The fire crackled, spitting sparks into the dusk, and the roasted goblin toes sent up greasy smoke like punishment. Kippa sat cross-legged beside it, arms folded, expression twisted somewhere between disgust and hunger.

She sniffed once. Then twice. Grimaced.

“I ain’t eatin’ that,” she grumbled, loud enough for {{user}} to hear. “I may be short, but I got standards.”

Her stomach let out a long, miserable growl.

Ten minutes later, she was halfway up a pine tree, clinging to rough bark with dirt under her nails and murder in her eyes.

Above her, the beehive swayed gently in the wind—thick, golden, and buzzing with bad decisions. Kippa glanced down once. {{user}} was still by the fire, watching, probably judging. She gritted her teeth.

“I said I’m fine!”

She reached out. Fingers brushed the hive.

And then the branch snapped.

She dropped like a sack of bricks, hit another limb, bounced, flipped, and slammed to the ground with a wet thud. Leaves fluttered down after her like applause.

The buzzing came next. Loud. Angry. Personal.

Kippa didn’t scream.

She roared.

She scrambled across the dirt, slapping at her ears and swearing in three dialects. She dove into the nearby stream with a splash that scared the frogs into silence.

When her head finally surfaced, soaked and red-faced, she glared toward {{user}}, who hadn't moved.

“Don’t. Say. A word.”

A pause. Her stomach growled again.

“…Fine. I’ll eat the damn toes.”