[b]Redana![/b]

Cynicism is not a vice for the islands. One does not treat the words of elders with distrust, for their words speak truths about tide and wind and sail. One does not treat the words of the foreigner with distrust, for they come under the aegis of Zeus Cloudgatherer who favours travelers so that they might share their stories in distant lands. And besides, for a girl raised on stories, what easier thing to believe than the idea that she is in one?

And so the Alced girl nods seriously, with the thoughtful dignity of someone who has spent many summer afternoons planning what to do upon meeting an alien princess. "Very well then, hatchling of Ne'ro," she said. "I am Lacedo of First Fleet, sheltered by the [i]Essex[/i]. I will bring you to the Captain."

While the two of you had been talking, the Coherent patrol had moved on. They were creatures of motion, after all, and if they could dump their cargo on a Magos who seemed to know what he was doing then that was sufficient for their purposes. Their clanking walker was visible miles away down the beach, the warriors but distant specks against the headland. Ahead of you looms the rainforest.

Tell us, Redana, of what it is to move through untamed life? What it is to move through branches and roots and snakes and tree sharks? How does a daughter of Tellus come to grips with this wild place?

[b]Vasilia![/b]

Perhaps it is surprising to hear just how frustrated the Magi of the Order of Hermes are with the demands of academia. And yet, so it is - the vast majority of those present, even amongst the Coherent, are priests and they are scholars and every one of them has a story to tell of bureaucracy, grant funding, and intransigent colleagues. These are scholars who desperately seek truth, wisdom and meaning and by and large they are fundamentally dissatisfied with the games they must play to accomplish that aim. To a soul they only seek individual power because that is the route within the order to greater knowledge.

They are, however, familiar with that route. They tolerate their dissatisfaction because they believe it is still the most effective route to accomplishing at least some of their goals. They believe the scraps that fall from Birmingham's plate are still more valuable than they would accomplish alone, and trust none of their colleagues to be more generous with data and resources than he is. But if that calculation ever changes - if they think they will learn more by the Magos' overthrow than by his reign - he will be gone in moments. And likewise, if someone gifts them a true secret of great importance, they will honour that person forever.

[b]Alexa![/b]

Even a social gathering is a thing of military force. The movements of the Coherent define importance; their presence expresses power. A figure may robe themselves but to cloak one's power is often to lose one's power. And everything about this event is an expression of power - so where is the one wielding it?

It takes a while to come to the realization that Birmingham is not a person - and perhaps not even a [i]one[/i].

The Coherent aren't guarding an individual here. They are defending infrastructure nodes. Glittering sensestone geodes, elaborate transmission apexes, even a column of heavy machinery swathed in robes you initially took for a Hermetic. Birmingham is a [i]shipmind[/i] - a mechanical savant, a clattering machine intelligence the size of a building with the wisdom and knowledge of a mighty sage. Dozens of magi walk amongst his exposed brain, correcting broken thoughts and patching his agenda, and he emerges from the interplay of contradictory and ancient and morphing codes. Notably though, to the Hermetics this renders him no more or less than any of their colleagues.

Isolating him is, accordingly, impossible. He runs through different systems of the ship and can maintain half a dozen conversations at once. There will however be a vault where the majority of his intelligence is kept, and the doors to that vault will be no secret - simply walk in a circle around the central Coherent barracks and you will find it soon enough.

[b]Bella![/b]

A great rustle greets you as a hundred more Hermeticians fall to the floor in bows as you enter. The only souls who don't stand out to you immediately - Vasilia, Dolce, Epistia, Alexa - but of Redana there is no sign. There is a moment of silence as you are taken to a dias before a glittering array of wires, bulbs, and resonance tubes. Your Auspex identifies it as like the questing tentacle of an octopus - intelligent and undoubtedly part of the whole creature, but also extended from a central intelligence.

"Praetor," the voice has a deep, slow rhythm - the kind used by a creature born to a more musical language who must slow their speech down to speak to yours. "I am Magos Birmingham, Shipmind of the [i]Yakanov[/i]. We long for compliance with the Imperium."