The hag-queen is real and she is scary if you don't know what you're looking at. She is always naked. She has white skin and black nails and legs that don't work on the land. When she comes onto the shore in the height of the damp winter, her tits drag on the ground. She's an ugly mother. Her eyes are droopy. Her hair is long and black. Leaves and water-weeds are often caught up in those immense tangles. Sometimes, precious gold things and gems and charred planks and bones are twisted up in those locks, including the skulls of kings. She's considered a devil to those who cast their dead to the rushing waters--as if that were a good way to dispose of a stiff. She hasn't been seen since that hero finally killed all the gods with swords tempered with the logic that she imparts with each fleshy lick of her serpentine tongue. Her poison is reason. She's no niggard with that gift. Still, she's there, sporting in those great swirling churning pools where the Nithrangoth exits the steep, slick boulder shoots of the Giant's Flank and splashes into the immense fens that fester on the foot of the sea. Follow the mossy faery shapes that skitter down along that river's banks, and you might spot her, thrashing in the deep water, thrashing in the fog.
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