While not ecstatic to be confined to a kneeling position after just standing up from one held for some time, Graft could see well enough to make note of each personage as he or she arrived. Chunnitrixx, who arrived before him and set up a rather impertinent perimeter around Lord Rodias, received no acknowledgment. Unlike a certain hug-happy deep one, that flibbertigibbet boasted no redeeming personal qualities, particularly her inclination to wantonly attack anyone who entered her domain. Of course, her nature was hardly her fault, but Graft did not often find himself burdened with sympathy for lost causes no matter their reasons. His concern for her boiled down to one question: whether or not she shot him. As one might expect, she didn't dare.

In comparison, the other early arrivals elicited less of a response from Graft. Affected as she was by her more whimsical creator's eccentricities, Mamoru constituted a reliable individual who could do her job well without causing problems for others—a low bar to hurdle, admittedly, but there it was. As far as Graft could tell, the Bandersnatch Lords established no grand designs for the creation and organization of their subordinates, leaving both cohesion and competence entirely up to the individual. Zouyu earned himself no more than one glance. As a gardener, with the sole responsibility of maintaining plants, he ranked about equal with that skeleton butler from earlier in Graft's estimation. Holding him to a high standard, the industrialist knew, was unfair. Zouyu was a child, and an animal. He at least could enjoy tempered expectations.

The wan face of Kaldorna, at least, was a welcome sight to the businessman. When she glanced his way, Graft made sure to grace her with a respectful inclination of the head. Both he and she plied separate trades, yet despite the difference in their lines of work they came remarkably close to being kindred spirits. Few others in the guild, outside of obsessive mania or sadistic psychopathy, exhibited such a genuine enthusiasm for their professions, if Graft did say so himself. Vague memories hummed in the back of his mind, assuring him that their previous collaborations invariably resulted in excellence. 

After her came the warlords, Gromgard and Vae Dhayer, valued customers if not warm compatriots. The superficial similarities between running a company and an army might lead one to believe some sort of accord would exist between they and him, but they were ever cold to a less-than-professional upsell. Kath Erine was a name that carried a lot of weight with Graft, however, and he made sure to acknowledge her arrival. Helpful and too reserved to be dismissive, she managed to be as agreeable as one could hope for around these parts. Salem, meanwhile, remained at a distance from Graft despite the ongoing arrangement between their respective Chapters. An ephemeral whisper of some kind of gulf between their creators lent credence to the idea that the two would never see eyes-to-eye, though Graft personally didn't mind trying as long as the kid behaved himself.

Last of all, the fox and the fish. Quirky but powerful, especially Light, they performed their assigned roles well and didn't cause as much trouble as some. While Graft did not harbor any hatred for Light, he fully intended to treat her to a point-blank Speaker the next time she felt the need to embrace him. [i]Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.[/i] The axiomatic pragmatism of Brushen Penn stuck with him most acutely.

With everyone gathered, Rodias took action. He brought up a large meeting table and invited everyone over. Grateful to bring his kneeling to an end, Graft rose and made his way to the table, where he seated himself comfortably. If anything, he would have guessed that his invitation to the Final Chapter would culminate in a display of loyalty or an issuing of commands, but here he was being allowed to sit with a Bandersnatch Lord on near equal footing. [i]Remarkable.[/i] He questioned if it was proper for him to accept the offer, even going so far as to consider it being a test, but refusing such an offer carried its own unacceptable connotations.

Wasting no time, Lord Rodias got straight to the primary issue, and a startling one at that: Chateau Gothika no longer existed where it always had. A little rattled, Graft raced to ponder the implications. What could have done this? And what did it mean for business? Before he could come to any conclusions, his master dropped another bomb. No Sable Lords beside him remained.

Graft placed his elbow on the table, resting his head on it with a stunned expression. What did that mean? Where did they go? Could they still return? His mind lit up with the image of Penn's face, the starry eyes full of genius. Would he ever see her again? Rodias didn't give him much time to think about it, since after a moment of drawing, he continued. There were people in proximity to the guild, humans. That, at least, didn't trouble Graft; just one of the many people assembled here could turn an entire town to a stain if need be, so he didn't see the problem. Neither did Zouyu, as his question made clear, which instantly made Graft think twice. He shouldn't be seeing things on the same level as that beast. 

Immediately Rodias went and corrected the weretiger, leaving the industrialist grateful he didn't say anything. “So, until we know the terms of engagement in this new place, and the forces at work, we must step lightly. A prudent approach.” [i]Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer[/i]--another of Penn's idioms. It occurred to Graft that he should write a short book codifying them. Surely the wisdom of his creator would sell well. On second thought...did anyone else deserve to have it? One couldn't just commodify all of one's assets. Like a secret recipe, some things needed to be kept hidden.

For a moment Graft didn't even process what Rodias said next, despite looking straight at him as he walked over to a window. [i]I apologize. It now occurs to me that I'm acting in charge without listening to you all first....I am not your ruler.[/i] Only after running over it in his head did the businessman recognize the oddity of that statement. As a Sable Lord, a creator, one of the supreme race who existed in an unfathomable echelon over all created beings, flitting in and out of higher planes and speaking in strange tongues, Rodias stood above everyone else here. His supremacy was both natural and assumed, unquestionable. Graft regarded him and his fellows as the Board, placing them in equal standing to his own creator, an all-powerful force to which he was beholden. And yet he spoke as if it was otherwise. Confused, Graft stared at Rodias as he turned, and bent his knee.

For a few seconds, he was aghast, only barely managing to keep his jaw from dropping. He struggled to explain it, and found him looking within himself. He knew what it took to be a good boss, and an effective boss. Could this be some sort of ploy to inspire loyalty by seemingly debasing himself? If so, why did he feel the need to rely on anything but his near-divine status as a Sable Lord to do so? Or this could be a test, a predator pretending to expose his neck to bait a foolish usurper's lunge. But no...it was wildly out of place for Graft to try to quantify a supreme one by worldly standards. Like a wolf trying to understand a falling star, or a goblin throwing stones at the moon, it was beyond futile. Any questioning should be reserved for himself, alone, far from here. He watched Ashara approach and dedicate to him her loyalty in a fittingly flowering manner. Whatever his innermost thoughts, he too would need to take Rodias at full face value.

Graft stood from the table, cane in one hand, and placed the other across his chest. Bowing, he declared, “Truly, you are not just a Board member, but the very pinnacle of CEOs. The Factory and I are at your disposal, Sir.”