What kind of Hell is this?

Spider hangs back with Ollie as Wilder explains, though a part of them itches to get closer, to prod and poke and investigate. Spider scruffs their paws through the earth, frowning; they never were very good at sitting still and doing the smart thing. “great,” they click, the word snapping from their tongue, “a giant gaping hole.” they steal a glance at those strange drawings, then find themselves unable to look away. their eyes trace over the spikes’ strange shape, humming uncertainly under their breath. “some of them kind of look like…drawings?” they dare half an inch closer, neck craning as far as they dare. were those…faces? “angry drawings.” why else would they be glaring like that?

"Araneae Fatalis"