Honeyed Pasture i've got a good feeling; it doesn't happen very often

With Marcus's guidance, teeth of ivory land a blow to the flank of the fawn. It squeals, a hind hoof launched in Wren's direction with narrow avoidance that seemed to be of pure luck. But now it has stopped running. 
Coming to a skidding stop, Wren begins to circle it, testing whether or not it would try to make a run for it again. Nervous chuffs turn to prideful croons and snorts, a daring snap of jaws here and there. 
It seems to have begun to accept its fate. She spares a glance over to Marcus. She started it; she may as well let him end it.