Ship's Log, Fosterling, Mosquito-class shuttle

Date: On or about four months after yearspawn, 5165 Olven Calender; vernal equinox, Year of the Toad in local reckoning.

Position: Standing off of Arc Station, forbiddenspace

Ship's condition: All fast and well supplied

It is difficult to know where to begin.

Nearly three months passed before I was allowed to the surface, but it was worth the wait. The city of Brindol has massive rock walls, though whether they are designed to keep visitors in or dangers out I have yet to discover. Perhaps they serve both purposes. While on the surface I met a number of locals. A psion claiming to be a high admiral of the fleet had a conversation with me, and inflicted me with some form of geas against pursuing my plan to inform the local government of the demise of Geoffrey, their ambassador (titled only “judge” locally). Stymied in this respect, I resolved to ignore his demand that I bring a parasite back to Lionheart.

I suppose I should begin by stating some of what I have found out about forever trees. Apparently, they are truly immortal. All foreverwood comes from these massive trees which are hacked off ten or so feet above the root, and regrow rapidly. The undistilled sap of these trees is some kind of healing salve, the bark is tough enough to fashion into plate armor, and the leaves are useful in any number of herbal admixtures. Knowing any of that is grounds for severe punishment on Brindol. They seem to hold these trees as sacred, and little doubt! There seems to be some sort of immortal dryad like creature which lives in them. From what I know, these creatures can form a sort of parasite which lives inside a mortal shell in what would be a symbiosis similar to a tween apart from the potential to kill the host. I admit that the details are sketchy at present, but I have held one leaf in my hand, and even just the leaf gave me a sense of age and vitality.

All of the locals seem to have absorbed some of the incredible life force of these amazing flora. Those who travel into the forest seem to shimmer and sparkle. More disturbingly, they are often blessed as though they drank of Hanali's pool. For the first time I began to understand one mystery of the Seldarine; it is possible for a creature to be so beautiful that it becomes difficult to care that they are of the same sex. I found it difficult to avoid staring, and I am afraid it was a battle that Bron lost before he began to wage war. At any rate, I rented a cottage in town, and entertained three of the locals, brawny warrior, a psionic archer, and a slender swordsman. Each of them expressed interest in seeing the spheres, and as only one had even traveled as far as Arc, I offered to be their guide.

The following day I saw her. Strong and supple, she moved with the grace of a dancer, but the ease and lack of wasted movement that only comes to most from decades of practice. The previous day I had counted all of the locals beautiful, most especially the archer (who even hid his features from the other locals so as not to cause difficulties). I was mistaken; there is no other woman. I can still see her shift on her chair, muscles sore from her training under the black cloth of her robe. I nearly reached to touch her, right there in public. When a battle took place between the so called “high admiral” and a local warrior, I nearly didn't notice. In fact, I was so enraptured that had the warrior not started emitting the same type of “unlight” that destroyed my entire fleet I might not have cared in the slightest. In hindsight, I likely should have done something to help him, though what I could have done without being either cast out or slain escapes me. Still, he was a fellow elf (unless he was lying about that too), and we of the Navy do try to take care of our own.

When I mentioned to the others that he was, indeed, an elf (why I could not say), they all expressed surprise, whereupon I told them of my own race. In my wonder at my new companions, I had nearly forgotten entirely that I was in disguise. While most of them were only mildly surprised, the monk took great offense. To be honest, I had assumed that she could likely see directly through the weak disguise. I had taken pains to be certain that I still retained my own general appearance, just disguising my elven heritage and naval uniform. My face still looked similar, my skin still pale and slightly blue like all those of my heritage, and my frame slight. Still, she was upset, and her anger was like a blow to my spirit. Somehow it made her more beautiful. I remained calm, despite her aggressive wordplay, not through any diplomatic skill so much as because I could scarcely even entertain anger against such radient beauty.

I think I must give some background on my life so that you, gentle reader, can truly appreciate the full magnitude of my meaning. For two generations of men I have known beauty, and run in the rain with slyphs. I know the heart-breaking beauty of the ice princess , and I have seen the skydance of the avariel. I have played while the winter court waltzed, and slept in the arms of a dryad. Of all these mythically beautiful women, there is not even one who would not blush for shame were they to stand beside her. There is a legend shared by the priesthoods of many goddesses of love and beauty of a font of enchanted water called “The Evergold.” This legend states that one drop of water from this fountain will smooth any scar, and one sip will restore youth to the most wizened of ancients. I think that if a goddess were to bathe in those waters, she still would not turn my eyes away.

So you can imagine that I was somewhat sobered when she calmly stated that should I lie to her again she would kill me.

I had gone out of my way to make my disguise easily penetrated by the eyes of the local constabulary, and kept my own features to boot. I have no desire to cause trouble for these people, despite the apparent desire of some within the admiralty to conquer the planet. In fact, my current plan is to fashion a slightly larger ship, hire a crew, and take all of them on a trip to explore the spheres. I can show them many wonders I have witnessed, and we can discover others together. A decade or two hence I will again bring up my desire to learn more about their sacred trees. By then I hope that they will know me well enough to understand that I bear no ill will towards anyone. Perhaps I will travel past the war orphanage. Old Bess, the half-orc who runs it now, will remember how I made her tiny ships to play with when I was ship's boy on Emerald Champion and she a small child. I will certainly take them to see my home. It has been some time since I have been back, and there are few sites as beautiful as the bloodfalls of the great glacier on any world.

So that is the precarious position I am in. I have lost the trust of the woman whose eyes haunt my dreams almost before I had it. In fact, she went out of her way to become part owner of the new wasp-class ship I will be constructing in the morning. I have yet to actually work with foreverwood, but I have seen enough that I should be up to the challenge. In a worst case scenario, I can deconstruct the vessel and allow the lumber to “heal” back to it's initial shape before trying again. I normally wouldn't bother, but it is hard for me to even consider denying her something within my grasp. My only concession is a secondary hull composed of more conventional wood to conceal the nature of the vessel. I have little fear that most will understand it for what it is, but there are factions in the navy, and a naval gardener will not fail to see how unusual foreverwood is. Bron agreed to hire on some sailors, and I will be recruiting an artillerist team at some point as well. Fosterling will lose her helm until such point as I can find a suitable replacement, the only one available at this point being Moody's.

Ship's Log, Fosterling, Mosquito-class shuttle

Date: On or about a month after yearspawn, 5165 Olven Calender; 17 Vis, Year of the Toad in local reckoning.

Position: Standing off of Arc Station, forbiddenspace

Ship's condition: All fast, clean, food supply low

Travel through the sphere was uneventful, apart from Bron's recovery. I worry that I am rapidly running short of berries to enchant to sustain us, but I have included a spell to freshen and restore the ones I have remaining in my daily regimen. With some luck, that will be more than enough. As it turns out, Moody is, indeed, a construct, albeit a living one. I hadn't noticed at first, but weeks of familiarity have made me certain that he can be numbered amongst the construct soldiers of shardspace known there as “the warforged.” Because he is tireless, and I think partly so as to get us to our destination and unload us for a day of peace and quiet, we have traveled under power on all watches, with me taking two watches on the helm each day and him four. Bron is well enough to provide some small companionship now, so Moody has stopped speaking at all (other than to complain quietly when I play the lyre or harp).

On reaching our destination, I decided not to dock at Arc Station. The one bollard Fosterling requires would force me to open the war chests I salvaged from the fleet. While they are technically my funds, either under salvage laws or as the only remaining officer of the fleet, I am loathe to spend the Admiralty's money when there is no pressing need.

The station it's self is massive. The city is built atop a huge stone arch, nearly a mile long. This arch dips down at either side as if to embrace the massive plateu on the surface below. I am assured by locals that the dimensions precisely match the land feature, which is staggering. I don't know how tall it is, but it is clearly visible from here, despite the cloud cover. From all I can tell it might be half a mile high or more! In ordinary circumstances I would fly by handsomely, and attempt to get a better gauge; unfortunately, local regulations preclude any ships from even brushing the edge of the sky. In fact, on the subject of regulations, I have taken the liberty of procuring a set of scrolls listing the local laws, which are counter-intuitive at times, and stiffly enforced. Apparently the local constabulary is composed entirely of monastic warriors who have studied magic. It's a little bit chilling to realize that there are five orders of such warriors, all of whom apparently live in the twin citys of Arc station and Brindol. I have met one such constable, whom I found cold but civil, and would not wish to be across a skirmish from him.

Arc city is as cosmopolitan as any I have witnessed. My appearance in naval uniform received a somewhat marked lack of welcome, but no attention whatsoever was paid to me once I purchased an illusory disguise, despite the constant presence of Lumiranta, a small but wise air elemental who has been my companion for years. In fact, while purchasing my disguise I was surprised to see a massive elemental arguing with a merchant! My affiliation with the Imperial navy and race disguised, I encountered no further issues, and procured passage to the surface for both myself and Bron, though at great expense. There is an extensive wait, as only a finite number of visitors to Brindol are allowed at any given time, but I have the time, and greatly desire to see the “Trees of Forever” I have heard so much about.

Because it is likely to be some time, I set about to find useful work. Not wishing to play either my newly acquired enchanted lute nor my salvaged Elfharp in a city so obviously hostile to elves, I took employment in a small shipyard known for it's custom work. There are dozens of such yards, as well as three large military ones, so the local navy is quite impressive. Between the large clan of dwarves which guard what appears to be the only entrance to the sphere with their massive flying citidel and this massive fleet, it is small wonder that they were able to repel a concerted attack, even from an Imperial battlegroup. Any larger vessel would be forced to navigate a sunless sphere filled only with twilight and the shattered remains of destroyed planets, pass two massive and over-gunned citadels which guard the portal between the two spheres (which are held close together by some maddeningly potent power), and only [i]then[/i] fight this rag tag but numerous defensive fleet.

I myself recall bypassing the other sphere entirely, primarily due to the small size and maneuverability of Fosterling. We were able to do what the locals call 'running the crack,' which I normally would have marked as too dangerous, but compared with a months long journey through a dark sphere filled with undead, pirates, and orcish refugees during which our food supply would run out half way, I felt it the better option. Still, there was precious little room to maneuver, and navigating betwixt those black crystal walls for several hours without flinching tried my concentration.

I still sleep on ship most days, and Moody has yet to step one foot off of her, but Bron has likely become something of a favorite with some local doxie or another, and is often absent for days at a time. He must have found gainful employment as well, as his share of the salvage remains untouched in the hold. I have learned a great deal working at the shipyard. The yardmaster is strict but kind, and has learned an appreciation for my talents. As an outsider I am not permitted to work with foreverwood, but I have watched others do so, and it appears to occupy the same niche locally that adamantine does amongst the arms and armor folk. Nearly always milled thin, it is none the less used for framing and hulls of naval vessels, as well as for private yachts for local citizens. The yardmaster himself is fashioning a vessel which has a strong resemblance to the legendary Spelljammer itself, though much reduced in size; I guess twenty to thirty tons. The wide manta-like wings will act as sails when flexed by a sophisticated winch and pully system. I do not imagine it will maneuver easily, but the system should be extremely durable at least.

For my own part, I have been studying the books I salvaged from the fleet wreckage. I find it disconcerting that one of the orcish ship's logs is written entirely in mostly fluent elvish. I have heard that a race of orcs naming themselves “scro” follow this practice so as to best understand their enemies. As their implacable brutality was evident throughout the latest series of skirmishes, I find myself glad that they perished with the rest of that fleet. On the other hand, one of the other tomes I recovered has turned out to be something special. Apparently belonging to the same person the lyre did, it helped me to uncover one of the secrets of that wondrous instrument, namely the fingerpicks stored in a small secret compartment. The compartment only opens when specific chords are struck, and those chords belong to a lullaby native to Brindol! While the book itself seems to be merely sheet music, it is mildly enchanted, and will not change pages until one plays the song shown on the lyre. After the turning of a few such pages, the book shows that it has an area cut from the center of every page, the missing portion used to store a mithril chime. Unless I am greatly mistaken, it is a chime of opening, though it may well be ready to crack. I suspect that the chime may repair itself when encased in the book, but have yet to try my hypothesis. It is too beautiful to risk until I am in a location where I am confident a craftsman could restore it, as they customarily shatter when their magic is expended.