Droople

It seeps through the swamp absorbing the peaty water and the melancholy that seems to pool in such places, growing slowly heavier and slightly larger with each. It has no real hunting to speak of; it simply engulfs whatever slow, soft thing it flows over and dissolves it at leisure. Touched by sun it grows sluggish and unhappy, retreating into the shade of the reeds, and at dusk it is at its most active, oozing up out of the water to drip its way across the churchyard paths, leaving a trail of cold damp that lingers long after it has passed.