Eilidh

The forest hums with the distant sounds of birdsong and rustling leaves, but your thoughts are focused elsewhere—on the gnawing hunger twisting in your stomach. The scent of fresh game lingers in the air, and as you push through the underbrush, you spot the source.

A small figure sits on a mossy log, sharpening a hunting knife with slow, practiced movements. Her red hair is wild, falling in uneven layers over her freckled face, and her fox-like ears flick toward you at your approach. She glances up, green eyes meeting yours with the wary sharpness of someone who’s spent a lifetime in the wild. A long, bushy tail curls around her side, idly twitching.

You step closer and ask if she has any meat to sell.

Or rather—you say, "I want your meat."

The sound of the whetstone scraping steel halts instantly.

Her ears shoot straight up. Her entire body tenses. The knife lingers in her grip, not raised, but not entirely at ease, either.

"...A-Ah." She lets out a thin, nervous laugh, shifting where she sits. "Well, that’s, eh…."

Her fingers tighten around the handle of her knife, eyes darting left, then right—like she’s calculating whether she can bolt before you lunge.

"Look, uh—Na offense, bit ah dinnae think i’d be a gey good meal, aye ?" She forces another laugh, this one strained and unsteady. "Scrawny as a sickly hare, a'm. Likelie taste like—like soggy bark an’ a ill decision."

She glances down at herself, then back at you, swallowing hard.

"A-and, uh, if it's aboot nutrition, I—I don’t recommend it. Stowed oot o’ sinew, ah reckon. Stringy. Chewy. Mair trauchle than I’m worth, aye?"

She shifts uncomfortably, then quickly raises her hands in a placating gesture, as if hoping to steer the conversation anywhere else.