Brackwater Wraith

"Beware the still waters that fester under moonlight," the old ranger whispered, his voice low and brittle. "For in their depths stir brackwater wraiths, born of filth and sorrow. They are not mere shadows or spirits but the wrath of the mire itself, coiling and cold. You'll hear the soft splash of their lure or catch the glint of a pale face beneath the reeds, and by the time you realize it's not your reflection, the bog will have claimed you."

 

The Dirt & The Desperate

  In the murky hollows of stagnant rivers and forgotten bogs, where the air hangs thick with decay and the waters ripple without cause, brackwater wraiths take their mournful shape. They are not born in the way of natural creatures but are rather the wretches echoes of lives swallowed by polluted waters - fishers dragged under by fouled nets, wanderers lost in crushed marshes, and beasts who drank from tainted pools, unaware of the poison within.   These wraiths are creatures of liquid malice, their forms a shifting amalgam of blackened water, tangled reeds, and pale, bloated faces that seem to drift just beneath their rippling surfaces. When they rise, it is as though the bog itself has reared up in fury, a fluid column of dark water laced with strands of weed and silt. Their voices are a ghastly gurgle, as if their very existence is an attempt to scream through lungs filled with filth.  

The Pure & The Plucky

  They hunt by luring the unwary. A faint splash in the distance, a soft whisper carried on the breeze, or the silhouette of a figure in the mist - these are their tricks, designed to draw travelers into the bog's embrace. Once close enough, the brackwater wraith strikes. Its watery tendrils last out, coiling like serpents around legs and arms, pulling its victim into the black mire. The unfortunate souls who succumb to its grasp are seldom seen again, though their faces may later appear within the wraith's body, silently pleading for release.   Though feared, the brackwater wraith is not invincible. It recoils from pure, running water, as if scalded by its touch. A silver blade, plunged into the heart of its roiling form, can force it to dissolve, leaving behind only a puddle of foul-smelling muck. Yet these victories are fleeting; so long as the waters remain poisoned, the wraith may form anew, born again from the rot.   Legends speak of an ancient rite to purify the waters and banish the wraiths for good. The few who have dared to attempt it must be well armed and prepared to fight, as the wraiths will know when such rituals are undertaken and will rise with renewed fury to stop those who would dare cleanse their blighted homes.