soft sheen, of many shades of green, moves almost translucently against a backdrop of rustling leaves.

It's a looming figure. with skin more serpentine than reptilian, toiling away at the soil of a well tended garden.

On his left side works a young girl, who's cheerfully pulling weeds from the same patch of earth. Speaking in a hush. She's half as tall standing as he is kneeling down. Even sitting on the balls of its feet it still towers over her. Despite their disparity in size there's a camaraderie between them. Illustrated by their movements and the flow of their toil. They bump shoulders, now and then. In a platonic display of respectful familiarity.

Many pictures flash through its head. But these are just thoughts. Remembrances.

Like the day she first came upon him.

She had crept up to him curious and cautious. Without a single shred of fear. Not of him anyway. Quietly, with purpose, she made her way to the open barred cage he was kept. A rusted prison too small to be comfortable. Many days she had watched him, witnessing him being beaten and whipped. Or, worse yet, burned. For no other reason than his being. This was the day that she had decided to brave a meet.

The day she handed him a fig.

It was slightly over-ripened. Her favorite time to eat them. So succulent the juices drooled off the chin. It was a small act of kindness but it cemented a bond between them.

A bond, that would find her, one dark cool night, watching in wonder as he carefully pulled weeds the earth. Just like she did every single day. From that night on she'd sneak out of the house, for an hour or two, just to talk and work alongside him.

She never knew that he tempted a burning to watch over her. She never knew that he'd seen her cringing, with every crack of the whip, as she watched through the brush while the lash cut his flesh. Or how the tears in her eyes willed his pain away. By just that simple act of humanity. Maybe she would never know that her empathy gave him strength.

But she knew, that night, why the crops were easier to tend.

Ever since the day she handed him that fruit, he'd escape from his cage when the last candles darkened. Returning to it when he finished paying back her kindness. She'd sneak over and quietly feed him, every chance she could, even before she knew what he was up to. With the very same crops he helped to take care of. And she'd just sit by his side for a minute or two, talking about everything and nothing.

Days became strength. Nights became cherished. She'd talk and talk and all he'd do was listen. And smile. Or gesture. Or just grunt. She realized, one evening, that even though they had shared so much time and toil together she didn't even know his name. Nor he, hers.

"I am Molly," she said, pointing to her chest. She pointed at him and he just shrugged. "You don't know your name?" His scaled head shook, his shoulders shrugged..

He's had many names shouted at him. Not one of them, even close to kind. A flash, of a moment in his mind, becomes vivid then, just as quickly, flits away. Filth, Useless. Failure.

Her hair, tied back and practical, catches his attention as it sweeps out of his view. Drifting loftily across her back as she turns. She looks at him and leers. It's a thoughtful gaze. Studying his form and hue. She sees… rock, in his strength. She sees… an aura, a blue crystalline glint, a little bit glossier than his skin.

"Hmmmm. What shall I call you?" she ponders, her lips taut in concentration. Then her eyes shine. Her face joyfully twists into a cherubic smile and she casually exclaims, "I think I'll call you… Malachite… It's a crystal. A mineral. If a sculptor were to carve you in it, it would have all your colors and sheen." He puffs an exuberant air from his nose and smiles. It's a very imposing look, unless you know him. Their hands touch reaching for the same parasitic vine. She marvels at the bumpy smoothness of his skin.

But, those days, are not this day.

This, is a hazy day. A darkest of murky nights actually.

A razor thin sliver of a crescent moon sits, muddled, high in the sky. The last of it's waning light barely illuminates the treetops. As a lesser dark green against an eerily, imposing, dark blue backdrop. Almost black.

The fourth new moon, this cycle, is two gone by. Spring, has ticked its place on the clock.

It's a time of rebirth, regrowth and struggles. A season, some days, only the strongest survive.

Between the fog, the thick dark clouds and the heaviness, that seems to permeate the air, there is a foreboding to this place. But then again, to anyone who knows it, there's always something unsettling here. Even, in the cheeriest of days.

For all it's stoicism and grandeur, there's a hint of decay and a scent of things, somehow wrong. An alchemical putrescence. A rancor, if you will.

In the creatures mind it's a very sunny day but there's an irrefutable sense of something… off. There are ominous clouds on the periphery, foreshadowing a baneful revelation. He feels droplets upon his pebbled, scaled skin. But this rain is thick, heavy, viscous.

Realization.

Memory.

Adrenaline.

He gasps. His eyes go wide. He feels a cold, hard familiar touch against his back. The rocks, the metal, the muck. He's laying in his cage. His vision slowly focuses. He sees white. Nothing but white. His head aches. His ears pound with the beating of his heart. He fights for clarity. The whiteness fades.

Light blonde waves fall into view, flowing towards his face, in stark contrast to the dark-red rust of the bars. His heart steels. He forces his mind to shake off the fog. To awaken.

There's a body, a girl's shape. Splayed across the metal above. Her legs and feet dangle off the edge. Limp, lifeless. Her toes pointed down, several inches off the ground. The blood pools across her shoulder blade and drips to his face below. He rises to full consciousness with a snap. The blood is warm but it stings, like acid on his skin. It causes a spark of reality, a nightmare that forces him to action. Rage flows through his veins. But he stays calm and calculating. He sniffs at the girl.

Her words flicker, "Mala…" then they fade.

The beast hurriedly, spastically, pulls at the fabric around her hands, freeing her from their bonds. It gently lowers her limp and delicate body, passing it hand to hand to the ground. He strains upwards on the cage door. Finding the right angle and force. A familiar click, the door unlatches and groans. He grips at the cages edge and strains against his own pain. The heavy metal door creaks, opening just enough for him to squeeze himself out. The beast struggles under the pressure, against the siphoning agony.

Once free, he cradles her unresponsive shell in his arms. A racking groan escapes her lips. He feels her breath on his neck and gathers her up, gets his bearing and makes way through the thicket and bramble. He knows the way to her home, he's secreted there many a night.

His vision is blurred. Blood obscures the left eyes' view. The right is swollen and partway closed, its vibrant green skin now a dark green and black. He stumbles over obstacles he never had problems with before. Thicket and thorn scrape and tug at his legs. But that's nothing compared to the life its endured. So it presses on.

He sees a garden, one that he knows so well, back-lit by a, window-framed, lantern's light. He steps to the door and kicks it open.

Two wide eyed faces turn at the noise, with a start. They stare in horror at the sight before them. The man reaches for a sword. The creature crosses the floor and gently lays the body down on the couch. The sight seizes the man's hand, long enough for the beast to turn and bound out the door. Leaping to the walkway, disappearing into the wood.

The man rushes to the door. There is nothing there to see.

The moss covered, stone walls, of Grindhelm Manor, stand barely noticeable against the Tellamore Woods. The crescent moon's light suffers to lend it shape.

The corner of a window on the lower floor, at almost ground level, seems slightly out of place. At a quick glance, even a maybe less than suspicious eye, it would appear that a rock has come loose and settled across the opening. But if one were to take the time, and the attention, they could perceive the rock to be slowly shifting.

Watching.

Plotting.

Behind that same window a tall, dark figure crosses the floor. Moving between tables and desks, overburdened with vats, papers and jars. There's movement in some, as murky liquids are displaced. Other jars are just filled with still and lifeless forms. Some on dark wood shelves, others, discarded and forgotten in empty dusty corners. A shadow passes by the window, fleetingly, but the man inside is too wrapped in his work to pay heed.

A stalking silhouette traverses, almost transparently, across the manor's outer walls. Stopping, deliberately, under a double-doors light. It hesitates. Searching for a path. Then it scales to the balcony above, sleeking over the railing, like an oversized lizard. It goes prone, and crawls into the opening, disappearing into a dimly lit room. The body in the bed barely has time to register the hand over her mouth, as she's pulled from her comfort and stolen from her sleep. Out to the balcony and down to the ground. She struggles but she was overpowered from the start.

She's dragged through a field to a paddock. Her panties are ripped from her torso and then, coldly, shoved in to her mouth. She's slammed into a hitching post, where her bedclothes are torn from her body. Burning her skin as they're stripped from her flesh. She's blindfolded, gagged. and ruthlessly tied, in a very unflattering manner, to the rail and the posts that hold it. She waits for the worst but there comes only silence.

Vulnerability.

Fear.

The shade swifts back through the field and climbs back into the room it just invaded. It finds shiny things and gold and it throws them on the bed. Somehow it knows these things are important to these beings but it doesn't really know why. It makes its way through the house, as quietly as its heavy feet can steal, gathering as much as it can carry. Which, considering it's lean and lanky appearance, is surprisingly a lot.

After its pillage is complete it makes its way to the fireplace. It knows the power of this. Its body can attest to that. Fighting its fear, it grabs the tongs and removes a glowing log. Carefully. Stealthily, it walks to the cellar door, opens it quietly and lays the log on the wooden steps. The tongs glow red as it watches and waits. The fire begins to spread.

Manitus Grindhelm is diligent in his work. His current pursuit sees him cutting into a live pregnant sow. He's inspecting the babies, his latest creations, and is furious to find them all dead. He's failed again. This does not sit well with his ego. His fists ball in anger. His temples pulse. He rages at an unseen target.

A whisp of grey pulls at his sight. A hint of smoke catches his attention. He turns to see what has taken his thought.

Brightly licking tendrils of gray drift across the ceiling. Playing with the light from a lantern hanging on the wall. The top of the staircase is glowing. He makes toward the flame, grabs a mace from the rack, and bounds up the steps, two at a time. As he breaks through the doorway he sees his second creation, his biggest failure, waiting. The tongs still red in its hands.

"You!" he screams, swinging the mace at it's head.

A hand reaches out and catches the club's head. It stops dead.

"How dare you defy…" his words are cut short with an ear shattering scream, the heavy weight of the tongs shatter both his knees, in one violent, vengeful stroke. The skin chars and sizzles. Angry words turn to agonizing screams. Fire licks at Manitus' feet. The creature turns, to walk away, stops and crushes a hand under foot. The impact is hard. So brutal, in fact, its rear talon removes three of the writhing man' s fingers. Separating them from his hand like a dull axe through a chicken's neck.

Manitus screams, cursing after the green humanoid, as he crawls across the room trying to escape the inferno that's quickly growing behind him, "I should have killed you the day you were made, you useless fucking filth!"

The creature pays him no heed, he just grabs the whip by the door and heads out into the night. And yes, he knows the power of this too.

Pulling himself by his elbows the Master of Grindhelm Manor slowly makes his way outside and tumbles down the steps. It's an excruciating endeavor. He slams hard to the cobblestone path. His feet burnt, his knees shattered and seared, his right hand, useless and bleeding. The pain becomes too much, he starts to fade.

The girl, tied to the hitching post, can see the bright flames raging. The pops and explosions, of the numerous vats and jars, meet her ears with a terrifying message. She knows her world is changed, maybe even shattered. She's terrified, desperate. And rightfully so. She feels the cloth, of her gag and blindfold, ripped off her head with a violent tug.

Feet come into view. Thick reptilian feet. Three toes up front, one black-claw curled out from behind the ankles. She follows them up to thin, athletic, masculine legs, covered in skin of a deep green and vibrant serpentine pattern. She seethes with distaste and venom. Her arrogance flares. She stares up at the creatures face and snarls. She strains her neck up to look in its face.

Its eyes, a yellow surrounded by black, are set into a brow and cheeks that are gargoyle in nature. Cold and emotionless. They seem misplaced against his human like nose and crocodilian mouth.

"My father will burn you for this. Remember burn?" she commands.

It lowers its form and stares in her eyes. It sees her fear and smells it too. The puddle on the ground, between her feet, is overpowering.

"Remember burn. Yes. Father not burn me." The creature replies, "He burn."

She gasps in confusion, not at the message in his words but at the words themselves. She didn't know he could speak.

It reaches to a wound, still fresh from before, when it was beaten unconscious. The blood is tacky on its face. It runs a calloused finger through it, then traces a line across her forehead. Cutting into her skin with its fingernails.

"I know this. I know you. I feel you, now… Mother... Sister," It seethes.

The blood stings her face and trickles down her cheek. The creature rises and vanishes from her view.

There's a whistle, and the cut of the air. A crack. She hears it before she feels the intensity. One lash, then a second, then a third. She screams in agony as the steel-barbed-tip bites and peels little chunks from her back. Her ass. Her leg. Her sex.

There is no pattern, there is no target.

He whips into her as she did to him for her sport. But his action is not sport, it's intention. Retribution. A fourth and a fifth tremble her body. The screams get louder, fueled by pain, despair, and the words she just heard.

Words she doesn't believe. Words she's beginning to comprehend the accusation of.

The situation is unfathomable. She should be beating him as is her place as her father's daughter.

A sixth lash crashes on her, harder still than the rest, ripping the flesh from the muscle of her inner thigh.

Mother? Sister? Those are the last thoughts that pass through her mind.

Her body stiffens and goes spastic. A seventh crack rends one final scream. The eighth bites into spent flesh. Her body jerks but there's no sound. Spent, she sags against the rail and the bindings.

His creator taught him this well too.

Manitus Grindhelm yells in desperation at the wails of his beloved daughters suffering, then he too passes out from his pain and anguish. Boots still smoldering on his feet. Blood seeping into the dirt from the stumps on his hand.

Explosions rock the underground lab. A furious fire razes the roof. Noxious colored smoke billows green, yellow and gray from the broken windows. The stonewalls crack and crumble. A howl, a grateful release, mixed within the pain, bellows from the underground workshop and settles on the creatures ears.

He drops the whip and walks away.

Grindhelm Manor is a pyre. A raging hope against the dark of this night. This place.

A lanterns light gives truth to the scene. Bloody clothes, bloodied rags. The smell of poultice hinting on the air.

Tug and Dora Sporrel gently and methodically tend their daughters wounds. Still shaken from the events that just thrust themselves, violently, into their home.

The littlest one shifts with pain. Her mother soothes a quiet song, a lullaby. She stirs and moans. Her father calms her with a stroke of a damp cloth across her forehead.

"Shh, sweet Molly. You are home, you are safe." her mother offers.

"Who did this to you?" her father asks.

The little girl shifts.

Before she can answer the door opens again. This time without force.

Three sets of eyes turn to the disturbance. They can see his shape, silhouetted by the faint, flickering glow that rages, in the night, behind it.

"Malachite?" Molly asks, with agonized breath.

"Molly," The shape replies, tossing a tied up sheet into the one room shack. It lands with a metallic clatter. Coins of silver and gold scatter across the floor. "Take. Go," the beast states, before it turns and begins to leave.

"Wait," the girl implores, struggling to her feet.

Her parents watch, the mother too overwhelmed to try and stop her. The father sensing something is other than it first appeared. She stumbles across the room and wraps the creature in her arms. "Thank you, Malachite." She sobs in its ear.

It reaches to her face and wipes the tears from her eyes, "Thank you… Molly," then it turns and heads back into the night.

"Hold." A voice booms.

The creature turns to see a hand extended. He reaches out, warily, and accepts the others embrace.

"Thank you," Tug solemns. Inspecting the hand and matching it to cuts on his daughters side. He gives a look.

"No. Never." The creature offers.

"Him?" he asks, pointing his head in the manor's direction.

"Yes."

"You know I promised him, if he ever… I would kill him."

"Him broken, worse. I get wagon, horses. Bring. You leave."

"I need to fulfill this."

"Him. Not her. She only hurt me."

"Just him."

"Then you go."

"Yes. What will you do?"

"No whip. No cage. No burn... Live."

The moon has just started waning. One day passed full since that night Grindhelm Manor burned. There's an odd transience against a treeline. Many miles away from that place. A lone figure skulks across the top of a hill. Its movement stopping at a hedgerow, overlooking the stone barricade of the town known as Roddertrend. It's attention is fixed on a cart, with a family of three, and their whole world behind them.

The man is a barrel, short, stout and strong. There's a keenness in his gaze. A thousand yard stare. The daughter, a lively sprite of a being, sits on his lap holding the reigns. She's a better drover than he is. This trip proved that. Beyond any reasonable doubt. The woman is kindly, motherly. Stocky and sturdy with a very pleasant face. She's contently knitting and humming to the world. The little girl has her mothers smile. And the same genuine gentleness to her eyes. Small trees and shrubs fill most of their load. Along with some rucksacks and duffels and a tied up fancy bed sheet.

The gate to the town opens and the cart's allowed passage.

The little girl, looks to the treeline, smiles and waves. The father raises his hand. The mother just turns and nods an appreciation..

The shadowy figure makes to the wood, fading, back into the green.