(Warning – This material might contain content that is not safe for work, minors or those of easy sensibility) -Webs- The aroma of burning herbs and exotic spices drifted in the open air around him with the undertone of other more illicit substances flaring as he drew another long pull from the ornately crafted bronze pipe. Clive of Dauthi watched the sea of Tokuno raise and fall in its unending dance as the moon appeared over the horizon, he sat nude upon a large grey pillow in the pose of meditation. As the drugs played upon his thoughts his mind drifted to think of the night’s occurrences, and the webs that he had placed upon it. The man or creature, he was still not sure which was to be true, named Penrose continued to interest him, though the usefulness of such an asset to the Soldats was still forming to its full potential within his mind he knew the bargain would prove if anything else an academic benefit. All he had asked for was to burn Dramora and Durreah, and for such a small price he would share with the Soldat lord any benefit or gains he uncovered within his search for the demonic book which plagued so many minds in these fall nights. A Book Clive would have if all fell into play. He shifted upon his seat, placing the pipe upon the marble floor beside him; he caught the reflection of his lavender eyes before returning his gaze to the sea. Humans experienced things so differently then he and his sister and he had recalled a saying amongst them as this plot had formed within his alien mind “Seeing is believing”. He had consulted with his dear twisted sister, probing her ever maddened mind for the method best to achieve both Soldat gains and security. As always she never disappointed him in her gift for weaving even the most powerful of wards to fulfill their needs. He had convinced Dramora and Durreah some time back that he could lead Penrose away from their heels through the use of a clever but secure deception; he had explained how he would offer up mimicked homunculi to the masked mage and allow him to burn them alive in fulfillment of his deal. When the time came, he had provided them with wardstones, carefully crafted be his sisters, so that they might see and hear though the homunculi so that no information might be lost to them. So it was played out, Penrose seemed none the wiser as he was offered up the two “drugged” victims in a small cave Clive had inspected and prepped beforehand. Though all did not go as he had envisioned, he had thought the masked mage would burn and delight in the slow torments of the two he seemed to have such hate towards, but alas that was not so. Penrose seemed content in only removing one digit from Aedon’s hand in payment for a past betrayal between the two. Words were spoken but at the end Penrose agreed and acknowledged that Clive had held up his end of their grim bargain, and with time they would speak again. Dismissing Penrose on the pretense that he would remove any Soldat involvement of the evenings transpiring from the victims minds he bayed the man a good eve. With Penrose gone Clive took time to remove the wards that allowed Dramora and Aedon to see and hear though the “homunculi”. They would awaken where they had lain down with the wardstones, their memories intact but hazed though the strain of seeing and hearing from such a distance. Seeing their awareness fade away, he began the clean up. He lied to them in one regard, there would be no costly and questionable homunculi made; such things where never perfect and he had feared that a mage like Penrose would see or sense the nature of such pseudo-flesh creations. No, he had acquired more potent distractions for the evening in the form of living prisoners. They had been easy to acquire though the Soldat connections, and with his dear sister’s handiwork and two weeks of bloodletting torture and magic manipulation they had been fashioned to look like the intended victims perfectly. They were starting to come too, he had hoped Penrose would have burned them and be done with it but such situations he had learned in his many years of life where always fluid and sometimes the dirty work must be done by oneself. A long black chitin claw had slowly emerged from his finger tip as he approached the panicking decoys. He made quick work of them making sure to disfigure any telling signs of who they where or where made to be; flung and scattered to the beasts of the watery depths they would be forgotten. No one would ever find the bodies; no one would even know they died. He had weaved a web this evening, and as always he would lay as the spider in hungered anticipation of whatever flies might come to him.