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

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// 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

[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."

[learned_to_die]

Ned's brows gather in consternation and deliberation; a garden, a park, a canyon, a village. He wonders what part of Westeros he might've travelled to - but the matter of how severs that string whenever he tries to follow it to its end. There's a faint spark at the back of his mind that wonders if he's in Westeros at all; but, if he isn't, then where is he?

The woman's accent is familiar, though not of the North. That much is apparent. The auburn of her hair reminds him almost instantaneously of Cat, Sansa, Robb. It softens his features, perhaps endears this stranger to him more than she would have been otherwise.

It takes all of his strength to bite back a laugh at the use of the word 'friends.' What does the world know of such things? Perhaps I was wrong to have distrusted you, he'd told Littlefinger that day in the garden. The words seared into him now, branding his flesh like cattle.

He has the wherewithal to recognize this woman isn't an enemy - not yet, at least. The Ned Stark of old still lingers somewhere underneath the surface of the slightly paranoid and distrusting man kneeling by the fountain, sopping wet and vaguely shivering. No need to take his misplaced anger out on her.

"I'd come through the fountain," he explains, gesturing to it with a hand, as though it was somehow going to reveal its secrets. "But it makes no sense, the lot of it."

[tsingtauense]

"No, it doesn't," she agreed. "Everybody still seems to be trying to work it out. There are many theories but I couldn't begin to say which is the best." Or most useful. Or least paralyzingly strange. They were far, far away from knowing which might be the most objective.

She extended her hand. "I'm sorry I can only provide so little explanation. But at the least I can offer you food and a fire."

[learned_to_die]

Eyes to rival the color of ice consider her hand - not overtly suspicious, but certainly not eager at the prospect. They flicker back to her face to read the expression there: he sees no malice, no ill-intent, no deception. Of course, he'd felt the same of those who'd betrayed him, back in King's Landing - the ones who'd brought the blade of his own sword down upon his neck.

Perhaps in desperation, wanting to revert and remember who he'd once been, he extends his hand up to hers - gently grasps it, the leather of his weathered and hardened of years of war and steel.

"Both sound like a dream," he replies, pulling himself to his feet with a light tug on her hand to assist. "Your kindness will not be forgotten." And as though the planting of sole against ground awakens old rituals within him, he drops her hand, puts it at his waist, and bows his head in greeting. "Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Hand of the King, Protector of the Realm."