He'd already unloaded his only projectiles into the things and his side-sword – he was too lost in his own repetitive reflections, no doubt poured into him purposefully by the demon – was unreachable.

Even those he argued against – all of it – it was all in service of distraction, all in service of the demon. – Struggling with all of the fleeing strength that remained him, he couldn't get out. The waxy web was absorbing in some sense not just any energy left it – he thought – contained a soporific of some kind – life/love/reality, anything, it absorbed all that and – and all that was left was the depression that seized him

The Hero Dreamt was deliberately chemically depressed by the substances present in the web. They dragged him up now – those spider-ears in accidental concert – him attached to it – attaching the web he couldn't get out to the highest part of the wall-panel.

He was barely distinguishable at this point from the repeated pattern wall-textures of bowels, intestines, gears, and repeated mechanical – he didn't know what – and organs,

and organs, and organs, and organs, and organs.

He was losing consciousness watching the Demonic Spider Ears – attaching the bottom last – approach from the lowest part of the web up, uncoordinated – but at exactly the same pace and in the same manner; as if in fact they were merely images repeated.

His consciousness was draining out in the images of the three new corridors ahead – past the world he was trapped in – and the worlds they contained; that he'd presumed only awaited his processing through them.

It was to be an inevitable process of his approaching across a sea of blood the demon who dreamt him and slaying him, but –

He was losing it. – The Hero Dreamt could not even find the will to fight to reach his side-sword, welded to him in the web that drained him of every resource of mental – anything.

He wished only for nothing-land and annihilation – he was depressed like – he imagined he never had been.

– If his consciousness could leave before these demon spiders reached him; if that was something even in this instant he could choose – he watched them agonisingly slowly, down – he would – his body and across the waxy web; the ear body on top and the spider beneath, reinforcing the web as they traversed each strand toward him.

They'd eat his face and lips off. He knew. They'd eat the supernatural organs that he knew, just because it was his body, even if he'd never seen them, were on his face/neck/throat. – They would tear off his face and the top of his skull and they'd shit their demon eggs inside his brain, inside his torso, inside his cock-hole; every orifice would become the home for each Spider-Ear's demonic offspring.

Consuming him from inside-out, the human demon ear spider's infants, they'd – burst his cock parts into separate cocks, plural cocks – thick cocks – short/thick/big helmet cocks – plural, for some reason plural – and arse and what remained of his face, arms, to bits they'd burst them. The Hero Dreamt/he'd erupt in the surging mass and any matter remaining they'd eat that up too.

– They were not sterile, these spider-demons – he didn't – but he knew that.

Their cunts were full of babies.