Smoke rose from a nearby battlefield, buffeted by the wind. The village had been poor to begin with, though being behind enemy lines for almost a month had failed to improve their situation. Those who could flee towards the capital had done so months ago; those who were left did their best to remain hidden. The fields had already been destroyed and the food was almost gone. A single dirt road wound its way through the small town.

Small rickety buildings stood alongside the dirt road, property of the local peasantry. Many were broken down, or ill-maintained at best. Crumbling stonework, rotting wood, and broken glass were abundant. At the end of the lane resided a windmill, it’s arms torn and broken. Like many of the surrounding buildings it practically lay in ruins, paint needing replaced long ago and the doors and shutters barely hanging onto their hinges. The front door creaked in the blowing wind as a babe began to wail in its cradle.

An old man, long since confined to the last bed in the house, had roused the babe with one of his wet, wracking coughing fits. The family’s other beds had been sold for food and medicine, things that seemed to be luxuries since the children's parents died. There were no table nor chairs, though the family had kept the cradle for the babe and some kitchenwares.

Their father perished during a skirmish with the menfolk invaders; their mother lost her life shortly after childbirth. The doctor reluctantly provided essence of tralvah berries for the babe; the tralvah plant had been rare before the war started and was almost impossible to find now. The juice of the berries could be mixed with water to nourish sickly elveen, though the doctor warned the baby would always be stunted and temperamental. The family had been millers and had hardly saved any funds for emergencies like this and were fortunate for the charity. What little they had saved had gone toward their father's sword and armor, shortly before the menfolk crossed the borders into their lands. The pegs on the wall that held the armaments had been both empty and dusty for years.

A young elve, hardly past his thirtieth year, was slicing potatoes and onions on a cutting board. He was making the only dish his mother had taught him before she died: Potato soup. Sometimes, the old man could drink the broth; those were the good nights. Most nights were filled with coughing and wailing.

The boy finished slicing the onions, and his eyes were still stinging as he started to peel the potatoes. He was trying to wipe away a tear from his eye when his hand slipped. The knife cut into his fingertip and slipped to the ground; blood trickled from the wound. He slumped to the floor, defeated, abandoned. He began to weep; deep gut-wrenching sobs tore away from his lips, fat tears streaked down his face. The young elve's sobs drowned out the other noises, leaving him unaware of his surroundings.

The elve failed to notice that the wind had died down. The front door had quit creaking and remained completely closed for the first time in a week. He was also oblivious to how dark the room had become; even though the shutters were still open only a few scarce rays of light came in. Something moved within the darkness, quietly watching the boy. It was only when it spoke that the elve noticed.

"Always with the tears, Daryl. My offer still stands, I can take you away from all of this."

The shadows coalesced into a form that stretched from the ground to the tip of the rafters, well over twelve feet tall. The being was bedecked by claws and fangs, a half dozen tentacles and a tail. Rather than skin, it was covered in scales and fur. Foot-long spines jutted out from between the scales, dripping some sort of noxious, ichorous substance. The young elve gazed at the beast and shook his head, without a trace of fear, before wiping at the tears on his face. He sniffled and blew his nose on his sleeve before speaking.

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"I tole you ta go 'way."

The beast chuckled slightly and sat down on the floor. He paused for a few moments in silence and used the tip of his claws to draw patterns and pictures in the floor. It glanced to the young elve, who sat with his arms crossed and his nose wrinkled, and smiled again as it spoke.

"DARYL. I'm just here to help. I can take you away from this,” the beast gestured about the room for emphasis. “I can make sure you're always fed and there will never be a need for these tears again."

Almost as if on cue, the old man started into another fit. The coughs sounded wet and his body pitched back and forth. The babe, who had just started to settle down, wailed with a newfound intensity. The young elve clenched his fists and shook his head violently, tears sliding down his cheeks once more. The creature waited, its smile broadening across its shadowy lips.

Some time passed before Daryl wiped at his eyes once more and peered at the beast. The light outside had faded to dusk. Daryl took a deep breath to steady himself before replying, "Wha-what do I have to do?"

The smile upon the creature's face widened again, showing off its mismatched teeth and fangs. Its tail lashed out, and in the near darkness was almost impossible to follow even though it was easily four times as thick as the young elve’s arm. As it hit the ground, tiles crunched and shattered while something slid across the floor. It glittered from the lingering light cast by the window, and skittered to a stop at Daryl’s feet. Small and metallic, its tip was still stained with potato juice and blood even after rolling in the dust on the floor.

"I'm sure you will think of something, Daryl. You always struck me as a clever boy."

Daryl picked the knife up and stared at it in silence. The beast waited, the only motion it made was a slight flicking of its tail, back and forth across the floor. Eventually, Daryl blew his nose into the elbow of his sleeve, and shakily rose to his feet. The old man's breath rasped, his fit finally over. The babe’s cries grew quieter and more plaintive; it was past time for his meal. Daryl's hand gripped the blade tightly, and his knuckles faded to white.

The beast's tongue lolled from its mouth as Daryl lurched towards the bed. The old elve stared toward the ceiling, his face etched with pain and exertion from his fit. As Daryl raised the knife, his grandfather watched without a hint of emotion. Tears streaked down Daryl’s cheeks again, though instead of sobbing Daryl only mouthed the words "I'm sorry," as he lifted the blade. The old man shook his head in a sickly, slow motion. Daryl closed his eyes and turned his face away as the blade descended.

Daryl felt the blade bite into flesh as the old man started coughing again. Something sounded different this time though, as if the old man were gargling. The babe wailed again, startled by the noise. Daryl brought the blade down again and again until the old man was silent; his arm, face and clothes had become soaked in blood. He wasn't sure how many times he stabbed the old man, though his arm and hand now ached.

Daryl sat and looked over the old man's still form, gently stroking his grandfather’s hand. He sat for a long while and wept. Eventually, the tears dried and Daryl felt a hand clasp his shoulder.

“Ah, Daryl, I knew you would think of something. Shall we take our leave of this wretched place?"

Daryl wiped his nose on his sleeve, accidentally smearing more blood across his face in the process. He looked over to the wailing infant and hesitated.

"Ah yes, that thing. Why don't we let nature take it's course, and take care of more important things. You look hungry, Daryl. Why don't we get you that food . . . Unless you would rather stay?"

Daryl shook his head. The door unlatched, and opened without assistance, as the pair left the house without a backward glance. The shadow beast slid his arm around Daryl's shoulders, and allowed itself a small smile.