Duck Lake Step away from my light, I need shine.

Ibis tries to judge the terrain from where she's standing, sort-of in the manner of a cat trying to figure out if they can leap from the top of a door frame down to a desk; she lifts her head, tilts her head, leans various directions, and reaches out with one invested fore-paw to try and prod at the nearest section of muck, hoping it is stable enough for her nymph-like body. As soon as her paw touches down there is mud between her toes, and cold water seeping up to her wrist, so she withdraws with a petrified gasp.

Awful isn't it, murmurs a voice that's almost too subdued for her to hear; but she hears something, and turns sharply to meet it. The motion sends her off-kilter a bit and she slides hip-first off of the stable ground, scrambles, trying to keep herself balanced enough to avoid too much of a spill—but down she goes, squelching in to mud and soaking her rear end with chilly green water. The girl lets out a dissonant squeal the likes of which may have translated to some sort of slur in the language of ducks, and then kicks off with a splash to try and get back on the dry patch.

She's more miserable now than before; but she doesn't hold a grudge against the burnished stranger—after a second she looks him over, seeking something to focus on so that she can ignore the cold spawning across her thin coat, and remembers him as the fox from the glen. Yes, terrible, awful, so--so bad, and c-cold! Hnng... You, you're the fox I saw before. Her teeth have begun to chatter; knowing her luck, Ibis will wake up tomorrow with a terrible cold and Okeanos will have to nurse her back to health.