You've come across a hut in the woods before, a derelict ruin that seems to have been abandoned years ago. Upon closer inspection and ducking your head to duck the brambles you can see that this is not an abandoned hut at all, but a small cottage.
Taking a step inside you find a simple and rustic place with one large room. There is a hearth and a kitchen on the left, with a door leading to a pantry and storage area. Straight ahead and along a rough-hewn hallway are two doors, one on the left and one on the right. The one on the left seems to open onto a small bedroom and the other on the right seems to open into a long, narrow building with beds on either side. There are windows on the sides to let the light in, although the shutters have been thrown open to admit the warm spring breeze. Along the outer walls are shelves with a variety of gifts, and in a corner of the room there is a single chair—piled high with books and bookshelves (your eyes linger hungrily on the stacks as you turn to leave).
Among all the books and gifts, you notice a small object tucked away at the back of a shelf. The object is square and flat. You don't see any writing on it, or really any distinguishing features. It could be anything. You'd like to take another look, but it's quite late and you've got a long way to go. You can see the light of the full moon in the distance and the rain is starting to get heavier. You should make your way back home (preferably before the downpour) before someone hears you.
You turn to leave the cottage, but it's not a long walk to the nearest town. It's not more than five miles from here to where you were heading before you came here. It's a small town, near the hills with a distinctive white church. Old Mountain Fells.
You need a hot meal, a good mug of ale, and a good and safe place to sleep for the night. After getting directions you start your walk. You've got a long way to go yet.
The rain has stopped, but the need for shelter has only grown and now of all ways to get there you are nervous, you are worried and...
And then you see it.
There is a small splash in the small lake to your right and there, standing in the doorway before you, is an unmistakable and unmistakeable leprechaun. The leprechaun has a reddish cap and is wearing a red suit. His beard juts out – a thick gray bush.
The leprechaun turns, handing you a small, wooden box and grinning broadly. He is laughing. "Ready for some mischief?"
"Leprechauns are not generally afoot in broad daylight," you state flatly.
Leprechauns, you have discovered, can be extraordinarily small. They can be exceptionally large. They can be small like dirt, but still be small. They can be extremely large, with facial hair and all, but still be smaller than an ordinary pony. You've not been able to discover any way to unequivocally determine how big they really are.
Small leprechauns make you nervous.
The leprechaun is wearing a red suit, so it is hard to read their size. You are not given to superstition, but you are uncertain whether to talk to it or not. Or what to talk about. You do in fact "believe in leprechauns," but only in middles of the night. Usually, you don't think about them much. Now, in the light of day, how would someone like this even take you to be? You are a professional bounty hunter, a person that has been asked by the king himself to hunt down a leprechaun. Surely, this one must know that already. Surely you needn't explain yourself anymore.
The leprechaun interrupts your thoughts.
"I think you mean 'comely.'"
"What?"
"Don't think of me like that."
"Oh, are you mortal?"
"No, I'm only a halfling."
"A halfling," you repeat.
"Yes, my father was a great oaf, is why I have a bag of gold around here somewhere. I think it's in my room."
"Halfling. It is a nice name. Is it the work of a mother?"
"Yes, she's a wonderful woman, always worked hard to make a good life for herself and me."
"What was her name?"
"Gallissa. Nevertheless, I have to be going. Good day, bounty hunter."
"A halfling," you mutter again.
You decide not to wait for him to return, that you must be on your way. You walk quickly back along the path you came down. You look up at the moon. It's beautiful and bright, but it is full and in your homeland, you don't like to walk alone on nights like this. A night like this should be capped or warded by magic.
You wish you could see him again.
He doesn't show up in the square, in the main town, or in the castle. He'd already shown up in the woods and then again in the cottage. You're beginning to worry.
You don't succeed in finding a peaceful place to stay for the night, either.
In the morning you head for the mountains with no source of income, no coin and little hope, but you still must keep going. Soon you are alone, on the road that you've travelled so many times before and in the wind's cold rain. There is a rock in your way, that's all.
Finally you reach a small village near the mountains with one fenced-in town square and a single inn. The inn's sign reads "Do not leave your door open." You've heard stories like this. You approach the inn with some trepidation, but then you hear a voice from the window above you, singing a haunting lament...
"...Sopora lopora rodora murino lupora."
The leprechauns' song is haunting. You flee.