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Mossmir
Small fluttering creature capable of defending itself with its small stinger.
This bug is soft and clumsy, but to its fortune its home caves seem relatively free of effective predators. I wonder why that is.
I’d encountered these creatures on our way to the surface. ‘On the way’ isn’t quite right: I made the spider Hornet take me to the lowlands. It has been some time since I travelled to the softer, mossier lands beyond scorching docks defined by toil. Not anymore, of course; not since my mother died.
The corpses of bugs haunted no more, slumped lifeless, tools still clutched tight in their claws.
The mosslands were similarly dead, I thought, until she pointed out the much smaller, fluttering creatures that darted out from beneath our feet when we trod on soft moss. And of course, a larger bug, perhaps their older sibling, hissing and attempting to sting me when I got too close. I would have struck it down if not for Hornet reminding me that Pharloom’s wildlife needed time to recover.
There is a corpse under the stone chapel, of a mother, the wispy silk stuck within its shell drifting in cloudlike strands in the air. In life it would have protected its young, given them space to be clumsy and vulnerable.
Clawmaiden
Puppet servant of the Citadel, suspended on strings of Silk. An early form of automaton, requiring extensive Silk to maintain its service.
If given a chance, this one will steal silk from any significant source, including my own shell.
In the early days of my creation, when I wandered through the halls of the Citadel with the naivete that befits a child, I knew to keep an eye out for these things. One of the few things that my mother found fit to drive into my mind was my nature of silk: I was fragile, and I would always need to come home so that she could keep me alive. This puppet would chase relentlessly after me, after my primal silk, and before I learned to defend myself with the might of a pin the only option for me was to run.
The first thing I remember killing was one of these automatons, and retrieving the silk from its artificial shell tasted sweeter than victory.
Pilgrim Bellbearer
Common bug wielding a set of old bells. The bug will fling the bells at anyone it deems still free.
Their bells would once have rung with hope and mirth, lifting the spirits of any climbing companions. Sadly, those instruments have turned purely to combative use.
I have grown to hate the sound of bells. The Weavers used them to keep my mother asleep and desperate enough to create something like me, and the pilgrims took up their mantle, clanging noisily in the halls of the Citadel, in hopes of proving their faith to achieve some sort of ascension. To think they could ever hope to touch even a stain of divinity with meagre strength and claw! Noisy fools the whole lot of them, too weak to even reach the shrines that guarded the way to the doorstep of the Citadel. I was quick to use my pin on them when they distrubed my rest.
More and more of them sneaked in when the spider Hornet took care of the bellshrines and the Last Judge. An unfavourable side effect to my half-hatched plan, but by then the spider had proven more entertaining than the murmurings of maddened pilgrims.
Bell Beast
Huge, hardbone bug that lives within and travels through the veins of old bells across Pharloom.
This one has allied themself with me, either as thanks for their saving or respect for one judged as equal. Whichever the reason, their fellowship is welcome.
An agreeable beast, for the most part. It has a disgusting tendency for affection. Its children are almost as hardy as it is, and it trusts them to travel alongside their mother. I have found much joy in throwing loose bells at their hardbone masks to produce various dissonant sounds.
As do most denizens of Pharloom, they sing along to a Weaver’s strings. I found myself humming along before snapping out of it, saying that she would find a pin in her shell if she did not cease that awful melody at once. She did stop, to my surprise. I have not known her will to be pliable.
Lace
Manic fencer who delights in battle.
A bug born entirely of thread. Much Silk would have been needed to see her sustained. A fragile form of life, but life nonetheless.
Is this all you have to say about me, little spider? If not for your age and your experience, I easily could have been the most interesting thing you have ever encountered in your life.
She has told me of her kingdom, its dying breaths, and her void-touched siblings. She speaks of her siblings with a reverence I have not known her to posssess. Whether out of respect for the void that almost felled her, or the tragedy of the abyss that her family fell to, I cannot tell. She holds too much in her tough horned head for me to comprehend.
Nevertheless, the last time we sparred, she did say that she was impressed with my growing skill. Just you wait, spider. I will have more to show you soon.
Beastfly
Aggressive fly of Pharloom's lowlands. Rams prey with its hardbone mask.
Dancing around this simple creature as it charges back and forth is the sort of game I delighted in as a child. Alas, I now have more pressing matters to attend to.
It is difficult to imagine her as a child. Even more difficult to think that she has had the experience of growing up, shedding childish aspirations to become what she is now. Vicious hunter, cold saviour. Yet so strangely sentimental. I have an edge in that department: I have long lost any degree of sentiment in my long, young life. Nothing ever changes except for my growing resentment.
Skarr Scout
Young ant hunter wielding sickles carved from teeth. Will often call for aid if danger comes close.
Despite their youth, they are impressive opponents. It seems likely their tribe were trained for combat from birth.
I taught myself the pin when it became evident that only the strong would be able to survive the beastly nature of the Haunting. She would have taken my mind the same way she ensnared the pilgrims, if not for her twisted love. To her, freedom was the ultimate show of her love towards myself, but if not for the void she would have taken my loyalty one way or another. Oblivion makes honest fools of us all.
I first tested my skills against the unarmed pilgrims, then moved up to the Choristors and Reeds. They would succeed in landing hits on me when I started out, and the humiliation of dragging my torn, tattered body back to my mother spurred me to improvement faster than any other motive.
I hope she has tasted the finest edge of my self-taught skill.
Phantom
Mournful creature tasked alone to expel the Citadel's choking refuse. Their talent with a longpin is unmatched.
Though grey with age, their frayed form suggested a being strung from Silk, one who welcomed a decisive end in combat over a slow decline.
I would not have minded the same end. I tire of having a mind that does not grow old, that remains just as sharp as it is unintelligent. I tire of this body that never changes. To think their fate could have been mine, if I’d lost my mother’s favour. But she needed someone to lavish her monstrous love upon, and I was unfortunate enough to be the one she chose.
Still, I wonder if they felt fear when they first started fraying, knowing that they would die without their mother’s Silk. I have heard their organ on quieter days on the roads of sinners, a mournful, rageful sound that lures travellers deeper and deeper into their winding, regretful mist. To rot or to burn? That was the only choice they had left.
A decisive end... would the spider have offered me that if I had asked earlier? It is too late now, with her promise to take me to the surface and my promise that I would go with her till the end. Sometimes I still dream of the oblivion I found within the abyss: endless and dark, broken up only by the screams of my dying mother. It is the closest thing to peace that I have known.
Fluttermite
Airborne pest, less common than its grounded siblings. Attacks with sharp fangs if agitated.
Similar bugs would gnaw away at unguarded food supplies in my homeland. As a child, I would hunt them, eager to make use of myself and test my skills.
Do all children feel the constant urge to make themselves useful? I have had no frame of reference, and whenever the spider speaks of her childhood all she talks about are her three mothers and their love and strength that she has only come to fully grasp recently. It makes me sick.
The bestowment of life upon a child is not enough of a favour to be repaid. Some children are abominations. Fragile husks. What relief in life? I do not understand.
Second Sentinel
Cogwork knight of Pharloom, once protector of its pilgrims, and master of the scissor blade.
The talent and intelligence of this construct goes far beyond others I have witnessed. They seem less built as a tool to serve than an attempt at life itself.
I must admit, I had to shove down a surge of disgust at that last line. Ah, little spider, how much do you really know? What truly defines life? Born or created, how much difference does that make?
I would have liked to meet this knight myself, but they have proved evasive. Their tasks take them from place to place, flitting between the remnants of elegant halls and polished chambers. Hornet could not flag them down, busy as they are.
Hornet speaks of them sometimes when I ask. She calls them a dear friend.
Grom
Burrowing worm that uses its many blunted teeth to dig through even the hardest bone.
They ceaselessly churn through rock and bone without ever seeming to rest. Do they have a destination? Or are they compelled to dig forever deeper?
Whether it is nature or nurture that dictates a bug’s actions is not something I, or Hornet, old as she is, can answer. I have been bound to my mother for so long that I cannot tell if her whispering Silk drives me to do what I do, or if I have chosen this bitterness and resentment on my own. Neither option is appealing to me.
The spider is also a granddaughter of my own creator. I asked if she, or her mother, have struggled against the pull of Silk’s steely will. Pilgrims and Citadel bugs alike have talked about the Weavers’ beastliness as something inherent to their nature, but what sits before me contradicts that idea. Her Wyrm half could have suppressed that wild, savage nature, if not for another contradiction: she has had every chance at dominion, yet here she sits before me, wandering the wilds, razor-focused on repairing her tools whenever we have the chance to rest.
She has her own will, then, instilled by those beloved mothers of her and then forged in the fires of her later journeys. Could I, too, have a chance to gain her strength of mind?
Elder Pilgrim
Thick-set bug consumed by haunted thread. Uses their solid frame to crush others.
A lucky bug to be able to grow old. Pharloom's roads take most much earlier.
I have asked Hornet about many things that I will never be able to experience: growing up, healing from wounds, having mates. This is the one experience she herself does not comprehend, and she confessed as much to me, apologising for not finding a sufficient explanation to satisfy my curiosity. No fault of her own, of course: her lifespan is several hundred times of a normal bug’s, and has shown no sign of ageing at all.
She admitted that she has not seen many grow old, apart from her mates, who withered away too quickly, and then usually out of her sight. The infection, then the void took most of her family too early. She then offered to polish my pin then and proceeded to work in silence, despite being quite willing to chat when she was tending to her needle earlier.
I have not been through her kind of loss. Or I do not think I have. When I curled up to rest I tried to think of losing my sibling, whom I envy, and my mother, for whom I only feel resentment and a small twinge of something searing and unnameable. I tried to think of losing the spider I’ve come to know: the thought frightened me enough to send my mind into sleep.
What is she to me?
Great Conchfly
Elder Conchfly crowned with a huge coral horn. Once partnered with a mate, they will rarely be seen alone.
To pair with another is a base instinct, and one that brings some bugs great joy. I once sought similar union, but of my own mates none could match my lifespan.
She was too embarrassed to continue, but she said enough for me to be curious. To be with another, or more, for as long as you live, or for only a fraction of your life. Frankly, this concept seems very loosely defined to me: it might as well be a meaningless word. Mate.
I have half a mind to ask her to weave me the organs I need to engage in this process. But given how hesitant she was to talk about it in the first place, I doubt she would react well to my request. Poor thing. So old, yet the customs of aristocracy are still well and alive within her.
Even if she fulfilled my request, with whom would I mate? The thought of any bug in Pharloom disgusts me, Silk-ensnared and weak. The travellers from beyond do not interest me either, plain old bugs who think faith alone will save them in this cursed land. Hornet, then? She’s certainly fascinating enough for me. Oh, to make her squirm for once! Knock her down a peg, and it’ll feel like an actual victory.
Shakra
Warrior cartographer of a tribe from Pharloom's edge. Her skills in battle could challenge the kingdom's best.
She has lived a mere fraction of my lifetime and yet her rings prove a ferocious match. As gifted a warrior as I have ever encountered, and one I am fortunate to call a friend.
A fine warrior, I must admit. Hornet has a great deal for respect for her, and before we left Pharloom they sparred one last time. I watched from the sidelines. She fights without grace, but Hornet was chuckling to herself when we walked away, the cartographer’s serenade following us on the winds.
I offered to spar with her as well, but Hornet insisted I rest after my ordeal with the void. Silly spider! Even in my weakened state, I could have bested a mere cartographer. I have lived several times her lifetime. I must have said that out loud, because Hornet looked me directly in the eye and said that there was no chance. Maybe eventually, she said, but not today.
The next few minutes felt prickly. I do not know why.
Lavalarga
Fully grown mollusc able to unleash a gushing torrent of burning fluid from its back.
To survive while storing so much searing fluid within... Before I would have believed it impossible, but Pharloom is home to many marvels.
I have only seen their smaller, weaker kin, lurking in the lower parts of the docks. Those scorching lowlands were my dwelling of choice when I grew tired of the Citadel: the threat of slipping and burning to ashes in the lava that powered the industry of Pharloom was a threat real enough to incur some sort of excitement within me. Even better, the workers there paid no attention to me, too focused on their single-minded tasks. Whether it was my mother’s influence, or their very nature, I do not think it makes much of a difference.
I asked Hornet to draw me more pictures of this creature. I do like looking upon their delightfully round form, without needing to risk my own Silk. She seemed perplexed at my request but agreed. In another life, perhaps she could have been a painter. I told her as much, and she looked away, saying something about my inexperience with real artists. Ah, little spider, are you not an artist? Your craft of tool and weapon, for no deeper purpose other than pleasure, can be described in no other way. I did not say that part out loud, as she seemed embarassed enough in the moment. I think I am obsessed with her.
Imoba
Slow drifting bug with a heavy top shell. The bug reacts little to threats, even those that could claim its life.
The poor creature has lived a life too calm and coddled. It would not fare well in the world beyond its walls.
I despise my fragility. Even now, after the death of my mother, I am dependent on another for my survival. This new lifeline is much more merciful, but I wonder what it feels like to truly be an individual. What is freedom? I doubt that any would be able to define this. The same way I would be unable to convey what hatred, or resentment means to me. These concepts are so deeply ingrained within us that we would not be able to separate them from within us, turn them over in our hands, and put a word to them.
This is my first time leaving the borders of Pharloom, at my request. Beyond the unknown village at the surface, the winds howl and tear at my Silk. We rested under outcroppings of rocks whenever we got tired, backs against the stone, Hornet’s cloak keeping both of us warm. Hornet checked her map every time we stopped, head tilted, thinking. I did say I was interested in seeing her kingdom, and it should be a challenge for her to retrace her steps considering how she was brought to Pharloom.
She has been telling me of her land, both before and after its fall. I could tell that she was struggling to find words beyond ‘beautiful’ and ‘glorious’. She gave up in the end and told me that I would see when I got there. She’s testing my patience.
Cogwork Hauler
Small automaton with a shielded shell, intended to carry loads of dangerous flintflame.
Born and built only to work until time stiffens its limbs. Perhaps it is mercy this construct knows nothing of the freedom it lacks.
Sentience is both a curse and a blessing. I may know nothing of freedom, but I have enough of a mind to conceptualise. Freedom: to be able to do whatever I wish, whenever I wish. I am beginning to believe that I cannot be truly free, not with this kind of existence. I will forever be dependent on another for my survival.
But today I woke up before Hornet did. She had taken back her cloak for herself, and she was curled up, completely motionless as she slept, a crude map still clutched in her claws. I do not mind living at someone else’s whims, if it is her that I am bound to.
Crawfather
Lord and justice of Pharloom's craws. Delivers death to condemned bugs with his steel-plated beak.
Did he recognise my part played in this land's void-strung state? If so, perhaps his judgment was not unfair. To these bugs I have brought much destruction.
To care for a land that has only trapped, hunted, and used her. Does she have no sense of vengeance? Or perhaps, more accurately, she knows how to temper her rage. Far-seeing, but she would not appreciate my comparison to her father. This is what comes with age and maturity, I concluded. She hunted down the source of Pharloom’s pain and ended it with her needle. She does not call it justice, but her judgement is the only thing that has quelled the fury within me.
Yet, it is hard to feel any vindictive pleasure at the downfall of my mother. Those strings of void only existed to keep me alive, after all. Whatever Hornet has done to bring down the gleaming towers of the Citadel, she and I share an equal amount of blame.
Wood Wasp
Pointed, darting insect that builds a hardy hive from Shellwood's dried bark.
Destroying the hives will limit their presence in the wood. Useful to me now, as I pass along the branches. Dangerous in time for the wood's order. Even a small disruption can tip a fragile balance.
She has seen the balance of her own kingdom tip. Entire ecosystems annihilated, some kinds of bugs forever lost to time and the infection. She speaks of it with a hint of regret, and I do have to wonder: did she perhaps cause some of that destruction? She does not seem the type for pointless violence, but then again I have only known her in the latter part of her life.
She has recorded some of the bugs of Hallownest in a separate journal that she had to fish out from deep within the pockets of her cloak. Indeed, there are much fewer bugs than in Pharloom, but no less wondrous. Some of them are gone forever, but I do look forward to seeing the ones that remain.
Kindanir
Child of Verdania, fully capable to fight despite its young age.
Fierce and fast, and defending their lands even from birth. These are children to be proud of.
Hornet, daughter of Hallownest, have you made your mothers proud? You struggled, and you fought, and your strength carved out a better future for fallen Pharloom. You’ve grown beyond the beastliness of your Weaver bloodline, and the domination of Wyrm. Yet none of your mothers are here to see what you have to become. What do you return home to? A dead kingdom, and three different graves?
She told me she wishes to visit Hallownest’s abyss. Suit yourself, I told her, I do not wish to peer into that darkness ever again. She went silent for a while, before saying, in a low voice, that it was the first of the many graves she wished to visit. Every one of her siblings are gone, bar one, and they rest in the refuse of their birthplace. Dead shells lining the ground of the abyss.
I used to wonder how she escaped my prison of void. A sister of the void she is, then. She has its blessing, in whatever limited capacity it possesses.
Lost Lace
Silk-spun child possessed by the void.
To quell the mother's rage, and see this kingdom saved, I will claim her back. This one... the dark shall not take.
I have perhaps deluded myself into thinking that she saved me for my sake alone. But she sees further than I ever could. For a kingdom fighting to live, for the bugs that are still alive.
And for my mother.
The mother that tried to force her to submit, who ordered her capture.
She stitched up my frayed ends today, sheltering in a cave away from the winds. I told her, without thinking, that she could tell me to live or to die, and I would obey without question. She hissed and told me not to think that, that she would never hurt me.
Her Silk merges flawlessly into mine. She may not feel the same, but my heart beats in time with hers.