Duck Lake god loves you, but not enough to save you

She is unphased beyond the growing sting of annoyance, hooded eyes and teeth that glimmer with spit. First warning. Non parlo vichingo, she spits out, a snarky curl to the corner of her mouth. If foreign words are thrown in her face as a means of trying to scare her, she would offer her own with venom laced in between. You in Kvarsheim or somethin'? Vaffanculo.
Shuffling with discomfort, Wren rises to her feet, beginning to move in the direction of home. The stranger does not leave her sight, and in the rim of indigo that shields her, she can see the stranger's emaciated form, like a rotten carcass that rose from the dead. 
Wait a second. 
One eye twitches as she takes a thunderous step forward; slowly, she begins to circle. O sei tu la strega?