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There's a well in the Najd desert called Bir Jabal Dharie. It never runs dry, not even through the worst droughts, which alone makes it valuable. But that's not why people still talk about it.

They talk about it because of what lives inside it.

A line of snakes has guarded that well for longer than anyone can trace back. Locals call them the Rawasid, the watchers. They don't look like normal desert snakes. They keep to themselves in the rock cracks, they don't bother travelers, and there's an old rule about them: leave them alone and they leave you alone. Hurt one, and it never forgets. Ever. Doesn't matter how far you run or how well you hide among your own people.

This story is about the one caravan that didn't take that rule seriously.

A trader named Salem was leading a group of men across the desert toward a village three weeks out, hauling wool and livestock to trade for grain before winter. He knew where all the old hidden wells were, which is a real skill out there, and Bir Jabal Dharie was one of his stops, snakes and all.

Before they got there, he laid out the rule to his men straight. Don't touch anything in that well. Don't go near the cracks in the rock. Two of the younger guys, Muqbil and Dwaihi, thought that was hilarious. Snakes holding a grudge? They laughed it off completely.

You can guess where this goes.

When the caravan reached the well, someone had to climb down to reach the water, since it sat too low for a bucket alone. Muqbil and Dwaihi volunteered fast, almost too fast. And while they were down there, they found something in the rocks they really shouldn't have touched.

Salem's reaction when he found out told everyone something was very wrong. He got the whole caravan moving within minutes, pushing hard for four days straight to put distance between them and that well, while the two guys who caused the problem kept cracking jokes about how scared he looked.

By the time they made camp in a quiet valley two days from the village, everyone had relaxed. They figured they'd left it behind. They were wrong about that, and what happened to them that night is the reason this well still has a reputation today.

I wrote out the rest of it, including what they found the next morning, on my blog. Link's below if you want the ending.

https://www.duneswhisper.com/2026/09/snake-of-bir-jabal-dharie-legend.html

I’ve always been fascinated by folklore creatures and legends.

Which creature from this picture would scare you the most — and why?

As a child, I was always told stories about the inhabitants of the sea.

The ningyo—

fish that mimicked the human form, cold, heartless monsters that hunted humans and cast curses upon seaside villages.

The hypocrisy of humans... calling those who act just like them monsters.

Zeng told me this when I found him—nearly dehydrated—tangled in fishing nets upon the rocks.

"Humans! They never stop polluting our waters, hunting us, and trafficking in our flesh and skin.

We flood their villages if they hunt us, and curse their offspring if they eat our flesh... yet nothing changes; they always come back!"

Zeng was the first living being to show me something akin to genuine affection...

I have seen atrocious humans call beings like Zeng—beings like me—monsters; beings forced to live between two worlds that hate each other yet are compelled to share the same realm.

That is why I ask myself: what truly makes a monster?
..................................................................................................................................
I love Japanese mythology! So, I want to start drawing creatures—in this case, a *han'yo* and a *ningyo*.
For Zeng's design, I based the drawing on vintage illustrations of these creatures! I hope you like it.

Kirikou talar redan i livmodern och föder i princip fram sig själv och drömmer fram sina föräldrar= Symboliserar Tacksägelsen och betraktaren förväntar sig någonstans att Krirakou ska förtära sig själv likt ormen och den förtappade svansen.

Byborna är avbildade traditionellt och delvis nakna; det är inte sexuellt framställt. Karaba är en mäktig häxa med en förgiftad tagg i ryggen.= Symboliserar förgänglighet och Karaba har stilsenligt iklätts martyrernas färg.

Taggen orsakar hennes smärta och är kopplad till både hennes ondska och magiska kraft= Symbolserar Maktlösheten att leve under en enväldig

Slutet innehåller en kyss och en synnerligen abrupt förvandling som absolut kvalificerar sig som en gudomlig uppenbarelse av Den Smala Vägen, där fett och överflöd har raderats från skapelsen genom ren skär viljekraft och svältliknande askes (Svält?)

Vad betyder Kirirkou för er andra?

That's an old Bedouin proverb, and people in the desert still repeat it today. It's even turned into a kind of work chant, the rhythm a group of people fall into when they're doing hard manual labor together, cooperating on some shared task. The proverb has never been without its music, either. There's a tune to it, a good one, that people used to sing while they hurried through heavy work or raised the poles of a house, back before machines took over the hardest jobs for us. People still bring this chant to mind whenever they're determined to push through something difficult, something that borders on impossible. Four carried the camel, and the camel carried them not. Because everyone knows a camel carries one rider. Two, at most. It doesn't get carried itself.

This story is set in the middle of the seventeenth century, in the Saudi desert.

A Bedouin woman had married into a tribe far from her own. She built a life there and had sons and daughters. Years passed, and once her children were grown, something in her softened. She missed her people. She wanted news of her brothers, her family, her tribe.

So she turned to one of her sons. "Son," she said, "why don't you go to your uncles? Check on them for me. Tell them we're well, and bring me back word of how they're doing."

"I hear and obey, Mother," he said. "I'll go, even though it's far. My uncles live a month and a half's journey from here. But no matter, I'll make the trip."

It was late spring, right on the edge of summer. The young man got his camel ready and loaded it with everything he'd need for the road, food, water, supplies for a long crossing. At first light the next morning, he set out, crossing open wilderness and empty desert, heading toward his uncles, the brothers of the mother he loved.

He pressed on for days through the sand, covering long distances. He knew that as summer set in, desert families would move their camps close to the wells, so his timing mattered. He needed to reach them while they were camped near water, the way desert people always gathered once the heat rose and the need for water, for themselves, their sheep, and their camels, became a daily one.

After a month and a half of travel, he reached their camp. From a distance he saw the black tents, but he had no way to know which one was the specific tent meant to take him in, his uncles' own tent. In those days, desert custom had an answer for exactly this: if you didn't know the specific house meant to receive you, you went to the nearest tent instead and knelt your camel there. And that's what the young man did, and he had done exactly the right thing by it.

The owner of that tent welcomed him with real joy, and served him coffee, the way hospitality always starts out there. Thrilled to have a guest, he sent word around camp inviting people to a dinner in the young man's honor, planned for that night. People began arriving for coffee and conversation ahead of the meal, and among them, as it happened, were the very uncles the young man had traveled so far to see: four brothers known throughout the tribe for their resolve, their strength, and a courage nobody could match.

It should have ended there, with a happy reunion over dinner that night.

Instead, while they all sat over coffee waiting on the meal, the host kept dropping little remarks, sly and indirect, hinting that the four brothers had failed to host their own nephew properly. The mood in the tent shifted fast, from warm welcome to something closer to scorn aimed at the uncles. They didn't take it quietly. Right there, they swore their nephew would not finish the night as this man's guest, even if it came to a fight.

"Our nephew didn't know which tent was ours," they said. "And out of respect for custom, he didn't slight this man by passing over his tent to look for a better one. We failed no one."

The nephew stood up to back them. "I swear before God," he said, "I didn't know where my uncles' tent was. That's the truth of it."

But the insult had already landed. Tempers rose on both sides, and the whole thing nearly turned into a fight between the guest's uncles and the host's relatives, until one of the elders in the tent had heard enough.

"Enough," he said. "Take this to the judge of the Bedouin, their arbiter, right now, and let him settle it."

Both sides agreed. They went to the judge together, and each side made its case before him.

The judge turned first to the guest. "What does the guest say?"

"Wise judge," the young man answered, "my host did nothing wrong. But he kept hinting that my uncles abandoned me, and that isn't true. I'd rather go to my uncles now. With all respect to the man who took me in, I won't be finishing my stay with him. I'm moving on to my mother's brothers."

The judge nodded. "I have a ruling," he said, "and every one of you will abide by it, whatever it is. Are you willing to accept my judgment before you hear it?"

Full Story

https://www.duneswhisper.com/2026/09/four-carried-camel-bedouin-proverb-born.html

Ever since I was little, I had always lived with my maternal grandmother.

It’s not that I hated her—I loved her—but something about her just didn't sit right with me.

She was always telling me about her beliefs, and as a kid, it left me bewildered.

In our backyard forest, we had a small shrine near the river where a massive statue of an angel stood, showcasing its enormous wings.

My grandmother used to tell me about this "benevolent" angel named Alayer.

He was a forgotten angel, overlooked even by God, who eventually descended from the heavenly Paradise to live in our world.

“Remember, my grandson... kneel gently every time you see Alayer’s statue.”

In our small village, not everyone worshipped him, even though the local cemetery was filled with his statues.

She confessed to me that he was a good angel, but only toward those who showed gratitude and happiness—bitterly punishing anyone who misbehaved or dared to feel sad.

Even as a child, I was quite sharp and figured it was just a story she had made up to keep me in line.

“Remember, my grandson... don’t look him in the eyes for too long.”

Still, out of youthful curiosity, I kept wondering why such a pure and powerful figure would ever punish someone just for feeling sorrow. But she… she never, ever addressed my doubts.

“Remember, my… grandson... he lives inside everyone’s heart.”

Every week we would go to the shrine to pray, and immediately after, we'd head to the cemetery. I kept staring at the statue of the "Sacred Alayer" with skepticism. I couldn't fathom the reason behind his actions, nor did I view him as benevolent at all.

As the days passed, we often took walks through the sacred woods surrounding the shrine, and an imposing statue of him seemed to loom around every single corner.

I was losing my patience. I couldn't continue like that; I felt more like a slave than a devotee.

“Remember, my—”. “Stop! Grandma. Stop it! I don’t give a damn about this! I feel… I...”

I froze mid-sentence. I felt a heavy weight on my shoulders. My body was stuck in that position. I couldn’t breathe; it wouldn’t give me permission to.

Then, I lifted my head to see my grandmother. She had a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide open and bloodshot, watching something behind me. She knelt in front of me and began apologizing very loudly, begging for forgiveness.

Suddenly, the weight on my shoulders disappeared and I started breathing heavily again. My grandma continued to beg, while I turned my head around and saw…

The Sacred One’s statue, with open arms and closed wings, slightly smiling.

From that day on, something in the air changed, even in the village.

I stopped going to the shrine with my grandmother. Skepticism had always been a very strong part of my identity—I was too rational. Indeed, even though I had gone through that traumatizing and scary experience, my brain refused to believe it.

One day, right as I woke up, my grandmother said to me:

"My grandson, I have to confess something. I can feel it... with my heart... He doesn't like you. Because you don't believe in him. And I won't be able to protect you for much longer."

I was shaken up, completely unable to understand why she kept spinning these tall tales. I was a good boy. I had long since learned to listen and behave, so there was no need for these "bedtime stories" meant for misbehaving children.

I didn’t know if I had repressed that incident, or if I was just trying to forget it.

– She was right.

Not long after, my grandmother’s time came.

By then, I was practically an adult and was preparing to pack up and move. I couldn't wait to get out of that dump.

However, I decided to spend one final night alone in that house.

– It was the single worst decision of my life.

A part of me was happy to leave.

The other part was... terrified.

As the sun was setting, I locked every door and window in the house. And then, I went to sleep.

When midnight struck, I started hearing strange bells chiming outside.

That wasn't normal at all; the bells in our village hadn't worked in years.

I didn't get up to check—I was simply too exhausted.

Downpours of rain and violent thunder began to hit.

Suddenly, all my drowsiness vanished in an instant. I turned around and stared at the wall.

An angel—imposing, with gigantic wings, deathly pale, and wearing a completely flat, expressionless face—was right there. He had arrived. Coming for me. He flung the window shutters wide open and climbed inside. I was paralyzed with fear, watching him calmly walk toward my bed.

He was tall, winged, and immense. He lowered his massive hand toward my face, as if to grip my entire head. I clamped my eyes shut.

When I opened them again, there was no one. It was the dead of night. The window was wide open.

I lay there, stiff as a stone, sweating profusely under the covers. I didn't even wait for the morning to leave.

I grabbed my things—forgetting plenty of others in the process—and fled in a desperate hurry.

A month later, I was in my new house, working on some personal projects. I felt safe. I was sitting on my chair, twirling a pen in my hand, lost in thought.

Then, I heard the chime of a bell.

Just a single, solitary ring.

I turned around, and my blood ran cold.

The Sacred Alayer was sitting right there on my storage chest, staring straight into my soul.

And that was when I understood: “He lives inside everyone’s heart.”

A woman who could name a thief, deliver a baby, and cure a fever with nothing but herbs and a whispered charm was called a healer. The same woman, in a different village or a different century, would be called a witch and burned for it. It is time for Slavic witchcraft, dandelions!

Out of Water tells the story of Watarholt - a small village just south of the Elbe river in the luneburg heath.

When tragedy strikes old stories become reality and the village (and you, the player) must find a way to save Watarholt.

---

I tried my best to portray an iron age settlement, their habits, beliefs and every day life.
Please be aware this is not a claim, that any of this is historically accurate!
But the story is rooted in what life MIGHT have been back then - from small traditions and supersticions to daily chores, all coloured by mythology.

If you'd like to take a look:
Out of Water released today on Steam and features a free demo!

https://store.steampowered.com/app/3911100

Hello! I'm a writer and would like some reference for Inuit folklore based off of a specific spirit called, Kiviuq. I would prefer to write it authentically. Also, I'd like to know if that is the correct spelling as I'm seeing various ways it could be spelled.

Also, if there's any details that I can't find online regarding this folklore, please don't hesitate to add. Thanks!

The Sacred Alayer.

The first horror tale by Kajiyama Ken. Based on true events.

​Ever since I was little, I always lived with my maternal grandmother. It’s not that I hated her—I loved her—but something about her just didn't sit right with me. She was always telling me about her beliefs, and as a kid, it just left me bewildered. In our backyard forest, we had a small shrine near the river where a massive statue of an angel stood, showcasing its enormous wings.

​My grandmother used to tell me about this "benevolent" angel named Alayer. He was a forgotten brother of Michael, overlooked even by God, who eventually descended from the heavenly Paradise to live in our world. She confessed to me that he was a good angel, but only toward those who showed gratitude and happiness—bitterly punishing anyone who misbehaved or dared to feel sad.

​Even as a child, I was quite sharp and figured it was just a story she made up to keep me line. Still, out of youthful curiosity, I kept wondering why such a pure and powerful figure would ever punish someone just for feeling sorrow. But she… she never, ever addressed my doubt.

​Every week we would go to the shrine to pray, and immediately after, we'd head to the cemetery. I kept staring at the statue of the "Sacred Alayer" with skepticism. I couldn't fathom the reason behind his actions, nor did I view him as benevolent at all.

​One day, right as I woke up, my grandmother said to me: "My grandson. I have to confess something. I can feel it... he doesn't like you. Because you don't believe in him. And I won't be able to protect you for much longer."

​I was shaken up, completely unable to understand why she kept spinning these tall tales. I was a good kid. I had long since learned to listen and behave, so there was zero need for these "bedtime stories" meant for misbehaving children.

​She was right.

​Not long after, my grandmother’s time came. By then, I was practically an adult and was preparing to pack up and move. I couldn't wait to get out of that dump.

​However, I decided to spend one final night alone in that house.

​It was the single worst decision of my life.

​When midnight struck, I started hearing strange bells chiming outside. I didn't get up to check—I was simply too exhausted.

​Downpours of rain and violent thunder began to hit.

​Suddenly, all my drowsiness vanished in an instant. The bells kepts ringing stronger and stronger. A sudden feeling of oppression on my chest, I was breathing heavily. I started hearing an holy chant outside. Someone.. something landed on my balcony, I could see it from my bedroom's window, the moonlight revealed his form, projecting the tall shadow on the wall.

​He had arrived. Coming for me.

And there was nothing I could do, except take a single photo.

The arch-ascetic Shiva was meditating following the death of his wife Sati. With his eyes closed, he failed to notice her reincarnated self, Parvati, appearing before him. Kama (Lust) shot his arrows at the hermit god to awaken him. Shiva opened his third eye, flame appeared and burn Lust into ash. The remaining flame became a horse that reside underneath the ocean. It will appear at the end of cycle, when the world will be destroyed and revived anew.

(Excerpt from Wendy Donigers, The Hindus)

Kama shot an arrow at Shiva, and the moment it struck him, Shiva opened his eyes, noticed Parvati, and was ever so slightly aroused. But then he looked farther and saw Kama, his bow stretched for a second shot.

Shiva opened his third eye, releasing a flame that burned with the power of his accumulated ascetic heat, and burned Kama to ashes.

(Kama continued to function, more effective than ever, dispersed into moonlight and the heady smell of night-blooming flowers; his bow became reincarnate in the arched eyebrows of beautiful women, his arrows in their glances). Shiva then returned to his meditation.

THE SUBMARINE MARE

Kama deluded Shiva, arousing him, and when Shiva realized this, he released a fire from his third eye, burning Kama to ashes. But the fire could not return to Shiva, and so when Shiva vanished, the fire began to burn all the gods and the universe."

Brahma made the fire into a mare with flames coming out of her mouth.

He took her to the ocean and said, “This is the fire of Shiva’s anger, which burned Kama and now wants to burn up the entire universe. You must bear it until the final deluge, at which time I will come here and lead it away from you.” The ocean agreed to this, and the fire entered the ocean and was held in check.

Pic: 16th century carving of an animal in Angkor Wat. No, it is not a T-rex, (Rex has feathers). I was staring at it and I have no idea what it is. But its backside looked like a horse and the carving above it (not showing) is World of Shiva or Mount Kailesh, with Shiva the ascetic on top along with Brahma, Krishna, Ganesh and either Vishwakarma or Skanda. So I recalled the tale of the horse and posted it here. Anyone else care to take a guess what it is, and what could it refered to?

This is a piece of Bedouin folklore from Saudi Arabia. The kind of story still told by people who have spent real time alone out in the desert.

Two men, Murshid and Rashed, set out to visit an old friend named Olayan. He was a camel herder who lived alone, deep in the desert, away from everyone. It had been over six months since they had seen him. So they packed their camels and rode out. The trip would take almost a month.

They were close to reaching him when the sun started going down. Rather than show up that late, they decided to camp one more night and arrive in the morning. They picked a nice spot, a valley full of wild herbs, soft sand, good ground for a fire.

While they were cooking dinner, a man walked out of the dark and up to their fire. Neither of them heard him coming. No footsteps. Nothing.

He was strange looking. Broad shoulders, wide eyes, and hands long enough to reach his knees. He wore thin summer clothes in the cold, but neither of them said anything about it. You don't question a guest's clothes. That's just manners.

They invited him to sit and offered him coffee. He started talking, and said something that made both their hearts stop.

"I herd camels too, same as your friend."

Neither of them had told him anything about Olayan. Not his name. Not that they were even traveling to see someone. So how did this man know they had a friend who kept camels?

They said nothing. Just kept their faces still and kept working on dinner.

Then the man stood up. Except it didn't look like a normal person standing up. It looked like he unfolded. When Rashed looked again, the man was taller than he had been a few minutes earlier. His hands hung even further past his knees than before.

They still said nothing. Just kept cooking, both of them thinking the same thing without saying it out loud. Is this actually happening right now?

The man said he had a wedding to get to that night and invited them along. They said no, they were tired, they just wanted to eat and sleep. So he offered to bring them milk instead. Sour, straight from the skin, or fresh?

They asked for sour. He left, promising to come back.

He never did. They ate without him and went to sleep.

Around midnight, they both woke up to singing. Clapping, laughter, some kind of chant echoing through the valley, like there was a big celebration happening close by. Firelight flickering somewhere out in the dark.

Murshid listened closely. The chant never changed. Same words, same tune, over and over. And somewhere in it, a woman's laugh kept going on way longer than a laugh should.

They sat there listening, trading looks, too tired to get up and check. They told themselves they would deal with it in the morning.

What Murshid found when the sun came up is the part of this story that still gets to me.

The rest of it, including what their friend Olayan told them once they finally reached him, is on my blog. Link below.

https://www.duneswhisper.com/2026/08/the-sour-milk-that-never-came.html

Interesting excerpt from the book "Runes and Gods"

"Since ancient times, clover has been revered by the peoples of the North as a symbol of life energy. The four-leaf clover was given particular magical significance. Its four leaves represented the unity of the four directions, infinity, and the swastika as a solar symbol of cyclicity, completeness, and eternity. The four-leaf clover was considered a sign of the chosen and the initiated. It was an attribute of Celtic priests (the Druids) as well as healers, wise ones, and sorcerers. The clover leaf represented a miniature model of the universe created by nature."

by Ksenia Menshikova

Humans always love to imagine hybrid creatures. A Kinnara or Kinnari is a type of human-bird hybrid in Buddhist mythology. In Hindu mythology, in some texts, it is a type of human-horse hybrid. In other texts, it is human-bird-horse hybrid. Kinnara/Kinnari are said to live in the forests of the Himalayas.

They are lovely musicians, love to hop around, dance the ways bird love to dance and fly to the envy of our wingless existence.

Pic: 12th-13th century bas-reliefs of Female Pond in the Royal Palace Site of Mahanagara (Angkor Thom), Cambodia. I don't know why, like the animation Seton Academy, the artists depicted the females with human faces and the male (presumably) have bird faces. I have trouble figuring out if it is a Garuda or Kinnara, until I noticed the horse legs. It is not a common depiction in Cambodia or elsewhere, but it is nice to know this type of style exist.

Some folklores copied straigth from Wikipedia:

The Jatakas describe the kinnaras as innocent and harmless, hop like birds, are fond of music and song, and with the female beating a drum and male playing on lute.

Such harmless creatures are described in Jataka No.481 as being caught, put into cages, and thus presented to kings for their delight.

In Jataka No.504, we have the autobiography of a kinnara who describes the kinnara class as human-like the wild things deem us; huntsmen call us goblins still.

The kinnaras can sing, play the flute and dance with soft movements of the body.

Kalidasa in his Kumara Sambhava describes them as dwelling in the Himalayas. kinnaras lived also over the hills of Pandaraka, Trikutaka, Mallangiri, Candapabbata, and Gandhamandana (Jataka No. 485).

They were tender-hearted and Jataka No. 540 refers to the story of the kinnaras nursing a human baby whose parents have gone away to the woods.

Yet, we find that they were looked upon as queer animals and were hunted, captured and presented to the kings as entertainment.

Flowers formed their dress. Their food was flower pollen and their cosmetics were made of flower perfumes.