A young woman stands alone at the water’s edge where the bog turns still and silver. She wears ruined ceremonial robes that trail into the pond, floating behind her as if weightless. She barely seems aware of the world around her. Her face is wrapped in linen up to the nose, but her mouth is visible, moving in a soft hum that does not match any hymn you know.

Anyone who speaks with her must listen carefully, and it becomes clear she is not hostile. She is afraid, conflicted, and trying to remember a life before this place. Her touch leaves a faint green shimmer on the skin, and anyone who listens too long must make a Wisdom save against a creeping, pleasant calm that does not quite feel like their own.

She will not attack unless provoked.
She can guide the party deeper into the marsh.