It wasn't personal. That would belie her careful considerations of history, sociology, genealogy or war tactics. Any of the books that sat by her couch and provided some escape from a body broken a few notches too far and requiring time to knit frame and form as one.

It was deliberate.
She'd found two young ones on the field of battle already, begging questions to her mind - how many were there? Why were they there? Did all of them start so very young? If they did, it was an oversight on the part of others that they were suffered to continue, night after night. Days piled in a hand fast and became years. They would not remain children long.
The only reason they were now was a thanks owed first world post modern upbringing. But she would not underestimate them as others might. Antiquarian studies familiarized her with the royalty of old. The expectations even of 80 years before in rural, mining and mill towns.

What could be guessed of their habits then?
They will have families. They will have school. Because of school they will go out at night. They will live in residential areas and begin their patrols there. They will... Schörl scowled, Be likely looking for youma. They want to be heroes.

So she had followed in the wake of a youma, letting it move on after it had attacked a drained a young man as he walked his dog before bed. The dog had been staying near, too afraid to challenge the youma but too loyal to just run willy nilly until she'd sent it packing about the neighborhood as bait. She waited, crouched by the youth on the sidewalk, listening to the distressed yapping echoing back from a few blocks away of the little dog. What came for the bait she hoped was another one of those little pups. And when they came, she would tear off their face.