Stella had been under the weather, along with most everybody else- save for Patriarch Lorem, Eugene, and Irwin. The Patriarch doesn't leave his house often on account of being old, and the two fox farmers had been out on the road the past week.

Stylus was the only one who wasn't sick, for obvious reasons. He was carrying a bundle of firewood over each shoulder. The Harvest celebration party was post-poned to next week due to the bug that got around.

Stylus tossed the bundles off of his shoulders and started untying the ropes that held them together. He pulled his knife from the sheath on the backpack strap and started whittling the log, peeling away layers so the bonfire could burn stronger and easier.

He whittled a few logs before coming across a certain log that looked oddly-shaped. Distracted, Stylus started cleaving off bits he deemed weren't good-looking. He tossed the removed chunks into the fire pit as he carved. Stylus sat there, carving for a few hours. It was rather easy. The piece was a softer wood than the rest.

Eventually, Stylus clipped the last bit of excess off that he planned to cut. In his armoured hands was a relatively sloppy-looking statuette of Stella.

"Eh, crap." Stylus muttered. It didn't look a thing like Stella. Hell, the only indicator that it was a figure in general, let alone Stella in particular, was the damaged-looking ear.

Stylus shook his head in disappointment at his failure. He then remembered that he had a point to sitting at the fire pit. He whittled the statuette to hide that he even attempted the piece, then tossed it in with the others.

"Never thought a robot could try its hand at artwork," came an elderly voice.

Stylus turned his synthetic head. It was Patriarch Lorem.

"Why didn't my motion sensors detect you?" Stylus asked.

"I came here when I noticed you were putting more effort to a piece of lumber. You probably weren't paying attention."

The Patriarch inched his way to the bench and sat down next to Stylus. His cane was thin, but reliable. The old sparrow watched as Stylus continued whittling.

"I was a pretty good wood carver back in my day," Lorem said. "I usually came to town with my best. All during an arts festival, of course." A pause. Lorem wore a smile that could melt ice in seconds. "Even met my wife on the third year I went. Bless her soul."

Stylus paused as well, turning his head to the Patriarch. He didn't know Lorem had a wife. Lorem seemed to detect the question before the robot could ask it.

"She's been gone for a few years now. She'd be ninety-two now."

"And you?" Stylus asked.

"Ninety-three now. My time is coming very soon."

"And you're not at all worried?"

Lorem adjusted his position so he was closer to facing Stylus. "I know your views on life and death, and how you want to achieve immortality. I knew many good men and women who shared your interests. I wouldn't be surprised if they read the same books you have."

The sage stopped, looking at the pile of whittled lumber that sat in the center of the fire pit.

"But...?"

Lorem flinched, then continued. "Even I relished the idea of living forever. Everyone does at some point in their lives. However, it's thoughts and dreams like those that we make mistakes over."

"Such as?"

"Falling in love, for instance." Lorem chuckled, even wheezed and coughed. Stylus dropped his knife to pat the Patriarch on the back. The aged sparrow choked twice and took a deep breath. "Thank you," he said before continuing. "My wife wasn't interested in that sort of thing, immortality. She told me that when we found out that we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together."

Stylus picked up his knife and continued whittling, while still paying attention.

"Tell me, Stylus," Lorem asked, still warm-hearted and cheerful, "What would your Doctor Robotnik do if you return in the same fashion as that one robot you took apart?"

The robot stopped again, then leaned back a bit. He had no answer.

"Would he repair you, or take you apart until nothing remained?

Stylus remained silent. Conflicting ideals bounced around his synthetic mind.

"After over sixty years, I learned that the idea of immortality was an illusion. It wasn't you lasting forever. It was how much of an impact you made, and hoping to whatever higher force out there that others will want to keep the memory of your exploits alive."

The robot nodded.

"At the end of the day, would anyone want to keep the memory of Doctor Robotnik alive?"

Stylus slowly shook his head. Logically, there wasn't much of a way to like Robotnik. Even a loyal robot like Stylus had to admit.

"Of course, you're a robot, so you're obviously programmed to follow his orders, and finding this RELIC person."

It's been a year now, and no RELIC in sight. Nobody's even really heard of RELIC. Not even in the surrounding communes or the big town of Fearless Winds.

"There's been no evidence that RELIC even existed," Stylus said. "What do you think that means?"

Lorem shrugged, the faint sound of creaking bones accompanied the spontaneous action. "Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there was no RELIC, maybe he lied."

Stylus' processors were starting to overclock. Paranoia. Fear of abandonment. Goddamnit, this can't be true. This isn't making sense... RELIC had to be here. The Doc wouldn't flat out lie.

"But would it matter?" Lorem asked. The question stopped Stylus' processors. "After all, if he hadn't sent you this way, you wouldn't have met all of us, you wouldn't have met Stella. She's very fond of you, even."

"Say what?" Stylus asked as Lorem giggled.

The elder pushed himself onto his feet using his cane. "Funny that you act confused. Most of the town's known it; even Leo. It's also easy to see that you're fond of her."

Stylus cocked his head.

"I'll admit: It was a crap carving job, but I could tell it was her. My only advice to you is to practice. Maybe if you get good enough, I could take you to the next sculptor's convention. As for Stella, well..." Lorem shrugged. "It's not one of those things you can truly get advice for."

Lorem laughed and coughed as he left. Stylus watched as the Patriarch slowly walked back to his own shelter of choice. He also listened as the Patriarch whistled a tune all the way. A tune he committed to memory on account of he liked the sound of it. The robot then turned back to his whittling duty, and started practicing wood carving some more.