Copperscale Ridge

Copperscale Ridge rises gently to the north of the mead — not a mountain, but a high, rolling shoulder of land where the air thins and the wind has room. Wildflowers cover it in the warm months, and in summer the thunder rolls along the ridge like something living, bringing rain that the whole lane drinks.

The dragon-kites nest up here — long, slender creatures with silken wings that ride the thermals in slow, looping spirals, bright-scaled and friendly, more like living kites than anything wild. They keep their distance from the forge, but they circle low over the wildflowers on windy afternoons, and the children climb the ridge to watch them.

On the ridge's high shoulder stands the smithy of Rhonan Coppersmith — a large, bald man with a short beard who lives alone and keeps to himself. He forges every nail, hinge, and kettle the folk of the lane need, and from his anvil comes copper jewelry set with gems from a source deep in the mountain he will never speak of. One leg is shod in a metal boot, said to cover an old injury he will only blame on a fire.