A waterfall pours down into the Dancers’ Pool from a cleft in the ceiling above, its roar echoing off the root-pierced stone walls of the cavern. Light glimmers from the depths of the water, though its source cannot be seen among the reeds and shadow-lillies. Behind the waterfall is the palatial den of a band of satyrs, who give the pool its name.
The light within the pool is said to come from a magic treasure, some say a sword, that was sunk into it long ago. Perhaps, though, it only tempts the unwary. An enormous albino crocodile also lurks within, whether swimming in the deeps, posing as a rocky outcropping, or hiding in its lair behind a cleft in the wall. It has no use for light, and is blind or nearly-so, but it can sense the presence of prey and threats by their movement in the water, and to a lesser extent through vibrations in the rock, even when it is standing on dry land. Only by holding perfectly still and going with the flow can one avoid its senses.
Despite the crocodile, ghosts camped nearby sometimes come up to the riverbank to fish. Their presence can be seen from around a corner by the lights they bring, usually lanterns but sometimes they make do with candlelight. They seldom stay long, catching what they can with spear or rod and then returning to their camp, lest the crocodile emerge. Occasionally, before the Gate was sealed, a bold fisher from among the living would come to fish here. Many would meet their end, but some would return with stories fish the like of which are rarely seen on the surface. In fact, though, most tomb fish are terribly small, strange as they may be.
The shrine behind the waterfall is of human construction, flagstones lining the floor and masonry arches studding the walls and ceiling. Right behind the waterfall it is built like a balcony or patio; canvas curtains can be lowered to protect those sitting there from the waterfall’s spray. A thick wood door sits behind, with heavy and opulent drapes hanging behind it in a large room with overstuffed velvet couches. Somehow, despite the satyrs’ carelessness and the time since any surfacer has visited, no tears or even dirt appears in the cloth. In the center of the floor of the satyrs’ lounge is a large circular mosaic depicting satyrs and human women, dancing and engaged in what may euphemistically be called “other activities”. Perhaps the curtains, furniture, and mosaic have enchantments to keep themselves clean; a wine-jug in the shrine certainly does, or else it would have run dry. Despite their habitual drunkenness, the satyrs are quite wise and profess a willingness to share information about the lay of the land around them, and provisions should their guests need them.
This band of satyrs is unusual, adapted to their life in deep caverns. They have enormous owllike eyes, and an extremely perceptive form of infravision that allows them to see even stone walls (the ambient temperature against which they compare all else) by the illumination of their or another’s body heat, about as well as a human might see by candlelight. Their ears, too, are almost as large as their curled goatlike horns, triangular, and constantly flicking around. When their pipers play (a strange haunting tune, clearly music but unlike any other. It has what may be called a stormy burbling sound), they benefit from a form of echolocation.
They can also walk on water, making the pool into their dance floor. They can share this ability with their dance partners, but only as long as they remain in physical contact and continue to dance together. Occasionally, at the height of their revels when entertaining guests, one will perform a move, perhaps a twirl ending with a flourish, where they break contact with their guest while out in the middle of the pool, causing the guest to fall beneath the water instantly. They will play it off as a prank, and return to dancing as the hapless victim climbs to the edge of the beach (they will take a refusal to return as a snub, in fact), perhaps suggesting that the victim strip off their wet clothes. On occasion, though, the crocodile takes this as a cue to reveal itself: the dropping of a reveler into the water is in fact a sacrifice, not a prank, buying the satyrs the privilege of being ignored by the crocodile, and perhaps more in some unknown pact. When this happens, the pipers will change their tune to a far jauntier and louder one, to drown out any screams for help.
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Ten Leagues Beneath the Earth 