She waves her stick in front of herself, wielding it with the imagination of a sword. "I'll cut you, evil sorcerer! Dare set fire to the forests of my lands, hah! Feel the wrath of my mighty steel," she announces, brandishing her branch in wide arcs overhead the crown of her companion. Lunging,she slips on the gravel underfoot, stabbing at the cover of the sitting boy's book and knocking it out of his hands.
Silently, and eerily calm, his eyes shift to glare at the sheepish, thickly framed green eyes responsible for plunging his favorite collection of stories into the creek. Standing, he retrieves the sodden pages and brushes the sand and grit from the worn cover.
"Your 'sword' could not cut the dingleberries off the hide of a mountain goat, much less me. You're a twat," he adds in a huff before walking back to the dirt path home.