Redtail Rise III

no sooner had she failed in her efforts did the behemoth surge forward, eyes trained upon the kill. she rises, shaking the dirt and ice from her pelt, and her eyes light upon the hare in his jaws. 

he's done it, and she's impressed.

you big, she says. fighh'er. her gaze traces his bulk, the great size of him. like Nyra—too much, and dwelling on it turns her ice to blood—stalwart and strong. then she looks at the hare. 

buhh' you hunhh'. 

she dips her head and gnaws at the hare's belly (it still squeals!) pulling out a stringy bit of gut. she dangles it in front of him, then flings it his way; it lands, nearly soundless, in the snow. you like fighh', more, or hunhh'?

the death-throes are a soundtrack to their conversation.