In the palpable silence that settled over the whole assembly following the Fodder Baron's speech, Graft waited silently as Rodias kept his attention fixed upon Chunnitrixx. As one might expect from so soft-hearted a lord, the Dhampir had eyes only for his critically wounded subject. Of course, that left a decidedly counterproductive lull in the flow of the grand-scale meeting that the Bandersnatch Lord had assembled here, which left at least one of them feeling somewhat ill-used. The interruption got to a point where Graft was on the brink of clearing his throat to offer to render first-aid, for which he'd be happily repaid at a later date, but one of Chuunitrixx's attendants beat him to it. In a way, then, he did help, and without any effort on his personal part, which suited him just fine. He didn't exactly appreciate that loathsome organism borrowing his appearance and felt owed some sort of usage fee, but the act was not without its merits; it proved that his was the premier biotechnological skillset on call at Chateau Gothika, as if that needed proving. Imitation, as they say, is the sincerest form of flattery.

Still, it took some time for Chuunitrixx to get patched up and sent packing by none other than an extension of the reclusive Enderall entity. Unafraid to demonstrate a little boredom with his relegation, Graft summoned into his hand a vial of nanoflesh and set to manipulating it with his Remote Control skill alone. A much more difficult feat than programming it at his workbench, it served as ample mental occupation until the point at which Rodias addressed him personally. “Hm?” Looking up from his distraction, Graft quickly banished it and crossed his arms, his cane left standing upright with its end stuck in the tile. Rodias confirmed what Graft suspected about his mental state before confirming that he had the right of it in general, which was satisfactory. He mentioned a proposal that would require another Collect Call, and the Director quickly assented. “Oh, certainly. Coming right up.” After another flourish, the Lines blossomed forth once again, forming a glowing array linking the greatest of minds across vast tracts of land. Graft narrowed his eyes at the noises coming from two of them. “Miss Ashara, Gromgard, and Mr. Bits seem to be engaged in combat,” he remarked idly.

With communications online, Rodias proceeded. He explained his reasoning before delivering his suggestion. So, he planned to spare his subordinates by offering himself to the enemy? Personally, Graft was 50-50...on whether or not the proposal was a test, that is. Until recently he would have wholeheartedly assumed it to be a clever ploy to gauge the positions of Rodias' subjects, but insight into the Supreme One's behavior as of late actually had Graft questioning if he was serious. Of course, in terms of the contents of the proposal, there was no question. For a lord to surrender himself, particularly the sovereign of Chateau Gothika, was to entertain nonsense. It was a violation more gross than any wretched thing to be found in the Factory's most neglected waste-bins. Since nobody else seemed to want to speak, and since none so suited the spotlight as he, Graft consented to give an unrestricted opinion.

“From on high this no doubt seems like a compassionate, even heroic course of action. Were this a fairy tale, with you the noble lord of some town and we its hapless citizens, you might be speaking of a woefully necessary sacrifice.” He leaned on his cane, smiling. “But we are not little people leading little lives...are we? What use have we for peace?” As he spoke, tentacles extended from beneath his coat, furling out by the dozen to gnash and writhe. Graft's tone grew intense, every word accentuated. “We are vicious souls, made to cut and tear, crush and gouge, to annihilate all comers and burn our name into the minds of who survive. We are Bandersnatch, now.” He spread his arms, gesturing at all those present. “That name has known hardship. We have not won every battle, no...but we have fought them.” Several tentacles planted on the ground, and they lifted him into the air. Graft rose up, held aloft by his arms. “That is who we are! Fighters! There is a world of difference between having our lives taken from us, and giving them up! Were we to surrender our only lord, we would be forsaking our pride along with him. The name Bandersnatch, a name etched into our dark souls, would be...mud!” The array of glyphs spread to either side of him like wings, and they shone with activity. He looked around at his allies, his gaze questioning as he pointed his cane. “And then what would we have? Having sold off our lord, our pride, and our name? Idleness, infighting, total dissolution. We are not without strife even now. What would become of our merry gang with no unity or duty, no common cause? I daresay our camaraderie would not last.”

Graft descended to the ground, his tentacles retracting. No longer intense but fully serious, he approached Rodias, a frown on his face. “You may think that this plan means doing right by us, but in truth it is the ultimate betrayal. Abandonment...trusting us to the mercy of those fiends, while you survive as their thrall. Servitude...is not unthinkable, no. It is [i]our[/i] lot. And leading us is yours.” With that he withdrew, having laid bare the proposed contradiction. Everyone present, now, could wonder how someone who thought of them as the children of his dearest friends, who treasured each and every one of them, could possibly betray them to those who would make him a slave.