Blackwater Stills

Blackwater Stills is a quaint little fishing town, named for its absurdly deep and preternaturally calm bay. The water, in the early dawn, the time of morning when the fisher folk habitually rise, is a shade of blue so dark and deep that it looks rather like a careless Titan scribe upended his inkpot. The tide rises only imperceptibly against the rocky shore, and the boats hardly bob. But that's all a lie. Beneath the surface, ten fathoms or more, the water roils like a hungry devil's cauldron. It's not a place for swimming, for fair and certain.

The town itself is a small one. Scarce thirty families, perhaps two hundred folk all told. Most work the boats, or prepare fish for market; scaling, slicing, salting and the like. There's a little long-house tucked in the center of town, but it's hardly an inn truth be told. But it serves the simple folk, and the ale is quite good. Hardwicke, the man who polishes the bar is a pinch-faced old tosser, but he pours level and doesn't glare at strangers overmuch.

The people are poor, but proud. They tend toward drab, hard-wearing clothing. Most look older than they are, a product of salt and wind and care. Each day, most take to their launches and their skiffs and return with a wriggling silver cargo and the sort of smile that only comes of a job well, truly, and expertly done. Give a man a fish, after all...