Duck Lake what do you see

Aguta snarled. Goldry's skin wrinkled on his nose. Neither of them meant aggression or antagonism toward the other, for it was a common manifestation of violence inherent in a hunt. It would have been surprising if either of them had enough self-control to be polite.

He felt the doe jerk back as Aguta latched onto the long snout of the beast. The doe kicked in all directions, but its legs merely skittered about in the long grass, lacking the strength of its earlier strike. Goldry's muscles rippled. He braced his neck and shook the pronghorn's head back and forth like a rag-doll. Its neck snapped. Its body shuddered. Its legs stropped thrashing, and grew still. Goldry held on for a minute longer, still tense, the bridge of his nose still furrowed.

He dropped the doe. The back of her head hit the ground with a dull thud. “Dig in,” he growled, and his hot breath steamed away into the cold, late evening air. He could hear the second doe scrabbling up the embankment somewhere in the dark, but though his ears flicked toward the sound, he moved away from it, stepping squarely on the dead doe's neck and shoulder to rip into the soft skin beneath her arm. He kept one eye on Aguta.

He didn't know she'd been kicked earlier. Even if he had, the bloodlust was on him and he couldn't have found the compassion to care. Although he was willing to share this meal with her, a mere acquaintance, it was difficult to resist snarling at her if she came too close. He tried to focus, instead, on breaking through the doe's ribs to get to the succulent heart and lungs inside.

Steam swirled about his head as he exposed the still-warm chest cavity to the cool air.

Somewhere in the grove, an owl hooted.