He slipped out of the well-appointed doors of The Oxford as soon as he politely could and strolled home with the ghost of that same, polite smile he'd kept plastered on his face whenever disaster seemed to be occurring.
The Arrows would make a fine Legion--assuming they didn't go the way of The Mad with their ill-followed instructions. No one had said anything about murdering these cultists, yet they did so as part and parcel of their duty; a duty that should have been reserved for necessity, not for...this. After a hundred cultists, the state of the local Arrows would be deplorable. This could not be allowed to happen.
He shut the doors, turned out all the lights and loosened his tie. A wind picked up outside in protest to what he was about to do as he assembled and lit numerous cinnamon candles and found his gilded straight razor in his jacket pocket. The warm glow around him diffused the strange gleam gathering in his eyes as he fingers and forearms worked over the straight razor and dripped crimson into designs in a circle of ancient runes around him, each droplet splattering in time with perfectly intoned chanting that echoed off the walls of his abode.
His mind girded against attacks, mental fatigue and the ordeals of guilt, he set himself into motion for a long period of casting.
Hours passed. Daylight flared and ebbed into sunset. Hours more passed. At dawn, the single symbol appeared in the gathering drops of crimson as he Tome stared down at it imperiously and raised the straight razor in a crescendo of chants, letting it hover like the Sword of Damocles itself.
Bringing down the razor, he jabbed it into the hardwood floor, defiling the symbol as tension through the link pulled all threads taut like a spiderweb that has caught numerous flies. Just as he released the spells, he narrowed the focus of his mind to a terrible, firsthand account he had borrowed from an innocent victim of much the same kind of evil he attacked now, placing them in the moment, violating their mind as the memory violated their senses. The other spells served to diverge their minds into rage and amplify it to inhuman levels. The residue of strong emotions could be felt along the taut strands that threatened to snap from the tension as he completed the work of many hours of ritual casting.
Immediately after, the next casting he evoked sliced away all threads and stopped up the sympathetic conduit that would undoubtedly be traced to him otherwise, and he waited.
All was silent for an hour. No response. The cultists that served the Scelesti were undoubtedly in chaos now, wherever they may be. The chiminage was complete, with nary an obligation left. Violence was had without death by his or his consilium's hands...and the a line of blood was drawn in the sand between the Consilium and the Nefandi.
If they wanted a villain to revile, he would give them one.