[h3]Quel'Thalas[/h3]
Sunsail Anchorage 

Fathos Swifthammer stood waist deep in the gentle swells rolling in from the North Sea whenever a fair Northwesterly blew. The anchorage, once a small placid place that served to bring in supplies for Eversong Wood, had grown greatly since the Scourge had assaulted the Elfgate. The High Elves had found themselves relying on Human merchants for much of their trade and supplies during that time and the King had sworn that never again would this be so. It was, after all, the humans who were to blame for the plague for the first place, and for its spread inside the lands of Quel'Thalas. The less dependence on them the  better. As a result of this need, Sunsail Anchorage had been turned into a shipyard second to none in the Elvish histories. 

Three long ship beds, raised five or feet above the ground, each cradling a hull in various stages of production, were set in the north bank where they were protected from the wind and tide. Beyond them the ocean was speckled with the tall white and gold sails of ships undergoing sea trials. The crews had largely been drawn from the families of seafaring folk whose sons and daughters wanted no part of working the nets all day. They were fine sailors, but warriors, well, that was a work in progress. 

Swifthammer was working on a ship launched only that morning. She had no name yet, Elvish convention forbade the naming of any vessel until she had survived her sea trials. This one, like so many others before it, no matter how tight you might build them, or how much arcane magic was used to seal them, still leaked, some worse than others. In this case he had found that the Phoenix figurehead hadn't been properly fitted and water was seeping through and quickly wetting the hold. So it fell to him, as the Master Shipbuilder, to inspect it all, and he preferred to fix problems himself. 

His hammer, a well used wooden mallet with steel bands about the head to keep it from splitting, slammed into the right side of the figurehead once, twice, and then a third time with the satisfying sound of wood battering wood. The figure head shifted and then with a wheeze, it sank into place. A muted voice cried out from inside the hull.

"That is good!"

He tapped on the hull in response and waded back toward the shore acutely aware of the sudden appeared of four Farstrider Rangers. Their bows were slung, curved swords at their waist, and there was no sign of any mounts. Most creatures that might serve to speed them along came at a cost of time spent caring for them, saddling them, or trying to prevent their smell from warning enemies of their approach. No, the Farstriders ran, aided by the Arcane Magics of the High Elves. They had earned their name, and the adoration of their people, a thousand times over. Each one was superbly fit. You rarely saw a fat Elf, but the Farstriders stood out among their race in fitness and skill. 

They nodded to him as he climbed from the water but offered no comment. That was something he loved about his kin, if they didn't have something constructive to say, they kept their opinions to themselves. He wouldn't tell them how to Ranger, and they wouldn't tell him how to build ships. He returned their nods and then made his way toward the building that served as his headquarters and the main stores for a fleet in the making. 

The heavy door was already partially open and a pair of sentries stood on either side of it, notably more upright and anxious than they usually were. He approached them with a sense of trepidation and glanced into the darkness beyond the door before speaking quietly with one of them. 

"Visitors?"

The sentry nodded his blonde head, the sunlight flashing from his polished helmet. He flickered his eyes from left to right, toward the Farstriders, and then a small smile briefly showed. "Ranger-General Windrunner is here, along with the new Admiral-General."

Swifthammer felt a small knot form in his stomach. The fleet had not yet been given a commander and he had half expected the first one to arrive with much pomp and ceremony but it seemed he was wrong. Not only that, but the Ranger-General herself had come suggesting that this individual was a friend of hers, rather than flunky of the court. He took a breath and stepped into the gloom.