🌊 Fey Creature: Pondshade Nereila

Creature Name: Nereila, the Pondshade
Level: 4
Traits: Fey, Aquatic, Illusion, Bound
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Size: Medium
Perception: +11 (darkvision)
Languages: Sylvan, Aquan
Skills: Stealth +10, Nature +9, Deception +10, Performance +8
Str +0, Dex +3, Con +1, Int +2, Wis +2, Cha +4

💧 Lore & Flavor

Nereila is a water-bound fey spirit born from moonlight and forgotten wishes. She haunts the mill pond, weaving illusions from ripples and reeds. Locals whisper that she once loved a mortal miller, and her presence lingers where his laughter once echoed. She cannot leave the pond, but her illusions reach beyond its banks, luring wanderers into dreams or dread.

🧚 Abilities

• Bound to the Pond: Nereila cannot move more than 60 feet from the mill pond’s center. If forcibly removed, she vanishes and reappears at the pond at dawn.
• Waterform (1 Action): Nereila can merge with the pond, becoming invisible and intangible for 1 minute. She can still cast illusion spells while in this form.
• Illusory Reflection (2 Actions): Nereila creates a shimmering double of herself or another creature within 30 feet. This functions as Illusory Disguise or Mirror Image, depending on intent.
• Lure of the Deep (3 Actions): Once per day, Nereila sings a haunting melody. All creatures within 60 feet must succeed at a DC 19 Will save or be fascinated for 1 round and compelled to approach the pond.

🪄 Spellcasting

Arcane Innate Spells (DC 19, attack +11):

• At will: Ghost Sound, Dancing Lights, Prestidigitation
• 3/day: Illusory Disguise, Mirror Image, Fear
• 1/day: Phantasmal Killer

Scene Seven: Whispers by the Millstream

The companions leave the market behind, the weight of Granna Vell’s trinkets tucked into cloak folds and belt pouches. The path to the old mill winds past the edge of Willowshade, where the trees lean in close and the stream runs quieter than it should.

Droogami pads ahead, ears twitching. Lini watches her companion with a furrowed brow—something in the air feels off. The birdsong is sparse, and the breeze carries the scent of damp grain and old stone.

As they round a bend, Willowshade disappears from view and the mill comes into view: its wheel sluggish, half-submerged in moss-choked water. The building itself leans slightly, as if weary of standing. A raven watches from the roof beam, silent.

Branwen gestures for caution. “Let’s not assume we’re alone.”

Renka’s fingers brush the fox figurine at her belt. For a moment, she feels warmth—not from the wood, but from something older, deeper. A memory not hers. She blinks, and the feeling fades.

Lini kneels by the stream, holding the river stone up to the light. It hums faintly, a vibration felt more than heard. “There’s magic here,” she murmurs. “But it’s tangled.”

Suddenly, a figure appears on the rickety dock—a man in a faded cap and muddy boots, waving urgently.

“Over here!” he calls, his voice echoing strangely across the water. “Thank the stars you’ve come. There’s trouble in the mill—something’s fouled the waterwheel, and I can’t fix it alone!”

Branwen narrows her eyes. The man’s features are indistinct, as if seen through rippling water. His reflection in the pond lags behind his movements, and when he steps, his boots make no sound on the old wood.

Renke hesitates. “Are you the miller? We were sent to help.”

The figure nods, beckoning them closer. “Aye, that’s me. But hurry—the mill’s in danger! There’s something in the water, something angry. I need you to come inside, quickly!”

Lini glances at her companions, unease prickling her skin. The mist thickens, swirling around their ankles. For a moment, the miller’s eyes flash an unnatural shade of blue-green, like the heart of the pond.

Branwen grips her sword. “If you’re truly the miller, tell us—what’s your dog’s name?”

The figure falters, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. The mist behind him churns, and his form wavers, edges blurring into droplets that fall silently into the pond.

A low, musical laugh echoes from the water. The illusion dissolves, leaving only the swirling mist and the faint outline of something watching from beneath the surface.

The illusion of the miller shudders, water droplets trailing from his form as Branwen’s gaze pierces the glamour. The mist thickens, swirling protectively around the dock and pond. The false miller’s eyes flash with anger and surprise, then melt away, revealing the true shape of the Nereila: a figure of shimmering water and tangled riverweed, both beautiful and unsettling.

A voice, musical and echoing, ripples across the pond:

“So, you see me, clever mortal. Few have the will to pierce my veil.”

The Nereila’s expression shifts from playful mischief to cold irritation. The water around the dock churns, sending ripples toward the shore.

“You spoil my fun, but the game is not yet over. The mill is mine to haunt, and your meddling will cost you dearly.”

She glides closer, her form shifting between water and mist, eyes glinting with ancient cunning.

“Tell your friends: Willowshade’s secrets are best left undisturbed. Leave, or face the wrath of the river.”

The Nereila’s voice is both warning and challenge, her disappointment at being discovered fuelling her next act of mischief or aggression.

Lini steps forward, holding the river stone aloft. The Nereid, still swirling in her true form above the water, pauses. Her eyes narrow, curiosity flickering across her face.

Lini speaks softly and with great respect, “We mean you no harm. This stone was given to Willowshade by river spirits—by your kin, perhaps. Why poison the water that once blessed the mill and the village?”

The river stone glimmers, casting ripples of gentle light across the pond. The Nereila’s demeanour shifts; her anger cools, replaced by wary interest, her expression is more wounded than wrathful.

Her voice, musical and mournful, ripples across the water:

“You see through my veil, mortal. But do not mistake me for your enemy. I am not the one who poisons this water. The rot, the sickness—it is the work of the miller and his wife. Their greed, their carelessness, it fouls my home and brings misery to all who drink from my pond.”

She glides closer, the water swirling protectively around her.

“I have tried to drive them away, to frighten them from this place. The mill was built without respect for the old ways, and now the land suffers. I want them gone—gone from my pond, gone from Willowshade. Only then will the water run clear again.”

Her gaze lingers on Lini’s, pleading and fierce.

“You seek the truth? Look not to the fey for blame, but to those who have forgotten the pact between land and water. Help me, and I will help you. But if you side with the poisoners, you will find no mercy here.”

Lini steps forward, her voice gentle but firm, “We see the harm that’s been done, spirit of the waters. The miller doesn’t understand the pain he’s causing—to you, to the pond, to the village. Let us speak with him. Let us help him change, before your anger brings ruin to all.”

The Nereila,her form shimmering, narrows her eyes, “Words are easy, mortal. Promises flow like water, but few hold their shape. Why should I trust you, when the miller’s greed has poisoned my home?”

Lini meets the Nereila’s gaze, “Because we’re not blind to your suffering. We came to help, not to harm. Give us a chance to make him listen. If he refuses, you’ll have your justice—but let us try peace first.”

the Nereila’svoice softens, a hint of curiosity in her tone, “Very well, little one. Speak to your miller. But know this: the river remembers, and so do I. Fail, and the waters will rise.”

Scene 8. The Millers defense.

The companions take the short walk from the pond to the door. Branwen raps heavily on the door with the pommel of her short sword. With no answer, Branwen tries the door, it begins to open before her and she quietly and slowly pushes it open.,

Branwen is the first to step inside, Renka follows, Lini orders Droogami it wait by the door. The mill smells of damp grain and old wood. Dust motes drift in the filtered light from a cracked window. The waterwheel creaks faintly outside, echoing like a heartbeat.The mill smells of damp grain and old wood. Dust motes drift in the filtered light from a cracked window. The waterwheel creaks faintly outside, echoing like a heartbeat.

The miller sits hunched on a stool, hands limp, eyes hollow. His clothes are stained with flour and pond scum. A cracked mug rests at his feet, untouched. Renka approaches the man, while Branwen wanders around the using the light of a flickering lantern to see what she can find, Lini walks over to the mill stone.

The millers flinches, his eyes glance towards the mill stone, “It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t poison the tarts. I ate them. I liked them. It’s the grain — it’s wrong. It’s sick. The pond’s sick too. She just wanted to help.”

Renka looks at the Miller, and says in a gentile yet firm way, “The pond’s restless, and Nereila’s illusions grow sharper. She believes you’re poisoning her waters. Why, miller? Why upset the spirit who’s watched over this place?”

The miller replies wearily, “Poisoning? Me? No. No, I’d never harm the pond. It’s her — she’s changed. She watches me like I’m a stranger.”

Renka’s tone softens, “she says the pond is sick, That something’s wrong. The fig tarts, the grain…”

The Millers voice begins to crack, “It wasn’t the tarts. My wife baked them with care. It’s the grain — it’s wrong before it even reaches the mill. The yield’s half what it was. The sacks rot from the inside. Something’s spoiling it.”

Renka curiosity picks up, “Spoiling it how? Mold? Magic?”

The Miller shakes his head, “Not mold. Not anything I’ve seen. The kernels twist. They hum at night. And the stone… the stone feels colder than it should.”

Renka voice falls to a whisper, “You think something else is poisoning the land?”

The Miller nods, eyes haunted, “Yes. Something old. Something buried. I hear it in the wheel’s creak. I see it in the pond’s stillness. I think… I think Nereila’s afraid too.”

The mill’s grinding chamber is dim, the great stone wheel looming like a sleeping beast. As Lini steps closer, her fingers trace a sigil in the air — Detect Magic flares softly in her eyes.

Lini says quietly, to herself, “There’s something here… necromantic, maybe. Old. Wounded.”

She turns to the miller, voice gentle but curious. “This stone — it’s not just stone anymore. Have you seen anything strange when you grind the grain?”

Miller rubs his hands nervously, “Aye. Sometimes… sometimes the wheel sparks. Not fire — colours. Like oil on water. And the grain, it sings. Low, like a hum in the teeth.”

He glances toward the stone, then back at Lini, “I thought it was just the strain. Or the pond’s tricks. But the sacks rot faster now. The flour clumps. Even the fig tarts came out bitter.

Lini shakes her head, “It’s not the pond. It’s the stone. Something’s bound to it — something that doesn’t want to be ground.”

Scene 8. Nyra Appears.

Droogami lets out a low, rumbling growl — not hostile, but alert. The snow leopard’s ears flick toward the open mill door, nose twitching.

Lini turns, her spell still humming faintly in her fingertips, “and how long have you been there…”

There, framed in the doorway, stands Nyra of the Whispering Step.

She is cloaked in layered robes of ash-grey and wind-blown blue, her hair braided with silver threads and river stones. Her eyes shimmer like morning frost on still water. A faint breeze stirs the dust around her feet, though the air outside is still.

Nyra speaks softly, “The stone sings of sorrow. And the pond… it weeps in silence. I was called.”

She steps inside, her presence somehow both grounding and otherworldly.

The Miller is startled, “Who—? Are you… are you one of them?”

Nyra continues her gentile speach, “No. But I listen, as they do. And I’ve come to help — if you’ll let me.”

She kneels beside the millstone, placing one hand upon it. Her eyes close. A ripple of pale light spreads across the stone’s surface — and for a moment, the grinding wheel groans like something exhaling in pain.

Nyra turns away from the mill stone, “I have not the power to remove the curse, you will need the help of a power greater than mine,”

Miller answers softly, “If you truly want to help… there’s one who might know more. Elara Moonshadow. She lives in Willowshade. A fetchling mage. People say she’s touched by shadow — but she’s clever. Too clever.”

He looks at Branwen, then Droogami, then the others.“I wouldn’t go myself. She doesn’t like me. But you — you’ve seen the pond. You’ve spoken to Nereila. Maybe she’ll listen.”

Nyra nods, already sensing the arc ahead.

Renka hums a thoughtful tune, composing a verse about “Moonshadow and Millstone.”

Lini scribbles notes in her journal: “Fetchling mage. Willowshade. Curse resonance?”

Branwen glances toward the pond, where Nereila’s silhouette flickers once, then vanishes.

Droogami growls softly — not in warning, but in anticipation.

The mill turned once more, but the shadow beneath it had not yet lifted. And so the companions turned toward Willowshade — where moonlight met secrets, and Elara waited.

To be continued.