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CADAIR AMSER
Lake Llyncau sits in the cradle of the mountain known as Cadair Amser, or at least, what is now called a mountain. It was once known by another name, not all that long ago. Most historians, cartographers, and geologists avoid the subject, but it’s hard to look at Cadair Amser and not notice it resembles the rim of a massive crater. Llyncau rests directly in the center, as if something of ungodly weight had struck the earth and left a mark that no one wants to talk about.
Photograph by Dr. Buckley
LAKE OF LEGEND
LAKE OF LEGEND
The lake is much deeper than one might imagine, though it’s certainly hard to measure. Silt running off the mountainside has darkened the water too much to see through. Artists and fools alike come to camp at the lake’s edge. Folklore says if you sleep by its shore, you’ll either wake a poet, a mad man, or not at all. Men have been found waterlogged in their bed rolls, lying face-down in the brush with no sign they even entered the lake. The sheriff's log from the nearest locale lists "Llyncau missing persons" as a standing concern, but no one from the territorial offices ever follows it up. The lake has its own laws.
The lake wasn’t always filled. Records from early settler expeditions mention a dry basin with unusual stone markers, and fragments of older maps refer to the region as a "consecrated hollow." During droughts, when the water recedes, twelve sharp spires rise from the lakebed in a near perfect circle made of rock which doesn't match the natural stone formations in the area. No one agrees on who built them or why. The water always returns before anything more can be found.
"Afternoon in the Cradle"
(Graphite on Paper by Unknown)
"Morning in the Cradle"
(Graphite on Paper by Unknown)
FOOLS GOLD
FOOLS GOLD
The bottom of the lake is covered in black, mineral-rich soil that stains anything it touches. Scattered throughout the muck are sharp, gleaming flakes, shimmering like gold but wrong to the eye and worse to the touch. Prospectors drawn by greed have tried to haul it out by the sack, but the moment it dries, it begins to disintegrate, hissing faintly like it’s alive. The so-called “gold” causes burns or numbness in bare hands, and horses refuse to carry it. Blacksmiths can’t melt it, and preachers call it "Devil's flash." Those who keep a piece on them often suffer strange fevers, violent dreams, and in one documented case, a man became to frantic to clean the flecks from his hands, he removed three of his fingers before bleeding out. Folks still call it the Fool’s Gold of Cadair Amser, but some whisper its the remains of something left to rest in the mud.
FOLKLORE
FOLKLORE
There are old stories about this place older than the church and, older than the Age of the Father, older than the names written on any map and as such sparsely discussed and even less so written down.
One myth says that when there was still a mountain where the lake is now, a hunter lived along its ridges. He wasn’t a man in the ordinary sense, and neither were the hounds that followed him, large, red-eared beasts with eyes that could see clearly through both fog and mist. People say that very few who saw them lived to tell the tale but no one who heard their howls, returned to their homestead.
Another story says the lake was never meant to be a lake at all. It was a pit, dug deep by a forgotten people, meant to hold something dangerous. A dragon, by some accounts a thing so massive and vile that it couldn’t be killed, only trapped. A king led the charge, nameless now, and the creature was pulled into the earth and sealed under rock and water though its evil still blackens the water.
Journals of E. Caradoc.
Entry 1
We left the village early this mornin’. I’m carryin’ the bags and such for Miss Machen, some fancy writin’ lady that folks round here talk about. I ain’t read none of her books, but innkeeper says she’s well known for them. She walks with a cane though without a limp and always got them lace gloves on, even when it’s warm outside. Didn’t say much, just told me we’re headin’ to that lake up in the mountain. I heard stories bout it course. Say it changes to sleep by its side, and when you wake your either poetic or madman. Miss Machen told me she’s run out of words and reckons the lake’ll fix her up. She paid good silver, so I’m takin’ the job. Should take us two days walkin’. Packed enough for five days, maybe six if we’re careful
Entry 2
We got to the lake this evenin’. Climb was tough, and I think I couldve done with a cane like the Miss. It’s quiet here, trees stop short of the lake, just bare rock after that. The water’s black and Miss Machen just stood starin’ at it. I set up the tent and got a fire goin’ but she wouldn’t eat nothin’, She walked ‘round the lake ‘til it got dark while I watched the water. The smell here’s odd wet dirt mixed with somethin’ sour I can’t put my finger on. I hope Miss finds what shes looking for before
Entry 3
I walk alone beneath a sky of stone, vast and unspeaking. It presses down like a tomb lid upon the world. Soon after first light, I left our camp, leaving behind the last of the embers steaming in the morning dew and her. Miss Machen lies still now, resting into the mud, her blood a dark offering to a land darker still. My pistol's still warm in my hand as is the powder it expelled, coating my lungs and throat. The truth of it curdles in my mouth; bitter though it is, truth cannot be softened with ink.
When I woke, she looked at me with saltwater in her eyes and black mud on her lips. She pulled a small gun from beneath her waistband and aimed it between my eyes not out of reason or rage, but because it seemed like the thing to do. But madness, like fog, bends the aim, and her shot struck only the mud at my feet. My own hand moved without thought and I dont know whether to blame my reflex or my mercy. I wrapped her in her bedroll and considered burning it with the last of the nights warmth, but something told me the remains would be handled in due time.
I have gnawed the sides of my mouth raw, tasting iron, chewing penance, carving out morsels of flesh, hoping the little mutton I can butcher from my own cheek might spur me on. The rations are gone devoured by the mad author in the night and when the bread and meat were gone, she turned to the shore filling her mouth with silt. Hunger claws at my belly, but I let it. It is the only thing that feels honest now. If Providence grants me favor, I’ll reach the village by dusk tomorrow and never retread the path I make now, nor tempt the darkness its laid with. I know not what she heard but I know this: I have not spoken aloud since that night. I do not trust my voice. It no longer sounds like mine.
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