A Curiosity in my Travels

Far beneath the ruby surface of the lake, the Jahwhel sleeps, bathing in the blood of countless cultists sacrificed to form his sanguine home.  Deep in the mountains, the lake sits as a mystery to most who encounter it, wondering exactly why it takes its brilliant hue.  At first they assume rightly that it must be bathed in blood, but the purity of the water, free of grime and mold, free of gore or growth confuses the observant.  Thus they pass it by as a curiosity, mayhaps catching a glimpse of towers through the mist the plays across the surface.

Those few who set out across, and it is always across no matter which shore one starts on, may reach a pair of dark grey towers around the base of which a small town carries out a simple life.  Hunting, farming, spending off time in the tavern, it seems normal enough, if not for the mists and the lake upon whose shore it sits.  No door can be seen into the towers, just close-set stone and unmanned buttresses way up away in the sky.  Looking up under the moonlight, people whisper that forms sometimes seem to hide in the shadows up there, looking down, watching.  I wasn't one to stay out of doors at night there, but for the festival of the full moon, so I could not say as to how tall these tales are.

Down the main street of the town, down into the waters that raise so much interest, a small channel runs, wooden of an unnaturally white hue and meandering side to side like a stream bed.  On that festival of the full moon, all the town gathers, from the youngest to the old high priest who resides there, one might even believe he was from a time before man walked the earth by his long white hair and pruned skin.  All the village gathers with knives and makes a cut across their palm, letting a drip of blood flow into the channel, trickling slowly down into the red waters.  Afterwards, they all gather around a giant bonfire at the shore and dance and drink for hours until the sun peeks over the mountaintop.

The next day, I took furtive looks at the channel on my way out of town, noting the absolute clean of it, no red stains to be found.  The hands of the villagers were without mar and though they attested to holding the festival every full moon for as long as they could remember, it looked as if they had not so much as scratched the surface of their skin with a thorn.

I left town that day, rowing my way back across the water in my boat.  The village had none, no fishermen to set out across the waters in a craft, so my solitary craft drifted out across to the other side, across the clear, ruby waters of the lake.  I think that some day I might return to spend a few moons there, for the land was beautiful and the life was laid back, but I think I might not find it again having left.