Named at Last

A Clover Guild Story
By Glaceon-Anon

Beneath the Mist Continent’s soaring mountains lie the sprawling tunnels of Mad Giant’s Labyrinth, from which the Titans emerged in antiquity to tame the savage beasts of the primordial dark, shaping the land as they clashed with thundering blows.

But something had to have shaped the Titans.

A towering entranceway inlaid with a cryptic geometry welcomes travelers to Regigigas’ domain. Journeying downward, the vast scale of the smooth-worn passages serves as reminder of what once walked them.

Crystalline luminescence develops in the depths of the cave, radiating from deposits in the walls. From these smatterings of an empyrean paintbrush, subterranean fungi spread pulsing shades of blue and purple through the caverns from their myriad alien shapes. Water from distant snowpacks roars downward through miles of rock and comes to rest in ancient sumps. Though the Titans have long fallen, the divine energies of their birthplace still flow.

At the bottom of the descent lies the enormity of The Giant’s Workshop. A mist-shrouded expanse of flowstone stretches into the periphery, harboring jungle-like fungal formations in pockets of shadow cast from the center of the gargantuan cavern. Megalithic crystalline deposits emit a breathing glow, entwining the shattered remnants of an enormous cocoon suspended from the ceiling: The Cradle of the First Titan, the yet-alight chrysalis of a primeval god-machine.

Beneath the cradle lies The Ring, the city of weavers. Glimmering spires of black stone wreathed in silk rise from the subterranean floodplains. Spiderfolk lumber and skitter through its torchlit web-ways, scant shots of underground light caught in their eyes as they work tirelessly in everlasting twilight.

From The Ring’s webshops come all manner of high-quality fabrics. Most famous of all are the adornments of the rune-grafter’s guild, whose pridefully guarded process weaves magic directly into cloth. The rune-grafters are credited with the invention of the Pecha scarf, originally the result of intricate spider knowledge of poisons and the demands of a very paranoid noble, who later died in a fire. Merchants are a common sight in the artisan’s quarter, braving the descent to trade the curiosities of the surface world. Caravans arrive on behalf of the adventurers’ guilds, full of bizarre trinkets and baubles from Mystery Dungeons.

Long had the goblins of the Sunken Depths sought to take their place in the light. Once, a nursery rhyme explains, the Great Veiled Ones of The Ring and the goblins were both mortals. But Spiders are industrious, and goblins are not. The great work of constructing The Ring provided a haven and unity for spider-kind in the light of the Cradle, while the goblins shriveled away in the shadows, fit only to work as serfs in the fungal fields. These tribes remained scattered and divided, until the fall of The Ring. It was rumored that the unification and uprising of the goblin tribes was orchestrated by surface-dwellers: the newly formed Exploration Federation, who would have everything to gain from control of the city-state’s industry.

As flames tore across the tapestries of the veiled spires, the children of the silken kingdom scattered to the wind.

The Wanderer

A Tarountula ambled down the sunken roads of the river-lands. The Orb Weaver Pokémon resembled a yellow-green spool with legs; a large ball of string-like webbing massed around its abdomen. This one, a female, wore a shawl around its body, six eyes peeking out of the fringed opening. Though worn from travel, the quality of the garment was still evident. In two of its legs, The Wanderer held a bindle containing its worldly possessions: a set of web-working tools, a few Poké coins and a half-digested berry.

The 8-legged pin of a middling many-threads artisan sat on its head, unembellished and nameless - just like its owner. A name was earned only by accomplishing a great feat, such as the construction of a masterwork. Like many others, It had not yet been named. But this was of no consequence; it had felt contentment working beside others in namelessness and serving the rune-grafters. Now, however, there was no work to return to.

Only the open road lay ahead, drenched in sunlight.

The Wanderer could sense the travelers before they came into view. Vibrations traveled through the ground not unlike the web-ways of home. Surface dwellers moved about clumsily. These ones were even clumsier than usual.

A wagon sat on its side on the shoulder, missing a wheel. A cargo of food and wine lay spilled across the road, bottles glinting in the sun. Bread, spices, sacks of grain and tins lay among the wreckage. On the opposite side of the road, smoke rose from a crater. The smell of alcohol permeated the air as berry juice soaked the ground.

Surface dwellers milled about, drinking, chattering and occasionally stopping to poke through more of the haul. They were certainly dressed more shabbily than any traders who came to visit the artisan’s quarter. Mismatched pieces of assorted jewelry gleamed from under their weathered clothing. Tarountula counted seven surface-dwellers in total. Three of them lay motionless under the wagon.

After weeks on the road, a good meal was exactly what was called for.

The merrymakers did not notice the spider until it greeted them, extending a leg and a hoarse whisper.
"Hello. Can it share some of your food?"

The carousers froze for a few moments before bursting into uproarious laughter.

“What ‘av we ‘ere, mates? A hobo spider?!” thundered a towering, shaggy brute with a frozen beard. It drank directly from a barrel, held up with one massive paw. A dark, feathered cape draped over its massive shoulders. A dwarf cloaked in straw sat nearby, chittering its apparent approval and receiving a laugh and a low-five from the Brute.

Another spoke up, a pale, diamond-eared creature with a crown of ice. Two rhombus-ended tassels dangled on either side of its head. Berry juices stained its fur as it reclined on crates, fishing syrupy berries out of a large amphora.

"Ha! Of course, my friend! Come! join us. We are having a picnic!" It extended paws to either side in a grand gesture. “It’s Ice to meet you!”

Tarountula creeped closer.

"What happened to your wagon?" The Wanderer inquired, prompting a chuckle from the Tasseled One.

"Wagon. Our wagon! Yes! Minor technical difficulties, as you can see! You know how the country roads can be. Potholes and such. All we can do now is wait for a rescue from the guilds. Of course, that could take days!"

The spider turned towards the surface-dwellers slumped against the wagon.

"Those are our friends.” A dark-furred, catlike monster wearing a fan of contrasting red feathers had appeared behind The Wanderer, a wine bottle clutched in its long, sharp claws. “They've… had a bit too much to drink! Mmm… Noe towners and liquor? Bad combination. As I see it, they’ll be asleep for a while. Would you want to bother them by waking them up? Hmm? Best not to fret, then!” Handing off the bottle, it smirked, revealing sharp teeth. Pinned to its short jacket were several badges, each bearing colorful gems. A hiccup and belch produced chilled vapor, tinted with very berry purple.

The Wanderer ate and drank merrily in the company of its new surface-dweller companions, long into the night.

The Amphora

Darkness. An aching dizziness as consciousness returned. Attempting to unfold its legs, The Wanderer found itself confined to an enclosed space not much larger than its body, accompanied by an alarmingly high level of sticky syrup and cheri berries. The top of its impromptu prison appeared sealed with a cork. To add insult to injury, there was no sign of its bindle. Struggle as it might, Tarountula found itself sinking into sweet syrup, dragged down by the mass of its own silken fibers, the spicy flavor of candied Cheri berries all-permeating and overwhelming. The spider’s head sank beneath the syrup as the world faded to black.

These icy surface-dwellers were not to be trusted.

Happy Hour

“No! Wait! Ronald! They’re moving! They’re not dead! Good god man, this is the last time I order from this supplier!”

Tarountula lay in a waterlogged, sticky heap in the middle of a kitchen floor, candied syrup running in a striking red trail to the drain. Its stuck-together legs twitched as a bucket of water splashed onto its face.

“Ronnie! No! This isn’t a beached whale; you didn’t need another bucket of water!” the authoritative voice barked. “Forget what I said about the shovel and the shallow grave. Go get the nurse instead! Save one of these drinks for her…”

Cherries

A pink and cream-colored creature stood in front of Tarountula’s bed. From fluffy ears on either side of its head extended curled feelers. It wore a nurse’s uniform. A second, dark-furred creature with folded ears stood further back, two luxurious tails swishing back and forth beneath a dark cloak as it watched the spider intently. Both held dark-red drinks, garnished with berries. The pink creature spoke first.

“Hello, I’m Kina, I’m the nurse here at the Clover Guild of Capim Town. This is Lliam, the Guildmaster. We see some… interesting… alcohol-related incidents around here, but this is probably the worst I’ve ever seen.” Kina sipped her drink. “Genuinely, I’m not sure how you’re alive. You appear to have been preserved in alcohol and syrup for the last 6 months before being unpacked by our chef. We’ve done our best to rehydrate you…” The nurse looked down at her drink and grimaced before setting it down beside her. Her gaze turned to Lliam, who returned her eye contact and unperturbedly sipped his drink. “How… how do you feel? Is there anything you remember from before the incident?” Kina asked.

The spider scratched its head with a long foreleg. “It fled the underground. It ate and drank with surface dwellers on the road. It thought it was one of them, but it was betrayed.”, the Wanderer sputtered in its raspy whisper, trying to sort through the red-tinged haze.

Kina looked back at Lliam who had evidently finished his drink. He stepped forward.

“You’ve come from The Ring, I presume. I’ve been reading about what happened over there. My sympathies… We have beds here if you’ve nowhere to go. But I must stress that this is quite an opportunity for us both. As a guild, you’ll find we’re quite enthusiastic about our equipment. A weaver like yourself would find their skills in high demand here.”

Lliam’s demeanor shifted.

“As for this kitchen mishap, if you’re in need of something to occupy your time, I’m sure Beast will have jobs for you to pay off the food you’ve displaced.”, he declared sternly. “What should we call you? Do you have a name?”

At that moment, an unimpressive tan and green humped creature rolled into the room. It spoke, its large nose blocking most of its face.

“Hey, Cherries, you awake yet? Do you know how to fight? Cause, Beast is sending me into the storage cave for more booze and I’m pretty sure it’s still haunted…”

This was the same nasal voice that had dumped a bucket on it earlier.

“…Cherries, is that correct?” Lliam did not break eye contact with the Tarountula.

The Wanderer had never been given a name before. To be named was to become a lord and grasp one’s own fate. This sniffling, hunchbacked creature had bestowed a great honor today. Perhaps this time would be different. It truly could be one of the surface dwellers now.
The spider looked up, its pedipalps churning excitedly.

“Yes! Its name is Cheris! It will journey with you to the liquor caverns!”