As the afternoon wore on, the sun finally retiring from its almost unbearably hot zenith, Arven emerged from lunch, picking a stray piece of cassava root from his teeth. He'd been eating with some of the native West Africans who made up half the population of Mafré, a small township on the Niger River. The other half were British settlers. Currently the British collective also included Arven and the crew of the good ship Voyager from London, headlining evangelists from the Church of Saint Fergus. Arven was very much not an evangelist, but he was very much part of their mission to enhance the area's access to developed sanitation tools.

The tall adventurer had tied back his rugged blond hair and rolled his sleeves all the way up, used to the scorching sun and taking it in his stride. Arven was working on installing another water tap in the town; this one behind the school house. He dipped to one knee, drew his wand, and tried another couple of muttered spells to get it working — but to no avail. He remembered why he'd given up and gone to lunch. And then as he thought of the muggle citizens of Mafré he'd just eaten with, a thought struck him — think like a muggle. So Arven swapped his wand for a wrench, twisted the bonnet nut tight, and the water gulped, churned, and finally began to flow from the tap in a merry cascade. "Hah." Merlin, had it been that simple all along?