(60) Greetings

Baron Bernard Buchanan stood in the entryway of his manor, dressed in his most decorated of finery. A great debate had raged among his staff for several hours the previous night. Some suggested he dress in his armor, adorned with a gilded sash and an elaborate tabard, but Bernard had made the executive decision to go with his formal wear.

He had a feeling that where he was going, his best armor would be regarded similarly to how he regarded a child in dress-up.

“Sir?” Gregsa, Bernard’s captain of the guard, asked.

Bernard gave him a quick nod, and he continued.

“Are we just…supposed to wait?” he questioned, his discomfort obvious.

How the fuck should I know? Is what Bernard wished to say. Alas, leadership was about projecting confidence when lacking it just as much as being actually confident.

“Indeed, Gregsa. Our guide should arrive shortly,” he said, his own assurance a mockery to his internal disorder.

A couple of days ago, Nephthys had ‘arrived’, though that was a diplomatic way to say that she appeared in the center of his yard without warning, stressing his guards and throwing all his security measures into question.

She dumped two prisoners, miscreants aiming to sack farms on his land, into his care with only brief explanations before vanishing just as suddenly as she had arrived. Yet that turned out to be the more mundane half of the day.

Just a few short hours later, a dapper gentleman in the finest clothing Bernard had ever laid eyes on arrived at his front gate. At this point, he could only be grateful that the man had not also subverted all his security. Bernard was unsure his self-confidence could withstand another blow, let alone that of his guards.

He claimed to have an invitation to a sort of…gathering? Bernard was unsure, but the letter he delivered indicated an offer from a guild called ‘Nemesis’ for formal introductions. Bernard had never heard of the organization, but when he raised his eyes from skimming the letter, the gentleman had vanished.

A strange offer from a strange man representing a strange guild, and he did not even bother lingering for questions.

The letter contained precious little information about Nemesis, and what it did offer raised more questions than it answered. This guild was, apparently, stationed in the Crater, in the very center of it. Had the gentleman not already demonstrated remarkable ability, Bernard would have dismissed the claim outright.

Even stranger, the letter merely instructed, “Wait in your manor for a guide to arrive.” It offered a date and time—today, right now—and little else. Thus was Bernard standing here, in the doorway of his manor in his finery, waiting for a guide representing a mysterious guild he had never heard of, making impossible claims, to collect him.

Doubts began to surface in his mind, shaking his false bravado even further. Why was he doing this? Even if every claim in the letter proved true, why would he be interested in speaking with this guild? The Crater is…what…a thousand miles away? Its center is even more, perhaps fifteen hundred to two thousand miles.

What possible relationship would he need to have with a guild so far away, no matter how powerful? How had they even discovered him and his tiny territory? Why were they interested?

Baron Buchanan had no real claim to fame. He merely governed his domain as best as he was able. Though he took pride in this, it was not the sort of flashy task that would attract the attention of powerful onlookers from half the world away.

Bernard’s internal discord vanished in an instant as space split, seemingly rent apart by an invisible, impossibly precise blade. The seam widened, its edges crystallizing into a reflective metal of a quality he had not seen before. It seemed to sparkle, as if composed of a myriad stars rather than reflecting light.

Its swirling purple innards flowed like a liquid, and the same gentleman who had delivered the original letter exited the portal-fluid. He strode confidently to the side of the gate, now at least ten feet high and eight feet tall, and surveyed the host gathered before him.

He stuck his hand in his breast pocket and withdrew a shiny object of round silver. Flipping it open, he inspected its face before nodding and flipping it closed, depositing it in his pocket once again.

“Greetings, Baron Buchanan. I am pleased to see that you have accepted our invitation. Not only that, but you are quite punctual, which speaks well of you and your host.

“Is everyone that you wish to attend present here, or shall we wait a little longer?” he asked, clasping his hands behind his back, his posture prim.

“No, everyone who will be attending is present, though I must confess some…trepidation. The letter you delivered was, to be frank, sparse. I am not clear on who I am meeting, why we are meeting, and several other details.

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“In truth, I have many questions, and leading my people through such a powerful magical device, into unknown territory for unclear goals, has me on edge,” Bernard explained.

Though he hid his displeasure, he did not conceal his discomfort with the circumstances. He was under no delusion that anything he did right at this moment was of his own free will. This guild, by displaying its power so openly, had strong-armed him into the meeting, and he did not appreciate it.

“Of course, such feelings are understandable, Baron. First, allow me to introduce myself. I am Ramose, overseer of Nemesis. I am second only to our guild master in Nemesis’ hierarchy, and I am here to escort you. Hopefully, now that we know each other’s names, we can be more at ease.