The snow around him was soft, but soft wasn’t a word he was familiar with. He knew the definition, certainly, but he did not understand the meaning, which made all the difference to him. His clothes, dark as the night, seemed out of touch with this winter wonderland. Out of place. He drew his coat along his frame, and the hollow left sleeve played with the slight wind. His right arm, on the other hand, drew a letter out of his pocket. He needed to consult it, to determine the correct location of his query.

“No return address,” he muttered thoughtfully, his mind like a great set of gears. “‘I await my guests faithfully. Follow the winter’s chill, and you will find me in a grand manor fit for the finest warriors and lords in the land’.” He lowered the aged parchment to muse. I have followed the obvious clues. Maps revealed the location of this manor. Parchment testing revealed that the sender is aged, the paper is older then the average human. Ink testing revealed it to be recently written. He glanced through the slight storm towards the giant house up ahead with interest. “This should be the place. Though I wonder how the inviter succeeded in delivering this. The Dome knows I do not like interruption.” He stuffed the letter away in his coat, and began his trek through the snow. His boots made great, giant prints, and his legs sank deep into the frozen stuff. Fortunately, he was spared the frost that the ordinary person would feel, though he did have to keep an eye on how low his temperature dropped. He could not be allowed below the freezing point, after all. With that he ran the risk of losing even more then his left arm.

He wondered, as he approached it, what exactly the inviter wanted. The iron giant was not exactly what one would call a social person; in fact, he shunned human contact on most days unless basically ordered to do otherwise by the mystic Kenjin, or on whims. This was one of the latter, one he did on occasion to assert his very declined version of humanity, something that he had not yet achieved, but nonetheless was interested in. Humanity separated him from the remainder of those that roamed the worlds. Humanity segregated him, and made it impossible for him to connect with others.

Through the faceless cowl that hid his disgusting face, the ronin watched as he walked through the gate that led to the entrance of the manor, and the small paved way blanketed with snow. Suddenly, he was no longer stepping on snow, but granite and concrete. His boots clunked more, and he noticed that, if the inviter were to attack him, he would have even less of an advantage. Sure, the attacker could see him easily, but now the ronin would be simpler to hear as well. He gripped the handle of the Arm Striker, but nothing pulsated from it. If anyone was nearby, they would not be a threat to him.

Ahead, he finally caught sight of the door, where a withered man stood, frail and as if one well-placed wind gust would carry him off into the landscape. The ebon knight walked forward, and stopped just a few paces away from the individual. “You are the sender of this?” he asked, and withdrew the letter from his pocket. He watched the withered man’s eyes trail briefly to the fluttering left sleeve, then back up to the faceless cowl.

“Indeed so, sir,” he replied, in a calm, mournful manner. “Judging by your famous garb, I take it that you are the Dark Eye, the monster of metal Chronos.”

He nodded. “I am Chronos,” he answered.

The man smiled, and beckoned the Dark Eye to enter the abode. “Would you care for some tea, sir? I have brewed it especially for you.”

“No, my body does not require such nourishment. Though I would prefer to take slight refuge in your manor until the storm lightens.” Chronos stepped inside the manor, and the man closed the door behind him.

“Very good sir. I will show you into the parlor. I am expecting many guests tonight. Would you like me to take your coat for you? Or your-” He glanced up, as Chronos was significantly taller then he “-staff, sir?”

“No.”

__________________