“Fairies were strange… magical… and often they have quite a short temper,” Grandma Opal would tell us children with her blue, clouded eyes staring off in a deep train of thought. Back in her day, she said, fairies roamed secretly at night around the wicken hour. Other creatures wandered about then, too, such as imps, nymphs, and dwarfs. Centaurs, too, were said to reside in some shadowy places, untouched by humans. They were rare.

    “What did they look like?” I remember my fascination with all her bizarre stories.

    “What are you telling these kids now, Ops?” Her husband and my grandfather would ask with a chuckle. Even back in her day, many people did not believe her.

    

    That was all when I was a child, and my mind was easily moldable. Now a’days, I know specific things for certain. One of them is that Grandma Opal told the truth; fairies do have a short temper.

    In the heart of an aspen grove, surrounded by cliff sides, caves, and ridges sits a small cottage. It is the color of honey, has white shutters and window boxes covered with vine plants. For thirty years, I’ve sat in this house and watches the fairies come and go. Their wings twinkle in the moonlight as they go from vine flower to flower, pollinating as they go. One time, on a navy blue night, I thought I even spotted a group of fawns prancing through the yard. That was when I was younger, though, and I would not be surprised if those were the last fawns ever to exist.

 

    The day began like all others around here; the sun rose behind a thick layer of clouds that hardly let any light seep through. The yellow leaves of autumn engulfed the cabin like a wildfire, and a cold breeze was brought with it. I gathered my backpack and coat, preparing for the trek that laid ahead. I had scouted the western, eastern, and northern caverns. Today would be my first time scouting the southern ones. Although it was exciting, I figured most of my time would be spent simply mapping and performing the rather duller duties of a Monster Scout. This was something I was very terribly mistaken in.

 

    My walking stick impales a couple of fallen leaves while my boots sink in the mud with every step. Rain had fallen, icy and quick, and now a mist encompasses the land. It hides anything farther than ten yards in a horrendous grey sheet, like a magician performing a disappearing act. Despite my inability to see far ahead, I hear movement. Something massive is rustling in the forest. The ground trembles as though it, too, is scared. Big, amber eyes pierce the fog, and a putrid smell of smoke floats over me. It comes slow but menacing. ‘With that size, it has to be a dragon.’ That is my first thought, but as it creeps closer, I realize it's true nature. The yellow eyes were yellow headlights.