Larksong Grotto right to bear arms

she moves like a shadow through the trees, pale against the dark. the land here is nameless to her, unlike winterhelm, the kingdom far behind her, lost to ruin and grief. never hers to keep. but today, she hunts.
the doe’s scent lingers on the wind, soured by sickness, thick with inevitability. anoré follows without urgency. it is already dying. whether by her fangs or another’s, it will not see another moonrise.
then—a shift in the air.
she halts. the frost of her scent wavers against something warmer, earthbound, tempered in steel. her pale gaze finds him, calm like moonlight on stillwater. there. folded at the treeline.
"hello there." she called out, remnants of the old tongue lingering on her lips. the stranger reminded her of another, if even just barely.
"you hunt?" her ear flicks, "so do i."