In that cooling lava was birthed the obsidian spider, each molecule carrying the memory of heat from her creation ever onward. In the dayshine she was an arachnid pane in a frame of light, casting sepia rainbows; but come the night she morphed into the huntress of demon-kind. They say she came to drag them back to the underworld, back to their metamorphosis of pain.
It was there amid the branches stretched outward by tall and confident trees that the spider made his web. He was the colour of the bark and about the size of an acorn yet so light that he could surf even light breezes.
The spider creates her web with such delicate and loving care, ever the artist of the woodland trees.
Upon her web of silver strand sits the huntress. She is the hues of tortoiseshell, deepening and lightening in orderly yet organic bands.
The spider walked over the tile as some NASA technology might travel over the moon with its precious pod safely tucked in the middle.
The spider was the colour of winter chestnuts and its body was just as generously rounded. Leo was amazed that the speed it could move on its eight stubby legs.
The spider wrapped his dinner in the neatest parcel of silk and set it to age in his web until he felt the need of it. Any human would have been proud of such fine craftsmanship, and so was he - "The King of Hunters," or so he liked to assume.
The spider walked on delicate tips over the dust leaving it as pristine behind as it was in front.
Many have heard of spider-man, but how many have heard of man-spider, the spider who gained the abilities of man?