I humbly submit my request to be accused of being a magical creature. I trust your judgment.
Hmmm. Why are you here, dear one?
You have been so adamant that the locals are wrong about you- that you are not magical, just ordinary! That has not kept individuals, and even entire societies from condemning you, Bat, but you have to this point been insistent that you are merely misunderstood.
(Look at this face! What ill could you do?)
You are but a simple, very small mammal possessed of the power of aerial locomotion. Harmless as a flying mouse! You’re punished for this gift- and for your preference for the dark- by eerie tales that have you shape-shifting into a blood-sucker who slowly drains the life out of mortals, turning them immortal at a terrible cost. (At least according to the admittedly biased “living.”)
There are three species of your kind that lap that red liquor- although without magical outcomes- but you are one of 1,300 that do not! Your love is sweet nectar. So flower! Much delicious!
Or it was.
There have been… incidents. Farmers have been complaining of weakened and wasting livestock, puncture wounds at their neck. You yourself had an injury to your scruff many moons ago that you can’t explain. But you feel okay. You don’t look sick? You feel okay?
There have been rumors of a large, looming, shrouded creature, spotted in these fields and at bedsides at night.
That isn’t you! Of course it isn’t! It couldn’t be! You are so small! So friendly! So charming, but in a genuine way- not in a way that takes what isn’t freely given!
And there have been nights you’ve awoken, with no memory of the night before. Washed an unfamiliar crusted, brown substance on your face- not recognizable, but there are all sorts of unexpected pollutants these days.
I think you know why you’re here, dear one. I think you’re looking for an answer from me that you already know in your heart.