THE ALTAR
We all have our own tokens and deities, doctrines to which we subscribe. It is our nature, holy or otherwise. These are our systems and beliefs, our greater purpose.
This particular altar has been used recently, an abandoned slab of concrete in a field with a greater purpose. It official uses might remain secret to most, bit I saw what happened here, I witnessed the horrors of the practitioners who haunt this strip of land.
There was a road here once, but it was blocked off ages ago. Over the years, the forest, and trees, and grass has slowly reclaimed what was one theirs.
A network of cracks riddle the concourse, small trees sprout up, grasping ever upwards.
This place is deserted now, but it isn't always so. On the nights of the bacchanalia, a group of people gather, there long burgundy robes almost black in the darkness.
Their chant throbs gently throughout the woods, their blades gleam in the night. When they are through, all that remains is a trampled patch of grass and a coppery pool of blood that soaks up the moonlight as it soaks into the altar.
This it not the kind o place you want to get caught after dark. It's not the kind of place you want to be at all unless you are one of them.
Their dark mass is a private one best cloaked in darkness.
This place looks innocent enough I'm the glowing midnight sun, but it is anything but.
Return under the waning moon on the idea and you will see for yourself.
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