[b]Redana![/b]

The Hermetician has thus far been crabby and intractable, a creature who hoarded knowledge so jealously that a simple 'how do you do?' might result in him grabbing you by the lapels and screeching [i]"Who put you up to this!?!"[/i] Even as Imperial Princess they were oftentimes your favourite tutors because if you did not wish to learn they had no desire to interrupt you, and would happily enable you goofing off in your lessons and forge both assignment and grade on your behalf. 

But something is different this time around.

Perhaps it's the information. This is not data crammed into an unwilling skull with the consent of neither party. This isn't the theoreticals of Imperial megaprojects or analysis of strategic resource deposits that can transform the fate of reality itself. This isn't the immensity of society and Empire, this is a discussion about the contents of a single room - a magnificent room no doubt, capable of a great deal, but still of a size that fit into a human mind. 

But maybe it's you. Perhaps you've grown and matured. Perhaps it's because you're invested now. This isn't a responsibility granted to you by blood, information you must bear with the same flawless grace as your mighty mother. These are questions you're motivated to ask, motivated because within them lie clues and hints as to how you might achieve your even greater goals. 

But perhaps it's Iskarot. When you were tutored by Hermetics they were students of the internal journey, travel from the start of the book to the end. Iskarot is not like them - he has traveled. Perhaps more than any creature you have ever met. And while he can discuss the theoretical he tires of it quickly and diverges either into practical matters or anecdotes from the Path.

So you learn the structure of the Reactor Spike, a long thermotransfer rod that runs through the core of the ship. You learn the theoretical - mechanics of heat transfer, how the constant temperature applied to the frontal beak prevents the flowmetal from hardening and becoming brittle. You learn the practical - ship names are carved indelibly upon the forging of the Spike, and the ownership of the ship and any trade permits are carved below this. Over the centuries some ships change hands hundreds of times, leaving the Spikes a historical record carved onto the spine of the ship. 

At this point he takes you through to the Spike and you walk beneath the names of the masters of the Plousios. You see that it was forged with the maker's seal of the Tauyk Drive Yards as the masterpiece of Jovian Plainsmith. You see that it was first owned by someone named Doctor V.V. Kuttsledge who bore a trading warrant from Crown&Slate, authority to practice medicine and law under protection of the company. You trace the course of how it changed hands. Here, it served as an exploration vessel, here it was a diplomatic ship, here it was repurposed as a cargo hauler - a claim that Iskarot scoffs at. A ship this fine serving as a cargo hauler? Come, Redana, here is how you can detect the lines of forgery, the subtle tells of unsanctified acid being used to write the name into the Spike, how he once served on a ship where the captain was fool enough to forge a trading permit for the Atlas Cultural Sphere and they had dispatched an assassin of the Toxicrene Temple in retribution. He told tales of how the ship descended into paranoia and how even though he'd caught the adept in the act of a murder, she'd been able to bold-facedly lie her way out of the punishment...

And in the midst of his tales he hands you the acid-laced stylus that will let you add your name to the base of the list - below REBEC CHALIM, and below HADES.

[b]Dolce![/b]

There had been a battle here. Few had stood against many. All had perished.

Many had fallen with blades in their backs and to you this spoke of betrayal. A loss of reason, a loss of trust. A mutiny or a civil war where trust was the worst sin one could possess. Some bodies had fallen together in each others arms, daggers in each others hearts - impossible to tell if it's a tender embrace or a ferocious struggle. Human and servitor bodies intermixed and without a Praetor of the Empire on hand with the precise definitions of each in her handbook no one could tell you which were which.

Hades stands in the doorway and you can see the blue glow of his eye even through the back of your skull.

As you take stock, you pause. One of these bodies is [i]whole[/i]. Some bodies wear armour, but none so complete as this, none still filled like this - ah! It is not a suit of armour at all. You look at the mechanical shape of a construct, glass visor shattered by a heavy hammer blow, bite marks in the neck so deep the head is almost separated from the body. 

Enough damage to incapacitate, but by no means destroy. Such an entity could be made to live again. What stories could it tell, I wonder?

[b]Alexa![/b]

"Foolish!" Iskarot said. In fairness he had already exhausted six languages in his quest to appropriately express his feelings on this matter. "And you! Away! I will have less of this hovering while I work!"

For a while today, things had been magical. Now you were sitting with your arm in a mold being cussed out by a grumpy Hermetic as he enacted the rituals of repair and threw things at Isty whenever she tried to check up on you. You hadn't lost the arm entirely - the engine had been dimmed for maintenance - but it had still been a pretty miserable experience. Redana had been chipper, though, when she'd come by for a lesson on how to reconstruct the damage. He hadn't snapped at [i]her[/i]. Instead he'd told her to get Princess Epistia out of his way, and the two of them had been off together somewhere for several hours in what you could only hope wasn't any kind of a date.

"This is what comes from failing to honour Ares!" blasphemed the Hermetician. "Stupid accidents! Bad luck! It's been the death of half the ships I've been on, mark my words!

[Damage your Courage - but you can use your repair kit to recover damage at this point]

[b]Bella![/b]

Mynx, teasing and daring and provocative, turns out to be unable to handle turnabout. All her slick lines about how she needed to be so suggestive as part of her quest to be a better actress were actually entirely true. Her head raises to make it easier to grasp her throat, her breath struggles to find a rhythm you'll allow, and Aphrodite pockets the wit from her tongue and the rhythm of her heart. This was power. This was confirmation of your words and your god. With one hand, you could make Mynx as strong as steel, with the other you could take it all away and leave her helpless. 

"Yes," she managed at the last, "we will."