She travels, making her careful way among jutting roots, cypress elbows, sunken leaves, thick mud that squelches underneath neat hooves. Between the cypresses, vines stretch in great webs around her that pulse with the Motherswamp's breath. She is looking for something, traveling, and eventually the paths diminish, converging on a large wooden arch made by the roots of a giant cypress. She bows her head, resolute, and ducks underneath, trying to squeeze through -- and walks through a spider's web, stretched glistening on the breeze. It sticks to her face, to her ears, strung between her horns like a strand of diamonds: a spider's home, a mirror of her own.
