Struggling a little against the wind, the old man pulled open the door to his hovel and stepped inside. Snowflakes flurried about his feet as he entered, scattering white across the floor before melting into nothing. A gust slammed the door behind him with a loud crack. "Thank you kindly," the old man muttered, pulling off his gloves and walking to the hearth. For a few moments, he warmed his hand against it, before busying himself filling a kettle and setting it on.

It was an unseasonable storm, nearly a month too early, and he could feel the teeth in it. It would worry the mountainside for days, not letting go until it was satisfied. Bad for the harvests down in the valley, but he had already set aside enough stores to last him a long winter. As the water began to steam, he poured some into a wooden basin to wash his hands, face, and ears. The heat from the fire and the water radiated into him, and he could feel the stiffness and the chill pass from his bones.

He glanced over at the pile of books in the corner. A storm like this omened many winter days spent indoors. Time enough, but when next he visited town he should make sure to lay in some more candles—

A hollow wooden boom from outside, and the bleating of sheep. He stood upright, alert, his reverie broken. "The barn," he growled. "If the wind's blown down the door, the sheep will—" Cursing, he thrust his hands back into his gloves and drew his cloak around his shoulders. Warmth could wait. He rushed back into the storm.

As he approached the barn through the fading whiteness of the storm, he could see that the door still stood in place. But, above the howling of the wind, there was still the bleating of his sheep. Coming closer still, he paused to look closely at the fresh-fallen snow by the door. It had been pushed aside. Someone had opened the door... and gone inside, it would seem.

His hand reached out for the handle, but something else caught his eye. A footprint. Kneeling down, he spanned it with his hand. Small, like a child's, but... He blinked. Toes and heel. A bare foot made this mark. A bare-footed child, running through the snow miles from any settlement, and with unusually long toes, too. His eyes widened as realization dawned, and he straightened up.

Slowly, he walked around the side of the barn, and took hold of a pitchfork lying against the outer wall. Clutching it in his hand, he walked back slowly to the door. Holding the implement at the ready in one hand, he pulled at the handle with the other. A sheep's nose poked out at him. "Calm, now, Hansie," he muttered. "Back to your rest..."

Walking past the agitated ewe, he held his weapon out into the darkness. No candle or lamp would have survived the storm, and although he had candle and flint in the barn, there was no way to safely light it without exposing himself. They can see in the dark, he remembered. The night is home to them.

"All right now," he growled. "Come on out."

If there was any response, it was drowned out by the fretting of the livestock. He moved forward a bit more. If anyone were to hide out in a barn, where would they rest? As his eyes adjusted to the meager amount of light coming through the planks, he saw a huddled shape beside a pile of straw. "I see you, now. You might as well stand up." No response. Step by step, he moved closer and closer, until he was just feet from the straw. Hands trembling just a little, he reached out the pitchfork and prodded.

It went through. Just a pile of cloth? "Damnation—" he swore, and then he felt the weight slam into his shoulders. Crying out, he fell to his knees, grappling at the wiry, powerful creature clinging to his back. Heaving himself forward, the two of them crashed into the straw, and the creature scrambled to its feet.

He clutched at the feet, but a swift kick knocked his hand aside. "Hell! Get here, you—" Lunging, he managed to knock the figure back down to the ground. It was small, impossibly thin, but with sinews like steel.

The two grappled and traded blows as the animals screamed around them, until the strange creature lost its balance and fell to the floor. Seizing the opportunity, the old man grabbed hold of it — strangely light — and slammed it head first into the wall with a sickening thud. The figure went limp in his arms.

His heart throbbed in his chest, feeling like it strove to break free. After a long moment kneeled on the ground, panting, sweating, he felt the breath come back to him, and the strength return to his limbs. So, too, did the animals begin to calm. He reached out for the figure crumpled on the floor before him. Still warm. His hand moved up, carefully, toward the neck. Two fingers on the throat confirmed what he suspected: it was still alive. His hand moved to encircle the thing's neck.

Its neck.

He stared down at the figure, whose life's blood he could feel pulsing weakly beneath his hand. In the gloom, he could just see the pale cast of its skin, the long neck, the chin, the peaceful face under a glaze of sticky blood. Its hair, ragged and tangled. He could hear the uneven croak of its breath. This slender little thing, so much like... "Damn," he groaned, pulling himself to his feat. "All right, then." He bent down and heaved the creature over his back, and then picked up its bundle from the floor, too — some kind of coarse cloth, with a few things inside — and made his way back out into the storm.

Once he was back in his shack, the man laid the figure out on his bed, tossing the bindle next to it. The kettle was bubbling and piping on the hearth. In the dim light of the fire, he sought and found a length of rope. Holding it in his hand, he looked at the little figure, and then back at the rope. He dropped it and, instead, reached for his flint and steel.

After a moment, the candle flared, and he held it up to inspect his new guest. It was as he suspected. Like anyone else, he had heard of them, but he had never seen one himself, nor known anyone who had. The creature had a long, slender build, with a broad, birdlike chest. The feet and hands were bare, but the body was clad in a form-fitting tunic and trousers that once had been white. Carefully, he picked at one of the edges. Quite a fine fabric... woven here and there with what appeared to be gold thread, and it could not have been stolen, for no human's clothes would have fit the thing.

Pouring hot water into the basin again, he moved to sit on the bed next to the creature. Its pale green skin was covered in whitish-green fluid, the color of pus but tarry in consistency. "Their blood is green, too," he murmured. Wetting a rag in the hot water, he set to work cleaning off its face. Underneath the features were much like a human child's, but the ears were long and pointed, the nose an almost indistinguishable ridge, the lips thin, and...

He peeled back the lips, just a bit. Right. Fangs, then. Pausing, he reached for one hand and lifted it up, examining the long, thin fingers. His hand brushed across the tips and then jerked away. Sharp, very sharp. "Like a cat's."

Returning to his work, he had nearly finished with the face when he saw the creature's eyelids flutter. Freezing, he drew his hands back and held them in front of his face. "Peace, goblin—"

The creature's eyes opened. Large and yellow, they peered unseeing into the room, and then refocused on his own. Eyes snapping the rest of the way open, it cried out. "No!" The sound was high-pitched and scratchy. "Stop!"

Standing up and backing off, the old man kept his hands upraised. "I was just tending your wounds. This is my home. I mean you no harm—"

Swaying drunkenly, it scrambled backward on the bed, pressing itself to the wall and baring its fangs. Its claws, hand and foot, dug into the bed and the wall. "Stay away from me," it hissed. "You will not have me!"

"Have you—" The old man froze, the cloth dropping from his suddenly slack grip. "You think I mean to—" He shook his head. "To harm you. No, goblin, I do not."

The goblin took a long, deep breath, and peered at him carefully, narrowing its yellow eyes. "Then why am I alive, human?"

The old man's shoulders slumped. "Because... you could not be dead. Not by my hand, at least." He looked at his hand as he spoke, and then carefully extended it forward, palm up. "See? Listen. My name is Errol. A hunter. I have lived here for twenty years, alone for seven of those years." His lip twitched into a crooked grin. "You are the first company I have had for quite a while, goblin."

Slowly, the goblin let go of the wall and the bed, and crept forward. It sat at the edge of the bed, and reached out to place its long, thin fingers atop Errol's weathered hand. "Not goblin, Errol." It considered. "I am..." It mumbled a few things in a language that he didn't understand, and then shrugged. "You can call me Rune. I am a dancer."