Lost Creek Hollow dry-aged wagyu

Her frustration has not left her. Twinning with it was a grief that lent a sheen to her eyes, and a pride, none of which she could explain to this man.
While he lingered and observed the body, even spoke with kindness towards her effort, he did not know what she had done or why, so the weight of his words was like a dew drop on grass: present but unimportant.
A sigh.
Look. Skuka motions with her chin to the deceased, to his face where half-lidded cataracts sit, misty and gray. There is a scar across its cheek, another along the visible side of its neck; marks further along that she points out to the man: fang marks.
Long life deserves praise. None could hunt him.

What had the stag endured? She could not know it's life. It was merely a prey beast; but it had not been felled, it did not decorate a hunter's sleeping place or fuel his family with meat. It was rare to see.