Her head tips at this repeated refrain of bidding her to go away, unconcerned of the branch snap as well as the promise of violence so much as she worries a little about this theme. Of people hunting children, of pushing her away in case she gets hurt, as opposed to the child doing the pushing. She blinks, eyes an ever disarming bright blue, difficult to read.

"Bossy," she chides, gently, hands clenching tighter her furs. Grey wool flaps warm and thick, hem at her ankles, legs clad in the same. "But that sounds more like you should be going away, not me."