The crone's anger didn't turn the ground she walked on into dark marks of death. The air didn't seem like ice or fire. The world seemed normal, yet deep within the small frame of the crone an anger burned, demanding to be fed or quenched with lashing out.
Cue the entrance of one unsuspecting soul. She had no idea what was walking toward her, but she would find out soon enough.
"You're in a good mood." Baba Yaga didn't spit this observation out as she came to stand in the mutant's way. She seemed conversational enough, but then the crone had had practice at being something she wasn't. Perhaps the pixie winged woman could tell a slight change in "Red," perhaps not. The time with Eric, all that they shared, had blended the facade more with the creature who wore it, so now they no longer seemed like two things - a mask and a wearer.