In the Valley of blood, a river flows like crimson through the misty scape. All along her banks laid watch towers, as high as the eagle soars, guarding her best kept secrets for there amongst the willows lay an altar of purest gold and adorned with rubies. Water flows out from its sides like velvet, the water of life which pays tribute to the river. But carelessness has left this altar to be defiled. A golden calf formed from the gold of the altar stands in its place, its eyes the very rubies that once spoke of life pierce the souls of those who would gaze upon it. It has slain the generations. It has enslaved it's sons, bound to it as sacrifices. So long has it stood, it's meaning long forgotten. That is, until he returned.
The creator of the Valley and the altar within returned to find nothing he remembered. His words were like fire, and his tears were blood. He gazed upon the calf, and it trembled before him, but not even the creator was spared from being sacrificed to it. His wrath burned against his flesh, his blood molten from the heat. But he did not die. Rather, he remained turned to fire, burning ever so intensely on that calf that it too melted. That golden calf is now dethroned, and the gold and rubies now fashion a throne for that everlasting pyre. There he remains and there he reigns, a living sacrifice for all to see!
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