The spiders scamper, hover, and spin endlessly until the gold becomes the finest silk.
It is rather ticklish how their sharp pointy legs prick on my skin as they go about their work.
Nothing to complain for I always have the highest quality garments embroidered with spider silk.
How fine, how beautiful!
There's not much to compare against these golden threads. Smooth, velvety, oh so vividly bright in every angle.
The envy of the court, they all call me.
'Oh how you glisten, lady! How refined and elevated you look above us!' they all proclaimed.
Oh, what's that? You wish to have them make you a garment?
No sir, no lady.
These eight-legged masters only create for those they deem worthy -- oh, me?
Hah! It took me centuries to gain their trust. And for one immortal such as I, that is a rather embarrassing feat.
Still if you wish to push on with your wish then I shall say this.
Upon the light of the blue moon, gather about you roses of the reddest color, as bloody crimson as you could find.
Mind you to find the petals soft, too.
On your hands place a piece of gold and a bead of pearl, and a monarch butterfly of the purest white.
Gifts of honor, of gratitude, and as these spiders procure such delicate crafts they must be rewarded with the rarest meal that one can find in exchange for their laborious work!
Their master would be very much pleased -- she is the largest of them all so do be sure to give her the biggest piece of the flutterer.
Upon the stroke of three in the morning, a deathly silence will arrive.
It is deafening, but you must wait.
After all, these spiders take too much time and patience to create such finery.
And lastly, from your lips utter your word of thanks.
But pray care to pronounce the greatest of gratitudes, for as humble as these creatures appear to be, they are as fickle as you and I.
Hurt not their pride and you shall gain the finest garment of gold as you could ever imagine.
My, you could even have hundreds of dresses and coats made nothing but golden spider silk!
Splendid accoutrements, are they not!
What if you fail, you ask?
Well, my friends. That is for mortals to find out.
My immortal soul is bound to their work for all the failures I've had. A price, I suppose, that I was willing to pay.
Who can say what happens to mortals if they do not please the golden spinsters?
Die?
Die?
Let me tell you this -- no mortal has ever lived to tell me otherwise.
