From the tip of his head down to the tips of his feet, Malcolm is disheveled. His charcoal hair, though tangibly soft and visibly clean, bows to no comb. The mess of hair flurries like ruffled feathers in the wind, and sticks out at odd angles at all times. Despite this, he manages to maintain some level of decorum. “Organized chaos”, if you would. His clothes, too, -usually some combination of darkly colored sweater and blue jeans- show clear signs of wear and tear; small holes in shirts and jackets, fraying edges around the cuffs of sleeves, the material of jeans pale and worn where the joints bend; and all of it wrinkled and crumpled.

Surrounding his light green eyes (though a better descriptor for them might be sickly) are dark circles of purplish black that betray a myriad of sleepless nights. His face is altogether fairly well put together, even if, like the rest of his body, it finds itself a bit soft around the edges. To the majority of onlookers, however, any conventional attractiveness is offset by the vacant, faraway look in his eyes. A gaze that is, while not utterly unpleasant, more akin to eerie than dreamy.

Three human years of overindulgence in food and underindulgence in exercise have left him in a state of flux between slim and chubby. He maintains this state through periodic bouts of underfeeding while simultaneously overworking his human body; episodes brought on by frequent bursts of energy and enthusiasm amidst a sea of ennui.

Malcolm grew up within the confines of the Ranger’s garden, rarely straying from within its boundaries. He watched in timid angst from afar as the Ranger couple disappeared, leaving a young Angela Rick to piece together what her parents had left behind. One day, a then mature Malcolm would find himself venturing out beyond the garden and into the wider world. A chance encounter with a charming young woman would leave him enchanted. For days and weeks and eventually months he would return to where he first saw her, watching her with curiosity and admiration. So the day would eventually come where Malcolm would find himself approaching this young lady. Their romance was a passionate thing, burning twice as bright and burning out twice as fast. Roughly six months after his final departure from the preserve, Malcolm, now in human form, found himself standing uncertainly on Ranger Rick’s doorstep. She took him in, then, and for over two years now Malcolm has been her right-hand fai- er, man.

B-beep

B-beep

B-beep

B-beep

Swaddled in a tangled mess of blankets and bedsheets, a slumbering form rolled over in mild irritation.

Beep beep

Beep beep

Beep beep

The alarm clock, however, only grew more insistent with each heavy breath drawn in by the resting individual. Emerging from the drab cocoon of darkly colored covering came a clumsy hand, searching for a nightstand that the hand’s owner, eyes still sealed by the remnants of sleep, could not see.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep

The form reached out towards the source of the incessant beeping to no avail. A loud groan emanated from within the cocoon of blankets, before a sleep-addled figure slinked out of the bed, coming to stand upon the cluttered floor. The figure picked his way towards the endless annoyance carefully; blocking his path were piles of clothes, stacks of well-worn books, and clusters of strange memorabalia; carvings of wood and stone, faintly glowing orbs and crystals, and all other manner of paraphernalia.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep

A very tired and very irritated Malcolm was slowly closing in on the source of the noise, taking great care to avoid tripping over any of the various hazards. Fucking brownies must have not only changed the setting on his alarm clock, but also moved the damn thing halfway across the room.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbee-

Malcolm heaved a weighty sigh. Solace at last. His crusted eyes peered cautiously at the neon green digits of the clock. Three? As in three A to the fucking M? His first proper rest in days and the little bastards decide to wake him up at three in the morning? At least with midnight there would have been enough time for him to sink back into the elusive embrace of dreamland. This was just sick. Had he forgotten to salt his door? There certainly wasn’t any other explanation. Another sigh escaped from Malcolm’s lungs, though this one was a slower, sadder sort. It sneaked out from between his lips and through his nostrils quietly, his whole body caving in on itself, just a little. Like a deflated balloon. Malcolm snorted at the thought. He certainly felt deflated. No use standing around though, there was work to be done. There was always something to do.

So the fairy turned human quickly bustled off to the nearby bathroom to clean himself up and prepare for the coming day. The sudden energy that propelled him so was one part anxious, one part manic, and three parts hatred for the very concept of a brownie meddling with his housekeeping affairs. Still, it got him through the day. And night.

Brownies couldn’t work if someone was awake to witness them doing so.

---

Malcolm was dancing. Why? Because it was only half past five, he was on his fifth cup of coffee with far more milk and sugar than was necessary and far less actual coffee than was typical, and the house was nearly immaculate. He’d already washed and re-washed every plate, pot, spoon, and glass to perfection, set and reset every article of furniture to ensure that each piece was in its proper place, and dusted and scrubbed every exposed surface of the house thrice over. Angela’s laundry, too, he’d sorted out. Rested out in front of her bedroom door in neat piles: pants, shirts, socks and unmentionables all carefully arranged for her convenience. So yes, he was dancing. If spinning around in a circle, staring up at the gentle twilight sky, while giggling uncontrollably could be counted as dancing, that is. The popped blood vessels in his eyes married with the pale green irides and the white background of the sclerae to form a sort of twisted holiday festival.

Life was awful, that much Malcolm knew. The brownies fucked him out of his sleep. The nymphs and the dryads made fun of him constantly. The woman that he changed his life for had broken his heart. He might have children over a year old at this point, somewhere out there. He couldn’t fly, he didn’t live inside of a hollowed out magic toadstool, and on the best of days he could barely use his magic. Life was awful. And yet, there he was, laughing and spinning in a circle without a care in the world. It was moments like this where Malcolm felt like he really could fly, if only he could jump from somewhere high enough. Magic and gravity would sort out the rest. There were plenty of places across the preserve that would do the trick, if he ever sought them out.

There was always a part of him that held him back from trying something like that, though. When Malcolm’s head wasn’t soaring in the clouds, he knew exactly what that part of him was. The cynical, logical, bitter piece of him that told him all of the things a happy, high Malcolm never wanted to hear. He would die if he jumped. He couldn’t fly anymore, he would never fly again.

Just like that, the smile faded from Malcolm’s face as the spinning slowly came to a stop. Dizzy and stumbling, his countenance caught somewhere between a frown and a grimace, Malcolm made his way back inside. He poured himself another cup of too-sweet coffee before dumping himself unceremoniously into a chair. He stared dubiously at the mug cupped in his hands. There were several ways to make this drink more exciting and none of them had to do with the copious amounts of sugar already present in the brew. Ah well. So Malcolm raised the steamy liquid to his lips and took a nice long gulp, before setting the mug, now half empty, on the table before him. He began to pour a soft, powdery substance into the mug, stirring the concoction with a small silvery spoon.

It was still too bitter.

---

Warm rays of sun beamed down upon Malcolm’s bundled form. Despite the uncomfortable humidity of the Wisconsin summer, he was clad in more clothing than was probably necessary. Baggy jeans hung around his hips, loose enough that Malcolm had to hook his fingers around the belt loops and hoist them up often, but not so loose that they would fall down to his ankles all of their own volition. A pair of black, ratty, tightly laced hiking boots peeked out from beneath the cuffs of each pant leg. Atop his torso a gray cotton sweater was pulled over a simple white undershirt. Both the sweater and undershirt were privy to a number of faded pink splotches; battle scars of being washed by a vengeful brownie. Worn over the whole lot was a loose-fitting leather jacket that doubtlessly saw frequent use.

To most, the whole getup would be utterly stifling in the current weather. Malcolm found it all to be quite comfortable. Leaning against the wall of the establishment known as ‘Goldie Lochs’, he watched warily as a pickup truck rolled into the lot, before coming to a stop. Malcolm fished around in his right pocket before slowly raising a small purplish orb to his mouth. A two-way scrying device. “I think he’s here, Angela. He’s getting out now. Be here, or don’t, but I’ve got to go.” Hurriedly, the orb was stashed away once more.

Driving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, Malcolm watched impassively as a tall, well-built fellow approached the shop. Nearly a head taller than him.

“Hi,” He called out, his voice unaccented but creeping out slowly. Every pore on Malcolm’s body exuded something akin to either boredom or resignation. The tone of his voice was no different. “Welcome to Lochpine Preserve. At least until you snoop around and the wildlife eats you for lunch.” To the stranger, it would doubtless seem a joke, even if one that was deadpanned and poorly delivered. Malcolm knew better.