ONE DID NOT PLEAD for a Felidragon’s life without first partaking of a traditional celebratory Pixie drink that Allory did not quite catch the name of. After her first sip, she dubbed it the fizzwhanger. Fairly much what it did to one’s brain. She delicately sneezed out a stream of frothing mauve bubbles and was complimented upon her excellent artistic form.

The bubbles settled on her spiky sapphire hair with an air of lingering without popping. She sneezed again, a diminutive soprano ‘aichoo!’ amidst a chorus of rather more … well, energetic efforts, one might say. Minor dust hurricanes accompanied by giggles, guffaws and exhortations to greater efforts. Aichoo! Her white bubble-necklace changed to an aerial figurine that resembled a certain Golden Purrmaine to a remarkable degree.

She hoped none of that was snot.

Pixie dust. The stuff was every bit as crazy as the Pixies themselves.

Delightful, but curl-your-antennae crazy.

For example, the living airbed of semi-sentient creatures Her Eminence rode upon turned out to be an advanced form of Pixie dust called pixels. Handy things. They giggled in tinkling chorus every time she issued an order, a frequent but somewhat random affair, such as the times she berated the air for being air and suchlike. Pixies appeared to find very many things hilarious, apart from a certain Felidragon by the name of Yaarah who lay unconscious where he had been summarily swatted. Six pink Dragonesses whom Allory very much appreciated being on her side for a change guarded the golden one, whilst his fate was pointedly ignored.

She did check that he still breathed.

What were friends for?

The pixie dust also changed their owners’ hairstyles every few minutes without warning, an effect as disconcerting as it was oftentimes hilarious. The Pixies, several hundred in number now gathered to gawk at the Scintillant Faerie who had half a working wing cluster, acted as if they did not notice they were wearing a butterfly on their head, a flower, a waving snake, or a … well, she had no idea what that one was. Something with seven arms?

They had also put Allory on a pedestal.

Literally.

Specimen number one, one live and kicking miniature Fae. Sobering to consider what such rarity must portend for the rest of her kind.

“Welcome, achoo-Lory!” Inixipi cried for the tenth time.

Allory tried to smile and ended up sneezing one of her modest efforts.

A great number of celebratory fizz-sneezes echoed around the chamber as the Pixies let rip in a chorus of sneezing approbation – perhaps similar to a chorus of finger-snapping applause, Fae-style? Allory blushed at all the attention. The dusty bubbles they created rushed off in eager swirls and whirlwinds of colour, oftentimes interacting with one another to produce surprising results, and soon popped to release aromas and odours best described as interesting. Not always in a good way.

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This Scintillant Fae was not convinced all this dust could be good for a person.

Especially when an eleven-inch Scintillant grew six-foot azure dust wings. Huh! She did not like to look as if she were compensating for her diminutive stature, but this Pixie dust was oddly clingy, almost as if it liked her.

At last, the Eminence clapped her hands and ordered everyone to dust off, thank you kindly. This cleared the agog crowds and started the process of ‘let’s see to your injury, dear’ and, ‘the Felidragon? He’s fine over there, but you are more important by far, dear,’ and ‘oh, what a nasty infection, dear – bring me the yellow Pixie dust this instant!’

Upon first sight of the wound site, Inixipi exclaimed, “Oh, my poor dustling, this is worse than I feared. Why didn’t you say something, dear? Letting us carry on so … ah, dust my soul, where was I? Aye! What was that you were saying about the Felidragon, dear?’

Hoping to clear up the confusion, Allory finally enjoyed a few moments’ freedom to tell her story and advocate for Yaarah’s continued existence. She had thought she was getting her point across quite effectively that he could not be any kind of traitor, when he stirred and groaned and promptly groaned even louder because that burly pink Dragoness sat on him. Not gently, either. No escape.

When he discovered just who was the celebrity in the Pixie colony, the Felidragon fixed a somewhat disbelieving, definitively filthy look upon a certain blushing Scintillant from beneath the Dragoness’ infeasibly muscular right haunch. Allory winked in his direction and promptly had the Dragoness offer to twist his head fourteen times in a full circle if he dared to think about touching the rare, wonderful and amazing Scintillant Fae ever again.

Why fourteen? The pink behemoth’s favourite number.

Allory could not decide if she needed to return to pleading for Yaarah’s life or start hooting at his disgruntled expression and never stop.

Inixipi clapped her hands, making Allory jump. “Chop off his head!”

She gasped, “Your Emi –”

“Bust his gritty dust!”

“Please, I’m begging you –”

“Just joking, dear. Tut tut phut-phut, in dust alone does a Pixie trust. What do you take me for? I’m a healer in my every particle.” As Yaarah made to speak, she rounded upon him and hissed, “Bad kitty, be quiet!”

A mad healer, maybe?

Allory managed not to shriek with laughter as the Felidragon’s heavily compressed lips framed what could only be a very, very naughty word.

“Toss him into a dungeon on a diet of desiccated meat and brackish swamp water!” the Healer added, folding her arms while her hair also folded its arms atop her head and contrived to appear definitively disgruntled.

Allory stroked her antennae in consternation.

With an air of implacable mischief, as best the flustered Scintillant could make it, the ancient Pixie said, “That’s as far as you can push me, dear. No arguing, batting those cutesy sapphire eyelashes or otherwise attempting to dust-fust-confust my hoary old heart. Deprivation and solitary confinement are the best prescription for brash young Felidragons. Especially those who have the temerity to talk back. Mind you, it was six years ago, but back then he was a bristle-tailed upstart with a yowling potty mouth and I most certainly have not forgiven him for what he said.”

Allory grasped desperately for some straw of meaning amongst this tirade. Was ‘confust’ even a word? “Eep … ah, what’s a potty, Healer Sage? As in, loopy-sap between the ears?”

“No, as in what young Pixies sit on when they’re learning to use a toilet.”

“Oh … oh my sap!”

She fanned her face. Suggids! The revolting habits and mores of other species now rather less of a mystery to her than she would have preferred.

With a perfectly straight face, Inixipi said, “Well, it’s not exactly as if I kept a running diarrhoea of all his dollops of wisdom, dear. Now, don’t you twist that pretty face into a pout like a scandalised jungle blossom. You’ll get used to the particular whiff of our Pixie humour in good time.”

Allory certainly hoped not.