Ayrlands are flying hunks of buoyant Ayrth cradled in reef-rock shells, thrust heavenwards by ventral jets, and fueled by nature's own distilled elixirs. With every turning, the thousand ayrles of the Old World paint the sky with ghostly streaks of radiant Lingerlight, as they spiral around the worldly axis. Shoved to and fro by the gales, they gracelessly skim across vast seas of clouds, and bob atop the cushions of dense aethereal gasses that spew down from their reefjet's scalding vents. Through what opaque lens could one hope to reveal the deeper nature of that which seems so routine to any Gahlan? The ecologist might wax expository about the three keystone habitats found on every ayrland - the reefcrusts, the underhollows, and the topspans - complete with all the intricate taxonomic webs of flora and fauna that inhabit them. The meteorologist can point a pilgrim to a particular ayrland, or divine what resources might be unearthed from its geologic innards. The ayrchitect might lecture for days about the vital infrastructural networks required to keep a settlement sturdy and balanced in the face of punishing gales and troublesome skayrries. However, to the great consternation of all three, the mortal sciences have yet to offer us a unifying theory on the fundamental questions: How exactly are the ayrlands formed? When did they begin forming? Did they rise to flight from the mundane crucible of time and fortune, or were they lifted to the skies by the hand of an inspired designer? And if so, was that engineer of supernal origin, or could the whole construction fit within the schema of human capability?
Dearheart child, beg me for a Once-Upon-A-Turn and I'll oblige on any dusk! But spare me pester for an In-The-Beginning. Let the sages bicker on that score 'til their beards freeze, and their livers turn to putty.