Blackwater used to be known as Clearwater, on account of how you could see clear down to the ocean floor. Clearwater was a quaint little fisherman's haven, with shabby huts precariously perched on the cliffs above the ocean. The fishermen would set sail each day on their rusty vessels, and come back with baskets overflowing. Despite their endless catches, the villagers always seemed to be scraping by on the bare minimum, but those were the times.

When the gates started to open, one must have opened up in the depths near Clearwater because the once crystal blue waters turned inky black. The fish mutated into twisted, malformed creatures, and the fishermen stopped trying to pull up what was well enough left down. Without the fish, people tried to leave the town, but they all came back. In Blackwater, that's what they started to call the town after the gates, they had shelter. With the world changed the way it was, even that wasn't enough. But unlike the rest of the world, there didn't seem to be any monsters inside Blackwater.

They'd left the town and seen gates by then, and once you saw what was out there, well it was easy to ignore a little bit of black water. Easy enough to find something else to eat besides fish. So they stayed.

After a few years, the decrepit boats that had been docked since the gates opened began to vanish. No one knew where they went or why. Some thought the rusted things had sunk into the murky depths, while others believed they had sailed off into the abyss. Most people didn't care. The rickety vessels had run on pre-gate lightning magic, the kind of magic that stopped working the day the gates opened, and didn't have much use. Some folks were rather pleased to be rid of those unsightly rusted eyesores.

After all the boats were gone, or maybe around the same time, people started to disappear. Folks cared a whole lot more about that. Some said it started with old Mrs. Jenkins, others claimed it was the mayor's son. It didn't happen all at once, but was a slow drip, thing about drips is eventually you look down and have a whole bucket full of them.

There were the easy explanations at first, getting lost, drinking too much, falling off the cliffs. Problem was it was happening so regularly the Blackwaterians could've set their calendars by it. Eventually they did.

Folk got scared and started to point fingers. There were a lot of easy to point fingers at first too. Just about everyone those first years after the gates opened had done someone else wrong in some way. The ones who weren't willing to do what needed to be done weren't around anymore. For all the finger pointing, none were aimed at the black water. It was what kept them safe, kept the terrible things outside, outside.

It wasn't a rare sight to spot vicious creatures, hulking and brutish or lean a vicious, lurking outside the town. Occasionally, one would venture closer, smelling the townspeople and eager for a taste. The beasts would approach eagerly, only to abruptly halt upon catching a different scent. Its not easy to discern the emotions of those alien things, but the residents of Blackwater swore they saw fear in the creatures' eyes before they retreated back to wherever they came from.

Eventually people stopped pointing fingers altogether, but no one dared leave. Losing someone every six months was a better gamble than chancing outside of Blackwater. Sometimes the people would feel better for it if the right person disappeared. There had been a lot of hurt feelings to go along with those pointed fingers.

Every so often those from outside would filter into the town, and thought the place was too good to be true. They were welcomed with open arms, even given a place to live. The closest hovels near the blackwater were always available to them. Eventually the newcomers would catch on, those that didn't seem to 'wander off' that is. Hard to keep a town wide secret too long, especially if there wasn't much point to it. Even after finding out, most would choose to stay. They'd usually move first, get a bit more distance between themselves and the black water. Never too far though.

Cassian abruptly stopped his recounting, interrupting Lyra's note-taking. He scowled at her puzzled expression.

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"What, you've lost interest in my story already?" His tone was sharp and accusing. "I thought you were determined to hear about it. Demons know It wasn't my idea to dredge the story up."

Lyra quickly shook her head, adjusting her glasses on her nose. "No, please continue. It's just... you're really going into detail on these towns by the water and-"

"Town. If you were paying attention you'd know it was just the one. First called Clearwater and then Blackwater," Cassian interrupted, slouching back in his chair as the late afternoon sunlight from the cottage window bathed his grizzled face in a warm glow.

"I'm trying to paint a picture here. Can't understand someone's journey without knowing where they started," he grumbled, pausing before continuing in his rough voice. "I could just tell you that I was born in a cursed town that required a sacrifice every six months. My parents were victims, and I was left to fend for myself in a hut with another orphan, Alaric. Everyone in the town left us for dead."

"Alaric? As in the Alaric Everwood?" Lyra interjected, her excitement back.

"That's all you got from that? Yeah, me and the Great Healer grew up together. He was a good kid back then, wouldn't have made it if I wasn't around. His only redeeming quality was trusting me. Probably also his biggest mistake, if I'm being honest." Cassian snorted.

"Anyway, since you're too impatient for the whole story, I'll cut to the chase. I figured out that the blackwater creature hated the smell of fish. Every six months I'd sneak out of town, risk my life to catch one. On the night of the sacrifice, I'd smear its scent around our hovel. For years, no one knew why we were spared.

Lyra felt her cheeks flush red with embarrassment. She had not meant to seem impatient or ungrateful for Cassian's storytelling. Quite the opposite - she was eager to document every detail of his life's journey accurately, it's just some of the details felt a little more urgent than why a town changed its name.

"I'm sorry if you've offended you," she said earnestly.

"You've annoyed, bothered me and refused my hospitality," Cassian gestured to his pathetic garden vegetables that had continued to go uneaten, "But I wouldn't say I'm offended, yet."

Cassian's dour demeanor made it clear what he wanted. Lyra glanced down at the sad looking vegetables on her plate, wrinkling her nose slightly. She had politely avoided them so far, not wanting to offend her host. However, if eating some of this questionable produce would pacify Cassian into continuing his tale, she was willing to make that sacrifice

Cassian leaned back in his chair, eyeing Lyra expectantly. She hesitated, then reached for a withered carrot on the table between them.

"Very well," she said, forcing a smile. "I suppose I should try some of your, erm, homegrown cuisine."

She took a small bite of the carrot and unsuccessfully tried to restrain a grimace. The vegetable was fibrous and bitter, with an earthy flavor that lingered unpleasantly. Cassian grinned, clearly enjoying her discomfort.

Lyra struggled to chew and swallow the tough, bitter carrot, but managed to get it down with some effort. She even forced herself to take another small bite, chewing thoroughly before forcing it down.

The dedicated historian set down her fork, the bitter aftertaste of Cassian's questionable vegetables still lingering on her tongue.

"Well?" he asked gruffly after she had finally managed to mostly clear her plate.

"Mmm," she said unconvincingly after she had finally managed to eat a few bites. "Very...earthy."

"Got a kick to it, doesn't it?" His tone was amused, "First time I ate some of my own I swore the land here must be cursed too. Had it checked out, they assured me the land was fine. I showed them my harvest and they helped me source a second opinion just in case." He laughed at his own story, "You can write that one down too if you want."

"Mr. Thorne," she began tentatively, she coughed a bit and grimaced when it brought the flavor back up. "Everyone knows you and the Great Healer go back many years, but I don't think anyone realized just how far. I can't help but wonder, would you be willing to share more about him? Your early years together, and how he became the legend he is today?"

"I don't get all the fuss over him, probably hard to if you remember him how I did. Alaric, or Al as I called him then, was a scrawny kid. He was younger than me with knees that could knock together in a strong breeze and hair always getting in his eyes. Had the softest heart, even when the rest of us were hardening ours just to make it through each day. Hight of stupidity if you ask me. I looked after him - had to really. The kid was useless on his own."

"Useless on his own?" she prompted gently, hoping Cassian would elaborate. She had to restrain herself from badgering him with questions. There was a fine line between showing interest and causing irritation when dealing with the cantankerous old hero.

"Alright, alright. You've earned yourself another story," he grumbled, leaning back in his creaky chair. "Let me paint you another picture, one of the first people The Great Healer ever attempted to heal. It involves me stabbing and robbing the man first, of course."