The rodent standing before the spider made no effort at obfuscation. Valerna could discern the tinge of enthrallment. The poundage of allure kept Veron seized in her orbit. Whether this bewitchment would be short-lived or long-lasting was inconsequential. She regarded the odd little creature as an enigma. But sometimes, the mystery is more engrossing than the answer. One thing was evident: the two were unique in more ways than one.

Those distinctions became all the more pronounced as time trickled on. The Araneae's mind, like a sponge, soaked in whatever she could thread into a picture. She analyzed not just what he said or did but also what he didn't say or do. What started as conjecture metamorphosed into theory. Fragments of those theses budded into empirical data or were tossed to the wayside. Those inner ruminations were safe from her inquisitive yet spindly mental feelers.  

Veron was an odd beast. He fancied a slow approach, sulking as if levying every move. His opponent favored a much more fluid approach to defensiveness. The chieftain fostered the sentiment that the best defense is one of offense. That the only winning move was to prod at the brooding vermin and see how he might squirm. It was a winsome dynamic, a brilliant juxtaposition of contrasts. However, like all things, such romanticization would come to an end.

The king spoke, and he elaborated. The linguistic and mental webbing that Veron spun was messy. The spider could see through the holes and follow the fragile twines, barely supporting his delusions. How terrible of a thing to fall, but even more depressive to not comprehend the gravity of that plummet. The rat strutted about; his bosom puffed with a sense of achievement or worth. He used appellations that affirmed a halcyon stretch. Despite having one eye, he seemed to be blind.

It's a pity. Denying the truth is often the innate reflex of the dim-witted or arrogant. But that was the opinion of a humble spider. Valerna hearkened to the weaving of that tale. The account was met with stoicism. Her mind tugged on the strands of data as she interconnected them to construct a clear image. The interest she harbord had waned ever so slightly. One particular statement stood out as the most disconcerting.

Veron labeled the province as his own. To the chieftain, this communicated volumes and gave her a glimpse into the true nature of the rat. He failed to comprehend a rudimentary element of leadership: servitude. Accountability was a powerful and simple word, yet its application was seldom self-applied. But it made sense; Veron likely considered his constituents as pawns to slake his desires. He was no true warrior, no true king, and no true man. He was a child wearing the skin and boots of an idealized version of himself.

The "king" shifted about. His eyes darted from her to that of the panoramic habitat that surrounded them. The scritching of his chin hair was interpreted as a vapid idiosyncrasy. Valerna wouldn't delve much into it and instead weighed the concluding proposition. But there was a more remarkable revelation than his deficient leadership. The varmint was lost, cast a drift, just like her. What were the odds?

It stood to reason that perhaps weak points existed where such anomalies were more plausible. Nevertheless, it was suspicious and came across as a cosmic contrivance. Veron was fumbling in the dark as much as she was. He couldn't provide any solutions or insight into the domain around them. Hopefully, the braggery of his "good" arms wasn't hot air. Otherwise, she'd likely be babysitting some inbred bovinite, which didn't sound appealing. Hopefully, such a reality wouldn't surface.

Valerna soughed. That split tongue desisted the spinning of her lip piercing. Her talons drummed against her hips as she waited for the man's attention to return. Once Veron stopped marveling at the squirrels, and she had his undivided attention, the spider would initiate her reply. 

"You've fallen far and remain oblivious, or so it seems. A king who doesn't serve a greater cause is a juvenile who plays the dictator role—a sad and contemptible thing. But it's clear to me that your world and people mean nothing. You're either delusional or a fool. You are unaware of the seriousness of your claim. The heft of responsibility must be a foreign concept. 

I apologize. I thought you were interesting, but I now see I made a grave error. You'd have to forgive me if I remain skeptical about your alleged good hands. They did little good for what was "yours." I fail to see how they'll avail me, given that I am not your plaything or property. I don't know what game the universe is playing by crossing our paths. But I'll play my role a little longer. 

Go ahead, oh great king. Lead the way. Let us do battle and vanquish what remains on the fringes of this world. Far be it from me, a mere voyager, to overstep my boundaries. I would never have spoken if I had known you were such a great man." 

Valerna spoke with a grin. Her dominant hand now rested on her chest, and she pretended to quiver at the immensity of his shadow. Grant it; the ruse was dramatic and would only persist for a short time. Valerna returned to her original posture and deportment before adding one final string of thoughts for the rat to consider.

"Whether we like it or not, we're stuck together. But unless I see merit, be cautious, for circumstance is a fragile alliance at best if not nurtured. I look forward to seeing what a kind of Valucre can do." She concluded with a smirk.