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His quill was set to parchment, yes. It had left thick black blots of ink, seeping, absorbing. They had long since dried out as had Cid’s mouth. Mouthfuls of his goblet could not save him for long, simply thickening the haze within his skull, the deep pull of his gut. Cid was ever helpless in the face of his hedonism, his straying eyes.
As had always been the case Clive lay without awareness of his effect on others.
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