"This," he responds, and underhands the little log along the ice. It skitters and slides and stops short of the hole, which seems not to bother Leander—indeed, it's what he was aiming for. Rope still in hand, now winding it around his hand, his forearm, preparatory movements while he considers the situation for what may seem like ages to Derrica, trapped and freezing as she is, but is in fact only a handful of seconds.

Back to the riverbank, then, where he stutter-stops among the old reeds and rocks and assorted wild detritus frozen in place. There he turns, stomps to wedge his feet in where old plant matter weakens the very surface of the ice. The blades of his skates make it easy enough—like wicked little anchors.

"I'll kick it to you now. Wrap your arms around it." Expecting her to grip with frozen fingers would only invite another mishap, to potentially deadly effect; better that she should entangle herself and use the clutch of her strong arms to hang on. "You're all right—don't worry about the pack, just look at me. Ready?" She'd better be ready. This is not as casual a rescue as it seems.

On her mark, and with firm concentration, Leander nudges the branch at a distance—and it scuttles forward like some bizarre log-like vermin. (She can thank him later for not simply flinging it toward her face, as would come most easily for most mages.) And another.

"One more," and again, until it's close enough for her to grasp—