The face that greets visitors to Sableclutch Scrap is a memorable one — a mashed nose, a perpetual black eye, and the dull gleam of a crude copper jaw that has long since replaced whatever he was born with — and Copperjaw himself seems entirely unbothered by the impression it makes. He has worked the junkyard long enough that the neighbourhood has simply absorbed him, a dwarf somewhere in his second century who keeps the scrap moving and, notably, tends to offer delivery work to anyone willing, newcomers included.