- Invitation Status
- Look for groups
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
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- Multiple posts per week
- 1-3 posts per week
- Writing Levels
- Advanced
- Preferred Character Gender
- Female
- Nonbinary
- Genres
- Fantasy, High fantasy
The world was going through a metamorphosis. The Dynasty was poised to be the next world power. The White Sand Empire languished due to their penchant to discommode. A collective of ethnostates governed by infants. Toddlers who placed their race on a pedestal. What inanity to presume such immutable traits were a sound enough foundation for a lasting empire. Nevertheless, the spider of the jungle wasn't foolish enough to discount the threat their sanguinary nature might breed.
Those born to the south were blissfully incognizant of the powerhouse budding within the primordial bosom—the ignition of industry, the investment of research, and the unification rendered by a new ideal. Step by step, the matron governed her people, using her perspicuity to circumvent the pitfalls of hubris. The reach of her webbing was far, and its intricacies exceeded fathomability. Centuries of work were soon to bear their fruit. And as the Verdant Dynasty stood now, it seemed improbable that anyone could desist the wheels of progress.
The council she had placed served a function, disseminating an illusion that puffed the lesser wills with a sense of control. However, they held no sway, and their seats were merely gestures. An empty platitude of reverence engineered to convey a semblance of authority and freedom. Periodically the spider balked and accepted a loss during their rulings. Patiently buying her time as their existences were ephemeral. The spider was playing the long game. For if there was one objective benefit to the malediction that beset her, it was that immortality endowed her with time to wait.
They were all dolts plagued by myopic eyes and false conceptions of grandeur. And with each generation, her hold over the nation's heart strengthened. Soon, everything she envisioned would come to pass—one collective, motivated not by materialism but by something far more inestimable. Ideas, while intangible, held an undeniable grip over the temporal plane. And that was how she'd cement her legacy, not by fire and war alone, but by sowing thoughts into the people's minds and gradually revising their lingua. The arachnoid's usurpation would be imperceptible and silent due to its pace. And the old world would die, not with a violent scream, but a whimper.
Valerna had learned long ago that despite what many would proclaim, the bulk didn't desire freedom. Since civilizations' dawn, the masses traded their liberties for amenities and securities. A perpetual barter that, while seditiously deferred for a time, was inescapable. A truth that many might oppugn from a position of ignorance. However, one needs only rummage through the chronicles of history to spot its virtually ubiquitous presence. A certitude she had endeavored to foil but unfailingly failed to sidestep. The spider learned from yesteryears' drubbings and sought to pivot and adapt to the mortal condition.
Many a fool might be prone to label such deductions as the marks of a pessimist. They might even go as far as to brand such views as egocentric. She supports their right to hold erroneous positions and wouldn't dare strip it from them. Unfortunately, the macrocosm isn't beholden to what we wish to be true. And struggle as they may to deny reality, they were all under its yoke. Freedom was a timeless fallacy—a lie espoused and masqueraded by rhetoric. All souls, regardless of their station, were indentured to something.
What separates an enslaved person from a "free" individual is that the bondage is willing. Family, friends, culture, theology, ideology, and self-improvement were all mistresses. And each will bear their thralldom without protest. Valerna herself wasn't unfettered from this truth. She was a servant, a slave to her idealism and her people. And everything she enacted was to further their longevity and interest. For heavy is the crown, but heavier is the price of failure.
Manipulation often carries with it an air of negativity. Nonetheless, the truth was seldom so simple. One could coerce others to achieve great things and better their lot. The power of persuasion was above banal classifications such as good and evil. And like any mechanism, it was the intent and the consequence it begot that degraded or sanctified it. One doesn't get to pen how they will be remembered. That power resides within the commoners' fickled hearts and is solidified in due time.
Valerna soughed; such ruminations did little to lighten the load on her shoulders. Those chestnut eyes surveyed the municipality of the boneyard as she stood on her terrace. The heft of responsibility was unavoidable. Nevertheless, she brooked it for one simple reason. Someone else might get it wrong. Remaining hushed, the spider took a sip from her chalice. The warm crimson ichor ran down her gullet as she let out a sigh of endorsement. The blood of fresh game always had a way of stifling her nerves.
The clangor of the city, the vista of progress, ensured the chieftain remained true to her vision. However, from on high, it all appeared relatively small and insignificant. Complacency was a scourge, a nemesis she must vie with if the world of tomorrow was to come to fruition. And she had to remain steadfast and purge it from her heart and that of her most loyal constituents. And so she had dispatched a courier to summon her general. Watari was born in the desert. A bastard that she invested in despite the protest of the council. And so far, an asset that had proven his worth.
The giantess beamed as she basked under the kiss of the binary sols on her pale skin. That shapely figure was bedecked in her signature rubicund bone. Those spider ligaments affixed to her spine groomed her auburn mane as that split oral muscle cleaned any remaining blood from her succulent lips. Visibly, she appeared youthful. Yet, despite her hedonistic veneer and blemishless skin prowled something else. And the only indication of her true self might be gleaned from those brown eyes—the faint flickering of a weary and seasoned soul.
Unhurriedly the spider placed her libation of choice on the banister as she reached for her harp. Valerna roosted on her web hammock as she settled the osseous harp on her lap. Gingerly, those talons strummed away as the wind carried her music. A song she learned long ago, a melody forgotten by time. And though history may be predisposed to omit such particulars. Providentially for those things unwritten, Valerna was far less susceptible to such inclinations.
The Araneae now sang a song from a dead language—the original dialect of the giants. The lyrics of which no scholar could translate. Nevertheless, her haunting crooning and that mesmerizing melody would resonate outward while she waited for Watari to approach the balcony attached to her chambers.
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