Odrun Fell

Deep within a split in the handle’s inner grain lies the Threadgullet Vault—a vast vertical shaft lined with cocoon-wrapped corpses, sunken chitin cages, and echoing hums of silkstrung wind. Once an experimental breeding zone commissioned by the Barleys and guarded by the Hilt, it was long abandoned after a containment failure allowed the Weaverlings to overrun it. The Vault descends hundreds of feet, with crisscrossing web bridges and egg-pods embedded in petrified marrow cavities. Alchemists and delvers still venture here, desperate to harvest the luminescent silk glands and venomous spinnerets. But few return. The Vault’s brood never stopped expanding.

The Threadgullet Vault glows with a quiet, unnatural sheen. Webs stretch like suspended frost across ribbed wooden beams, thick as mooring rope and glittering with phosphorescent dust. Dead delvers hang in layers of silk wrap, slowly turning translucent as Weaverlings drain them over weeks. The walls themselves ripple with old tunnel-bore marks—some half-covered in living web, others pulsing with hatchling sacs. The ceiling is lost in shadow above, but the occasional drop of ichor plinks from above like sap from a wounded tree. Beneath, the floor is a sticky basin of half-molted husks, hollow spinner-skins, and twitching silk threads that seem to breathe on their own.