Larksong Grotto right to bear arms

anoré halts beside him, her pace undisturbed, though her expression sharpens at his words. she watches the doe's state,"rabid." she repeats softly, distaste in her voice, though the hunt had already lost its appeal to her, "a poor kill, indeed."
her eyes drift over the land, nose twitching as she scans the surroundings. there is no fresh scent of game, only the lingering trace of the doe’s decay. her ears flick and she sighs softly. 
she looks at him then, "no scent." she observes quietly, her tone distant but not unkind, "it seems we are both without luck."
a beat passes before she tilts her head, "what is your name, huntsman?" she asks, her voice still cool, but a little less detached, as though the moment had shifted just enough to warrant curiosity.