‘bärchen.’ perchta’s face is less than happy. a palm extends, red nails wound tight round a dangling rock-climbing belt clamp. in the other hand, a bloodied hunting knife. she looks about as disgruntled as a teenage girl would upon discovering a sibling had been swiping from her closet, only, backed up by the barely-bridled fury of an old god.
‘there are men in the forest. trudging about. men, hunting without need. hurting things, looking for something. a thing, a thing they won’t find.’ she shakes the knife. ‘one stabbed me when i stepped forward.’ (more like, when she grabbed him by the throat.) ‘i let him go, yes, let him, but i think i should seek him out tonight.’