The mountains know their scars. They live around the hollows of old mines, feeling their iron strength weaken as the yellow boy precipitates from acids that ooze from suppurated wounds.

They feel the dead roots crumble from clear cutting, the soil washing away the core of the rock, the knowledge of their existence.

And, like the pirates losing their long-forgotten hoards, they shrug, knowing they will simply hunker down further into the ground.