A year later Kreet had settled into her life with the old monk rather well. Visitors were few, and when she was able to greet them in the Common tongue, they usually had no problem with her. For his part, Ka'Plo was enjoying every day with her. In his time teaching Kreet how to speak in the Common tongue, he was constantly learning more about her life. Yet every day her memories became fuzzier, so his copious notes were dwindling. He began to work on his Kobold Compilation in earnest, knowing that he would be very lucky indeed if he were able to complete the massive multi-volume set before his life was over.

For the most, part his visitors were either members of his sect, sent to check up on him, or the local farmer who delivered their groceries. Technically, the shack belonged to the farmer, but he and his family had known Ka'Plo for years and seemed sincerely happy to help the old man. They had a daughter who came over frequently to play with Kreet, and the kobold learned a lot about human socialization from the time she spent playing with the girl. Of course, initially, the family was none too keen on the relationship, but as time passed they even accepted Kreet into their own home on occasions for sleepovers.

When she did so, Kreet made sure to be on her best behavior at all times. She dressed appropriately, made sure to keep her body covered at all times, and ate with as much dignity as a kobold could muster sitting at a table. Fortunately, the farmer’s family were a friendly lot and she didn’t suffer from the stigma of being a kobold in a human world when at home or at the farmer’s house. Her infrequent trips into town, however, were a different matter altogether. Eventually she refused to go at all unless Ka'Plo really insisted, and those were generally trips to the shop where she was able to help the old man choose items that she would need for mending things around the shack.

While her recollection of her family might be fading, the pain of their loss was ever sharp in her memory. Whenever she would see an Adventurer in town or wandering the paths beyond the wood around her cabin, her eyes would take on a red hue, and she would not speak until he or she was out of sight.

“They’re not all bad, Kreet. They’re just out in the world, trying to make a way for themselves like everyone else you know,” Ka'Plo said at the dinner table one summer evening while he picked his teeth over yet another delicious meal Kreet had made. She had, in fact, become quite a good cook.

“They make their way in the world by killing others. I wish they would all just die,” she said spitefully glancing towards the window where she had seen a small band on the road a mile or so in the distance earlier.

“That is not the way of Pelor that you were taught Kreet,” he said to her with disapproval.

“No sir. I am sorry for my transgression,” she responded as if by rote. Though she saw the wisdom in the moral teachings that Ka'Plo had taught her, she also recognized that she was not truly a child of the light. A kobold is a child of the dark and the underworld, and she always felt like somewhere, somehow, she was betraying her kind. Not that she wanted to worship Nerull by any means, she loved the old man and sincerely loved his religion. But old associations are hard to break. Her clan had not worshiped Nerull either, of course. They hadn’t known what worship even meant.

That evening, Kreet and Ka'Plo sat on the small porch as the evening dimmed. She removed the odd mechanism she had designed for her eyes now that the sun had set and she could see normally again.

“Ka'Plo,” she started, taking up her knitting again. “Do you think I will ever meet another kobold?”

“That’s hard to say, Kreet. Your kind are rare around here, and they don’t live above ground. Most that are caught are put to work as slaves in the mines. Do you miss them?”

Kreet sighed, mimicking human expression. “I… I don’t know anymore. I’ve been around Big People too long. But, someday, I’ll mature. I would like to survive to raise my own clutch.”

“My! Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself young one? By my understanding you’ve a good number of years yet before you’ve reached the egg-laying age!”

“I know,” she said, turning back to her work. Minutes later, she resumed the conversation. Long stretches of silence were common between them, and she liked this time with him. “But I can’t lay eggs without a mate, you know. I’m not a chicken.”

The old man stood up and held his hands out to her. She set aside her needlework and happily accepted this embrace. Even though the farmer’s family and the other monks were friendly enough towards her, she couldn’t help but notice that they never touched her if they could avoid it. Only the old man treated her as a true equal, and she had loved him for that.

“No, you’re no chicken, Kreet. I’m not feeling well though. I’m going to go to bed early today. Would you mind cleaning up for me?”

“Certainly sir,” she said, and she watched him open the rickety door for the last time. In the morning he was dead, and Kreet was alone again.