The crew was an intriguing presence to Rep; each of them was a puzzle waiting to be solved.

Oh, Typist seemed easy to understand. Stick got along with the Forged like a house on fire. But Rep felt a pressing need to understand her other companions better. They, to a degree, held her future in their hands.

The mysterious druid Varid? Tork the engineer? And Cascade? Each was an utter mystery to her. In order to unravel this mystery, she knew she had to take matters into her own hands. It was high time for her to embrace a proactive approach and delve into forging deeper connections with her fellow crew members.

Stepping into the ship's green room was like stepping into another world entirely. It took up a good quarter of the vessel and was a vibrant, self-contained ecosystem that sprawled from wall to wall. A soft, ambient glow filtered in from hanging spheres of light, each floating like miniature suns. Giving the illusion of a perpetually perfect sunny day.

The air was humid but fresh, thick with the scents of damp earth, flowering plants, and the subtle smell of something sickly sweet that Rep couldn't place. An elaborate network of small water-misting pipes crisscrossed through the verdant carpet of grass and moss underfoot, the gentle sound of running water a constant, soothing presence. The room was cramped with plant life, giving little space to move in it.

Dense clusters of ferns, flowering shrubs, and a variety of flora Rep didn't recognize, some of which glowed or pulsated subtly with an inner light, grew in abundance. Every plant stood distinct, representing a different species, creating a mesmerizing tapestry of biodiversity. Cascading plants adorned the upper regions of the room, their tendrils swaying gracefully despite the absence of any breeze. The ceiling was adorned with scattered hooks, each supporting a pot containing its unique plant.

The [Gourmand] in Rep delightfully informed her that everything in this room either was or produced something edible.

As Rep took it all in, she couldn't help but marvel at the intricate beauty of it all. This was a slice of nature in the midst of an advanced airship. Virid's pride in her work and her connection to this place was apparent. Thankfully, despite all the greenery, The woman wasn't exactly difficult to spot- she was the only green thing in constant motion, and she moved from plant to plant, casually inspecting them.

Rep was intrigued by Virid. The combination of plant and humanoid features was unlike anything she had seen before. There was something calming, even grounding, about Virid's presence. Perhaps the smell of fresh earth and blooming flowers seemed to linger around them. They smelled like the island had, alive. Like the first smell Rep had scented when she'd first become free.

"Virid," she began, "Hello!"

The woman turned to Rep, gave her a single nod of acknowledgment, then went back to work.

"You're the ship's botanist?" Rep already knew this but didn't know a better way to start a discussion.

The humanoid plant nodded again, the leaves that formed their hair rustling slightly. "Yes, I have the honor of tending to the flora of the ship. I provide the sustenance for the crew."

Virid spoke distantly as if her attention were elsewhere; that seemed to be a trend from what Rep had seen. The Replicator couldn't help but wonder what the woman thought so deeply about.

Rep grimaced faintly and tried a different tact to spark the woman's interest. "I don't know much about Gaiael- Doran told me that's the Demigod you serve," Rep confessed. "Can you tell me more about them and their labors? And what will happen when they reach their twelfth labor?"

Virid grew a faint smile. "Gaiael is a Nature Demigod tasked with twelve labors to ascend to divinity. Each labor is a monumental task, such as restoring a devastated ecosystem or taming a rampaging elemental. They are on their sixth labor now, reforesting a barren planet. Once they complete all twelve, they ascend to a higher state of being and can create a new homeworld."

"A new homeworld? So they'll leave the Atherium? what about you?" Rep asked, curious about Virid's place in all of this. "What will happen to you when Gaiael completes their twelfth labor?"

"When Gaiael completes the twelfth, they will bring those who have served them faithfully along," Virid explained. "That includes me. We would help shape the new world, making it a bastion of the Green." Her tone was wistful and longing.

"You sound like you're looking forward to it?"

"Yes," Virid said. "I am sure you don't understand, but this Atherium is so... silent. So Purple- so devoid of life. There is much beauty in it, but they are separated by great distances. I do not hear whispers of the Rootedfolk here.

Rep blinked- Virid spoke concepts new to the Replicant with every sentence. "The Rootedfolk?"

"Your kind call them plants. The word is accurate but does not provide appropriate reverence. We Ento call them Rootfolk."

"Like trees?" Rep's brow scrunched. "I think I might have heard a tree talk once."

"Oh?" Virid looks over to Rep with a restrained interest. "In your homeland or here in the Atherium?"

"Back on the island. One of the sentinel trees, they spoke to me, I think?" Rep recalled. It hadn't been long ago, but it had been an intense series of days since. "I climbed it to get a better view. It seemed like it spoke to me. I apologized to it- I thought I might have hurt it when climbing. And it... sort of said that it was okay?"

Virid gave a nod of contemplation. "Trees possess a remarkable capacity for forgiveness, as it is intrinsic to their nature to provide; they are the closest of the Rootedfolk to Ento," As her distant gaze turned back towards the Replicator, Rep began to suspect that perhaps she wasn't as distant as she seemed at first; perhaps this was simply how Virid was.

"I..." Rep began. "I was hoping you could tell me more about yourself. About your people, the Ento?"

Virid tilted her head, frowning at either Rep's question or the answer she was about to give to it. "The Ento... well, we are a diverse people. We aren't native to this Atherium- few creatures are. We no longer know where we come from; it is lost in the centuries spent here." Virid continued. "Our appearances and abilities vary depending on our origin region and personal growth- even our classes change us," she gestured to herself, "We all share a common bond with the Green, but not all follow that bond as close as I do."

"Do you mean green classes? Not all Ento are [Druids], then?"

Virid hummed thoughtfully. "No, not all are druids- but most serve the Green. Green classes, Green cards. Almost all the Ento are Green."

"I see, like Doran? Green [Captains] and Green [Warriors]?"

Virid nodded. "You understand correctly."

"What is a [Druid] anyway?" Rep asked. She had a vague idea but doubted the fiction of her world was accurate to the reality of this alien one.

"We bend the mana in the air to serve the Green, though some then bend the Green to serve us." She shook her head. "Few serve the Green so truly as we once did, It is hard to pay proper tithes to the Green in the Atherium; we cannot give to the land as easily- for land is rarer here." She hesitated, then elaborated. "I was born here and have not known anything different. But ancestral stories speak of whole worlds, planets covered in Green, without the touch of Orange, Purple, Blue, or Red. Forests so large you cannot see the earth beneath."

She gave another longing sigh, then continued. "The class- [Druid], allows us to serve as intermediaries between the natural world and our people. As a [Druid], I tend to the needs of nature and work to maintain balance. Here on the ship, I mostly perform as a source of food."

Rep frowned. "You don't sound... happy about that?"

"I am not, but it is payment for the services I desire of the Wolfgang."

"What services?"

A deep grin spread across Virid's face, revealing a sight that caught Rep completely off guard—hundreds of needle-like fangs forming a formidable wall. At that moment, the distant look that had enveloped Virid vanished entirely, replaced by a laser-sharp focus as her eyes narrowed like a cat. "Battle."

Rep tilted her head, taken aback by this sudden revelation. "Battle?"

Virid nodded, the same hunger for combat etched upon her features. "I yearn to devour the Red and Orange. On these small vessels, skirmishes arise frequently, attracting pirates and creatures in search of easy spoils. I kill, and then I feast."

Rep felt a shiver and then an almost shameful moment of kinship. "I... see. Aren't there simpler ways to satisfy your appetite for meat?"

"None that provide the thrill of battle. Once Gaelial completes the necessary tasks, I shall be fully prepared. A [Berzerker] [Druid] of blue and green, dedicated to their cause."

So, Virid was a blue berzerker? And a green druid? Rep wondered what her domains were. "What is their cause?"

Virid's response came with a nonchalant shrug. "I do not possess that knowledge, nor does it hold significance to me. The Green aligns itself with Gaelial; consequently, I serve them."

Rep found herself fascinated by Virid and her culture. The concept of serving a creature without knowing what it wanted from you and doing so willingly? That was... strange to Rep, strange and alien.

"You don't care what causes you serve?" Virid shook her head.

Virid tone began to slow again, her eyes taking on a distracted look. "I care, child. But I am too cruel to pick for myself. I would be like a fire, burning and devouring until someone doused me if I chose my own cause. So I serve those more controlled than I, and I wait till it is time to burn."

Rep found herself questionless after that- not that she didn't have many questions still, but just that she found that... Virid scared her.

Virid hummed thoughtfully. "Go now; I must attend my work and think of how I would teach you."

Rep stilled. "Teach me? Teach me what?"

"How to utilize these plants- you are to become our ship cook if your showing with Doran the other day is anything to go by. There are many things these plants can be besides simply food, and you should know what. But go, be shooed, for now. I have scared you; some distance from me will sooth your soul." Rep floundered. "No, you didn't! I mean..."

"I am not offended." Virid grinned at Rep again, a mouth of swords in miniature. "I am frightening. If you ever wish it, I will also teach you that."

"Teach what?"

"How to be frightening." Virid turned back to her work, and eventually, Rep took that for the dismissal it was. She nodded and excused herself. Exiting the ship's green room. She stood outside the door in thought for a moment before pursuing her next quarry- would it be Cascade or Tork?

Rep could not deny the intrigue of understanding Tork and his world of gears, wires, and complex circuitry. He seemed a sense of familiarity where Cascade was more... foreign. After a moment of consideration, she decided to approach Tork first. His more mechanical-leaning profession felt less mysterious than whatever it was Cascade did exactly.

Rep eventually located Tork's domain nestled deep within the vessel. His chamber was enclosed, a metal box housing the ship's engines on either side. Pausing for a moment to gather her courage, she hesitantly knocked on the door.

Silence greeted her.

Undeterred, Rep knocked again, then twice more, growing increasingly persistent. Finally, after a third attempt with no response, she cautiously pushed the door open.

A tidal wave of noise burst forth from the room, emanating frantic and wild music.

Tork's workspace was a world unto itself, crammed from floor to ceiling with an array of mechanical parts, tools, and half-completed projects. Every available surface was covered with objects of all shapes and sizes, from tiny, intricate gears to large, heavy pieces of machinery. Each of the smaller pieces danced from the sounds of the noise, and Rep quickly ordered her microunits to lessen her hearing sensitivity.

In the midst of this chaos, a large workbench stood as the heart of the operation. It was cluttered with a myriad of tools - spanners, wrenches, screwdrivers, and more esoteric devices Rep couldn't begin to identify. Bright, focused lights mounted on flexible arms sprouted from the bench, illuminating the workspace with a harsh, white glow.

Amid the organized clutter, a single chair stood out. It was old, with a worn-out seat cushion, and it creaked ominously under Tork's weight. Yet, it seemed to serve its purpose well, supporting the engineer through countless hours of meticulous work. The air was heavy with the scent of oil and metal, a smell that spoke of industry and effort. The persistent hum of machinery melded with the music, punctuated by the occasional sound of Tork's tools as he worked on his various projects.

The space seemed overwhelming to Rep, an endless barrage of noise and technology. But to Tork, it was clearly a sanctuary.

"I hope I'm not intruding!" Rep shouted. "I wanted to understand more about what you do here!"

Tork did not immediately reply. He seemed fully engrossed in his work, hunched over the workbench, his hand deftly maneuvering a pair of pliers. He was holding a small device of some sort, manipulating it with precise, controlled movements. Rep could only guess what it was – maybe some kind of power unit or engine component?

Tork looked up, removing a pair of goggles from his eyes, revealing a sharp, curious gaze beneath. His face was streaked with oil and grease, and his hair was a wild, tangled mess, but his eyes sparkled with an intensity that Rep found magnetic.

"Aye! The lass wants to understand the world of gears, does she?" He chuckled, the sound of which was lost in the musical noise pollution. "Then come and have a seat. You're not intruding, just as long as you're not planning on messing with any of the equipment." Notably, he didn't turn down the music, he just shouted over it.

Tork set aside the device he had been working on and then gestured towards a relatively empty spot on the workbench. Rep carefully made her way over and hopped onto the surface, observing the room from this new angle.

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"Tell me," Tork began, his voice a gravelly rumble. "What do you know about fixing shit?"

"Well," Rep pondered, her processors whirring as she tried to pull out relevant knowledge. "I am a machine. I understand the basics of mechanical systems, simple machines, energy transformation, the laws of motion... that sort of thing. But the specifics of how you implement it, make machines out of raw materials, design and repair complex systems... That's all new to me- I would normally just use my microbots to make anything I need, and all that is preprogrammed."

Tork grunted, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Well, I won't pretend for a second I understood half the words you spoke. But, 'basics' are a good place to start. Every complex machine is just a combination of simple ones. Gears, levers, pulleys... they're all simple machines."

He picked up a small gear from his workbench, holding it up for Rep to see. "This, for example, is a gear. They're used to transmit torque from one part of a machine to another. When two of these interlock, they can change a power source's speed, torque, or direction."

The engineer set the gear down and picked up a different tool—a screwdriver, which he used to point at different parts of a partially dismantled engine on the workbench. "Every machine, every system I work on, is just a big puzzle. All the pieces have to fit together just right for it to work. And if something breaks, I have to figure out how to replace it or repair it."

Tork leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment. "Being an [Engineer],.. it's about problem-solving. It's about patience and precision. And it's about understanding how things work on a fundamental level."

He glanced at Rep, his eyes glinting with curiosity. "Why the sudden interest in mechanics?"

Rep paused- had they expressed an interest? Maybe he'd read it in her face. He'd been so quiet when they first met, but it seemed like Tork was... pretty talkative in his sanctuary.

Rep shouted to be heard over the music and machinery, as he had. "I want to understand the people I'm working with, their roles, their lives; understanding you, your craft, it's a part of that." That sounded good, right?

Tork acknowledged her answer with a nod, a smile of approval gracing his face. "Not exactly the answer I was expecting, but a good one."

Curiosity piqued, Rep inquired, "What answer were you hoping for?"

Tork's smile faded slightly. "I had hoped you would express your intention to leave behind the sailing endeavors that Doran is trying to instill in you and take up as my apprentice."

"Why?" Rep didn't expect that; why would he want her as a student?

"Your odd, alien, and mechanical!" His eyes lit up at the word 'mechanical' like it was a divine blessing.

"I'm not really mechanical; I'm made of proteins." Rep's brow furrowed. "I might; The sailing hasn't been going so well for me. No levels yet. Maybe I'll have better luck with [Engineer]."

"But you're synthetic? Or have I miss understood?"

Rep nodded. "I was built, engineered, but... I'm not a robot or anything. If I hadn't met Typist, I'd have thought you couldn't really make something alive out of metal parts alone."

Tork grinned. "The power of Engineers! Well, [Engineers] and [Mages]. But back to the topic at hand." Tork leaned in, his voice 'hushed' or at least as quiet as the pounding music allowed. "How many classes do you possess?"

"Two," Rep responded, somewhat uncertain. "Does that make a difference?"

Tork nodded knowingly. "It does, especially if they are new. You can't ever have more than twelve classes at once, and they don't come quickly right after the other. If I had to guess, you'll have to wait a month to really make any progress leveling a third new one if you just recently got two." He leaned back in his chair. "By the way, how's your brother, Stick, doing?"

Rep nodded, opting not to correct Tork's assumption of Stick's familial ties. "He gained two levels the other night. Doran believes it's thanks to my 'Inspire Learning' skill."

Tork let out a hearty chuckle. "Ah, a valuable skill to possess. I almost envy you."

Rep hummed thoughtfully. "I'm struggling to understand them."

Tork cocked his head, intrigued. "What do you mean, lass?"

Rep sighed, realizing her difficulty in grasping the concept. "Skills, I find them perplexing. Despite having a long discussion with Doran, his explanations have only fueled more questions."

Tork resumed his work, but his eyes remained on Rep. "Well... try me. I may not have taught someone to comprehend the Mind of the Atherium before, but I have experience as an instructor. In fact, I possess the [Instructor] class- a bit like your [Teacher]. Share your doubts, and let's see if I can help you make sense of it all."

"I'm willing to try," Rep agreed and found she was getting used to the strange shouted conversation. "One of my difficulties is in understanding why skills seem so... sporadic. In my original programming, I learned things methodically and systemically. I could download skills and learn them instantly sometimes, but I always had to find them myself, or someone found them for me. The skill cards in this world seem to pop up randomly. Is there a reason for that?"

Tork chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Aye, it can seem that way, can't it? But, while Atherium's logic might appear nonsensical to you, there's usually a reason behind it. Many skills, you see, are gained through significant experiences or trials, not just mere practice or rote learning. It doesn't give you what you already have- it gives you something you might never have gotten."

Rep took a moment to process this, her processor humming in thought. "So, it's based more on the importance of the event rather than the frequency of repetition?"

"Partly, yes," Tork confirmed, nodding. "Say you're faced with a life-or-death situation that requires a particular skill. The Atherium recognizes that and grants you the skill card, even if you've never practiced it before. On the other hand, you might practice a different skill every day for years, but if it's not critical to your survival or growth, you might not gain the corresponding skill card."

She frowned. "That sounds frustrating."

He laughed, loud enough this time to be heard over the music. "It is! But you don't need Skills to become skilled, you see? There's what the Atherium provides, and there's what you earn. There's usually some overlap- or a lot of overlap. But they're not bound together by law as such."

Rep nodded absently. "But its not just knowledge- it changes our body, doesn't it? I have a sharper sense of smell and better taste buds than I used to."

"Yup, it'll do that. Thought mostly to people whose bodies change by nature already. Shape changers, the Ento- and your folk, I guess." Well, that seemed rather... creepy to Rep. It was one thing if the 'Voice of the Atherium' was downloading skill sets into her mind; it was quite another if it was overriding her control over her own microbots to facilitate those changes and doing it in such a way that she was unaware her control had been overridden. Perturbed, Rep remained only a few moments longer, speaking with Tork. Familiarizing herself with the man.

---

Stick picked himself back off the deck, finding himself once more mentally complaining about his diminutive statue in the sanctuary over his own mind. He grunted and buried the unneeded thinking. Typist was a capable warrior- far more so than Stick.

He'd gotten 'War: Polearm Proficiency' that evening and rejected the Skill following Typist's orders.

Supposedly, one didn't want to waste levels on useless Skills that you could pick up with simple training- and if you rejected those wasteful skill cards, you tended to get more at later levels. Or so Typist had told him.

Stick eyed the deck, sensing Rep through it. 'Love: Guardian Eye' allowed him to sense his... mother? Creator? Stick mentally shook his head. Typist and Doran, for all the help they gave Stick and Rep, had a habit of complicating rather simple concepts with additional ones.

Rep was Stick's 'Rep'; she didn't need to be anything more or less than that. Rep made Stick, and Stick protected Rep. Anything else was just wasted thinking.

He set himself, holding the makeshift spear Typist had given him and sending a series of jabs at the Forged, who easily batted them away with the sounds of smacking wood. Typist then twisted on a heel and drove his wooden sword flat into Stick's stomach.

Back on the ground, Stick fought back that surge of annoyance again. If only he was bigger.

He chided himself; stop thinking, attack!

He bolted upright and went low, jabbing at Typists legs. The Forged kicked the spear aside again and smacked Stick back down face-first into the deck. Stick mentally noted the damaged readouts as he turned over, and Typist peered down at him as he rolled over.

"Break time, your getting frustrated- fighting your own thoughts," His mentor spoke and dropped one of the Spellroots that the plant creature Rep was talking to made for the crew to eat.

Stick didn't sigh aloud; that felt too... performative to him. But he did think about sighing in his head as hard as he could.

Don't think, he passively reminded himself.

He found himself in a strange spot digesting the new advice. It resonated with him. To not think, to just do. But then, he didn't want to... act out expressively. A small smile here or a faint frown there. That was fine, just enough to tell people what they needed to know. But if it wouldn't help them, then why express the emotion? Stick felt like he made emotions more powerful when he felt like voicing them. Which was good sometimes. That's how he'd gotten his Protection: Bodyguard class, by verbally committing to protecting Rep- even if she hadn't really understood what he said.

But he imagined speaking his frustration about his size aloud- what class might he get if he did that? Nothing good, he thought.

He shook his head, his real one this time, not just his mental avatar's head. Fine, if he couldn't stop thinking right now, he'd just think about something less heavy.

He chewed the too-sweet Spellroot. Rep seemed to love them- but Stick found he could take or leave them and only ate them to give his microunits the needed energy to keep him from accumulating too much damage to keep training.

At least the sailor levels had been coming decently quickly. Endurance: Steady Feet and Order: Unbreaking Knot were both delightful to have- the former of the two causing him to be knocked down half as much by Typist.

That still meant Stick spent most of his time horizontally, though.

Stop thinking; Just do. He reluctantly began swallowing down the Spellroot.

Stick allowed himself a moment to process the data streams from his microunits, analyzing his performance in the sparring session with Typist. He had suffered moderate damage, but it was manageable—within the preprogrammed operating parameters.

As he was processing, his perception caught Typist sitting cross-legged a few feet away, looking out over the deck, his wooden swords lying beside him. He was a peculiar figure, the Forged. He never seemed to tire or require sustenance like the others- even Stick and Rep had to eat to keep running. His training sessions were as relentless as the ocean waves. Yet, there was something undeniably wise in the quiet moments, like now, when he was at rest.

Stick could not deny that Typist's training was effective. Though the process was frustrating, he was definitely improving. His reflexes were getting sharper, and he was beginning to anticipate Typist's attacks more accurately.

Stick finished his Spellroot, feeling the familiar surge of energy as his microbots got to work, repairing and maintaining his system. This was the routine—train, eat, repair, repeat. He didn't resent it; his only frustration came from his stature. He knew he was improving and becoming a better protector for Rep, which was his primary function. Everything else was secondary.

After a few minutes, Typist stirred and got to his feet, his wooden swords clutched in his hands. He met Stick's gaze and nodded, a silent signal that it was time to begin again.

Stick got up, gripping his spear tighter. He was ready. This time, instead of going on the offensive, Stick decided to focus on defense. He moved fluidly, predicting Typist's attacks and countering them accordingly. He was still knocked over a few times, but he managed to stay on his feet more than before. It was progress, slow but steady.

Stick's mind worked in overdrive as they sparred, processing information and adapting his tactics. He was learning, evolving, and becoming more efficient. He was not just a creation of Rep's. He was Stick, a warrior, a guardian. And he would not stop until he had mastered these new skills and ensured Rep's safety. That was his purpose, his mission. And he would fulfill it, no matter what.

He swept his spear in a wide arc, driving Typist back a step. He felt a moment of triumph and quickly squashed it. Don't think; just do. And so he did, pressing his advantage, learning from every clash, every tumble, every grating sound of wood on wood. With the spear, he had just enough of a reach advantage to be able to press the larger construct, and he squeezed every drop out of that advantage.

Typist retreated under a flurry of jabs before catching and turning the spear aside with a curving attack directly on Stick's weapon. Stick kept a grip on his weapon and tried to switch to a shorter grip quickly before Typist stepped into his range and once more bowled Stick over.

Stick seethed; if only he was just a bit bigger! He couldn't control his microunits like Rep could. Otherwise, he could make himself bigger. But unlike her, Stick's form was 'locked.'

Typist grunted. "Thinking." He criticized, his voice ringing with humor as he kicked Stick onto his behind.

Stick swung his spear clumsily in response from his prone, panting to get more oxygen into his synthetic lungs. And Typist retreated laughing. "All right, pipsqueak. Break time, a long one this time. You've had enough fighting for the day; we'll go back to sailing training when you're rested."

"Okay." Stick stood and brushed himself off. He still wore the armor Rep had made for him, though it was of admittable poor quality. It provided enough defense that Typist didn't need to hold back as much, allowing Stick to learning quicker- or so he hoped.

Stick wasn't entirely sure to feel about his life. He loosely understood that Rep had been wronged by their homeland- her homeland, really. He sympathized but didn't understand. But even with his minimal life experience, he saw the way she'd look around warily, eyeing for something coming for her. How she jumped back from surprises or seemed to avoid the main deck whenever Stick was training with Typist, he understood his commitment as her bodyguard made her uncomfortable. That was okay. Between this world's 'Inquisitors' and the nation of Toskana from Rep's old world, he was sure the discomfort he caused her would end up being worth it in the end.

Like an incantation, As he thought of her, she arrived back above deck, looking vaguely troubled. Ever since he'd known her, she always seemed vaguely troubled to Stick- excluding when she was eating. Then, she beamed. It was annoying knowing he couldn't properly protect her from whatever it was that was bothering her. If he had his way, he'd park her in the galley, let her eat and cook till her heart's content, and clobber anyone who bothered her with his spear.

Moments later, Doran arrived to break Stick from his musing. "Well, my two little sailors! Let's get to lessons. Rep, my dear. Could you use your skill on Stick?"

Rep nodded, placing a hand on Stick's shoulder, and Stick felt his mind sharpen. Stick suddenly felt- well, inspired. Like learning to sail was his favorite thing to do in the world- even if he knew intellectually it wasn't. He wondered what this Skill would do if he received it when he was sparring.

"Let's begin." Doran continued. "Sail trim, When sailing upwind, as we often are outside the Stream, trim the mainsail so that it is relatively flat. Pull in the mainsheet until the sail is just on the verge of luffing...

Stick listened attentively as Doran started on the intricacies of sailing. His augmented mind swiftly processed the information, weaving it into his existing knowledge. Concepts like wind direction, sail trim, and navigation started to fall into place like puzzle pieces.

As he worked alongside Rep, Stick also got a sense of the rhythm of the ship. The steady creaking of the wooden hull, the sounds of the magic of the Stream pressing against it, the shifting and snapping of the sails overhead—it was as if the ship itself was a living creature, breathing in and out with the Stream.

Typist was right, he found; the skills he learned from Doran were very different from the ones he could have acquired through leveling up. It would be a waste to keep a card that gave simple proficiency- maybe mastery, but proficiency? No.

Rep's skill remained active throughout the lesson, and Stick could feel its effects bolstering his ability to absorb and retain the new knowledge. He found himself understanding things that had previously seemed complex and confusing, and he started to see patterns and connections he had not noticed before.

Once the lesson concluded, Stick was left with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. He had learned much and felt more capable and prepared than ever before. His sailing skills had greatly improved, and he was becoming more and more adept at handling the ship's various tasks and challenges. Here, at least. His size didn't really matter. And Unbreaking Knot meant that he could tie a better knot at least once a day than anyone else on the ship.

The rest of the day was spent applying what they had learned. Stick took on tasks like adjusting the sail trim, checking the compass and map for navigation, and even taking the helm under Doran's watchful eye.

Rep seemed to be more at ease when Stick was around. Her tension seemed to ease slightly, and she was less jumpy. Stick found himself hoping that he could offer her more protection and comfort. Maybe he could get a card like... Protection: Bad thoughts, or something? He took a moment to think that suggest at the Voice of the Atherium, just in case it also had Ear of the Atherium.

When rest time came, Stick found himself reflecting on the day's events. He was making progress, becoming stronger, more skilled, and more capable. But he knew that he still had a long way to go. There were many more skills to learn, and many more challenges to overcome.

But for now, Stick allowed himself a moment of respite. He lay on the deck, staring up at the sky littered with stars. He let the gentle rocking of the ship and the peaceful sounds of the ship in motion.

Tomorrow, he would be ready to continue training, to keep pushing himself and becoming the best protector he could be for Rep. But for now, he would rest, allowing his microunits to repair and maintain his system.

He thought about the starry sky and the gentle creaking of the ship. He thought about Rep and her constant anxiety, Typist and his relentless training, and Doran and his vast knowledge of the skies.

These thoughts, combined with the rhythmic sounds of his own breathing, lulled him into a state of tranquility. In this peaceful moment, staring up at the starry sky and listening to the gentle lullaby of the sea, he felt something akin to contentment.

He would continue training tomorrow. He would continue growing stronger, becoming a better protector for Rep.

For now, though, he would simply exist, floating on the ocean waves under a canopy of stars, a tiny point of consciousness in a vast, beautiful world.

He could handle that.

He smiled when he heard the voice of the Atherium tell him he'd leveled up.

Then he frowned when he heard... was that music?

He perked up, sitting up and looking around. It wasn't coming from the ship. But from further ahead in the stream, he spotted... a dozen or so small, rickety-looking crafts approaching from where Wolfgang was heading. Was that... Banjo music?

He then jumped to his feet in fright as her heard Typist yelling out an alarm. "Damn it! prepare for combat! Imps!"

What the hell was a Imp?