[ he shoulders his rifle without reloading, but still holds the limp hare's body in his hands. the voice sounds young, and the vague impressions of someone hiding behind one of the forest's many trunks. someone small -- though many here were small when compared to his tall self.

sharpe thumbs the bloodied fur. before shooting it, he'd had half a mind to catch and skin the thing right here in the woods. it'd save him cleaning up back home. maybe even save him from one of miss trinket's scoldings. but this mystery is far more compelling than doing his due diligence on the hunt. ]

...A doctor? Eh -- miss? Are you hurt? Is that it? Do you need a physician? [ a good samaritan's concern creeps into his voice, softening some of those yorkshire vowels. ] We've a fair few in the village. Good'uns, I reckon.

[ but he doesn't dare yet approach. like any small animal, young lasses could also be so easily spooked. ]