She was all over blood, hands and cheeks and skirt and axe, cloak splattered in brighter splotches and stripes which would soon enough dry to the same rust shade as the rest. What little remained of the subject of her rage looked like nothing so much as minced meat, with only a few scraggly blue strands of hair from his beard left to show that he'd once been a man before becoming the ogre that she'd slaughtered.

It almost seemed to November to have been a good thing that his poor victims had all been killed so soon after marriage that none had ever bore him a son or daughter. Red's rage was terrifying enough on behalf of the maidens he'd fooled into loving him. If children had been involved as well November suspected that she'd have been afraid to even try to calm her.

"You've done enough," she said, catching the hand which held the axe the next time Red raised it to strike another blow. "We can build a fire if you're afraid he's not completely dead, but you can't slice him any more finely than you already have."

Red wrenched her arm away with enough force that November's fingers immediately began to bruise, the skin at the base of a nail which snagged on the lace of her sleeve as she pulled away cracking and bleeding before it came free, and she whirled around to glower down at November. There was always a moment of fear when Red first turned her attention to her during one of her furies, a moment which shamed November deeply for not trusting her friend quite enough. But Red's anger overwhelmed her so much when faced with a beast, whether their form was that of an animal or a human, that there was always the chance that she'd lash out at anyone who interrupted her before she recognized them. November believed absolutely that if that time ever did come Red would realize who she was before she could kill her. Unfortunately, her body was so delicate that any real attack would leave her not much better off.

She watched the recognition fill Red's face, followed shortly after by self-disgust as she realized how close she'd come to striking out at November.

Once she knew that it was safe to do so November rested her hands on Red's shoulders and squeezed them softly. "It's all right now. He's dead. You've avenged them." Still Red looked angry with herself, so protective of November that any threat against her couldn't be forgiven, even of herself. On an impulse that she couldn't have explained November leaned up to kiss her forehead, her cheek, her mouth, not even recoiling at the taste of the blood that dappled her skin. "It's all right," she said again, quietly, and when Red still didn't look convinced she repeated her actions once more, the brush of her lips light and gentle enough for there to be no risk of bruising them. "It's all right."