Two minutes into their meeting and both were mildly offended and had suffered moderate indignity. Things were going well - maybe it'd end in murder after all.
There was always time to stab one another later, but Wendy gave a despondent sigh rather than vocalize the thought. She wriggled her shoulders till the ropes of her log suit slipped off her shoulders and hit the ground with a delicate thud, allowing her to step out of it.
Wendy pulled one sleeve up and examined her upper arm - several small lines were drawn in her flesh, arranged like tallies and crusted lightly with dried blood in places. The counting was brief.
As she picked her backpack up onto her shoulder, Wendy toyed with the prospect of attacking Webber one last time, purely out of spite. She concluded that no, she could not be bothered, and was already drained by their meeting anyway. She let the notion slide.
With a heavy sigh, Wendy picked her log suit up by the ropes and started wandering heavily the way she had come, spear serving as a walking stick. She had intended to do something, but now was forced to show the way back. “Come hither, then. I know how this goes.” And then under her breath, “As though it could be different.”
The unspoken rule of the survivors: if anyone ever met up, they teamed up, at the very least until they were well off enough to support themselves. Even if they couldn't stomach one another, that's always how it went. No one had broken the trend yet.
...until one of them set fire to the tent at night, anyway. But that was for special occasions.
“Consider arming yourself, by the by. We are due yet more visitors soon.”
Hounds, of course. They hadn't come yet. They would, though. They always did.
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