The Watcher of the Marsh
We all know the watcher. His shadow stretches across the waterways of the marshes, a blessing, a warning and a curse. Many say that he is different to each of us, according to our souls, but the older men say that he can be all three to the same man.
It is a rare traveller of these parts who is never lost, they say, and the marshes claim a few each year, all seem to agree that the watcher is one, or perhaps all of these lost standing sentinel. He can appear during the day, for sure, but also at night, darker blackness then even the grimmest of winter nights. Even the most schooled of us do not deny his existance, and the more superstitious can fear to tread abroad for days after a sighting.
But for me, he has always been a friend, a guide, and a sentinel. He watches out for me and mine, marks the passing of the Revenue Men, the swirling of the most treacherous of eddies, and secluded banks where the best eels and fish come to sleep. He is my most trusted ally, for I know what he wants, and needs, and we have dealt in the best of faiths.
It is a rare traveller in these parts who is never lost, they say, but some are found by me and mine, and we ensure that the watcher is paid his due.