The Skysong

A living skywood warship whose insides were never built: walls that curve inward the way old growth does, warm to the touch, faintly damp, breathing; root-script running silver in the grain from floor to seam; gauges and frequency dials worked into her own ribs; root-rigging that keeps humming after a hard turn; and a bioluminescent grain along her flanks that runs slow amber-to-green when she is at rest.