Larksong Grotto right to bear arms

anoré watches him, unmoved, her expression carved in the same surety as the cliffs of her homeland. he is close now, near enough that she can see the way his breath coils in the cold. it had been some time since she has met another of her kind—longer still since it has mattered.
"i do." she observes him in the same manner as he. big, strong, a hunter. her ears flick thoughtfully and she is the first to break their gaze. she looks off into the direction of the thickening scent.
"ease makes for poor sport." she replies, as if disappointed, "but a poor kill is better than none." 
she steps forward, slow, deliberate, until she stands beside him, a light against his dark. not close enough to touch, but  enough for him to know she was not afraid. not wary.
"you may take the throat. i will take the heart." a fair offer. practical. the way of things.
and then, with the faintest tilt of her head, the smallest trace of something resembling amusement, "unless your pride demands the whole of it?"