Beatrice stands as a silhouette of ivory against the reeds, her stillness more profound than any mundane fowl. Gifted with speech and reason by a long-dead hermit, she is an awakened crane who serves as a silent witness to the shifting Siltbloom Marshes. Unlike other creatures who struggle with their newfound sentience, Beatrice remains a sentinel of the shallows, her mind as sharp as her needle-like beak and her memory an unbroken tapestry of every traveler who has crossed the brackish waters. She moves with a deliberate, haunting grace, speaking in a voice that rattles like dry reeds in a gale. Beatrice claims no territory but guards the secrets of the tides, often trading cryptic observations for silvered baubles or news from the world beyond the mire. She possesses a peculiar obsession with the passage of time, marking the seasons by the migration of stars rather than the warmth of the sun, and she is known to treat those who disturb her meditations with a cold, avian indifference. Rumors suggest that Beatrice alone knows the resting place of the Sunken Crown, having watched it vanish beneath the peat centuries ago. She waits for a traveler worthy of her confidence, yet her price is steep: she demands a song she has never heard or a secret that has never been told to another living soul. Find her standing over a silvered pool, and she may speak—if the stars are aligned to her liking.