receive the horizon dawn’s golden glow; honor is among us, honor is all we know

[learned_to_die]

WHO: Eddard Stark
WHERE: Fountain/Around the Village
WHEN: March 10, afternoon into early evening
OPEN TO: OTA (Separate thread for Sansa (continuation from TDM))
WARNINGS: Mention of death/execution (will update as needed)
STATUS: Yes

---

// Arrival - The Fountain //
The last thing Ned could remember was the chilling, screaming sound of approaching death as the executioner used his own weapon against him. After that -

He'd ended up here. Clawed his way out of the fountain, felt the press of hard earth against his back as he stared at a sky bluer than any he'd seen before. He'd thought he'd died, been transported to some sort of afterlife, but it would've been too good to be true. Instead, he'd found himself in a village, of sorts. There were similarities, to his beloved home of Winterfell, but also -

Differences.

His belabored breathing is mottled with violent, hacking coughs - many of which force water up from his lungs to saturate the ground beneath him. He rolls over onto his side, presses a palm to the ground, forces himself up onto his knees. As he brings the back of his hand to his mouth, he feels the strange tug of the fabric around his body -

It isn't the leather he's used to, nor does it even vaguely resemble his usual garments - the ones he'd loved and left behind up North: the furs, the pelts, leather delicately woven and dark as the frozen earth. Even the pieces he'd had to wear in the warmer King's Landing are missing. He then feels the tightness of straps against his shoulders, realizes he's carrying a satchel of some sort on his back. He thinks to remove it, to investigate, but first, he has to figure out how to answer a very pressing question:

Where in the Old Gods' names is he?

// Later - The Village //
He's determined to explore more of the town, now that he's forced himself to scout the area, taking advantage of the cover of a number of trees to finally bend a knee, investigate the contents of the strange satchel he'd arrived with. He'd also taken the opportunity to peel away the saturated clothing for the dry set he'd found - marvelling at how much quicker it was to dress as opposed to before with layer upon layer. Perhaps there's something to the simplicity of it all.

He tries to retrace his steps back towards the fountain or what he believes to be the center of the town, pack lazily slung over one shoulder, long tendrils of hair still dripping and soaking the shoulders of his shirt.

Comments

For Sansa

[learned_to_die]

(Continued from here)

Nothing could prevent the tears quickly filling his eyes to the brim at the warm touch of Sansa's hand against his cheek - nor could have anything prevented the sound that escapes him then: a mixture of a scoff, a laugh, a breath, a stifled shout. His hand, weathered and calloused after years of steel and war, presses against hers, fingers curling around the width of her hand - delicate as it is. His other reaches out, curls itself around the back of her head as his thumb gently trails over the mound of her cheek before -

He tugs her close, arms somehow both frail and strong around the slight frame of his eldest daughter, those fiery strands singeing his skin and warming his core.

"Sure as there's a sun overhead," he finally replies, eyes squeezed tightly, nostrils broad and wide to inhale her familiar scent. He remembers, in an instant, the first moment she'd spent in his arms - such a tiny thing. The strength in her hand as she curled her fingers around his one, the moment those clear, cerulean eyes had peered up at him from the crook of his elbow. How he'd fallen in love with her, all at once and suddenly. "Old Gods be good, I can't believe you're here."

[turned_to_steel]

When he yanks her close, Sansa feels her throat close further until she swears that she can't breathe and that she might actually pass out. Closing her eyes in a lame attempt to stop the tears, she presses her face against his shoulder and lets his scent envelope her. How strange and different it seems now, the scent that she used to know so well from all the times she would hug him as a child. Even when she had grown up a little and pretended to be a lady, she would sneak in little hugs just to feel his solid, reassuring strength.

Turning her head to resting her head against his shoulder, she feels a strange, almost hysterical laugh, bubbling up as she realizes just how tall she is next to him now. She swallows the noise down, not wanting to alarm him or seem like she is barely holding on but she feels like it. She can't even begin to explain the emotions she feels in that moment. Except for one that has been so clear for so long.

"I'm so sorry." She blurts out before leaning back to look at him, not even thinking to ask what had happened to him last before he came here. Maybe he won't even know what she is referring to but there are a lot of things for her to apologize for. "I'm so sorry, Father. For being so mad at you about Lady and not listening to you when you wanted us to leave."

The tears start to fall now, streaking down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry I asked you to confess..."

[learned_to_die]

Eddard's brows gather at her apology, a rough hand lifting to cup the side of her face - thumb against the mound of her cheek, fingers lost in the strands of her hair. Her mother's hair. There's a sharp, quick pain at the center of his chest at the thought of Cat, but he swallows it away - forces it back into the depths of his belly, to be dealt with another time. He can mourn her later, when he's alone. His daughter needn't be there to see the fractured, broken man she'd once known as her father - Lord of Winterfell. Another lifetime ago, he thinks. When had they last been together, a family?

His other hand comes up, both thumbs working diligently to swipe away at the tears wetting her skin. He presses his lips to her forehead, closes his eyes, then moves back to look at her again.

"Oh, my dear child," he murmurs quietly. "You did nothing wrong. You hear me?" He ducks his head down to be more at her eye-level - though, he realizes, he doesn't have to lower himself nearly as much as he'd used to. She's grown. "You had to be loyal to the crown. I'm only sorry for having put you in the position in the first place."

[turned_to_steel]

It doesn't surprise her when her father tries to comfort her in that moment. He had always been and would be a good father to his children. It was something she had always taken for granted until it was gone but she swears softly that she won't now.

"You didn't put me there." She tells him, leaning back slightly to look at him. Then she shakes her head, pressing her lips together. "I was a stupid child that put myself there without thinking of anything or anyone but myself. I should have seen that they weren't good people. I should have just stayed home in Winterfell."

And here is she is again, thinking only of herself.

Stepping back, she quickly dashes the tears from her cheeks while looking him over. "You must be cold. I need to get you out of here and home..." Home. Suddenly she is looking at him with wide eyes. "Home. Father, I have to get you home. Robb, Arya and Jon, they all are here. I don't know where they are right at this moment but they're here in this village!"

The Village

[tooktheblack]

The fog was thick, dense enough to almost be palpable and it had made tracking and hunting nigh upon impossible. Jon could barely see a deer or bird before he was upon it and at that point, he'd frightened them away. The traps still worked, though, and he had a decent haul from them this afternoon as he made his way back to the village with the meat and skins to drop off at the Inn.

The man standing in the center of the village, though, couldn't be mistaken for anyone else. He'd been dead as Robb had been dead and Ygritte had been dead and yet there he stood, looking as healthy and hale as the last time Jon had seen him in the yard at Winterfell.

It took all he could do not to run to him, not to cling at him the way he'd always wanted as a child and had been forbidden to do for fear of reproach from Lady Stark. Jon, instead, managed to walk at a decorous, if brisk, pace and came to greet his father as man and not as a boy.

"Father. Oh, Father, how I've missed you."

[learned_to_die]

Eddard's beginning to map out the layout of the place in his mind with each step - thirty paces between the edge of the fountain and the tree to the north of it (or what he believes to be the north, judging by the angle of the setting sun), perhaps fifty or so to the door of what appears to be some sort of inn based on the sounds from behind the door. He'd gotten near it, pressed his fingertips against the door, but had decided to return to it once he'd had a better understanding of the topography.

Blue eyes survey the horizon as he slowly moves in a circle, keen ears picking up on the sound of an approaching figure. The cadence of it is deliberate, purposeful. If it were only a bit faster, it would cross over into being a threat - but there's no hostility that he can hear. No, it isn't violence driving the person forward - it's determination.

He turns enough on his heel to see a figure approaching - the black curls deluging from the top of the lad's head the first thing he sees.

His words feel like a sword to the heart - sharp and strong and driven. Ned's eyes furiously scan the man's face and it's only moments later, when his mind has had a chance to dissect what he'd called him - Father - that he puts together the boy he remembers in his mind and the man who stands before him now. Gods, he's grown.

"Jon?" he asks, voice dry and hoarse, his tongue feeling thick and dry and heavy. You may not have my name, but you have my blood. "It can't be," he murmurs as the pack slides off his shoulder, arms outstretched to wrap his son into an embrace when he's near enough.

[tooktheblack]

Folded into the arms of Ned Stark, Jon became a boy all over again. No longer was he a man who'd seen battle after battle, a man who had been Lord Commander at the Wall. No, he was a boy again and he might as well have scraped his knee in the yard at Winterfell and sought out comfort from his lord father.

"Father, I missed you so much. I never thought," he murmured, the words sticking in his throat. "I never thought I'd see you again."

The Fountain

[tsingtauense]

She'd been walking (for the umptillionth time) in the forest and heard his coughs.

Some part of her brain insensitively thought Oh no I want to watch while someone's arriving not when they're actually out…! to see and try to understand it as she couldn't have when it was happening to her. The rest of her brain doesn't give that bit the time of day as it engages with the rest of her in racing toward the fountain at a dead run.

Not thinking to hang back, not occurring to her that he might lash out (or that she wouldn't be able to Shield herself if he did), Lily slid in the mud to a stop beside him and sank to her knees to put a hand on her back.

"Shhhh, shhh! You're all right. You're safe. Can you breathe?"

(As, subtly, no longer worried about any Statute of Secrecy but not wanting to scare a likely Muggle further out of his wits, she channels dry warmth through her palm against his back. Ever so slightly taking some of the damp and chill out of his clothes. Not as good as getting him indoors in front of a fire, but enough to gently alleviate that one aspect of his overwhelming surroundings.)

[learned_to_die]

The sound of splitting earth and the pressure of her hand against his back startles him - head whipping 'round to meet her gaze. He's only able to hold it there for a brief moment before another cough rampages through his body, and he's forced to turn his head away from her as another gush of water springs forth from his mouth. He inhales deeply, trying to recapture and reclaim the breath he's lost - still acutely aware of the strange woman at his side.

Closes his eyes to gather himself.

Holds one hand up in a sign of confirmed breathing status.

"Yeah, I'm all right. Well-enough, considering," he croaks in reply, voice still stretched and filtered through the water of the fountain lingering in his lungs. He clears his throat into the crook of his elbow before turning towards her, offering a small but genuine smile. "Very kind of you to be concerned." A few more breaths as he finally takes the chance to scan the area - glance around. "Where am I?"

[tsingtauense]

"A— garden," she said finally, "in a park, in a canyon. There's a village outside the park. I'm sorry, I'm new here as well and don't know the names of any of them. We've all arrived rather… spontaneously. But it means we've all been in the position you're in now. So you're among friends."

[king_in_the_north]

When the weather had begun to turn warm again before it had barely gotten cold, Robb had wondered whether it was a false spring. There had been one of those years ago, not long after he'd been born -- All the citizens of Westeros flinging open windows and airing out the lighter linens, only to have the weather snap back on them with such ferocious intensity that supposedly the smallfolk had gone ice skating upon Blackwater Bay in King's Landing.

He'd been informed by more than one source that the seasons were simply brief here, that winter and summer resided almost entirely within the same year, which might have seemed beyond belief had he not had the evidence clearly before him daily. He was wary yet of the change, waiting for a sudden burst of frost, but glad enough for the warmer weather on his daily treks through the village and into the woods for hunting. The temperature might have seemed uncanny, but it certainly made it easier to aim a bow or field dress a deer.

This day his hunting was done, his bow dutifully returned to the depository in the inn and a brace of rabbits slung over one shoulder as he crossed through the park -- A habit picked up months ago now on the chance that someone might pull themselves unwittingly from the water and into a strange place. He hardly remembered his own entrance into this world, and Sansa would be a more deft hand at comforting someone distressed, but it was the honorable thing to do, to check.

It wasn't altogether unusual to find someone else lingering about with the same sort of thought, and the pervasive fog that had lately settled over the area made it difficult to immediately determine whether the pale figure ahead of him was new arrival or well-intentioned welcomer. Hefting the rabbits higher upon his shoulder, he stepped forward with mouth open to call a greeting, and then abruptly stilled.

Mouth dry, his stomach sloshed sickly, and a stray thought darted wildly through his mind of how shamed he'd be were he to be ill here, now, as he'd been upon his arrival.

His hands were shaking, tiny bodies quaking against his back, not against the fine cloak Sansa had gifted him but his wool coat, buttoned in a neat row almost to his throat.

He was on the ground before he realized what had happened, knees given way and posture almost supplicating, his right arm shaking over a hand splayed across the cold pavers, the only thing keeping him upright.

He could not breathe.

[learned_to_die]

Ned's mind feels scattered, fragmented - like a shattered mirror haphazardly pieced back together, grouted with mud. A mirror like that can still serve its purpose, but not to the best of its ability; there'll always be bits and pieces missing, not just of the mirror itself but of everything it reflects.

One shard, the sounds of battle cries and the forceful thievery of life at the ends of blades and swords and arrows - a young, dark-haired Robert rallying his men with a voice fit for a king - exploding hooves against the compacted earth speeding towards the capital - the open gates - the Sack of King's Landing.

Another shard, Catelyn Tully - how she glowed - how hard he'd tried to make his voice sound strong while repeating their vows, though he was fairly certain he'd spoil the little food he'd managed to eat that day - the forbidding of the Bedding, knowing he'd crack a jaw or two should anyone lay a finger on his bride.

And yet another, his children - tiny bundles placed into his arm, one after the other - the tightness of his chest and overflowing of his heart at the sight of them, their tiny fingers, their tiny toes - the pride and adoration at holding his eldest, his first son, and singing him to sleep.

It's as he's silently handling this one, more razor-edged and perilous than the others, that he hears the sound of someone approaching from behind. One second passes, then another, then another before he's finally able to crane his neck to glance over his shoulder - squint through the haze of the fog to see a figure on his knees. It draws him out of the labyrinth of his mind almost instantly, called and pulled by a sense of duty and responsibility, but as he draws nearer, the figure's features grow clearer, come into focus.

And Ned himself thinks he might collapse, just as his child has.

"R-Robb?" he whispers, trying to strengthen his voice the way he'd had at his wedding, but his tongue feels like the whole of the Red Waste - barren, dry, lifeless. "Robb?" he tries again, slightly louder than the first go, feet instinctively moving - one after the other after the other - seeing nothing else but the trembling body of his son. "My boy," he whimpers as he reaches him, falling to his knees, "Oh, my boy, my son - Can it be true?" His hands go to either shoulder, fingers digging into his the soft skin underneath, needing proof, needing confirmation of his existence. His vision blurs, tears searing the skin of his cheeks as they fall. "Is it really you?"

[king_in_the_north]

How strange to realize that he'd forgotten the precise sound of his father's voice. Oh, Robb would have recognized it anywhere, under any circumstances, but as it now washed over him once again, he understood that he'd forgotten the particular quality of it, the way the syllables were softened and throaty, always with a warmth and earnestness unpinning them. It sounded like nothing else in all the world, and he'd never imagined he'd hear it again.

It was his father's voice that made Robb understand that he was not dreaming, that his mind had not been carried way in the shifting mist. He never could have conjured up a facsimile so wrenching, so accurate.

He made a small, heartbroken sound, a wounded animal at last relenting, and clutched abruptly at the body of the man kneeling before him, hands finding him solid and impossibly real, undeniable.

A sob wrenched from his throat, tears hot as he pressed his cheek against his father's shoulder, a fresh and brutal wave of emotion roiling over him at the sheer, familiar scent of him.

"I'm sorry," he managed, the words pushed from a choked throat. "I'm so sorry."

[catchallthecats]

((Continued from here.))

She looked similar enough to how she’d been. But there was a bit of a leanness to her, a feel of muscle that hinted that she’d continue in this way, that she’d keep that slight frame throughout her days no matter how she might grow annoyed at how young it made her look at times. If she were to do her hair, wear a dress, she might pass as willowy rather than youthful, but then she never was one to worry about such things.

She was reluctant to let herself be separated from her father at this point, but something in his gaze arrested any protest, a lump forming in her throat at the panic she could sense there. Allowing him to look her over as she summoned a smile, not unlike whenever he teased her when she was small.

“I wasn’t harmed, either before or after I arrived here.” And truly she didn’t look injured in any case. Scruffy to be sure, but that was nothing new for her.

“I’m not the only one to arrive without injury either.” Good news to distract him from questions, explanations that she wasn’t sure how to give. So much that would break his heart to hear, so much that she wouldn’t ever tell him. A mental note to speak to Margaery, get the woman’s advice in how to handle such a story over the long term. “Sansa, Jon, and Robb are all here as well.”

Not a word breathed about Robb’s death, let her father assume that she meant they all were safe back home, have his reunion without that news hanging over him.

[learned_to_die]

Everything in his body, face, heart relaxes at her confirmation. There mere suggestion of harm coming to her - to any of his children - was enough to tear the heart from out of his chest, squash it with a well-placed boot. It's all the permission he needs to clutch onto her again, carefully cradling her head - her other ear pressed to his chest - his other hand at her back. His anxiety and tension leave him in the form of a long exhale.

The last thought he'd had, as the sword sung its funeral march through the air, was of his children - his wife - their safety. Knowing he'd not be there to see all of the milestones of their lives, knowing he could no longer be the one to keep them safe. He'd never imagined the peril of the game to be so high; he'd learnt to play it too late. What hope could a child have to survive?

His eyes open at her news, and each name that falls from her mouth feels like a fist to his gut - Sansa, Jon, Robb. There's a tremor in his fingers now - though he does his best to hide it from his youngest daughter.

"They're here?" he asks, fingertips absentmindedly raking through her strands of hair, tucking them behind her ear. "They arrived before I did?"

[catchallthecats]

"Aye." She replied a bit softer this time, mostly so she could hear the reassuring beating of his heart when she was drawn back in, her own grasp on him tight. It made his being there that much more real to her, solidly a thing of reality instead of a hope or dream. "All three were here before I arrived."

She remembered the day. How could she not? She'd been spared the sight of the act itself, but even Yoren's quick thinking hadn't saved her from the sound of the blade swinging and hitting it's mark, the howling of the crowd that followed.

Even before she learned the ways of the world outside the honor her father had tried to instill his family with, she'd certainly learned the consequences of failing to keep up. What happened to him had taught Arya that she needed to learn, and learn fast before she too fell to someone else's machinations because she didn't understand how things worked.

Not that she would ever say as much. Let her father think she still held to his ways, let him keep that comfort.

The Village

[thekittenqueen]

It didn't take much to guess the identity of the man who stepped into the inn. For all she had heard of Ned Stark, she had never actually seen his face. Yet in looking at him, there was the unmistakable resemblance that Jon and Arya bore towards him. He was dark and handsome, if not worn and weary. King's Landing had left a mark on him, even if it had been for such a short amount of time.

As with all new arrivals, Margaery poured a cup of tea for him and set it beside Ned as she moved to take the seat nearby. She curtsied before sinking down, offering him the courtesies that belonged in their world.

"Lord Stark?"

[learned_to_die]

The clinking of porcelain against wood as the cup's set down draws Ned out of the fogged, harried field of his mind. He's been wandering it like he's been wandering the town since he'd arrived, and he's momentarily forgotten where he is - thinks, for a moment, that he's back at Winterfell, or - no, is it King's Landing? - no, it's -

Somewhere else. He isn't entirely sure where, nor has he thought to seek answers out from any of the villagers he's passed. Most have paid him little mind, a man with dripping hair and the gaping face of a misplaced spirit.

Eyes go from the cup to the woman - brows furrowing at the curtsy. A courtesy he's not been afforded in what feels like ages. But it's the use of his name - and title - that draws his eyes to her face in an instant. He stands immediately, slipping the pack that'd been resting on his lap onto the seat of the chair behind him.

He's still wrestling with the residual distrust, paranoia, confusion after spending so many days - weeks? months? he doesn't know - in the prison. He immediately dons a more defensive stance, weary and doubting eyes burning into her. She looks about the same age as Sansa, give or take a few name days. She's not of the North; he realizes it the moment the words leave her mouth.

"And you are?"

[thekittenqueen]

She didn't expect him to know her. They never had the opportunity to cross paths, nor did she imagine her family had paid him much mind. The Tyrells had been busy planning their eventual rise to power. The Lannisters had been their concern, not the Starks. Though she imagined he had at least seen her brother...and heard the rumors of him. Loras had never truly been discreet.

"Margaery of House Tyrell." It seemed so long since she could last introduce herself in that way. In this world, it had to be "Margaery Tyrell", otherwise there would be confusion. It was refreshing to at least return to some of the old ways, the familiar courtesies of home. She could almost forget her recent existence in this world and imagine herself a noble lady once more. Despite enjoying her chores and the satisfaction at the end of the day, she missed her life in High Garden.

She didn't expect a warm welcome. Her house had never made it apparent where their loyalties lie or what their aim was. The only true allegiance they seemed to overtly display was towards Renly and that was due to Loras.

"We never had the opportunity to meet, Lord Stark, but I have heard a great deal about you. Your reputation proceeds you."

waha-cough | Village

[kissed_byfire]

For the wildling, life in the village was still a quiet existence. Mostly because she didn't exactly know how to fit in beyond contributing and having the occasional run-in with the people who were all brought in the same way as she. Even at the moment when their lives seemingly ended, only to be brought here to live longer.

That was something Ygritte struggled with the reality of. Every day.

On that particular evening, she was out walking, looking more like the spearwife north of the Wall than any other day. She'd been out in the trees, sitting at her small spot with a fire and a long piece of wood that she was carefully whittling down and shaping to become a bow. At least until the sun went down and it started getting a little colder. Ironically, she came to enjoy sleeping indoors. It took some time but she preferred it now.

As she headed back her eyes went to the fountain instinctively and that's when she saw the man standing there, looking thoughtful.

"Ya must be new," she started, coming up to stand opposite him. "Not so bad here, really. If ya can get over the lack of answers to all the questions ya probably have."

AWWWW YISSSSS

[learned_to_die]

The suddenness of the voice seemingly materializing out of nothing catches Ned off-guard, head whipping 'round to find its source. Eyes quickly scan her from head to toe, harmonizing the woman standing before him - those fire-laden strands so reminiscent of his wife, though hers are a might brighter hue - with the sound of her voice. He recognizes the twist and curl of her tongue around her words. He recognizes the cadence of her speech.

A Wildling.

The last thing he had ever expected to find here.

"Haven't even had time to think of all that many," he utters quietly, his voice perhaps lacking some of the warmth that would've been there had she been someone else. Someone south of the Wall. "Suppose it wouldn't hurt in asking - is that," he gestures towards the fountain, "the way everyone comes through?"

[kissed_byfire]

There was no offence taken to his indifferent tone, in fact, it was familiar, in a sense; a way that she was spoken to far more often than she wasn't. Most there had a friendly approach and that was what often had her unsure of how to react. Of course, she was still learning, so sometimes she, herself, would come across as the rude one.

Like him, Ygritte found the man's intonation familiar. But not to directly relate him as a Southroner. More to directly relate him as a Stark. In realising it, her lips curl knowingly before it vanishes completely when she looks into the rippling waters.

"Mhm," she sounds the confirmation. "Everyday, it seems. No one sees them comin' out of it, though. Ya just know new faces, like your own."

A beat passes as Ygritte regards him.

"So which Stark are you?"

A bold question to ask so soon after meeting him, but this Wildling doesn't care too much for formalities. Or, minding her own business.

[bit_fairytale]

Amy's beginning to understand that wet is practically its own mode of being, around here. She's in town with the jewels in her pocket, trying to find someone who knows what to do with them, when she comes across the other man near the fountain, his hair wet. It's not as briskly cold as it'd been when Amy first turned up, but she also doesn't think it's exactly luau party weather.

"If you're looking for something to come back out of that fountain, it's not going to," she warns, a few steps back from him, her hands tucked firmly in her pockets to keep from getting too cold. "It doesn't seem to work like that."

[learned_to_die]

"What's that?" Ned asks, craning his neck in response to the mysterious voice floating about his head. He doesn't see the woman right away, thinks he's perhaps gone mad and has begun imagining voices (he'd started to, down in the dungeons). When his gaze finally lands on the young woman with hair the color of copper and flame, there's something like relief that washes over his face. It's a person, it's a person who's spoken to him - not the shadows that had amassed in the darkness of the dungeon. He might still be mad for all he knows, but at least it isn't absolute. Not yet.

"I didn't think anything would -" He considers the fountain again for a silent moment; maybe there had been a silent prayer, sent up and out to the Old Gods (could they hear him here? find him?), about the rest of his family. Maybe he'd thought about it, realized it'd be selfish to demand their existence here - not for their own sake, but for his own loneliness and fragility. Maybe he had found his way back towards the fountain in the hopes that .. "What's it work like, then?" he asks, glancing at her from over the hill of his shoulder.

[bit_fairytale]

Amy wanders a little bit forward, seeing as the fog is doing that really annoying thing where it's making it hard to see, even from so close. She's not spooked so easily, but it's the kind of weather you sort of expect something to come creeping out at you, attacking when you least expect it -- it's not Amy's sort of weather, basically. "Mostly, as far as people say, you show up in the fountain," she offers, "and that's it. You don't leave out of it, you don't sort of just swim around in it unless you're stupid or stubborn, and it just sort of sits there untouched."

"I mean, who puts a fountain like this in towns anymore? You'd get better use out of a duck pond," she grumbles critically. It'd be a lot more shallow to drag herself out of too, but probably muddier.