Somewhere - he couldn’t remember where - he went from bounding after moonlight to dancing before a goddess. When the hunter stops, he stops. His head tilts one way, then the other. Twitch, twitch, flick go his ears. He hears nothing. He sees nothing. 

The next steps of the hunt are his. It is the way of things. He turns where he is led. He creak, creak, creaks, closer, knowing nothing. He stops, by Her side.

There has not been a sacred stag for many, many years, so Dolce of Beri will have to do.

“Th. T. Thhhh. There. I-is.” Breathe. Bite back all frustration. Please, Mistress of the Hunt. Bear with his broken tongue. They are the first words he has spoken since the foul march began. “Is. There, necessary…play?”

Obediently, he waits by her side. Obediently, he listens.