Two Rivers Isle my guns

A mud-caked hoof is swung right for his face. He narrowly dodges; a grimace crossing his hardened features as he crouches to his elbows before darting off to the side. Shit.
But now.
Shooting out from the bramble, Boone takes his shot. A snap of his jaws, aimed right for the windpipe, and his teeth gain easy purchase. Blood blossoms, painting his own front, and he hangs for one, two, three, four heartbeats; a horrific, loud bugle as he lets go, and he watches with glass eyes as the deer stumbles.
It falls down to its brittle knees, will to fight now drained.