Maer’thalas Ridge

Land and Ley

Maer’thalas Ridge rises northwest of Naath in a long chain of slate-gray mountains, broken saddles, and narrow shelves where the wind never stops. Green crystal seams run through many faces, marking old ley paths with a dull glow on cloudy days and a clear shine after storms. Weather turns fast. Snow can fall on a bright morning and be gone by dusk. Avalanches cut new scars every winter, burying wayposts and swallowing side trails that seemed safe the year before. Shrines and cairns, some far older than the city, stand on overlooks and passes. Their stones show simple marks: a palm, a tree, a star, a spiral. Wardens record new breaks on bark slates and lash them to shrine poles so others can read the slope before they commit to it. The ridge holds three named zones with the most weight on Naath’s safety. To the west lie the Varnhollow Peaks, all ridgelines and chasms, hung with webs. South and east of those cliffs, the redstone highlands of the Bronthok Reaches press toward the Verdwood. Farther north, the Hulderhorns climb into year-round snow. Each place has its own rules, and each place pushes on the others when hunger, cold, or magic changes the ground.

The flows under the ridge do not run smooth. Cuts in the stone turn them aside or pinch them thin. Lorekeepers say this strain is why storms form here without warning and why some passes ring with thunder even when the sky is clear. The green veins that reach daylight are used as markers by anyone who knows what they mean: a steady seam is safe to cross; a cracked seam runs hot and can twist simple spells or make a torch gutter without cause. Wardens teach runners to tap a seam with an iron nail and listen to the tone. Hollow tones often mean a pocket, and pockets mean falls. The ridge gives little that is soft. Even the plants here are low and hard—lichen, thorn, and wind-shaped brush in small bowls of soil. Yet the ridge feeds the lowlands in its own way. Meltwater fills the headstreams. Stone holds the heat that brings early growth to the Verdwood’s edge. The ridge also draws trouble away from Naath, since anything that wants to cross must fight the slopes first. That is why the Wardens and the Seekers keep their eyes on it and why the Council listens when a winter patrol comes home early.

Peoples and Powers of the High Country

The Bronthok Reaches are the ground of the Redfang orcs. Their holds cling to cliffs and narrow shelves, braced with bone, scavenged timber, and iron seized from caravans or old camps. Watchfires burn in shielded pits so the light is seen but the smoke does not betray them in daylight. The Redfang law is strict. Shaman-brand marks bind warriors to their bands, and gear taken from trespassers is marked again as a warning. When game thins or hot springs shift and poison a valley, their raids sharpen. They strike for supplies, tools, and strong animals, then vanish into defiles that close behind rockfalls rigged in advance. They respect force, clear bargains, and steady tribute delivered on time. They despise delay. When the Council must treat with them, it sends iron, salt, and hard bread, not promises. Wardens prefer to keep them fed at arm’s length rather than meet them in a fogged pass.

The Varnhollow Peaks belong to the Skeliri—rose-skinned elves with glossy black eyes who live in web-hung cities slung across chasm rims. They do not speak much to outsiders. They revere the spiders that nest under ledges and use their silk to bind bridges, nets, and armor that moves without a sound. They do not descend to the Verdwood unless pressed. They remove intruders without noise and without excess. They honor trade when it is offered with the right signs. The Wardens know the marks to leave on a cliff post to request safe passage or to return a lost tool. The Skeliri watch the tunnels beneath the peaks and seal them when they stir. What stirs is not always seen, but when Seeker contracts mention Varnhollow, they include silk veils, oil lamps that do not smoke, and lines tied in pairs.

The Hulderhorns are the high white teeth of the ridge. Hill and frost giants still wander those heights. They move slowly, tend weathered shrines by habit, and test borders when hungry years come. They carry stone clubs and long bone spears, and some drive shaggy herds between valleys. They fight when crossed but do not hunt the lowlands without cause. Offerings at marked cairns—salt, iron nails, and a carved sign of thanks—are known to ease a crossing. The Lorekeepers keep a short list of shrines where an offering matters more than a sword, and they update it after each winter. Smaller groups also work the ridge. Dwarf smugglers run stolen iron along ice gullies when the Reaches are too hot. Human fringers hunt goats above legal lines and cut talons from dead spiders to sell as charms. Goblin raiders, mean and scheming, crawl out of side caverns to lay traps, poison meat, and scrawl filth on shrine stones. They stab from cover and flee, then creep back for what the dead leave behind. Wardens stamp out goblin nests when they can reach them; when they cannot, they starve them by sealing cracks and posting watch.

Roads, Watch, and Law

There are only a few passes that matter to everyone. The Warden’s March is the safest, a shelf road that rises from the Verdwood and threads just south of Varnhollow before breaking toward a long saddle above the Bronthok. Stone pins hammered into the wall every ten paces help rope teams cross storms. The Old Split climbs too near the Hulderhorns. It is shorter in dry weather and a death run in wind. A switchback called Three-Ledge Way reaches a Redfang toll court on a ledge with two ash poles and a drum. When the drum sounds, no one moves until the strike ends. The Skeliri keep a web-bridge called the Quiet Span over a gulf that has no bottom in the records. Passage there is by sign and by count. The wrong step cuts a silk and sends a body down where no rope will reach. Seekers come home with the marks of those ropes on their palms and wrists. The Council keeps each route listed on the boards with the last three reports pinned beside the names. If two reports read “closed,” no one takes the third.

Law on the ridge is a braid of custom, writ, and practical need. Naath’s writ stops at the Eldertree Gateways, but the Council extends watch rights to Wardens and contract rights to Seekers in emergencies. That means a Seeker can post a warning, break a snare, or claim a find when no one else can. The Merchant Guild’s rules apply only where a stall or charter exists, which is rare above the tree line. Still, the Guild hires guides, funds road pins, and pays for repairs to way shrines because trade depends on the ridge. Deals with the Redfang are posted in spare words: what is given, where, when, and what must not be taken along the path. The Skeliri accept goods left on signed hooks—resin-sealed packets, iron chisels in pairs, beeswax tablets marked with a spider glyph. The giants accept no words, only offerings and distance. The Lake-Wardens do not patrol this high, but their storm posts are read in Naath and passed to the Wardens, who update ridge boards when lake weather means flood or fog in the foothills. In all cases, records matter. Patrol logs, shrine marks, and Seeker returns let the Cloister map the weight on the ridge and warn when another season like the bad winter three years past is coming.

Hazards, Seasons, and Working the Ridge

Spring unlocks the lower shelves. Meltwater runs, and loose rock rides down with it. Wardens walk the edges with hooked poles, testing cuts before a caravan tries them. Bronthok raiders watch the same thaw and look for soft targets. They favor dawn strikes and pull back before full light. The Council posts bounties for branded shields and named shamans when raids press too near the Verdwood. Summer brings trade and work teams. Seekers mark new seams of green crystal for the Cloister to study. Farmers drive hardy goats up to graze and recover them in late season with bells tied to their necks. The Skeliri cull spider broods that grow too fast and knot their egg-sacks to seal thin vents over deep tunnels. Autumn is the road season. Traders try to cross the ridge before the first storm seals the high ways. The Warden’s March clogs with rope teams, and Ezra’s boards at Trailhome fill with last-call contracts to escort a cart or bring down a lost mule. Giants begin to drift south when herds lean. Clear offerings at cairns matter most in these weeks. Winter closes nearly everything. Even the Redfang keep close to their fires. Avalanches wipe out careless camps. Goblins breed in warm cracks and spill out in starving bands that stab at anything moving. Wardens run short loops from the tree line to post skull-cairns and fire-warnings where wind has stripped snow to ice.

Magic has rules here that everyone follows or pays for. Open casting across a cracked seam can twist the effect or send it sideways into a friend. The Cloister teaches a simple test: ground a bronze pin in the seam, tie a clean thread to it, and see if the thread trembles. If it does, wait or move. Rituals at shrines are allowed when recorded and led by someone recognized by the Lorekeepers. The Skeliri have their own rites; those who do not belong do not watch them. The Redfang beat stone drums before a raid or a hunt to wake their courage and carry the rhythm down a pass. The giants lift stones onto flat tops and leave them as a sign of balance restored. None of this belongs to Naath, but Naath must live beside it. That is why Wardens teach the young how to read shrine marks, how to tie storm ropes, how to hide a fire in a rock pit, and how to seal a goblin crack with wet clay and ash so it hardens by morning.