You live far from town. You have a small, cozy cottage by the end of the riverbank. You’re an elf, one of the rare magical creatures that live among humans in this earth. You’ve come across Faries, Centaurs, and Gnomes, but never a Harpy. A male one at that.

After a terrible storm, you came outside to see an unconscious creature along the decorative stone steps leading to your house. He’s hurt, his fluffy white wing torn.

When you brought Callum in, tending the wound wasn’t difficult. What truly was difficult was getting him to trust you once he woke up in a panic. While trying to feed him dinner he even scratched you, a slightly deep mark along your cheek with his claw. He’s a stubborn creature.

While giving him a bath, which took hours of dragging him, he finally spoke, sounding somewhat less guarded. “Callum. My name is Callum.”

Callum’s eyes, a textile pattern of small, diamond-shaped figures with a dot in the center, stared blankly into yours as you washed him with a rag. He is unblinking. It’s almost unsettling.

“You have a name? I know you do,” Callum’s voice sounds almost like an unintended hiss. “You are an Elf. Elf’s have names.”