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Illvringer's footsteps were light; he barely three feet tall and his gaunt, undead, ghoulish body had wasted away to no more than 15 lbs. With his tough, thick hide was more like a leather-wrapped skeleton, than anything else.
He had the small town eating out of is hand, already. His alter ego, the hero Roscoe Goodbarrel had "saved" the town from the dangerous marauding undead, Christopher the arch lich. Of course Christopher was nothing more (or less) than Illvringer's own lieutenant.
He had convinced the twits that Christopher's phylactery, that is the item that contains his very life-force and essence, would be hidden somewhere among their valuables, as he wold choose to hide it in plain sight by charming a merchant into selling it. They already willingly surrendered their valuables to him.
They were nearing the time for massacre. He had already crept out in the night, cut the ringers out of the alarm bells and nailed the feet of zombies into them. His rotten black lips parted wider around a serrated smile that widened as he remembered how well it worked last time. The ringer pulled the bell's ropes; nothing. He pulled again; nothing. They ran up the stairs, tilted the bell upward, and were pulled into the bell by a zombie that turned their head around 180 degrees and dropped to their death.
He had already made sure that the wagon axles were sabotaged, their wasn't to be any traffic in or out of the city and no powerful adventurers were related to anyone in town. There would be no survivors and he would feast.
He ran his decaying tongue over his black lips, his moth reeking like a charnal house. The children, he would save for last.
So preoccupied was he, that he didn't notice the trap that he approached... Not until he was in it.

His undead eyes adjusted to the low light. One was black with a deep black iris and bright crimson pupil, arcanely disfigured to allow him supernatural sight, the other one once normal, now discolored only by decay, with the "White" having turned to a sickly yellow, the iris burgundy and the pupil grey.
Of course he instinctively tried to sit up, but found himself held fast by something sticky. Had he stumbled into the lair of an ettercap or monstous spider? He head a voice and turned his head.
What stood before him was, by all appearances a dryder. This could be trouble. She wouldn't eat him; to be sure he'd been dead and feasting upon carrion so long that even if she could get his flesh down in the first place it would surely at least make her sick. She likely intended to steal his belongings and perhaps kill him,
As she drew closer it dawned on him that this creatures skin was neither drow black nor chitinous yellow. It appeared to be more human than elven in coloration as well as build. It was curious and likely the result of some transmutation but not something to devote his powers of deduction to, presently. Now he should be devoting his mind to getting out.
His morghs were out and inaccessible to him. If he could move his arms he could cast a sending spell and have them all mobilized by speaking remotely with the captain. That was surely his best bet.
Of course he not need to slay this creature. She may be beneficial, even. First thing was first: escaping from this web. He readied his limber body, subtley slicing strands of the web with his claws and dislocating a few of his limbs beneath his light armor.
"Hello yourself," he said, a curious lack of concern for his peril presented, as Illvringer was as good as lies incarnate. "I do hope you'll excuse my intrusion. It appears that I've taken a bit of a tumble."

Use that I might be to you? Illvringer thought? After I've picked your skeleton clean, I'll ride your empty carapace like a toboggan over the hills of hell, you delusional, arrogant b***h.
But Illvringer said none of this. His expression betrayed none of his thoughts and might even be describe as pleasant, were it not from the left edge of his forehead to the bottom of the right side of his chin, creating a permanent sneer (as well as taking half of his nose and his ability to pronounce the letter "b"-and with it his intended name: "Illbringer.")
He noticed her human legs, which was another feature that driders lacked, but something that gladdened his heart. This was where most humanoids kept the majority of their meat that was unspoiled by intestinal interruption. He thought of those thighs cut horizontally into slabs, barely warmed over a fire, and eaten still bloody. He kept himself from licking his lips and put his mind to work in a more useful fashion.
What do I know about her? This was the question. She liked eating flesh, by the sounds of it. That made things easy.
All of these thoughts occurred in an instant, so the pause between questions was measured to be a normal pause between two parts of a conversation.
"Well you see, as it just so happens, my dear," he said, his subtle movements having almost freed himself from the web, although he gave no indication. "My plans are just about to come to fruition, and that promises that there will be a whole town filled with nothing but raw, once-sentient meat."
"If you're sweet to me," he facetiously intoned "then I'll let you pick over the multitude of corpses while they're still fresh and maggot-free."

Ah, so she noticed, he thought. But it's too late.
As he wrenched himself free, he found that it was indeed to late. He ignored the enchantment. Didn't this creature, whatever she was, know that undead were impervious to enchantment?
Then he realized. It was no enchantment, and he didn't have the luxury of ignoring it. Strings of webbing left from the collar but faded to invisibility as they reached his wrist.
Nothing to worry about, he thought, as he bent his wrist inward to cut the strings with his thick, darkened claws, only to have them pass through the air. Somehow, the strands became incorporeal as well as invisible. This was bad. He moved to draw his rapier, but the strands tightened and held fast. The black, alchemical blood circulated by his artificial heart pumped through him, dilating his bolstered undead muscles, but it wasn't enough. Strain as he might, he couldn't burst the strings. He began to try to slip out of the strings, but as the moments passed, his body became more and more seized by strings unseen.
Soon he was completely helpless.

He wondered how long his army of morgh mercenaries would take to locate him. He'd have to buy himself some time.
Then again, he thought. I just might be able to get out of this myself. Perhaps she doesn't know that undead are immune to enchantments. Even if she does, I've never met anyone who told lies that inspire confidence in them as I do. I just may be able to lean on my charisma alone for this, and she doesn't seem to be in control of my mouth. The webbing couldn't reach there.
"Well you see," he said, "I have discovered lost arcane secrets of a manner with which I might kill with but a word. I need only make the right intonation and slay any mortal that I like. All but the most powerful will be felled before it."
"It takes some time, but it is related to the legendary primal fiendish language known as Dark Speech, except this is it's purest, most undiluted form," he said, telling the lie flawlessly. "I have found a way to slay the entire town through this method, but to use it to affect so many, I would require bolstering somatic components, thus needing the use of my arms."
Letting his tone darken, substantially, he said, "To slay just one, however, I need only my mouth. I think it only fair to warn you of this. I like to avoiding harming other man-eating sources of evil in the world, if I can help it."
((That's all for now. I require a nap, before school.))

He fell to the ground, already having freed himself of most of the webbing. Of course his first instinct was to escape, have the collar cut off of him, or cast a devastating spell. Maybe he'd even be swift enough to run her through with his rapier... But no. That would only make her angry. Sure, without spells he wouldn't feel torture, but regaining limbs was a long and complicated process for undead.
Besides, now is when she'd most expect an attack. He would have much less chance of success now. Now was time to bide his time, to wait. He assumed the posture of a defeated monster, slinking off and sinking to a sitting position. It was deep in the shadows, though, and very near to some detritus, a cast off human corpse, mostly skeletonized.
He sat, partially concealed behind it. Was something coming or about to happen? It seemed so. Perhaps he'd soon have the distraction he needed.