A little muddy. Éowyn's nose wrinkles in aversion at the thought of cool, squishy mud between her toes, a tiny noise of distaste at her throat. Her glower intensifies just a little at Faramir's well-meat, patient assurances, aimed at her beloved husband now rather than the glossy surface of the water. It is good he does not compare this out loud to coaxing a wild beast... a good thing indeed that he is far wiser than that.

"I know you are trying not to laugh," she says a little grumpily, harrumphing. She knows she is being rather silly and that her fears seem irrational to folk more used to living near such suitable bodies of water. Knowing that hardly makes this any easier-- perhaps just the opposite. But it is not Faramir's fault. And she did promise him. Still looking thoroughly unconvinced, Éowyn finally lifts one leg to dip in her toes; ever so slowly letting her foot submerge, leaning forward and grasping Faramir's outstretched hand in hers as tightly as if it were a lifeline-- not all that far from the truth.

"You said little...!" she protests with mild disgust when she's standing on one foot, ankle-deep in the water, the floor of the pond yielding under the weight of her and causing her foot to sink slightly into the soft silt and, yes-- mud.