Inric follows Copper as the bookwyrm trots along beside the pretty stream. The trees rise on either side, thick and green, almost glowing in their life and vitality. And then the green separates out, giving way to the sky, and in the distance, he can see tall, impossible peaks, with trees clinging to their sides as though they'd lost the battle to grow beside the gentle river. Bridges stretch between the peaks, thin and black against the sky, unmistakeable for anything natural. Inric scowls. "Of course," he says, more to himself than Copper. "Of course it's up there." In the face of the climb waiting for him, he sits down on a convenient rock, pulls off his gloves and starts on the last of the chuckets Ffion gave him. Copper pauses and looks back at him resignedly.