In the space of moments, still debating whether or not she intends to challenge that - she's so often spoiling for a fight, the most familiar way of interacting with the entire world, only she doesn't want to spoil this, ruin what ought to be something glad with the shadows that dog her steps, and

“What the fuck was that,” is not quite a question in that it lacks the required lilt, but certainly something that expects an answer, startled into mild affront by her own confusion. By his confidence, bemused by his reaction to what she would not have herself called a promising anything.

Gwenaëlle is not in the habit of being pleased by hearing the woods scream at her.