Darmok the Webling had reached Hero Status, and it was time to molt.
He prepared in silence. Before the change could begin, he removed his armor piece by piece, unfastening plates and straps until the last rigid shell lay stacked against the stone. He loosened the sigils laid upon him as well—charms, marks, and bindings that would hinder the shedding of his old carapace. They were set aside within reach, to be reclaimed once the change was complete.
When all was stripped away, Darmok knelt and cast the Infirmary spell.
The working settled over him like a held breath. It steadied his body, drew in the moisture to help him shed his juvenile husk, and guided the hardening of fresh carapace without forcing it. The spell would not remove discomfort or risk—but it would shorten the hours he remained soft and exposed.
Only then did he prepare the ground.
He set his traps with practiced care—iron jaws buried beneath loose grit, weighted lines stretched low across narrow approaches, sharpened stakes braced where a careless step would drive weight forward. He tested the blades and swished as he triggered them. When the last was placed, he stationed his pets at their posts, each guarding a different approach.
He did this because he would soon be helpless.
During the molt, he would be slow, weak, and partially blind. Until his new carapace dried, even a light wound could prove fatal. If anything reached him before then, there would be no defense—only the traps, the watchful pets, and the quiet persistence of the spell.
When all was ready, Darmok withdrew into his yurt.
The enclosed space held warmth and still air, allowing the magic to work efficiently. Within its shelter, he stretched.
Unarmored and unburdened, the carapace along his back snapped with a violent, echoing crack as he pushed against the old carapace. Plates burst apart, sloughing away as a heavier, darker shell forced its way through—layered, furred, and built to endure.
He strained and tore himself free of the old husk. The bipedal silhouette—a grueling feat of balance and tucked limbs—finally gave way. The legs he had kept pinned against his thorax uncurled like springing traps, bursting through the old flesh to claim the floor in a wide, stable circle.
His head emerged broad and crowned. Eight eyes opened, blinking at the bright light, seeing the world through new eyes. Below, his limbs thickened and lengthened—eight in number—joints locking into a low, powerful stance shaped for patience and precision.
When the last fragments of shell fell away, Darmok remained low and still, his new form raw but already firming, the carapace tightening and hardening as the spell and shelter did their work.
The Webling had molted.
A Tarantulum Archer awaited the moment he could rise—and his enemies would fall before him. Warrior at last.
In the world above the screen, the player hit:
> Wear All
Then pressed > Enter
Darmok’s armor didn’t just appear; it materialized with the force of a hammer blow. Metal plates slammed into his raw, sensitive carapace, buckles cinching tight with a series of violent snaps that forced the air from his lungs.
Then the player typed:
> Sigil add All
Then pressed > Enter once more.
The sigils didn’t drift—they slapped. Each magical mark collided with Darmok like a fired projectile, hitting his fresh shell with a dull thud. He staggered, his eight legs buckling under the sudden, traumatic weight of his own power.
The player considered his next move. Outside the yurt, the “pets” waited and the traps remained set, but the map awaited exploration.
The player wasn’t a spider, but he could only imagine the raw discomfort of shedding one’s own flesh. He felt a sympathetic ache in his own shoulders, a phantom tightness that only eased once Darmok finally tore free.
Thanks to the magic, the molt, and his new Hero Status, his eight new legs were thick, obsidian-dark, and preternaturally strong. The command hit his nervous system like a bolt of pure intent, and his powerful new limbs responded instantly. There was no hesitation, no trembling—only a sudden, coordinated surge of speed as he claimed the space.
He clicked into the command window in the Mudlet app and typed:
> West
Then > Enter
Darmok didn’t just exit the shelter; he exploded into the open air, a fully-realized engine of war.