Pembrook Nymph
The three men strode along the bank of the Pembrook, joking and jostling one another.
“I get my hands on her,” the first man said, “she'll be the one goes crazy, if you know what I mean.” He waggled his eyebrows.
The second man snorted. “Crazy with boredom, maybe. Lucky for her, it'll last fifteen seconds, tops. Me, on the other hand—”
“You?” The third man laughed. “You think we forgot about that barmaid in Endopal?”
“I told you, I was drunk!”
They talked loudly and laughed even louder as they tromped along. Birds chirped and squirrels chittered in annoyance from the nearby trees. The three men didn't even notice.
The sun had reached its zenith when the first man stopped and said in a hoarse whisper, “Oy! Looky there.”
Not twenty meters ahead, a beautiful woman stood in the Pembrook. The creek's waters flowed around her hips. Her hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall. She wore a resplendent headdress, ornate pauldrons, and a slim brassiere. And nothing else.
The second man squinted. “Well, I'll be. They wasn't just pullin' our chain. It's really her.”
“She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” the third man said, and he broke into a run alongside the creek.
“Hold up!” the first man cried, but the third man paid no attention to him. He leaped off the bank and hit the water with a splash and began wading frantically toward the nymph.
She gave him a crooked smile and beckoned him with one finger before sinking slowly beneath the water's surface.
“No!” he cried. He took a deep breath and dove in after her.
The surface of the creek grew still. Along the Pembrook, a babbling creek that wends its way through the heart of the Maywaren Forest, there lives a creature so beautiful that a single look can drive one mad with desire.
Long hair. Full lips. Perfect skin. She is queen of the river nymphs and a guardian of the ley lines and boundary between the Fey Plane and the Splinterlands, defending her charge from interlopers seeking to harness the secrets and magic of the fey for their own purpose. With her intoxicating water magic, she can bewitch and beguile others to do her will or call upon the fey to fight for her cause.
Despite the boasts and jests passed around in taverns, the locals steer well clear of the Pembrook. Travelers passing through are warned to do the same. Most take heed, but a handful ignore these warnings, believing their will and their wits strong enough to resist the fey's charms. The majority come back with nothing to show for their efforts. However, every now and then, some unfortunate soul will return, babbling incoherently or spouting nonsensical poetry about passion and beauty and nature.