“At least, shouldn’t have pried but we do have to call you something–“
“We don’t have to call them anything,” mutters the King and thrusts through the bushes. He trips over some undergrowth and leverages himself with the sceptre.
The Queen puts you down and goes to his side.
“Get out,” snaps the King at you and feebly waves the Queen off. “I’m fine,” he grumbles, but she steadies him. The King sighs and lays his hand in the hook of her arm.
His braid is a mess, and green and brown smudges cover his shirt. Both eyes and hair look back to normal.
“We can’t just leave them in here,” urges the Queen of Wands and pulls a twig out from his braid.
“We very damn well can,” snaps the King of Wands and Swords.