As incredible as it may sound, the Disciples of the Weavers were once human. But time and their foul rituals have corrupted them beyond any hope of return, to the point that they can no longer remember their own human origins. In their warped minds, those colossal, hellish spiders that lurk in the cracks and shadows of caves and valleys are sacred beings — divine incarnations of ultimate power and glory.

Through countless blasphemous rites, the disciples strive to imitate these monstrous deities, yearning with every act of self-mutilation and sacrifice to inch closer to the divine monstrosity they worship. Their ceremonies are as macabre as they are unthinkable: they drink the Weavers’ toxic blood, rotting from the inside out in an agonizing “purification” process; they amputate their own limbs without hesitation to stitch on legs from giant spiders, grafting what they see as holy symbols of power and closeness to their goddesses.

In acts of total devotion, some allow the Weavers to lay eggs inside their bodies, whispering praises and prayers as the parasitic young grow within. For the most devout, even being devoured is considered the ultimate offering — they believe that by being eaten, they will be reborn in the next brood, incarnated in the body of a spiderling, thus achieving true communion.

Where others have been twisted by mutation into something beyond human, the Disciples of the Weavers have willingly descended every rung of a spiraling ladder into abjection, atrocity passed from generation to generation. They have cast off any shred of humanity and embraced a depravity that drags them ever closer to madness and damnation. In this cycle of devotion and mutilation, their humanity dissolves, leaving behind twisted husks that, in time, become indistinguishable from the monstrous goddesses they so fervently revere.

When the Disciples of the Weavers descend upon an enemy camp, they don’t come to loot or impose their will — they come for living flesh. The unlucky few who fall into their clutches alive are dragged back to the nests to be “blessed.” Their flesh is opened with rites soaked in venom and fever, sacred hymns whispered with a thousand voices, and then they are forced to become hosts to tiny arachnids that grow inside them.

These wretches become walking puppets, guided by black legs from within, and the Disciples use them as expendable meat shields — until they are fully consumed from the inside out.