The Vodyanoy

He was in the Siverna before the binding. Before the sorcerer walked the bank. Before the woman was put in the water. Before the mountains were named by the people who built their houses beside them. He watched Morev place the stones. He watched Fen enter the river. He did not interfere. It was not his concern. The water he passes through keeps the memory of his passing long after he is gone. When he enters Fen's stretch, the blind crawfish along the Ledge go still. The eels turn south and flee. The pale worms in the silt curl tight. He follows rules older than anything human. He doesn't come where he is not welcomed.

Vast. Shoulders like a collapsed bank, broad and sloped, covered in sediment settled into the creases of him over centuries. A torso like a submerged boulder. River weed grows green and black from his shoulders and trails behind him in the current. His face is broad and flat, the features worn smooth, the jaw heavy, the mouth a line cut deep into rock. Where his eyes should be there is depth. Two places in his face that go further in than the face should allow, dark and still.

Patient. Territorial. He doesn't waste words. Each one costs him something, and he wants you to know the price.

He controls the deep channels. He knows where every stone was placed and where every stone has gone. The river remembers where he has been.