Witch's Marsh They don't believe in us, but I believe we're the enemy

The boy ran, the girl turned, spoke -- and then dropped. Her body made the mud beneath her squelch.
Ygrim's jaw hinged an inch, her brows raised, furrowed, raised again, and she looked to be muddling through some internal struggle. When she came to a decision, it was obvious:
Stepping carefully towards the kid, she pinched their scruff with yellowed teeth and wrenched them from the mud; one way, another, hardly delicate about it. They were young enough to be light (although the mire had soaked them, which added some difficulty).
Back, back, back - to some mound or other, solid enough for Ygrim to let go of the girl and give her a proper once-over. She appeared healthier than most; thus, it wasn't some physical ailment. Likely a mental corruption.
Snorting softly to herself, Ygrim looked idly to the maggot-laden face and curled her lip, as if to silently implore the carcass: Don't give me that look.