The merfolk have learned the hard way that Nita can't be drowned, and are sulking out of reach, because they're sensible enough to realize that being kicked in the face and then scolded for bad behavior is at best unpleasant and at worst hideously embarrassing. Having established there's nothing too interesting in the sunken structures they haunt, Nita has let the detente stand, dozing on the ocean floor and watching the dappled play of light filter down to her. She feels like she might almost not be sticky anymore. If she never sees a gumdrop again, it'll be too soon.

All in all, not a bad morning, gladiatorial nonsense notwithstanding.

Stretching, she decides it's time to see about breakfast, and rockets back up to the surface in a stream of bubbles, grumbling about her lost ability to fly as she swims to shore like some kind of peasant. It didn't occur to her to take off her trousers, and she's primarily concerned with how extraordinarily uncomfortable sodden rip-stop fabric is when a man goes dashing past her, pursued by a shark on legs.

Huh.

Like any self-respecting Atlantean confronted with this sort of problem, Nita hauls off and decks the shark.