Legends of Ziana

The Legend of Ziana, Daughter of the River God

 

Long before the first walls of Danfelgor were raised, and before any king set foot on the riverbanks, the waters of the Danfel ran wild and sacred, watched over by Linadafur, the god of rivers. From the foam of the spring flood, as snowmelt surged down from the high passes, Linadafur brought forth a daughter: Ziana, spirit of the middle waters, guardian of the current, and mistress of the mists.

She is said to dwell where the river deepens and the reeds whisper secrets—sometimes glimpsed as a shimmering figure with silver hair flowing like waterweed, eyes the colour of dusk on the water, and feet that never touch the earth.

Ziana’s nature is neither wholly kind nor cruel. She is just, as the river is just: giving life to the careful and ruin to the reckless. She is beloved by ferrymen, fishers, and millers, who leave her garlands of riverflowers and clay bowls of wine at hidden stones known only to them. In return, she grants clear passage, calm waters, and sometimes visions in dreams—warnings of storms, or guidance in times of doubt.

But Ziana does not suffer abusers of the river.

 

One tale tells of a gang of river-pirates who harassed boatmen bringing grain from the Sara fields to Danfelgor. They laughed at the boatmen’s prayers and threw the votive offerings into the mud. On the third night of the waning moon, the pirates’ barge was seized by a sudden current and dashed against a sunken boulder not marked on any chart. Survivors clinging to driftwood were drawn down by long strands that wrapped like vines around their limbs. Their bodies were never found. Only the captain’s sword washed ashore, rusted to the hilt and tangled with river-grass.

Another tale is still told in the town of Hader’s Ferry. An old water-merchant, cheated and driven to ruin by corrupt officials, cast his last offering into the river and whispered a plea for justice. That same night, the tax-barge overturned in calm waters, and every document recording the fraudulent tolls was lost. The merchant later found a pouch of silver in the reeds and never wanted for bread again.

Ziana is not a goddess, but a spirit, and she does not dwell in temples. Those who claim to worship her too publicly are often regarded with suspicion by boatfolk, who say that Ziana chooses who sees her, and when. No prayer compels her, no rite binds her.

But sometimes, when the moon is low and the mist hugs the river’s edge, you might hear singing—clear and sorrowful, like wind through reeds. Then you’d best mind your thoughts. For Ziana hears the hearts of those who travel her father’s waters, and she does not forget.

Ziana’s Birth and Nature

It is said that Ziana was born in the time before time, when Linadafur, the god of all rivers, took form among the meltwaters of the high snows. In the moment the river first sang a song of longing for the sea, Ziana arose—a daughter shaped from current, mist, and moonlight.

She is the river’s memory, its keeper and judge, and she is called by many names: Mistress of the Reeds, The Drowned Maid, Ziana-of-the-Long-Hair, or simply the Water-Walker. Her domain is not the whole river, but the shifting midwaters—neither spring nor mouth, neither flood nor drought. In this, she is the most changeable of spirits, and her justice is as fluid and deep as the Danfel itself. Ziana’s smile, colder than the depths, is not one of cruelty but of certainty. She does not punish from wrath. She does not protect from affection. She is part of the river, and the river has laws and does not ask permission. 

 

 

Notes and Beliefs Along the River

In Danfelgor, the guild of boatmen maintains small shrines to Ziana along the inner docks. They never speak her name aloud while working.

In Estasea, especially inland, Ziana is seen as a localised genia loci, and is the subject of several romantic operettas and tragic poems. One scholar claimed Ziana was once mortal and elevated to spirithood—but this is dismissed by riverfolk.

In the Sara uplands, shepherds hang little bells above stream crossings in her honour, believing Ziana will not appear where iron sounds.

 

Danfelgorian Inn sign - The River Nymph Tavern on Harbour Way

Folk Episodes and Variants

The Miller’s Daughter and the Silver Net

(Told near the town of Nedral’s Bend)

A poor miller’s daughter once wove a net from her own hair and silver threads left to her by her mother. Each dawn, she cast it into the Danfel and sang for fish, but caught none. One misted morning, her singing faltered—her father lay sick and hungry.

Ziana rose from the shallows beside her and whispered: "Sing with a true heart, and the river will answer."

That day, the net returned heavy with silver-finned fish—more than enough. But when the girl tried to sell the catch in the town square, a merchant accused her of sorcery. She was bound for trial.

That night, the river overflowed its banks and surged through the merchant’s cellar, stripping it bare. The girl was freed the next morning by frightened townsfolk, and a lily grew forevermore beside her door—said to mark where Ziana had stood.

 

The Three Knots

(An Estasean tale, collected by river scholars in Elvremere)

Three brothers set out to seek their fortunes along the river, each given a charm knot by their dying mother: one for safety, one for strength, one for truth.

The eldest used his knot to survive storms and grew rich; the second used his for strength and became a feared mercenary. But the youngest, kind and curious, tied his knot and gave it to a dying boatman as comfort.

He wandered poor but untroubled—until, deep in the estuarial mists, he saw Ziana herself weeping beside a snagged barge. She had taken mortal form and could not free the vessel.

He offered his help, and with humble tools, cut the barge loose.

“You have chosen truth,” she said, and turned into mist, leaving behind a cloak of woven river-silk. The cloth was never sold, but wrapped round the boy’s body when he died in old age, and his tomb never flooded—though all others nearby did.

 

The Captain’s Last Warning

(Spoken in Danfelgor taverns by old boatmen)

A hardened captain named Bredvar refused to make offerings at the ferry stones, mocking the old ways. “If Ziana wants a coin,” he said, “let her take it from my hand!”

That night, as he sailed the Moonreach Cut, a pale figure rose on the prow, dripping wet, eyes blank. His crew fled below, but Bredvar stood his ground.

“I came for your coin,” the figure said. “But I find your soul more useful.”

The boat was found the next morning circling endlessly in a still eddy. The crew were dazed but unharmed—except Bredvar, whose eyes were milky white, and who never spoke again.

He spent the rest of his days sweeping the ferry dock for coppers and dropping them into the river, one by one.

 

The Song Beneath the Ice

(A winter tale of the mountain-fed upper river)

In the high passes, where the Danfel begins as meltwater, the river freezes in deep winter. Children are told not to walk the ice, lest Ziana’s song rise from beneath and draw them down.

A shepherd’s son once dared to test it, tapping his staff and calling for her mockingly.

The ice cracked, and the boy fell—but was caught in a pocket of air. There, in the darkness, he heard a strange lullaby, soft and sweet. When he was rescued three days later, he was unharmed—but never spoke again, except to sing that tune in his sleep.

Now, the passersby say the song protects travellers from avalanches, if sung with respect. But no one dares sing it by the river’s edge.

 

5. The Bargain of the Drowned

(A darker tale, told in hushed tones in Valtura’s harbour taverns)

They say not all pirates drowned by Ziana perish entirely.

Sometimes, if one dies with regret and a true heart beneath their crimes, Ziana offers a bargain: serve her as a Kelharin—a shadowed guardian, neither dead nor living, bound to the currents.

In Valtura, certain boatmen refuse to sail if the fog is “too quiet,” saying the Kelharin drift nearby. They claim to have seen pale figures in the water, watching smugglers and slavers.

On some nights, a smuggler’s craft vanishes without a cry. And

Folk Episodes and Variants

The Miller’s Daughter and the Silver Net

(Told near the town of Nedral’s Bend)

A poor miller’s daughter once wove a net from her own hair and silver threads left to her by her mother. Each dawn, she cast it into the Danfel and sang for fish, but caught none. One misted morning, her singing faltered—her father lay sick and hungry.

Ziana rose from the shallows beside her and whispered: "Sing with a true heart, and the river will answer."

That day, the net returned heavy with silver-finned fish—more than enough. But when the girl tried to sell the catch in the town square, a merchant accused her of sorcery. She was bound for trial.

That night, the river overflowed its banks and surged through the merchant’s cellar, stripping it bare. The girl was freed the next morning by frightened townsfolk, and a lily grew forevermore beside her door—said to mark where Ziana had stood.

 

The Three Knots

(An Estasean tale, collected by river scholars in Elvremere)

Three brothers set out to seek their fortunes along the river, each given a charm knot by their dying mother: one for safety, one for strength, one for truth.

The eldest used his knot to survive storms and grew rich; the second used his for strength and became a feared mercenary. But the youngest, kind and curious, tied his knot and gave it to a dying boatman as comfort.

He wandered poor but untroubled—until, deep in the estuarial mists, he saw Ziana herself weeping beside a snagged barge. She had taken mortal form and could not free the vessel.

He offered his help, and with humble tools, cut the barge loose.

“You have chosen truth,” she said, and turned into mist, leaving behind a cloak of woven river-silk. The cloth was never sold, but wrapped round the boy’s body when he died in old age, and his tomb never flooded—though all others nearby did.

 

The Captain’s Last Warning

(Spoken in Danfelgor taverns by old boatmen)

A hardened captain named Bredvar refused to make offerings at the ferry stones, mocking the old ways. “If Ziana wants a coin,” he said, “let her take it from my hand!”

That night, as he sailed the Moonreach Cut, a pale figure rose on the prow, dripping wet, eyes blank. His crew fled below, but Bredvar stood his ground.

“I came for your coin,” the figure said. “But I find your soul more useful.”

The boat was found the next morning circling endlessly in a still eddy. The crew were dazed but unharmed—except Bredvar, whose eyes were milky white, and who never spoke again.

He spent the rest of his days sweeping the ferry dock for coppers and dropping them into the river, one by one.

 

The Song Beneath the Ice

(A winter tale of the mountain-fed upper river)

In the high passes, where the Danfel begins as meltwater, the river freezes in deep winter. Children are told not to walk the ice, lest Ziana’s song rise from beneath and draw them down.

A shepherd’s son once dared to test it, tapping his staff and calling for her mockingly.

The ice cracked, and the boy fell—but was caught in a pocket of air. There, in the darkness, he heard a strange lullaby, soft and sweet. When he was rescued three days later, he was unharmed—but never spoke again, except to sing that tune in his sleep.

Now, the passersby say the song protects travellers from avalanches, if sung with respect. But no one dares sing it by the river’s edge.

 

5. The Bargain of the Drowned

(A darker tale, told in hushed tones in Valtura’s harbour taverns)

They say not all pirates drowned by Ziana perish entirely.

Sometimes, if one dies with regret and a true heart beneath their crimes, Ziana offers a bargain: serve her as a Kelharin—a shadowed guardian, neither dead nor living, bound to the currents.

In Valtura, certain boatmen refuse to sail if the fog is “too quiet,” saying the Kelharin drift nearby. They claim to have seen pale figures in the water, watching smugglers and slavers.

On some nights, a smuggler’s craft vanishes without a cry. And later, a sole survivor emerges from the water, his face white and his eyes blank, muttering, "She knows..she knows.."

 

The Silver Fish and the Storm

(Told in the lower river reaches near Karessel and Valtura, especially by solitary fishers at dusk)

There was once a fisherman named Tharn who fished the deep waters where the Danfel broadens and the banks are low and reed-filled. He was not greedy, nor boastful, but proud of his skill and strength—too proud, the old ones say.

One midsummer evening, as he cast his net alone beneath a bruised sky, a sudden squall rose up from the west. Winds lashed the water into claws, and the river seemed to twist upon itself. Tharn's boat bucked like a frightened animal. His oars snapped, and the tiller tore free. As he clung to the gunwale, certain he would be taken under, he shouted, “Ziana! River-Maiden! Spare me!”

Then came a voice—not loud, but so clear it pierced the wind:

“Do not cry to the river as if it owes you. Ask, and I may hear.”

In the rising spray, Tharn saw her—mist on the surface becoming form: a woman of silver limbs, eyes like dusk-lit pools, hair trailing like water-vines behind her.

She sang no words, only a sound that turned the storm upon itself. The sky lightened, the winds faltered, and the waves smoothed as if soothed by a mother’s hand.

When it was done, Tharn wept with gratitude and reached out his arms to her, stammering thanks and pleas: to know her, to keep her, to make her his guide forever.

But Ziana smiled, and that smile was colder than the depths.

She vanished in a shimmer, like light slipping beneath the surface. His boat drifted gently to shore.

Only his net, tangled at the stern, held a single silver fish—slender, perfect, and gleaming with hues no mortal eye could name. It never spoiled, even as days passed. Tharn mounted it on the wall of his hut, but never fished again.

When asked why, he only said, “She does not belong to us. She allows the taking—or not.”

The hut still stands, weatherworn and empty, and the silver fish is gone. Some say Ziana took it back. Others say it swims still, in the deepest places of the Danfel, as a sign to those who forget that the river can be generous, but never possessed.

"She is not cruel," say the old boatmen, "but she is not kind, either. She is the river. And the river is older than kindness."

 

The Weaver of Stones

(Told only in hushed tones in the deep interior, near the weeping willows of Orrel’s Reach)

Long ago, a young man named Telor carved smooth stones from the riverbed and sold them in the market—river-jewels, he called them. He claimed they came from Ziana herself, that he had “woven her favour into the rock.”

He prospered—too much, too quickly—and began to mock her publicly, saying she was no more than a myth made to frighten old women and cow timid men.

One evening, as he rinsed his hands in the shallows, he found the water rising—gently, silently. When he turned to leave, the bank behind him was gone. A woman waited in the deep, her smile colder than the depths.

“You have woven stones in my name,” she said, “now I will weave you into mine.”

The river receded by morning. All that remained was a figure made of smooth riverstone on the sandbar, arms outstretched, mouth open in a silent plea. Moss grows in its eyes. No one touches it.

Children are told never to take stones from the water unless given by the current itself.

 

The Oath of Red Flowers

(Known mostly among ferrymen who serve during spring floods)

A long time ago, a grieving woman cast red flowers into the Danfel each day at dusk. Her lover had drowned in the river, and she believed Ziana had stolen him. She wept and pleaded for justice.

After a season, Ziana appeared—her face unreadable, her arms full of withered blossoms.

“I return what was taken,” she said.

The next morning, the woman’s lover stood at her door—dry, alive, unchanged.

But he did not sleep. He did not eat. He did not speak, except to whisper, “Do not touch the river.”

She grew afraid. In time, he walked back into the Danfel of his own accord and did not surface.

Now, each spring when the red flowers bloom, old ferrymen say the woman returns to the river’s edge. Her ghost is seen gathering blossoms and weeping. No one speaks to her.

And the ferrymen never sail when the river smells faintly of petals.

 

Ziana’s Mirror

(A tale feared in Danfelgor’s low docks and avoided by water-wardens)

They say there is a stretch of river where the surface goes glass-still after dusk—too still. Birds do not call there. Fish do not ripple. The air smells clean, but empty.

This is Ziana’s Mirror.

It is said that those who gaze into it too long see themselves not as they are, but as Ziana sees them—bare of lies, stripped of pride. The reflection shifts. Some weep at what they see. Others leap in and are never found.

A dock-warden once placed a lantern near the Mirror on a dare, claiming Ziana was just mist and river wind. By dawn, the lantern was gone—but the river glowed faintly where it had stood, with a pale fire like a drowned moon.

Now, boatmen leave offerings of smoked salt or black ribbon when passing that place.

It is not marked on any map, but the river remembers.

 

The Drowning Bride

(A tale nearly lost; revived only in Estasean border villages)

A bride was once carried across the Danfel on her wedding day, veiled and crowned with ivy. Her boat tipped—some say by accident, others by a jealous hand. She vanished into the current.

That night, the groom walked into the river with stones in his pockets.

But neither were claimed by death.

Villagers later whispered that Ziana had taken them both: the bride as a companion, the groom as a warning. At certain times, lovers who quarrel near the Danfel hear laughter—sweet, but wrong, echoing just above the water.

And sometimes, if you see a wedding barge in the mist with no rowers, no oars, and no sound but the lap of water, look away. Let it pass.

Those who have tried to follow it—whether for curiosity or to seek a lost love—have found only weeds in their mouths and mud in their lungs.

Ziana’s smile, colder than the depths, is not one of cruelty but of certainty. She does not punish from wrath. She does not protect from affection. She is part of the river, and the river has laws that do not ask permission.

 

The Tale of the Little Reed Boat

(Often told to children at twilight… though some say it is not truly meant for children.)

Once, there was a boy who lived on the bank of the Danfel, where the reeds grew tall and green and the dragonflies hummed like little boats with wings. His family were poor, but he was happy. He would sit by the water and talk to the river as if it were a friend.

One day, he took fallen reeds and bound them with twine, shaping a tiny boat. He set it afloat and called out:

“Ziana, lady of the river, this is my gift to you. It will never carry gold or soldiers—only light and good wishes.”

The little reed boat floated a long way, and the boy watched it until it vanished round the bend.

That night, in a dream, a woman with long dripping hair came to him. She smiled—not cruelly, but with something old in her eyes.

“I received your gift,” she said. “I liked it. You may have one wish.”

The boy thought long and hard, then said, “I wish to grow up strong, and good, and loved, and die of old age with my family around me.”

Ziana nodded. “So be it.”

And so it was.

He grew up strong. He was kind, and people loved him. He married, had children, and grew old in peace. His house stood near the river still.

When his last day came, his family gathered and held his hand as he drifted into sleep. All was well.

Except that when they came to bury him, the river had risen in the night and taken the graveyard.

Only one coffin was missing.

No one spoke of it aloud, but those who live by the river still say:

Ziana remembers every gift. And she always takes something in return.