Larksong Grotto right to bear arms

there is the barest curl of his lip now in the face of the words she speaks. drawing a breath, visible in the cold spring morning.
no pride, woman. he says and begins to walk once more after his quarry. he had been hunting the doe first; he believed he was entitled to most of it, but that had been before a lady joined him.
and the huntsman was a gentleman first.
throat and heart. it is fair. he decides, then hushes. giving into the hunt and brushing past winter's daughter as he kicks into a faster gait, striding through the grotto earth.
the doe's scent thickens as he draws closer, closer, closer. her illness betraying her. a sweet scent soured by illness, but not one of the blood or flesh. the closer he gets, he sees the wobbling of her gait and the foam that pools at her lips.
he halts as quickly as he had run. stop. he orders. she is rabid. his hunt concluding as swiftly as it had begun. they would need to find new quarry—and the woman would get her wish of a thrilling hunt.