Story 1131: The Crying Idol

At the edge of Moonwood, where the trees grew gnarled like knotted fingers and the mist hung low all year round, there stood an idol no villager dared approach.

It wept.

Always.

From hollow eyes, dark tears trickled down its moss-covered cheeks—never ceasing, never drying. No one knew who carved it or when it had appeared, but it was said to mourn for the world before.

The villagers of Grendel’s Brook warned travelers: “Don’t look into the idol’s eyes. It’ll show you the sorrow you forgot you carried.”

But Orlen Hark, a scholar from the city of Varnwick, had no time for superstition.

He came with ink-stained fingers and a satchel full of rubbings and glyph books, determined to uncover the truth.

The first night he camped near the idol, the weeping kept him awake. The sound wasn’t quite water—it was thicker, like oil slipping through cracks. He convinced himself it was a trick of acoustics, the way wind moved through the clearing.

The second night, his dreams changed.