The sound of hot water, gently trickling into itself, fills the space. The bathhouse of the Goddess is a haze of steam, the low, flickering light of torches almost swallowed by the thick clouds of vapour. Everything is warm. Soft. Inviting. The open air adds a touch of coolness, but the glimmering pool of water is so hot, and the steam so thick and heavy, that the chill of midnight is banished far away, a full moon hanging in a velvet sky the only visible reminder.
If someone were to enter the bathhouse now, they would hear that same trickling of water as it spouts from hidden, magical nooks to roll gently through the bath itself. At a glance, the bath might seem empty, wreathed as it is in impenetrable steam, but stepping within would reveal the truth.
A quiet chorus of sound begins to tickle one’s ears a little deeper into the enclosure. Water, disturbed by movement. Quiet, but widespread. The sort of whispering susurrations you might expect from a forest caught in a light wind. The muffled sound of fluttering, uneven breathing. The occasional gasp, sweet and light like the kiss of a fairy.