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It all starts when the Hunter finds spider webs in his territory. The silk is of such poor quality that it only takes a harsh puff of air or the swipe of his hand to take them apart. Not even the weakest vengefly would be caught in this web. Whoever is encroaching on his hunting grounds is either overconfident, or very stupid. Likely both. Still, he has never seen a spider in Greenpath before. It might be some new, migrating breed that he can add to his journal. He has grown bored of Greenpath but does not feel like venturing further south into the den of spiders at the bottom of this dead kingdom.
It also so happens that he has plenty of meat to cure, and repairs to make to his den after rain from the surface sent floodwater seeping through the cavern ceilings. One early morning, he stomps out of his den, past the fortifications he has set up around his abode, and goes off in search of foliage to cover his roof with. There are thorns further down, towards what he has decided to call the ‘gardened Greenpath’: it is an overgrown garden full of mantises whose crunchy bodies have reliably filled his stomach during what should have been lean winter months.
He considers the thorns, and decides against it. If he stood up too straight, he would bash his head against them. Shrubbery would be a better camouflage in this case, and woven together, it would be quite dense.
As the Hunter contemplates all of this, he feels something against his leg. Looking down, he sees the sad remains of a spider’s web wrapped around his leg. He peels it off as easily as a piece of paper, thoughts turning once again to this mysterious intruder. Except this time, he actually sits down and inspects the web. This was clearly made by someone—or something—who is malnourished and desperate. It would be easy prey, and a new specimen to study. The Hunter looks around for more signs of disturbance.
Other bugs wouldn’t notice, but the Hunter quickly finds evidence that someone has passed through here. There are impossibly tiny footprints in the mud, leading into a thicket. He follows the trail, and winds up in a small clearing. He has been here, to drink water from a pond fed by one of Greenpath’s many streams, and it looks like he wasn’t the only one with that idea. A tiny figure cloaked in red is leaning over the edge, drinking noisily.
The Hunter’s instincts kick in at the sight of such small prey. All he has to do is reach out and squeeze it in his fist, and it’ll be over.
Just as he goes to do so, however, something sharp pierces his palm.
“Agh!” The Hunter reels back, clutching his hand. With a glint of silver, the little bug disappears into the brush. He is too taken aback to give chase. On his palm is a deep slash, too perfect to be anything but a needle or nail—or perhaps a stinger. He doesn’t know—it ran away before he could get a good look at it.
Once the initial shock wears off, he stems the flow of blood with some damp moss, and reaches for his journal. He sketches the vague figure, and adds a caption.
What was once just a minor disturbance has become, the Hunter believes, a serious cause for concern. The tiny bug’s poor webs were enough to make the Hunter underestimate it. Clearly, where it lacks in artistry, this new, little hunter makes up for in savagery. He never gets taken off guard like that. Unfortunately, as much as it rankles him, he cannot afford to neglect his day-to-day duties. If the bug decides to show itself, he’ll settle the matter then. In the meantime, he still has to brace himself for the incoming rain. He has gone to the surface several times in the past week, and has good cause to believe that there’s trouble brewing in the air. He has weathered rainstorms in the past in underground settlements, and they were all unpleasant.
This past experience aids him: he stores extra provisions and fortifies the roof of his cave with plenty of time to spare. When the first streams of rain come down from the surface, he is comfortable and dry. Today is one of those rare days when he doesn’t feel the need to do anything productive. He sits cross-legged in his den and watches the rain fall and nourish the earth.
He meditates on the effect the rain has on Greenpath. The barrels he has set out are already filling steadily with rainwater, which he will use for drinking, bathing, and cooking. As troublesome as storms can be, there is good to them, too.
His thoughts turn to little bug with the red cloak. With how big Greenpath is, it could be anywhere. It might have been taken off guard by the rising water and drowned. Small bugs often do. He thinks about how it caught him off guard and tries to remember what it struck him with. After a while, he makes up his mind to go and look for it, weather be damned. He leaves his shelter and sets off.
Being a seasoned hunter, he does not doubt his ability to track his quarry. He looks for spots of red in the leaves, and ripples in the water that could indicate swimming or struggling. He checks under every leaf and behind every rock. The rain has washed away any footprints or webs that could have made, but he remembers its scent. That, at least, hasn’t gone away yet.
The Hunter finds the bug at last, curled up under a leaf and clutching the handle of a long needle. It is a fine weapon, not one he would expect to find in the hands of something he could eat. He lifts up the leaf and realizes how small the bug’s hands are. It groans, disturbed, when he cups it in his hands.
The middle of a storm is no place to investigate his discovery, so before anything else, he scuttles back to the safety of his den. Under the watchful glow of his lanterns, he peels back the sodden red cloak and is crushed with guilt that he ever thought of eating this bug. It is a child. A very young child. Its horns are still small, but even then, too big for its stick-thin body.
Two silvery badges are pinned to its tattered dress: a round one with six eyes, and one with four prongs curved inwards. He is familiar enough with the latter, because it seems to be everywhere he goes in this fallen kingdom. From what he has gathered, it was the insignia of a god. It would not be unusual for a child to be wearing that on their clothes, but the mask pin eludes him. Whoever this little one was, their parents clearly cared enough to dress them well and train them to fight. A pity, then, that they were both likely dead. If it were him, he wouldn’t let a hatchling run off alone.
The child shivers and holds themselves. They squint up at the Hunter with watery black eyes. “Mama?”
“No.” The Hunter frowns. Does he resemble a spider? In any case, he now has a decision to make: he could find a real spider to leave this child with. Or he could keep them for himself. An impulse decision, really, but even the pests in the Waterways have broods of their own. Going there was a depressing reminder of what he gave up when he chose this solitary lifestyle.
Would he take in every stray? Certainly not. However, no parent—whether biological or adoptive—can explain the draw they have to their children. The Hunter believes that all bugs have this instinct, and even if they do not wish to become parents themselves, it is natural to feel protective of the young and vulnerable.
He is getting ahead of himself. The child has gone quiet again. They are plainly cold and sick. It is a good thing he collected so much rain water. He boils a pan of it over a fire and tests the temperature on his wrist. Rather than dunk the spider in the water, he sponges them down and leaves their filthy clothes to soak. This does not happen without resistance. As soon as the spider is unarmed, they hiss and snap at his fingers. The only thing that stops them is being wrapped in a moss blanket with just their head poking out. Now warm and comfortable, they yawn and quickly go to sleep.
It could have gone worse. The Hunter was going to go through his medicine stores, but there’s no sense in that if his patient is not awake for it. He pulls a curtain of leaves over the entrance to his den and sits before the fire, contemplating his rash actions. The more he thinks about it, the more troubled he becomes. He cooks a slug over the fire to ease his anxiety.
The smell of cooked meat awakes the child. They turn their head towards the fire and caterwaul. Such a loud noise could draw beasts to the Hunter’s hiding place! Worse yet, they could scare away any nearby prey. He panics and almost trips over himself crossing the den to them.
“What do you want, tiny squib?” He glances at the stick of cooked slug, still clutched in his fist. “Are you hungry? Eat this.”
He breaks off a piece of the slug and offers it to the spider. They snatch it faster than he can blink and stuff it all in their mouth at once. What reflexes, the Hunter muses. As they are now, they are weak, but he sees potential in them yet. What better idea than to introduce them to the craft of hunting? Yes, he has made a good decision after all.