Tiefling x Elf

Hungry

With each swing, the blades emitted a sharp and heavenly chime that echoed through the battlefield, guttural screams and viscera soared above.
Amidst the branches, first light fell down onto a contorted green face. Equably, it's brown eyes opened, and their pupils dilated under the sun as they watched the smoke rise from the ashes of last night's fire, which poorly masked the smell of iron in the air. "Time to get up," they thought, stretching their arms out and using them as leverage to stand up. Feeling a surge of lightheadedness when they got to their feet, their stomach grumbled and their tongue licked the tall bottom teeth that stood out from their lower jaw and up to their top lip. A yawn escaped from their mouth, leaving a foul taste to linger, though it was far weaker than their pungent body odour. But hygiene was the least of the priorities in the camp; they had to keep moving. The encampment prepared themselves, clad in sturdy dyed leather armour, swords on each side, knives in their boots, belt, bandolier, and other hidden places, a spear on their back, and two one-handed crossbows holstered below the spear just above their behind.

Aroused by what's to come, they rubbed their eyes and smiled. Visions of coins and bloodied skin filled their minds, exciting them so much that their stomach growled again. It was getting too hard to wait, so they didn't and walked off earlier than expected into the forest, leaving their bedroll behind. They stumbled across a dirt path that seemed unofficial, but the kicked-up mud and prints hinted it was frequently used. To them, it only seemed logical to follow, but done so mindfully. The camp leader shadowed in deeper, their eyes vigilant and wide, until something cracked across from them, startling into attack. They half turned immediately with the sound hissing of steel as they threw a knife from their belt, skewering a squirrel to a tree. "Ridiculous," they mumbled to themselves, reaching on over to claim it "frightened by a squirrel," but perhaps it was more serendipitous than they had anticipated. They noticed the blood dripping downward, revealing something more peculiar-a sign nailed to the tree. The first part was hard to make out, but there were instructions on how to reach whatever was carved by a blade in straight letters, assumingly trying to send a message to intimidate nomads or "low lives," and for the brute in the forest, it did, but they hadn't had a proper meal in days, and this was the best option. With their strong calloused hand held over the clean haft of their short sword and heart on something succulent, they continued confidently with meticulous steps, though they never unsheathed their sword. It acted to send their own silent threat to potential attackers on the prowl.
Following the signs instructions, the air began to smell salty. They used their bloodied hands to move away from the branches, which were obscuring their view. Swinging swords might send the wrong signal, but finally they could see it as a quiet fishing town; it sent tingles to their finger tips. Intent on finding an inn, they stepped out of the forest, unshrouded from the forest, and stormed forward, leaving deep footprints in the mud, licking their lips and dreaming of what's to come.