Echoes of the Drowned Rusalka

The party cleared the lower vaults of a flooded tomb where a lonely rusalka had made her lair among silted sarcophagi and the high-pitched shrieks of sickly stirges. In the shallow, brackish water you find what the water-maiden kept close: barnacled coins, a small carved shell that still hums with a lullaby, a string of iridescent pearls, and jars of thick, cold ichor. The stirges that nested in the rafters left behind dried proboscises and a few vials of their rancid blood — foul, but prized by alchemists and those who deal in curios. Much of the metal is corroded or encrusted and will need cleaning, and there’s the faint sense that some items carry the rusalka’s memory: beautiful, melancholy, and potentially dangerous if used carelessly.