Did he take her? Did he take my child, did he take my daughter? How?
"How long you knew what," she cries -- and the ingots of her eyes, now, are burning; they scald like bits of slag. Missiles continue to soar in parabolas above them, splatting and clapping against scaffold and street, sometimes against unsuspecting spine and skull.
The glimmer of a Constable's badge winks not so far away.
The one-eyed girl she assists stands, and Gloria hisses, "Go," at her, trying to push her into the devious safety of the masses; there, the half-blind woman could all but disappear, and whatever fists found her would not be fists truly meant for her. There, it was safer. There, if one was agile enough, they could find solace and escape--
"I want you to give me back my child, Catch. I demand she be returned to me!"
The crowd surges and pushes and bends and sways. Meaty hand strike out at anything they can find, extensions of fear and confusion that can alter the world the only way they know how: with rebellious force and destruction. Ailova's not far away, asking for help; a woman -- Constable Breve, a name she'd one day learn -- demands clearance of the square, as does Perilat. Here, they were the dictating authority, even as Catch sways and struggles atop Bruiser on the planks of the scaffold.
Ailova moves forward. So does Gloria. Silent eyes speak multitudes through the flashing, bestial crowd: Get your girl, and get him gone, Ailova!
Breve, a stalwart mass, is in front of her. Before she can hesitate, or even otherwise think, Gloria tightens her blistered hand into a battering fist and hacks her knuckles at the back of the Constable's head.
And Catch proclaims, The Forest is shut, or you will die!