White hands soiled by dirts search on the dead soldier for hidden pockets.
The long fingers slip between the armor and the silk fabrics with the ease that only come with enough experience.
Under the white skin, black things swirl like a light in him.
He is on a battlefield, looking for the possessions of the dead.
Thousands of corpse await his greed, the dark elf will find every penny, every valuables.
He has time.
But he is so hungry.
He is as hungry as the vultures who fly in circle under the burning sun.
The black birds, he knows, consider the desolated battlefied as their dining room.
He quite like them, they accompany him every time he get out from underground. Sometime one of those Esk, will go down in one loop, and while planting its black claw in the meat of a fallen soldier, the bird will give him a curious glance with its amber eyes.
Then the Esk will unfold its impressive wings, shining like charcoal under the daylight and will soar in the sky with his food.
These vultures are like him. They find something to eat when there is death and war.
But he is weak and deficient while the Esk aren't.