The Spiderfang are the grots who went up into the web-choked dark of the deep caverns and did not come back the same. Where their Moonclan cousins bow to the Bad Moon, the Spiderfang serve the Spider God (a vast, many-legged presence they believe watches from every strand of silk), and they ride its skittering children to war, from giant arachnids to the house-sized horror of the Arachnarok.
Their priesthood are the venom-drinkers, shamans who swallow toxins potent enough to fell a gargant and survive to babble what they witnessed. The convulsions and death-rattle hallucinations that follow are transcribed as scripture, and a whole warband's strategy may hinge on the poisoned raving of a grot still foaming at the mouth.
In battle they come as an ambush made flesh, boiling down cliff-faces and out of tunnel-mouths on venomous mounts, spears and fangs slick with paralytic poison. They favour the sudden rush and the strand-snare, dragging down foes to be cocooned and carried into the dark. Where an Arachnarok walks they follow in its shadow, chittering prayers, certain the god itself has deigned to march.
Order of battle
The Spiderfang Grots field the units of the Gloomspite Gitz, a detachment from the roster:
Other Gloomspite Gitz formations
Jaws of MorkA gittish horde devoted utterly to the squig in all its bouncing, biting glory, convinced the beasts are the Bad Moon's own children and Mork's favourite joke. The Jaws of Mork fight as a stampede of Boingrot Bounderz and loose-herded cave squigs that hits fortress gates like red weather. Their leaders are whoever has survived riding the biggest squig the longest.
Moonclan GrotsThe hooded heart of the Gloomspite: fungus-farming cave grots beyond counting, armed with pokin' spears, moon-faced shields and a bottomless supply of spite. Individually they are cowards of legendary calibre; together, drunk on fungus-brew and prophecy, they are a tide that has drowned whole cities. Every Moonclan warren is certain the Bad Moon watches it especially.
TroggherdsLumbering congregations of troggoths (stony Rockguts, reeking Fellwaters and cavernous Dankholds) that drift after the Bad Moon's gloom by pure instinct. A troggherd fears nothing, remembers nothing, and regrows anything cut off it. The grots trailing behind consider themselves its clergy; the troggoths have not noticed them.
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