[center][h3][color=1a7b30]Niklaus Santora[/color] & [color=2e3192]Richmond Durmont[/color][/h3][hr]

[i]Spiders.[/i]
The tipsy-turning movement of an arachnid as it spins its web, the way it's legs cling to the fragile silvery threads. The way that thousands of tiny eyes are constantly watching, the knowing that you're being watched. The thrashing of a fly entangled in sticky silver nets, the way that it twists it's body in the pathetic and desperate hope of freeing itself.

Spinning, spinning, spinning. Spiraling, spiraling, spiraling. Intricate silver threads from one wall to another, crossing and curling. Glistening pathways from one end to another. So many links, so many things left to catch, so much to do.

It was easy to get tangled in webs. It was easy to become prey to his own desires. It was easy to become trapped. He was a very busy spider and he had a very big web, it was all just a small part of the bigger picture. Everything that became stuck to the web was just one piece of the overall image. Nothing was truly important unless it brought him closer to his goal. His childhood had been washed down too many water spouts. He had learned to be careful. He had learned to be watchful.

A good spider never catches anything unless he's prepared to wait.

This meeting was a cosmetic detail. A leaf snagged on the web. As soon as he snipped it free, it would be forgotten as it drifted back to the ground below. Appearances were important and it was important that the world saw him, it was important that he maintained what they expected of him. He had always been a very beautiful spider. He had touched up every detail before he'd left the house, one lean, long line of black. 

None of it mattered.
Not really anyway.

What mattered was control.

[b][i]Control.[/i][/b]
That's what he wanted, wasn't it? Obsessive compulsive creature that he had become over the years. Every taste of control was tantalizing, every chance to capture that fly was delicious. Every moment-

“[color=1a7b30]Richmond, hurry up! You are so infuriatingly [i]slow[/i] sometimes.[/color]”

Niklaus Santora.
Try as he may, he had no [b]control[/b] over Niklaus Santora. He has worked to tangle his limbs into the web, to wrestle him into submission but Niklaus was a fire that burned heedless of his efforts to contain him. [i]Troublesome.[/i] In a way, he [i]loved[/i] Niklaus despite how headstrong he had become. He had grown fond of the young lord, they had become family but it was hard to ignore his [b]frustration.[/b] The man could function on his own, that was no good, it wouldn't do. 

He could see him as he hurried forward. He was a flare of color, sunlight casting prismic rainbows off water droplets. He liked to be noticed and it was hard not to. He wore deep purple and blue today, stylistically, it bore some resemblance to the garb that might have been worn by an old English nobleman. His boots were soft, they had heels, he liked when he looked taller. 

Details, details. 
Niklaus was compensating. He was making up for what he was lacking by trying to paint himself brighter than the world around him. He was obsessive in his own way, obsessed with power and proving himself. He had to be noticed, he had to be respected, he had to [b]have it all.[/b] He had taken to cosmetics, golden dust glimmered on his cheekbones. Nothing fantastic, just enough to draw eyes to his face. 

Details, details. 
Niklaus was desperate. Desperate to be something. Desperate to be someone. He poured over history. Leaders, dictators. He got this sort of envious glint in his eyes when he read about them. Some nights Richmond would hear him in his room, his voice drifting disembodied down the hallway. Speeches. Charismatic charm oozed from him when he spoke to his imaginary audiences. It unnerved him how easily Niklaus could take the persona of something he was not.

It unnerved him that he couldn't stop him from dreaming.
That was Niklaus’ speciality. 

“[color=1a7b30]You are [i]so slow![/i][/color]”

“[color=2e3192]Sorry, I was thinking.[/color]” he responded idly, stepping into the room with the strange looking scientist. He was inclined to dip his head to them, a distant greeting. 

Niklaus was not distant in the slightest. He took his seat, leaning it back on its legs and eying the scientist with a grand and never-failing grin. “[color=1a7b30]Hello, I'm Lord Santora and this is Lord Durmont.[/color][/center]