The spirit of the River Roving is such a beautiful thing… usually. But for a few weeks each year the snow of the high mountains far away melts and cascades its way down the stones, through the tundra and fields and woods, until at last is surges down to the flats, where it soaks the land in minerals.
But poor Roving spirit ends up rather swollen. Her form reflects her source, and as it changes, so does she, until she is a mass of twigs and detritus, oozing her way down the river as she guides the excess water out to sea.
It’s a necessary part of her yearly cycle and she takes it with dignity. The locals always make a point of thanking her, for without her efforts, the river would flood the fields and villages along the river.