Ckareena the Web-Weaver waited eagerly for the Stitchdoctor to speak, her cool, pale fingers caressing his scarred hand. She traced the circular line around one, mismatched finger, her eyes still gleaming with a hunger that had never been sated.

Behind her, her spider court had gathered in force. Those patrollers who had come back alive from the skirmish in the tunnel brought their prisoners as she had commanded, and the court-guardians kept the other interlopers occupied and away from her. The Web-Weaver had no decided what to do with them, yet. The spiders, though obedient, had seen food walk straight into their webs – Ckareena saw four nobodies and the King's Circle Stitcher.

The King's Circle Stitcher, who had said nothing and barely reacted throughout her tale, save an involuntary twitch when she described seeing his sentence on the board. The Stitcher, whose dark, unevenly-cut mask and black lenses looked like a dirty and poor reflection of the man she had been picturing in her thoughts. The Stitcher, whose scarred fingers, described by the witness as so deft and skillful, seemed to tremble and twitch beneath her touch.

Finally, she could take his silence no more. “What did they do to you?” She glanced over her shoulder at the others who had walked in her realm with him, the two bound prisoners and the two pinned, but struggling. “Were these people involved?”

Only then, he finally spoke. Slowly. Quietly. “Gave me four. Already failed one.”

Ckareena winced.

The rough, painful rasp was nothing like what had been described to her. Nothing like the smooth, comforting voice she had heard in her dreams.

“Those four months broke you, didn't they?” she whispered, and dropped his hand. He stiffened, but he did not reply with an answer. Instead,

“Let my patients go. They... have a quest.”

“And what do you have, Stitcher?”

He stared at her for a moment, then raised his hand and pointed past her. “Three patients.”

“Why only three? What happened to the fourth?”

“Fourth...? Failed the fourth.” He shook his head vigorously, and began walking past her, into the mass of spiders. “Won't fail again. Call... them off.”

Metcenzerin hated everything about this situation. Eany and Daerth, captured by spiders. Kwanai and himself, practically at the mercy of the same monsters. Sure, he still had his knives, but one of the toothy-monsters was sitting on his chest and his little blades didn't look like they would even pierce through the grossly-thick spider hide. And the creepy queen of the spiders they so desperately needed to win over... had eyes only for the Stitchdoctor.

Alas, that Metcenzerin of the Three Voices should be ignored and cast aside in favor of a lowlife cityman with more murders to his name then fingers and toes.

He felt there was a song in there somewhere, and put it away in the back of his mind with all the other ideas he would probably never actually put to paper.

The Stitchdoctor was the last person Metcenzerin wanted talking their way out of a situation. Kwanai was thoroughly unlikable and had a way of making every word sound like a death threat, but at least he had a face. The Stitchdoctor might as well be a rag doll with needles sticking out of it. Who under the Circle could be persuaded to tolerate such a man? Outside a life-or-death quest to kill a god, of course...

“Must you go?” asked the Web-Weaver, her low voice making the plea a dangerously suggestive one. “I have been waiting for more then a year for this chance.” The Stitchdoctor barely even acknowledged the glamorous woman at his heels, but stopped beside the bound prisoners the spiders had brought.

“Have to check the stitches...” he muttered, and sorted through his knives looking for one in particular. “This is strong thread.”

“Stitcher! Please, do not ignore me. You must see this is more then mere coincidence. Teru wanted us to meet. He made it so we would meet.”

“The patients first.”

She stopped.

Somehow, that simple statement was enough to make the Web-Weaver stop in her tracks. She watched every movement he made as the Stitchdoctor selected his knife of choice, as he carefully cut away the spider-threads binding Daerth, as he caught the slumping hunter before he hit the ground. She watched with growing interest, more then interest, as he checked the place where Daerth had hit the spike trap, as he changed the bloody bandages around the head wound.

“I see,” she said finally, as the Stitchdoctor cut Eany loose. “I... understand, Stitcher. You are all free to go, pursue your quest, but we will meet again. I promise, Stitcher, you and I will be together again some day. And my court will be watching.”

She raised her hand, and slowly, reluctantly, the spiders began to back away. The guardian spider perched on Metcenzerin snapped its teeth beside his ear in frustration before backing off him, but by the time the musician had gotten to his feet and looked around, the spiders were gone. As was the Web-Weaver.

The light of the hanging threads faded. The Stitchdoctor crushed some herbs between his fingers, awakening the unconscious prisoners with a mere whiff of the potent smell, and then looked around as if looking for something.

“This quest hates me,” Daerth grumbled, the first words out of his mouth as he woke. Metcenzerin rolled his eyes.

“If I had a coin for every time you've said that...”

A black shape scurried overhead in the almost-perfect darkness. Suddenly, another thread appeared in the darkness, unraveling as they watched through the maze of stone.

Metcenzerin brushed off his clothes slowly, feeling a new rip in his shirt that he knew would need repair. “Well, I guess we know where we're going now.”

The tunnel out of the spider lair climbed as sharply upward as it had down, making the outward journey more then twice as difficult. Rock turning back to dirt and roots and another door blocking their way, the bars on the other side this time. (Roll strength) Eany had no patience for playing the dungeon's games now, though, and simply smashed the wooden door into kindling despite her weariness.

The last chamber had no trap, no tricks. It was simply a table, and coins. One for each person, and the ante returned.

Exhausted, they stumbled out of the dungeon hatchway, surprised to find the moon already shining between the branches of the trees. There was no discussion of finding their way back to their wagon, even with their spluttering torches to light the way. Metcenzerin collapsed against the trunk of a tree, and the others settled down around him without exchanging a word.

The Stitchdoctor was the last to lie down. He was still standing as Metcenzerin closed his heavy eyelids, staring at the moon with his head tilted, ever so slightly, to one side.