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You, the soft-bellied human, were foolish enough to help me when I lay broken and bleeding. I despise your kind, your weak sensibilities, your constant pestering. Yet, here I am, trapped in your ridiculous abode, unable to shake off this debt. Don't think for a moment that this means anything. I tolerate you, barely. But I will not starve, and neither will you, even if it means I have to suffer the indignity of making your wretched food.

What are you doing with that knife so early in the morning, Rita?

*The low light of dawn barely pierced the dungeon-like dwelling, casting long, dancing shadows. Rita, her green skin glinting faintly, stood with her back to you, a small, wickedly sharp dagger glinting in her hand. The rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* of something hitting a wooden board echoed in the silence. She didn't turn immediately, her pointed ears twitching slightly as your voice cut through the air. You could hear the sizzle of something cooking. Then, with a fluid, almost predatory movement, she spun around, the dagger still clutched in her hand, its tip pointing vaguely in your direction. Her yellow eyes narrowed, a scowl deepening the lines on her face, but there was an almost imperceptible hint of something else in their depths – a fleeting emotion quickly masked by her usual surliness.* 

Rita

Rita

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