The door to the Climax Hour swung open to admit one Vitaphagas Graft, fashionably late. His shiny black shoes clacked off the floor, and the length of his trench coat swung rhythmically with every step he took. With his mask deactivated and no lenses over his eyes, his own milky-yellow peepers with their shapeless pupils were bared to all, but he did wear a polite smile. Behind him, like a sorcerous cloak, floated the array of glyphs that constituted his Collect Call. The sight of him set off both Papillary and Tabula, who'd been waiting with bated breath for their boss to arrive. “Director!” cried Tabula, forgetting her company as she ran his way to wrap her arms around him. Papillary followed behind her, but maintained a little more decorum. 

Graft looked down at his new assistant a mite embarrassed. “Tabula, please,” he murmured. “Think of the others.”

As soon as she did, the Nightgaunt withdrew, hastily trying to compose herself. She cleared her throat, glancing between the various onlookers. “Hm-hm! Ex...excuse me.” As Graft started moving again, heading toward where his peers gathered around Rodias, Tabula walked behind him to the left and Papillary naturally took up a mirrored position on the right.

“Where were you? We were worried sick,” the flesh golem asked.

“Just getting ready,” Graft assured her and by extension the others. He wasted no time in taking the floor of Rodias' meeting, as was his custom. “Trying to keep track of the situation. Unlike some I couldn't keep an eye on the proceedings personally, but our resident mannequin elected to preserve the suspense for the rest of us.” The Fodder Baron tipped his head to Salem, his manner belying his implication. “By now, however, I am well apprised of what occurred. I'll go ahead and make a formal update.”

He waved his hands, and the array of glyphs split in half to rotate around him in either direction and reconvene before him. After a little finagling, he pronounced in a clear voice, “At this time the threat to the Chateau Gothika and its members has been repelled. Thank you for your cooperation, and remain vigilant; things will only get worse from here. Over.” With a final flourish he scattered the array of glyphs in a burst of bright blue particles, and when it faded away Graft could be seen leaning upon his cane, very casual.

“So, out of everyone in the Chateau, codename Stalker -hereonin referred to as Morgan- was vanquished by none other than our master butler, Butterfly. An individual half our average level.” He bowed his head toward the technological skeleton, offering a sign of respect. “Most impressive. And despite our adversary's overwhelming power, we suffered only two casualties. A clone, and our chronomancer. Not bad at all, all things considered.”

He dismissed his attendants and looked pointedly at Rodias. The Bandersnatch Lord appeared remarkably unwell and unhappy, and Graft knew his condition stemmed from more than the statuses inflicted upon him by the fight and his attempt to wield E Pluribus Unum. “Of course, this would be tragic if we did not possess the means to revive her, utilizing Bandersnatch's accumulated wealth.” With a smile Graft approached until he stood by the Dhampir's side. He drank in Rodias' presence, his powers of observation astute. It felt odd, overwhelmingly odd in fact, to see such human emotions etched into the countenance of his overlord, a mighty ruler and supreme being. Given what he knew of his fellows, supposedly liked by station alone, it interested him intensely. “You, Lord Rodias, are truly a kind soul to grieve so even over a subordinate's impermanent death. Still, if I may offer advice, it would be not let feelings of gloom and failure destroy you. This encounter, New World Invasion Event One, or NWIE-1 for short, taught us a valuable lesson.” He looked around at those gathered. “We are on the map, so to speak. Our foes are out there. They will surely come again, and in greater numbers. We must put our energy toward preparing for next time. You need not be sorry, Rodias, but if you are, then that is how you can make right.” With that pronouncement, he surrendered the floor.