[OTA] in my right hand, there's the great unknown

[underpinnings]

WHO: Owen Prichard
WHERE: 6I Woods and river, 6I Inn, 7I Beach, others
WHEN: August 24 - 30
OPEN TO: OTA starters with caps
WARNINGS: Burn scar mentions, possible allusions to childhood abuse (blanket warning for the character and threads)

---

intro

It’s morning when Owen comes to in the water, swims for the pale yellow patch of sky, and pulls himself out of a fountain. Few and far between, it’s still deeper than any fountain he’s ever known, and the preoccupation with it is quickly replaced with preoccupation with: the trees, the morning sky, the gap between grinding cigarette butts under his foot in the Valley and — this.

Patting at his chest, he swipes the wide collar of a shirt wide over his shoulder, blindly checking himself as he stares wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the trees. Northern species, not even browning for autumn. Foot worn, patchy grass at his feet, a treeline broken in three directions. No tire tracks, no cigarette butts, no wrappers. He was on a street corner, getting ready to bail. Cloudy skies overhead, night painting the clouds purple against a setting sun. Now he’s in the woods, morning dew shining on the grass, starting to shiver in wet — something. Wet scrubs, he finds, looking down at his hands still searching for a jacket that isn’t there, pockets he doesn’t have. When he feels the back of his head for possible injury, even his fucking earrings are gone.

“Fucking shit,” he seethes, coughing once and looking over his shoulder. No one in view. The morning is a quiet one, no signs of who dragged him here, who tossed him in a fountain. Did Eddie sell him out? Is Eddie still in the fucking water?

Catching himself at the fountain’s edge, he searches the clear depths, finding only the shadows of its sides and central pillar.

Do most fountains even warrant pillars? It isn’t a helpful detail, but still — it feels off. As off as a pristine fountain in the woods, the area around it tread flat rather than manicured. If this is some kind of estate, it isn’t the best kept, but maybe it’s hard to find lawn guys you can count on to look away while you toss people into your water fixtures. Staring into his reflection, Owen grips tight to the edge of the fountain, trying to let the questions go until something clicks. His pale face stares back, silhouette against the sky, and he’s neatly distracted a second time when he looks down at his hands.

His arms are bare.

That stabs him in the gut worse than crawling out of the fountain, worse than not knowing where his clothes and wallet are. His left arm holds his attention a moment longer, and he realizes — the lines are too clean. Trisha finished inking those lines two days ago, petals and leaves unfurling around scar tissue, waiting for color, and he’d still been wearing the bandages last night. The skin should be tight and red, itchier than a rash, screaming at him for soaking in the water — but it’s just skin, black ink settled, irritation healed.

How long has he been out?

Owen’s reflection answers only one question: the weight on his back is attached to black straps, stood out against the white scrubs. Slinging one arm free, he lurches it onto the ground. The zipper sticks twice, struggles open on the third try, and he’s relieved to find dry clothes. A trail of water is harder to cover, and wherever he is, whenever it is — it’s colder than LA. Pulling a white shirt with sleeves free, he tugs the wet one over his head without a thought, covering himself rising to the top of his concerns. Overalls aren’t his first choice, but they’re dryer and sturdier than what he’s wearing, and he swaps them out with equal disregard, shoving the wet clothes into the pack and doing what he can to fit the wet boots as well, zipping the bag from both ends to secure the excess at the top.

Replacing the pack at his back, he examines the fountain one last time, confident he’s never seen it before in his life. What he needs is a vantage point, and one he won’t be spotted in from the trails. Following the shadows to turn himself north, he slips past the treeline on damp, bare feet.


i. arrival (OTA to 1 person)

The sturdy pine Owen climbs only puts him so far above the rest of the treeline, more a view of the gaps in the trees than what lies within them. Only one stands out: a two-story building, antiquated enough for the wooded area, but not quite the extravagant cabin he’d expect on any kind of estate. Maybe this is public land, then, and the fountain is just an odd fixture. Maybe rationalizing the fountain is less important than figuring out where he is.

From what he can observe, there are houses spreading out from the larger building. The trees spread out for miles in every direction, but instead of meeting the sky — a wall. Striped with wind-worn rock, the space is almost closed, save a waterfall further north, and a gap to the east.

Unless he intends to climb out, that’s the direction to head.

Getting back to the forest floor gains him some scrapes, snags several parts of his thin shirt, but it’s the kind of physical work that keeps him even. Reassures him that he’s awake and acting, that his body is in sound condition. Too sound, but he’s not thinking about that now: he’ll figure out the lost time when he settles the big question.

Is he safe.

As he skirts between houses — some in better condition than others, raising its own questions — he moves at a calm, even pace. Just a guy taking a shortcut, in brand new fucking overalls. Assuming this isn’t some Most Dangerous Game shit, if he doesn’t linger to peek in windows, he should pass for someone who’s meant to be here.

He’s been brought here: of course he’s meant to be here, in some capacity.

His trek east halts at the edge of a river, running south from the waterfall. As landmarks go it isn’t a bad one, and he follows the flow of water, looking for a fjord or bridge.


ii. the beach (OTA to 1 person)

The gap in the wall isn’t any way out, or any better clue to where he is, but it’s the thing his peers seem to know the least about. There’s some kind of map in the two-story building they call the Inn, a board full of notes on the landmarks and events. The other side is something new. Something he can’t read about from some missing person’s journal.

Setting out with dried boots and no immediate threat of being tossed in another body of water, he walks until there’s no further east to go, just a stretch of water on a beach wide enough to barely see its curve from the shore. He’s never stood on it before, and there are conflicting ideas of how much of a place this is.

Still, it looks an awful lot like the beaches upstate. The only evidence contrary is the slant of the sun over his shoulder, aiming toward the horizon opposite the water, rather than on it.

Eddie didn’t sell him out. Nobody tossed him in a fountain.

Making sense of this is going to be a big job, and for a moment: he forgets. He lets it go, doesn’t fetch the paper and pencil from his pack, doesn’t make notes about the shore. He toes his boots off and rolls up the ankles of his overalls, wading into the cold water, feeling the stones under his feet. He rolls the sleeve back enough to see the smooth lines of the tattoo on his arm, wondering how long it’s been. Wondering if someone’s fed Emrys.

Wondering how many emails his account has sent, deciding he’s been snuffed out. Wondering if anyone is dead for it.

Deep breath: sigh it out. Disappearing was always a possibility. Losing was always a possibility.

Collateral damage with either was a given. He’d set it up that way. All he can deal with is the here and now, and if he gets home to a few dead lieutenants, a few new heads on the ouroboros of the west coast’s trafficking rings — he isn’t going to cry over it.

But he does have to wonder about his cat, and how long before the lady in 4B picks him up and puts him in clothes. Another deep breath, he sighs that out too. For moments at a time, he’s just standing in a large lake, the waves lapping at his ankles. It’s colder water than he’s used to, but it’s clear, and the space is scenic, the kind of place he’d drive out to just to get away from it all.

It isn’t the first time he’s uprooted, with or without a choice. It won’t be the last.

Lifting his hands to his mouth, he cups one to the other, thumbs together. He sends a bird call out over the water, just to see what answers.


iii. the inn (OTA to 1 person)

There are two inns, far as he can tell: two of everything, but the buildings beyond the walls are empty, untouched by inhabitants or earthquakes. The first inn, though more disheveled of the two, is full of stuff.

The first room had a sheet on the nearest shelf to the door, names scribbled, faded with age. It made a kind of sense, signing out the pointy bits — for all they could be lost and traded away after leaving the room. At least they’d know where to start if anything goes missing. He scrawls a half-legible Prichard under the last name, marking down a few knives and an odd, mix-and-match hatchet. The machetes are tempting, but, not yet needing to strike the fear of god into anyone, and not having run into any brush he couldn’t pass, he’s leaving that for someone’s Jason costume.

The second room is a bit more interesting, a free-for-all of supplies, some hand-made, some the moth-eaten kind of robes at the back of a closed theater, or in granny’s attic. There’s information to be gleaned just from what is and isn’t available: no electronics, no firearms — Owen’s surprised when he gets down on his knees to dig at the lower shelves, and finds a collection of alcohol. Small bottles, but still, that should disappear in a place like this.

He puts the whiskey in his second bag, a garish thing with a red cross on it and basic medical supplies inside. A bottle of iodine next, a roll of duct tape.

He doesn’t even know where he’s going to take it all, yet, and before he tries to stuff the whole room in a pack, he stands up, dusts off, and decides to think it through.

Half an hour later finds him standing in the center of an open tarp, between the shelves of the small room, supplies grouped around his feet. “At least there’s no shortage of socks,” he comments, tossing a pepper-adorned pair on the pile.


iv. the inn roof (OTA to 1 person)

An empty room at the end of the hall had provided a place to shove his tarp-full of supplies for the evening, and window-access to a tree that could get him on the roof. The village has a skyline even shorter and shittier than Los Angeles, but rooftops are quiet, and it certainly has the city of angels beat for sunsets.

Nothing beats Hawaii for that, but the universe hadn’t seen fit to dump him back on the islands.

He’s crawled up with only a single pack: a journal, binoculars, whiskey, and one of the fur robes. Spreading it along the gentle slope, he sits cross-legged in a pair of real jeans, thermal undershirt keeping him covered and fighting the chill. Stuffed at the back of the journal is loose sheets of paper: meticulous recreations of the notes on the board, yesterday’s sanity-maintaining project, and he consults them one at a time in his lap, periodically tipping back a sip of whiskey from the bottle.

It isn’t home — or the campgrounds he escapes to — but he’s had worse evenings than a bottle of cheap booze and the fresh start of a case.


v. wildcard (OTA, any number, any prompt)

Choose your own adventure option: tag in with any prompt, anywhere in either canyon, if the other options are full or not grabbing you!

Comments

iv;

[remporter]

René's never been one for unnecessary acrobatics, but he's a romantic at heart, a charismatic idealist that does the silly like dream under the stars and write poetry. He wants up on the roof of the inn, he decides, and is fully prepared to shimmy up before he realizes there's an easier way.

He's got a journal and pen set from the communal items, and he's fairly certain the only way he's going to find calm or some sense in this crazy new place is going back to calming habits. It's worth a shot, anyway, and he's ready to write among the stars when--

--Oh, someone else is there. René blinks, not bothering to hide his confusion.

"Sorry, I didn't think there would be another person up here." And, after a small pause, "May I join you?" He looks new. But everyone looks new to René, he's only been here a few days.

[underpinnings]

"Sure," Owen says, shifting himself and his pack toward the man, making room on his other side. "Pull up a corner." Nothing indicates ill intent, or even an intent to catch him up here at all--but his habits have kept him alive this long. Clear exits are good in every situation, maybe especially social ones.

Sobriety is good too, but he's already taken the edge off that. Lifting the bottle to indicate its existence, he sets that at his hip, within the man's reach when he settles in. His old accent is a little more pronounced for it, but he'd only ever gone full-American when he was making phone calls on behalf of the phone's actual owner. Usually after they found themselves indisposed. From what he can tell, that trick is going to be off the table for the duration of his stay.

"Owen," he greets, offering a hand across his lap when the man sits. "I'm a little new in town, didn't know this was your spot." Hopefully the alcohol makes up for it.

[remporter]

It's fur, René realizes, glancing down. There's amusement in his gaze, a small grin that fights to surface as he takes the spot.

"I never really thought I'd be drinking with someone like you underneath the starry sky. It's nice." Of course there were Asian defectors, groups just don't automatically agree because they're together, but his fight is in Europe, not the pacific. It's enough to sort of startle him.

Not that any of this even matters.

"It's not my spot at all, I only arrived a few days ago--" He shakes his hand, grip firm. "I'm Luc." Realisticlly, he could have used his real name. Aurora's here, Neil's here, but it's force of habit. René's knee-jerk reaction is to go with what he's taught and improvise only when necessary, never playing it anything but safe. It's gotten him far.

"You think there's going to be a third one of us new arrivals? Things happen in threes, right?"

[underpinnings]

The comment sort of passes through him, snagging gently on possible meanings without catching outright. Luc stoops to shake his hand, and Owen keeps the grip to steady him as he walks the rise behind to find his seat. His hand and arm travel over like the spin of a dance, and he releases him on the other side.

"There's a blond man to make it three, I think. Bright magenta getup, instead of the white. No one's shed much light on what that means, the colors."

In his lap, once he settles again, the journal is still open to the loose pages. What he needs is a place to put them up, a wall of his own to organize things into categories and clues. Then a copy of that map on the sheet, so he can start visiting sites and verifying the notes.

Luc won't know any better than anyone else he's asked, but--the comment comes back, still a mystery: "Someone like me, you said. I don't know what you mean."

[remporter]

Magenta. René's eyebrows hike up at the thought of anyone wearing something that loud, wondering if it fits the whole village's aesthetic. Probably not, it's just an ugly colour.

Still. He'd been expecting muted tones if they had different colours. Blues, and browns. Maybe greens. Magenta reminds him of a girl he used to date in Mont-Tremblant. It's unpleasant.

But they come in different colours, and this one is smart enough to notice that. To notice patterns. It's nice. He's reaching for the alcohol when he notices the pages, and he doesn't bother to hide his interest.

"Unimportant," he mumbles. "Working on something?"

[underpinnings]

"Unimportant, or uncomfortable," he says, not quite asking again, just licking the tastes of whiskey off the back of his teeth and flicking his eyes over to show: he knows the difference. There are a lot of things it could mean, and it's been that way everywhere he's lived, no matter how long he's lived there.

Equally true, in the same number of places: types of people don't exist around free alcohol. Nudging it closer to Luc's reaching hand, he leaves him to it while he sorts the notes.

"They've got a board downstairs, all kinds of notes from the people here. Made myself some hard copies to work from, but I'll want to follow it up as much I can." There'd been surprisingly few notes about the latest upset--some room in the northern wall, glassed over, full of coolers. "Nobody's sure how much of it's real, which is great, really. What's better than a secondhand account, if not a self-doubting one?"

Another way alcohol acts as an equalizer: moving on from existential horror to annoyances on par with his day job.

iii. the inn

[comfortablyerect]

Tim's been out and about the entire morning, waking up with the sun as he always does. He has no idea if this is going to be one of the days Kira seeks him out or avoid him, and he's learning to be okay with that. He's learning not to expect anything, and take what he can get when he can get it. The rest of his time is occupied with various tasks and chores he gives himself, and if Kira happens to show up, Tim will drop what he's doing for him.

Or, at the very least, he'll finish it up quickly. He doesn't want to come off as too desperate.

It was cooler this morning when he rolled out of bed, but it's since warmed up enough that he's sweated through his undershirt and the worn flannel shirt while chopping firewood. They don't need it now, for the most part, but they will, and cutting wood in the frigid cold is even less fun than doing it in the baking sun. Stockpiling it is a better idea, and it keeps him busy through the day. He returns the shoddy axe to it's spot before stepping into the second room for a towel to wipe himself down with. He stops just inside the doorway though, the toe of his boot touching the corner of a laid out tarp covered with supplies. His gaze lifts, brows raised mildly, to the man gathering them.

"You must be new," is what he says, observing out loud.

[underpinnings]

Pausing over the piles of items, Owen turns an assessing look over his shoulder, squinting in the low light. "Can't I just be a guy who appreciates fresh socks," he asks, turning just enough to get a better look at his new companion.

Significantly shorter, not significantly stockier, not stuck in a pair of scrubs or a thermal shirt and overalls. Not new. There's a swagger that doesn't mean horses, might mean holsters, but the guy isn't wearing any. No guns. That was apparent in the room full of weapons and tools. Guns either don't appear, or the people who have them aren't ponying up.

He doesn't think he would, if he found one.

If he wants to know more, he might as well come at it honestly. "Owen," he says, holding out a hand. "Got here yesterday. That's my excuse if someone just forgot to write their name on all of this stuff."

[comfortablyerect]

Everyone in this place appreciates fresh socks, and Tim's glad the new guy is catching on so quickly. If he's smart, he'll also hoard any liquor and cigarettes he finds, since those tend to be few and far between as well. And books-- Since the school house was destroyed, their reading material has been grossly lacking, too. He might actually appreciate a good book more than a bottle of bourbon, truthfully.

Tim's quiet and assessing, even as he reaches out to shake Owen's hand, giving his first name only in return. Owen's taller, white scrubs — not that Tim knows what that means, but he's something he keeps track of, all the same.

"Whoever might've complained's long gone by now," Tim says, shrugging a shoulder. He snags a spare towel off the shelf, using it to wipe sweat from his face and exposed forearms. "No one cares what you take as long as you contribute."

Not that Tim's going to fight him if he doesn't, but somebody probably would.

[underpinnings]

Owen isn't the only one with ink, though Tim's is the one on display. His grip firms in Tim's hand, turning the arm out and dropping his gaze to the mark. It's not subtle, and it's not polite, but polite doesn't always get you a sense of the person you're with. And without that, he's going to have an ugly time of it here.

It's only a quick look, before he's backing off, not pressing the moment into something worth a fight. Tim is a small man, but that's a specific kind of tattoo.

Too specific to place--it's not really his area of expertise. "You're military," is as narrow as he makes the question. "I imagine that comes in handy, if we're talking about contributions." Owen cocks his head, watching Tim from the edge of his new tarp.

v./sorta ii. August 30th

[chosenbytheocean]

Moana was determined to build a boat. It was going to take at least a month, maybe two, and she'd need help to be able to complete it. She had spoken to a handful of people about it but she wasn't sure if they were sincere in their offers to help. The sail was going to be her concern but the boat itself... She'd need help.

Moana had a small ax tucked into the navy blue wrap that tied her two skirts together. Behind her trailed two thick branches, dragging marks across the sand. She spotted the figure on the beach and walked towards him, dropping the branches roughly to the ground.

"Hi."

She greeted him but didn't explain exactly what she was doing. It might be obvious to Owen since Moana was bring pieces of wood to the beach but the branches that she had was only about 4 inches in diameter; not enough for a boat.

[underpinnings]

"Hello," he says, turning to the familiar sound of her voice, not quite bright, but attentive to her presence. More than her familiarity, so close to a piece of the life he left in the Pacific islands--Moana seems curious and capable. Useful, in a place like this.

"Already getting started," he asks, nodding at the branches behind her. The hatchet tool he found at the main inn is shoved through the loop of the jeans he found down the hall: he's had some practice with its features, and he's starting to understand how it swaps out into different tools. It isn't going to fell a real tree any better than the one she's carrying, but maybe if they went at it from the opposite sides--

If she's even building a canoe. "Are those just for a frame, or are you looking to build a raft?"

[chosenbytheocean]

"Yes!" She looked up at him with a big smile. "I can show you what I'm making."

Moana left her to long branches where they were and moved over to a clean spot in the sand. She took the small hand ax out of her sash and used the handle to draw the design in the sand. It was the only type of canoe that she knew. It had a main hull, a grid that would be used for balance and hard turns, finally the sail. "I've collected stalks to help me make he sail." It was just like the skirt she was wearing but the stitches would be larger.

"What do you think?" Moana looked up, curious of his opinions on her design.

[underpinnings]

Serious as the task is, there's no reason not to smile back. From what he can gather--or when he can imagine gathering it from--gathering sticks and carving boats is as much purpose as Moana needs to keep her head up, and that's a good thing. Better the person you put to a task enjoy it, or at least feel good for doing it.

Less fucking off, from those people. Fucking Eddie.

"Sturdy," he says, liking the look of the base. Less a simple canoe, and more like something to ride the waves. He doesn't know how high they get out here, but better to prepare and not need it than the other way around. "How much do you know about steering something like that?"

[chosenbytheocean]

"I need my oar, and then I can do it." It was something that she had thought about though she wasn't sure how to make an oar. Moana could do a lot but woodworking wasn't in her list of skills. "I need help making this hull here." She pointed to the main part of the canoe that would float on the waves. "If it's not the right shape it'll sink."

She looked up at Owen as she continued. "I can make this part here and the sail and assemble the rigging." She pointed to the grid of wood, which was what her current branches were for.

Moana wasn't the greatest at sailing, not yet, but she was learning and she believed that she could do this. Out of those here, she probably had the best chance on a small boat like this. "If I can find another island…" She'd come back and attempt to fairy over as many people as she can.

ii

[clandestin]

What they need is a boat.

A real one; not the flimsy, single-person emergency vessels she's spied laid out in the boat house on the other side of the rift. A boat that could carry at least two people and supplies for... what? Two weeks? Two weeks would be a good start.

It may be pointless in the end, but if sailing across this body of water is a possible means of escape, it needs to be tested.

The bird call catches Aurora's attention, not unlike the calls they've used as signals, and she wanders along the shoreline in the direction of the sound.

"What bird was that?" she asks, vaguely curious as she stops nearby.

[underpinnings]

The long and mournful note breaks off over the water, the response an entirely human voice. Turning puts his back to the horizon and a woman between him and his boots, light cutting over the trees and making him squint. "It's a loon," he answers, lifting his hands for another keening call. After a moment, birdsong resumes at the treeline, but nothing similar to his own call.

"They're lake birds," he explains, depositing his hands in the pockets of his overalls. His observation of her is careful, made part of a roaming gaze that seems to inspect the shore, only ever passing over her. "But they're all the way up on the northern border or up in Canada. Figured the animals might give us a sense of where we are."

The next call he tries is shorter, sharper, a little like a seal on speed, and it tears his throat to try. He lucks out with a rejoinder, moments later, a call breaking over the water from further down the shore. "See, that's a grebe. So we're not out east, but this shore is east of everything," he adds, nodding at the sun hitting him in the face.

[clandestin]

Aurora smiles a little with a drop of her head. "I know what a loon is," she says. "I'm from Canada; they put them on the money there. I guess I never really thought about how they sounded."

All the time she's been here, turning over escape plans with Neil, plotting some way to crack the code and get out, she never really considered the value in figuring out where they'd be getting out to. She probably should have.

"You seem to know a lot about birds."

[underpinnings]

His chin tilts to the side and his brows go up, a sigh escaping before everything settles back into place: "I'm one of the lucky people who liked camping before I woke up here," he says, wading back toward the shore. "I've only been up north a couple of times, though." The loons had stuck out: nothing like that in Hilo, or even further across the ocean.

"Bird-watching, basic survival, some climbing. I haven't gone hunting since I was a kid, though, so we'll see how much of that comes back."

When he draws even with her, he keeps enough distance to offer a hand, and let her choose to close it. "Owen. Pleased to be trapped with you, I guess."

[clandestin]

It's an odd choice of phrase, but Aurora can appreciate the innate sarcasm, and reaches to give Owen's hand a firm shake. "Aurora. I suppose we could all be a lot worse off with who we're stuck here with."

There's a complacency in a portion of the population that continues to bother her, but she cannot deny that most of the people here are friendly and helpful and eager enough to see each other cared for. Even if they're not all focused on getting out, the atmosphere of teamwork is a relief.

"I don't think anyone has a gun, so I'm not sure how helpful my own hunting skills will turn out to be, but I guess we've got plenty of time to learn."

i

[learned_to_die]

Since Ned's fever has healed, he's been finding himself more drawn the sources of water around the Village. He's passed many hours at the spring to the south, often soaking in its depths, aware of the apparent healing effects about which Robb had told him. Of course, he is unable to stay there forever, and when he finds his slightly atrophied muscles aching for movement again, he will walk east until he finds the river, then north until he is closer to the boathouse and fish monger, before turning west and walking along the path back towards the Stark cabin.

His skin is still dewy and damp from having lingered in the spring, his white scrubs showing patches of discoloration from where it's soaked up the residual water. His pace shows no particular urgency, his speed moderate yet casual, and he pauses every so often to stare down-river, or crouch at the bed to pick at something he might see. The sound of approaching footsteps - one that sound as though they have a set destination in mind and are in a hurry to arrive - has him standing erect, wiping his hands on the trousers of his scrubs, leaving dirty streaks in their wake.

The sight of the man tells him, at once, that it is a newcomer. Aside from the saturation of his identically colored scrubs, it's the desperation and confusion in his expression, in his movements. The burning need for answers and solace. He's never encountered anyone who's behaved violently, but he knows it is always a possibility, and so he assumes a slightly defensive stance - nothing too intimidating, but one to show that he can defend himself should the need arise.

"Well met," he says, voice a bit louder than normal speaking volume. "You've just arrived through the fountain?"

[underpinnings]

Owen comes upon the man abruptly, rounding a large stone and digging his heels into the pebbled bank at the sight of him. Immediate assessment says older, heavier, shorter, surprised, and he moves on, looking beyond the man for any sort of crew. As far as he can tell, they're alone, and he fancies himself a strong enough swimmer to choose the river over hostile company.

Well met isn't a very hostile greeting, but it makes as much sense as the question. "Arrived through," he asks, voice pitching low with skepticism, face pinching around the words. "That thing's solid concrete and ten feet of water."

The phrasing isn't the only thing odd, though Owen's one to talk when it comes to accents. His own is faded, but still--not so many Brits along the coast that he's walking into one every time he goes for a stroll, unless this fucked-up estate is someone's home away from jolly olde home. "Where the hell is this place?"

[learned_to_die]

Ned follows the invisible trail of the man's gaze; interesting that he should check for others, though not entirely unsurprising. In a universal sign of surrender, he holds both hands up, palms facing the stranger.

"You may search the area if you wish, but I can assure you I am alone and without weapon." Ned has, on more than one occasion, wished for the familiar comfort of Ice at his side, the steady weight of it like an anchor to the earth whenever he felt himself drifting elsewhere. He slowly lowers his hands back down to his sides, letting them hang loosely to also show he is not itching to grab at something concealed or hidden. "Yes, it is; I am afraid that, after having been here some time, I still do not entirely understand the mechanics of it, but it is how we all arrive. We have whatever memory still lingers in our minds from the world before but the next that follows is opening our eyes to the water that fills the fountain." He always wishes he had a better explanation for it than that, but he cannot offer what he does not have, no matter how much he may wish for it.

"You are in a village, though .. its exact location also remains a mystery. It pulls people from many different worlds and seems fit to bring them all here. I am Eddard Stark of Winterfell - a stead to the north of a land called Westeros. Many here are from a place called Earth, however. New York City, I believe, is one of the places on Earth, as is Greece." When he'd first arrived, he'd heard the accents similar to the one this stranger dons and mistakenly thought the speakers to be Southron folk. He's since learnt that there was a place called England in which people spoke similarly to how they did in Westeros. "Are you from England? There is at least one other who is also from there."

[underpinnings]

England? At least he didn't guess Australia: fourteen years out he still has enough pride to bristle for that one. "Belong to a couple of her colonies," he answers lightly, keeping to the river's edge as he wanders forward enough to get a better angle on some of the trees around them. No movement, but their own presence has become loud enough to quiet the birds.

Rather than argue with the man, Owen picks over the words, gleaning what information he can. Lost time for the others--they're not coming through any part of that fountain, unless there's a fucking chute and a trap door.

As for the rest: this one's got a head on him like the costumes on the strip. He just chose Lord of the Rings instead of Spider-Man. "Alright Eddie," in name only; Owen can't imagine what pertinent information is coming out of this hookup, aside from some head-trauma recovery level geography lessons. Greece is on Earth, yes--is Westeros on fucking Mars? "What's the usual spiel for new locals?"

[learned_to_die]

"Colonies," Ned repeats, not familiar with the word. It is a piece of information he tucks away to ask about later, perhaps his children as they've been in the village far longer than he has. They are more than likely familiar with the term. Watching the young man, it is easy for Ned to remember his own confusion and disorientation when he first arrived. It was only thanks to the previous arrivals of his family that had kept him from devolving into something more hysterical. He knows, and is reminded every time he encounters someone new, how fortunate he truly was for that introduction to the village.

His brows stitch together at being called "Eddie." What an unbecoming nickname for this stranger to have so randomly chosen.

"Please, I would prefer you call me Ned, if anything," he states, adding, "Might I be given a name by which to call you?"

Ned takes a moment to glance at the river, glad to see its levels had returned to a more normal state. And there had been no further arrowheads that he could find, or that he heard of. He isn't sure if that fact is comforting or disconcerting.

"It depends on the individual, generally; given that you seem like someone from a time of more advanced development, those types of things do not exist here," he says, turning back towards Owen. "There are empty cabins throughout the village, and you are able to claim any as your own. There is no form of payment or coin, either; you are able to take what you need from the food stores at the Inn, so long as you replenish once you've become more settled. If you do not want a cabin, there are often vacant rooms at the Inn that you are able to stay in, as well. Some prefer it while others prefer their space. There is also food and drink at the Inn that you are able to have. It's often stews and some kind of ale. Those are the general necessities, though I am willing to try and answer further inquiries, if you have them."