A duo of Wizards resist all attempts to become puppets to Ponce De Gibbon, though one seems a little less excited than the other.

They are bleeding and terribly battered, but they are alive, they have Cantares Five Flower's rattlestick that Ponce de Gibbon had so neglectfully discarded: only useful as a bait.

Ruth Wildriver had dragged out Ponce by the tail and out onto the deck as unceremoniously as the Monquistans had arrived: No matter how sophisticated they presented themselves, this band of Monquistadors were nothing but barbarians, barbarians with short stature and tall ego. The wizards hadn't even crossed the water when Wolf Jackalheart spoke up, "Ruth, could you give me your hand?"

"Why?" They didn't understand what he was getting at, "shouldn't we get the stick back?"

"Please."

"Fine whatever, it's not like the water isn't gonna make our socks sticky," Ruth rolled their eyes with playful defiance, "whatever."

He held Ruth's hand for long enough that they could feel the pulse in his hand, hot, syncopating with their own beat in polyrhythm. His fingers crawled up the back of their hand and behind their wrist. A terrifying beast crawling back into it's cave to lick its wounds.

"Thanks." Wolf said frankly. He let go of Ruth's hand and crossed the river back to Five Flower's hut. Ruth couldn't help but stare.

"What the hell was that?"

"How sticky do you want your socks to be?"

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Ruth Wildriver belongs to @ruthwildriver