It must be a stunning display, the likes of which hasn’t existed for centuries, orchestrated by one of the last living digital minds. Lights more numerous than the stars themselves, coming together to form a bespoke picture. They tell the tale of the galaxy’s doom at the point of a Spear, as told by someone old enough to have witnessed it. 

A fantastic show that Dolce doesn’t see, because he still hasn’t lifted himself up from that first bow. Neither does he really know when it ends. It is long seconds before the Architect’s booming voice stops echoing through the chamber, and still the colors reflecting off the deck shift and swirl. It is a long, patient silence, a thousand opportunities for the Architect to say more, and he passes on each of them.

This, too, is a ritual. On its completion, the Royal Architect may know that he has been heard, his words have been duly considered, and the reply Dolce gives is given only by his leave.

“Great lord. I don’t know anything about assassins and technomancers. I don’t know about what it takes to put a planet back together. I don’t know very much about you. I’m just a chef from Beri. What seems like good sense to me might be a death sentence for you, and I’d never know the difference. What I do know are the stories, great lord. The tales of the gods and their doings. As many as have passed my ears, I’ve listened well, and I’ve remembered them. And those stories warn of terrible danger if you take this course of action.”

“You have all of my apologies for upsetting you. But knowing this, how can I stay silent? I do not cry for hospitality to force open your private sanctums, I speak a warning, lest some spy finds this leverage and uses it against you.”

He folds his hands. He inclines his head further. He takes the smallest step away from 20022, and closer to the eye. “Great lord, I put myself at your service in this matter. What knowledge and wisdom I have, I put at your disposal. 20022, and the host of your proofs can vouch that what I say is true: I am a simple chef from Beri. I have no training in any art beyond that of the servant and the chef. The one path open to one such as I for advancement, I lacked the necessary spirit to succeed, and left without ever receiving a number. I am Dolce; nobody of any great importance, who finds himself before you by chance, and in all likelihood will never see you again.” A harmless, humble servant. Useless and without ambition. Who just so happens to be on hand, in the midst of an unprecedented situation, when the gift of a harmless, humble, listening ear would be most welcome. Yes, it would be an audacious thing, for the Architect to confide in such a soul. Then again, what if it was [i]so[/i] audacious that even the most wicked schemer, the most cunning malcontent, would never suspect he had done it?

Of all the places to look for the secrets of the Architect’s heart, who would ever think to look to Dolce of Beri?

“If it pleases you, great lord, then whatever you wish to speak to me, I swear never to repeat. I only ask that you speak softly, or else I may not be able to listen for long.” His ears still throb painfully from the last outburst. “And,” his nose wrinkles. Obviously out of his depth. Flailing for what little ground he can stand upon. Charming, isn’t it, to see him trying so hard at matters so above his head? “Is ‘great lord’ your preferred title? Or is there one you would like better?”

[Rolling to Speak Softly: 4 + 6 + 3 = [b]13[/b] Dolce forges a Bond with the Royal Architect. Why is the Royal Architect so afraid, that he can’t even spare some extraneous rooms for the Emissary to live in?]