Larksong Grotto Ankärr

A head yanks up with the guttural laugh, one that has become sickly familiar as it was crushed to her ears. The moment drives into another, and with silent caution the huntress wades herself away from the brook to slink between banks of frozen roots.
There he lay in a red heap— the ugly man, the con artist, a monster of sorts in that everything which could have been kind in him was driven out by greed. His wounds fester the air. If he is not dead yet, he will be soon.
The dove flutters closer. How gratifying it is to be the one to gaze down. He could have helped her; they could have both escaped. Now she had her health and he his death.
“Are you thirsty?” Ayovi thinks of pissing on his face and smirks at her own wickedness. She bends over to look for his head, nearly indecipherable in the mass of rot.
Why should she not see him die?