The Kanteratti Sphinx’s only riddle is silence.
What appears to be hair are the finger bones of his unfortunate victims, which it glares in morbid lure to eventual death.
The bones ooze and boil at the top of his fiery forehead where a tattered mask is set, bruised and battered that bubbles sickly a bit.
In order to keep the precocious predator at bay, one must sing from the heart, a true love.
Only then will the creature retreat in bitter anguish.
This is not an easy task, though it may sound so.
It’s origins are not entirely known, but it is said that there was once a village long ago of people named the Kanteratti.
The Sphinx is perceptive, devious to those who are dubious, and incredibly precise in targeting a prey’s worst fear.
As mentioned in my notes, the ferocious feline has no face of its own. It absorbs the faces of its prey, where the last existing evidence of the Kanteratti people remains, stained in agony upon the Sphinx’s forehead dripping down in stolen remembrance.
This is where the creature gained its namesake.
I keep the Kanteratti Sphinx in a sunken memoir, he is docile when left to his solitude.
Though try as he may, he can do no harm anymore.
Just sing love.