the innkeeper says pointing to the skin of a rather large mountain lion proudly displayed above the fireplace. Hanzel remembers that being a thing at the Pitcher and Pitchfork and it was never in an especially good state, but it feels like it's even more mangy and moth-eaten with age since the last time he laid eyes upon it.
OOC:
Being local, Hanzel would know that the hillsides are covered in heather and bracken, which makes them poor for livestock to graze upon (bracken is virtually inedible). Locals often set controlled fires when the weather is good and not too windy, in order to burn away the vegetation and protect the terraces from encroachment by the choking bracken.
The terraces themselves are the farming lands, carved from the northern escarpment nearly a century ago. The terraces are cut in layers, each some 50 yards wide, with the next terrace lying some 20 to 40 feet below, accessed by steps cut into the rock. The soil there is very fertile, excellent for roots (carrots, turnips, potatoes) and green vegetables (mostly cabbages) that local farmers grow there. Ownership of a terrace is handed down within families and is jealously prized.
To the southeast, the Patchwork Hills merge into lightly wooded hills, eventually blending into the Thornwood. The terrain there is very rocky, wild and hard to traverse, the plant growth is scrubby, stunted, and uneven, plus there have been occasional sightings of big felines that likely make their lairs there. For all those reasons, that area of the hills is considered too wild and not worth trying to extend farming into.
