In the days of yore when the gods blessed these lands with rain, there was a small canyon hidden on the back of Lookout Mountain where the lads of the day would go to test there skills. For years the changing of seasons meant the skies would open, filling the drains of this planet to their banks, and sending many on a journey into the inner sanctom. On the special days when this particular creek found flow, all the children of the land would rejoice, jubalent gatherings were held, and there was much celebration.
Then the Cursed came.
The sun came out. The plants dried up. The ground turned to dust. All the children cried.
The Bear has not run since his donning of the number 13.
Downstream and upstream progressing degradation can be natural erosion.
The blood of the cursed must be spilled.