Larksong Grotto right to bear arms

strangely, his laugh, hearty yet cynical, sets her at ease. weeks of traveling alone had made her miss companionship, as superficial as this might be. her shoulders relaxed.
still, his words do not surprise her. she had met men like him before—those who walked between things, neither claimed nor claiming. but there is something different about him, something that does not quite fit into the mold of mere isolation. 
"a huntsman," she says, "yet it seems you do more waiting than hunting." there's a reserved smile on her lips, followed by a well-meaning chuckle. it is light, fleeting. laughter was something she had not worn in some time.
"i apologize. what i mean is—you may not make war, but should i find myself here again, i wonder if you will still be here. in your grotto. or if you'll have chosen a path of your own." 
she dips her head to him, "you have shown me no ill, ulfric of skarvheim. may the winds favor your hunt, wherever it may lead you."