Mothkeeper's Wraps

She had tracked the infested Ogre across the Throne World, led by its trailing effluvium. Now it lay collapsed against a cracked jade pillar, its wheezing form obscured by a thick blanket of moths.

As she approached, ripples of startling color shimmered over the Ogre as the moths flashed their vibrant underwings in warning. She pulled her hood tight against her exposed face. She would have to work quickly.

The moths on the ground shivered as she stepped carefully over them. She took a breath of the powdery air and reached into the rustling mass, shoulder deep, as quivering wings beat against her neck. She groped blindly until her fingers finally grazed against the withered Ogre, its hide yielding as old leather.

Her knife was swift and sure. The Ogre shuddered once, and it was over. As she withdrew her blade, the moths took flight with the muffled rush of a thousand zephyr-borne petals.

Then they were upon her, covering her cloak, her shoulders, landing in her hair. They smothered her with their dusty bodies, brushing against her lips as she whispered the incantation she stole from the Witch Queen's Spire. She traced the outline of a Hive rune in the air with her knife, then touched the tip of the blade to the back of her hand.

The moths fell still, hushed, bipectinate antennae quivering as they considered the offer:

Not a host, but a home.