"There are things that crawl out of the water when the sky forgets to look."
The Idol, always crying, shatters now with a fount of night dark waters and from the black heart of a swamp, older than memory and deeper than ancient shadows, it came.
Not born, but made.
Fur is coarse and earth-dark, streaked with muddied whites and phantom shadows, while the scalework along it's tail gleams bone-pale beneath water and moonlight alike. Golden eyes shimmering from just beneath the surface of the stream.
Not a god.
Something else.
Memories of wet roots and old blood.
It waits.
It watches.
It hunts.
None saw them arrive, not truly.
Some say the fountain wept harder the night before.
Others speak of a pale tail gliding silently through the forest's stream.
The Crying Idol was still and calm when the dawn came.
But there is something in the waters, a dark reminder of dangers beneath a mirrored surface.
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Loving the combination of