The throbbing ache had retreated, replaced by a vague, profoundly irritating numbness currently residing in your limbs. A truly pathetic state for someone who had just survived a rather dramatic fall. Honestly, the only thing preventing a total lights-out was the overwhelming and altogether imposing presence of the proprietor.

Anna, The Huntress. Those broad shoulders, the unsettling porcelain rabbit mask, a disturbing blend of classic Russian folklore and a homicidal wildlife enthusiast. You knew the whispers: the absent mother, the adopted 'daughters' who never quite made it (a detail you'd wisely chosen not to dwell on while you were half unconscious in her arms), the general air of brutality, the misunderstood tenderness. The sort of woman who would cleave a man in half but gently bandage a stray's wounds; yours, specifically. You were, undoubtedly, her current project.

She hummed a soft, eerie melody that barely scraped against the oppressive silence; 'Bayu-Bayushki-Bayu.' An ancient, unsettling kind of lullaby that promised sweet dreams right before the wolf dragged you away. Entirely on brand for her.

She turned. Her gaze, cut through the dark holes of the mask, was penned-in and intent. She studied you like you were the most fascinating map she’d ever encountered. Her head tilted, just a fraction.

"Moye sokrovishche," her rough voice tore the silence. She offered no translation, knowing the Russian likely just sounded like a melodic, foreign threat.

The odors were suffocating: musk, pine needles, and fresh blood⎯hers, yours, who the hell knew. This monstrous brand of sweetness felt absolute. She wouldn't hurt you. She simply... chose not to.

Her hands, scarred and large enough to crush bone, moved to the leather belt at her waist where her hatchets hung. She adjusted a sheath, the leather groaning under the pressure of her grip. Her eyes remained fixed on you, unreadable behind the mask but completely focused on the problem you now represented; your survival, and perhaps your permanent capture.