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The Nosk scampers along twisting tunnels, whisper-quiet as it stalks the intruder who has wandered into its hunting grounds.
(Deepnest, says the memories of a spider, a devout, the memories of its name muddled by the countless other minds the Nosk has taken of its own.)
The traces left are easy to track, even with the ever-disturbed dirt. Not that the Nosk needs any physical traces to hunt its prey. Faint flickering specks of Soul float in the air, imperceptible to the average bug. But they form a trail all the same.
Unlike when it normally hunts, however, the Nosk dares not risk absorbing the Soul. The sickly orange light that glows despite being drowned in an impossibly black tar is warning enough.
(The Infection, a name for the malady, comes from countless minds, still stained with that blinding light even now that the Nosk has rid itself of their essence)
It despises that light. That mind which overwhelmed its own, as it was trapped in the spindly form that was puppeted, pulled away. Brought from its well-traveled hunting grounds and brought here.
(Deepnest, the spider whispers again. More insistently. It holds none of the power of this Lightbringer who wanders the tunnel, however, so the Nosk merely lets the word flit away)
The Nosk twists, tunnels. Limbs are tucked away as it hides in a crevasse. Spikes almost touch its body, but the Lightbringer passes by without noticing.
It waits. It has experience with waiting, even as rage bubbles up. Demanding action.
Instead of lunging out, it waits until the Lightbringer has wandered deeper. Down the pit that leads to a pond (Hot Spring. says some noble, but their mind is even more easily swept back into the whole than that insistent spider), and away from view. The Nosk unfurls, crawling through impossibly tight tunnels as it moves to its lair.
Sadly, without absorbing the bits of Soul from its newest prey, it has no concept of a form to tempt the Lightbringer. But it matters little. There is a shell, still and empty, that sits in the lair, identical to the Lightbringer.
The Nosk has never looked in a mirror. But a reflection is wonderful bait.