Shrieky trudged sullenly through the streets of Brock Marsh, his hair and clothes soaked though, plastered flat against his skin by the odd smelling, somewhat polluted waters of the Gross Tar.

It had been inevitable, really. There wasn't ever a question of him not getting in the river, the question had always been when. The justification he'd eventually constructed was that despite the fact that he could no longer breathe under water, and despite the fact that his legs couldn't touch the bottom, and despite the fact that the river clearly contained many contaminants, and despite the fact that he wasn't certain that he could trust his legs to get him back out again... he really liked swimming.

Yes, he could have gone to a public pool, but experience had taught him that he had a tendency to be territorial about sharing water with people. The river was probably better, even if he hadn't dared to move away from the edge, and propelling himself through the water using was apparently an arduous task now. Eventually he'd abandoned the endeavor in disgust, and began the trudging, soggy journey which he was currently on, back towards the Valhalla Inn.