I am in the living room. The place of which the living room is a part of is an apartment complex. Two rooms connected by a hallway, living room, and proximity. And though, it is arguably my room too, by rule of who has ownership, it is only that on paper. Truth be told, the area is, in fact, hers. It is stocked and decorated with posters. Posters of wrestling, posters of beautiful men (no contention from me here), and posters of mythical monsters, the likes of which have probably gone instinct aeons ago.

But all of that are rather meaningless details. The detail of note is who I spend it with. And, I guess, how they are. Her name I have gathered is Ceylica. Her origin is Criland. And her appearance…

Her appearance is that of a demon. She towers at around two metres in height, several heads above me. Her hair is long, let loose past her shoulders. More important of note, is that it is red. Not fire red or melon red, but red like wine. Deep, just a touch purple, and vibrant. Her eyes, though, hold pearl-white pupils. They, too, are unique. Unusual by way of the black sclera that surrounds them, like a star in an empty sea. The body she has speaks of strength too. I can tell. Her arms and legs are honed to an almost unnatural degree, thick, rotund, the product of a biological and circumstantial effort alike. And top it all off, two horns, protruding like that of a ram, come from each side of her head.

Genetics and training all in one neat package.

Pretty interesting, if you ask me. In the end, I’m mostly left with a feeling of curiosity, thinking to myself, ‘So this is a demon’, and musing over how we aren’t that different.

Despite the fact that you know, her race comes from another plane of existence and all.

“Hah, so this skinny ass elf is gonna be me roommate?!”

“Half-elf, actually.”

“So this skinny ass half-elf is gonna be me roommate?!”

Coming out of the blue as her expression did, I resign myself to playing the role of a relatively amicable newcomer. One treading on paper-thin sensibilities and without want to offend.

“My name is Morgana Wittford, I hope I’m not disturbing you by being your roommate!”

I smile and settle down my bag. She takes five steps forward, crouches down, and studies me like some rare beetle in summertime. Her action is, at once, searing, peculiar and demonstrative of her personality. Whatever emotion I feel, however, is concealed. Instead, I meet her head-on and smile, like a mannequin, doll, or whatever euphemism for an abstract model of a person there is.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Ye, ye ‘re disturbing me, so please leave.”

“Hmm, I’m afraid that isn’t possible.” I carry on to say. “If you have any issue with my room allocation, you’d have to take it up with Rainee.”

“And what if I threatened to punch ye?”

I hold the palms of two hands towards her, a partly unnerved expression on my face. This is not entirely manipulative on my part. In all truth, it is an act done equally out of a need for self-preservation (put yourself in my position, here!), but also as a way to settle things peacefully and show I’m not a threat.

“Um, that depends on how serious your threat is.”

“And what if I were like super duper serious?”

“Well, then I might have to walk outside, come back with a few others, and move you out of the place.”

Oops. In the heat of the moment, I think I let out some pent-up anger. Then again. A girl can only take so much slander in one day before she lets out some in turn. As so often occurs in moments of unexpected release, I find myself quietly waiting, eyes to the side, and a dry gulp down my throat.

“‘Kay then, seems ye ain’t spineless after all.”

Contrary to what one might expect, Ceylica concedes there, stepping backwards and choosing to lie back down on the sofa. Boredom flashes across her face no sooner, and she reaches for a magazine on the low-hanging glass table. This ‘magazine’, I now spot, has a pretty boy elf on the cover. Hate as I do to admit it, I recognize where it comes from and what content it spots.

“Damn, I need to get meself an elf sometime.”

I don’t disagree with her statement. Having been left to my whims, I go to my side of the apartment, find that all of my luggage have been safely delivered, and set about unpacking.

Like a child with all the time in the world, I make no attempts at speed. Going longingly over my belongings in a manner that might be tedious to others. One by one, I sift through my three pieces of luggage, meticulously unpacking goods and adorning my room with them as I go along.

“Ah.”

A glassy hardness caresses my fingers. From feeling alone, I’m able to ascertain its purpose. It is a picture frame. Rimmed with ornate Lituden wood and fitted with an old photo. A photo of me, Lucius, and Guillaume, huddled in a park, posing for a picture. Though I hadn’t put it in myself, I know who did.

Guillaume.

The man who adopted me.

“Jeez.”

My placid face gives way to a grin. I recall now, a fond memory. Scenes of a time long past. What fun those days were. Us three, running about, not without a care in the world, but with little that would damper the spirits we had.

Well.

If my hope is to be correct, Lucius will find the same reprieve here.

Maybe.

Things are uncertain, given his lackadaisical self, but hey. I like to believe he’s smart enough. As it is, he seems to be making friends, and even if he weren’t, I’m not sure I’d intervene. We all have to make our way in life, and you know what they say.

Hardship makes the man.