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.