." Just that. The clarification of Blackpetal as the Summer Song. The prolonged period of
thought. The single word in response.

You think to yourself: So. She was not the Greev. Khasur, however, would not answer who the thoughts
of the vision belonged to. The presence - let us call them the Weaver - who was so concerned with
how they were seen, if the Wyrd would permit two of /us/ to exist. Would 'they' understand. Who,
then? Some/one/ that there is already another of. Someone that the Wyrd would have strong feelings,
one way or another - enough to cast doubt if it would /permit/ the very existence of the Weaver.

You think to yourself: Spiders. Webs. Wyrd. Two of us. Understanding. Hidden.

Xenthos tells you, "Would you join us, please?"

 Discover the origin of the Greev. "What shape did the Greev take?" What
/shape/ did it /take/. Was the Greev, then, modeled after something extant? Did it take its shape
from the Weaver? Is the Weaver some older entity, tied to the origin of the Greev?