Well, there's gratitude for you. Greta's second, "I beg your pardon?!" is far less conciliatory and far more indignant. "Do I look like a giant? This," she says with a wild, all-encompassing gesture as the sound of splintering wood echoes through the trees, "is not me." Idiot.

She doesn't have time for this. Greta grits her teeth as the earth judders beneath her feet, then picks a direction that seems as if it'll at least take her away from the giant and starts marching. Once she's out of immediate danger, she can focus on finding her way back. "I suggest you move away from the loud, fearsome noises," she tosses back over her shoulder, on the off chance he might be sensible enough to take her advice.