The inspiration:
A story:
She had heard the villagers’ whispers, listened to their warnings. She was not deterred.
Yet the sight of the stone rocked her, all at once familiar and enigmatic; ancient beyond reckoning and carved with shallow channels and catch basins.
Oh, the villagers held dark suspicions of what had filled those depressions. They kept their distance and posted wards on their lintels.
The setting sun, its light a deep gold, and the first moon rising, silvered pink a faint glow. Her hands rose up, cupped, and the combined light pooled there, heavy liquid, spilling over into the first basin.
It begins.
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Now, your turn.
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Heh.
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