A voice narrates his path while he sleeps, rattling bones naming each turn and choice. Neo-medieval dark folk — fiddle, psaltery, crumhorn, and hurdy-gurdy shifting between Dorian and Aeolian modes, layered choir suggesting voices around a table, dice-rolling and paper-shuffling woven into the percussion, someone else deciding what happens next. He touches a thread and feels its distant tremor. She scuttles along silk strands. Eight gleaming eyes. He cries out for Lolth and she bares dripping fangs. He jolts awake drenched in sweat. The nightmare clings. He never chose the thread.
