Vodyanoy

Vodyanoy watches over deep river whirlpools, milldams, and forest lakes. He looks to be in his sixties: a broad, damp-leathery face, drenched grey locks, and river grass tangled in his thick, grey-green beard. His eyes are milky and cloudy, holding a sharp, piercing stare from under heavy brows. He sits on a fallen log by the edge of a dark pond at dusk, wrapped in a murky caftan weathered with mossy patches and tasseled with bulrushes. His bare feet rest in the silt, knobby fingers clutching a moss-grown staff.

He dwells on the riverbed in a sunken, silt-laden hut, keeps giant catfish as his errand-runners, and knows everything within a mile around: who dropped a wooden pail, who caught one bream too many, and who waded into the water after sunset. He rarely crawls ashore, only when the water is stirred, someone leaves an offering, or so much gossip has piled up that retelling it to mere fish becomes unbearable.

His temper is cantankerous but rarely vicious: he likes to haggle, grumble, and demand you take your cap off. For proper respect, he will show you where nets won't tear, where to ford the river, and which bend to steer clear of after dusk. He remembers slights, though his revenge is seldom fatal: spoiling a well, snatching a boot, or frightening someone so thoroughly they flee without looking back.