Quaraun didn't answer. He was too busy thinking squishy homicidal jellyfish thoughts, to any longer pay attention to the stranger who'd instigated those thoughts.

"HEY!" The woman yelled as she grabbed Quaraun's shoulder and shook him. "You okay?"

"What?" Quaraun blinked and looked around, trying to remember where he was. "Oh. It's you. Are you still here?"

"Are you all right?"

"Oh yes. Quite fine."

"You were in a trance or something back there."

"Yes. I do that when things are upsetting me. What were you saying?"

"What's upsetting you?"

"You are."

"Me?"

"Yes."

"How am I upsetting you?"

"You are touching my things."

"And that upsets you?"

"Yes. It is very upsetting for me. You are upsetting me."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"You are invading my personal space."

"I. . . it's. . ."

"I don't like it. Anyone else would be dead by now."

"Anyone else. . . wait. . . what? What do you mean, dead?"

"You are the Guild's primary rat. And if there weren't other members of the Guild whose heads I wanted more. I'd have killed you already, soon as you said your name."

"What's all that stuff over there?" Ghirardelli asked, once again pointing to the weaving, embroidery, and sewing, and once again ignoring what the Elf had said.

"That? I told you. I am a merchant. As I can not travel because of the storm, I am working on replenishing my stock. Making more dyes, dyeing more threads, weaving more yardages, embroidering more cloth, sewing more saree. I sell these at markets along the coast. Each year I travel to the south, selling as I go, then I return to the north, selling as I go yet again."

"Why though?"

"I'm a silk merchant. This is what I do. Why is my being a silk merchant so hard for you to understand?"

"But, I mean, everything is pink. There is nothing not pink here."

"What is wrong with that?"

"I don't understand why you are doing it."

"I'm a silk merchant."

"Of only pink?"

"Yes. Only pink. I only make pink silk. Not blue. Not linen. Not green. Not cotton. Just pink. Just silk. Pink silk is my specialty."

"So, you're a merchant of only pink silk merchandise?"

"Yes."

"Why silk?"

"I like silk. It is cool in the summer and warm in the winter. It is light and easy to wash and wears for years without tearing. Plus, it is easy to make without having an entire crew of workers or acres of crops. And quite portable. I can make it on the road as I travel."

"And people buy it?"

"Oh, yes."

"And you make enough money to live off doing nothing else?"

"Silk sells for very high prices. I can live quite comfortable on selling only a few bolts a year."

"Who buys it?"

"Wealthy people, mostly. Also mages."

"Mages?"

"Yes. It is Thullid silk."

"Thullid silk? That's illegal."

"Is it?"

"It makes things. . ." she paused and looked around the tent again. "It makes things bigger on the inside than they are on the outside. It's what this tent is made out of, isn't it?"

"Yes. I sell purses and bags made out of it to mages."

"Bags of holding? Those are illegal. You make bags of holding?"

"Yes. I've done so for hundreds of years. I invented them."

"You. . . you're the mage who invented bags of holding?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I am the Sacred Pink Jelly Fish."

"The Thullid god?"

"Yes."

"You're insane."

"No. Though most people agree with that sentiment."

"Why only pink?"

"I like pink."

"But why?"

"I told you. I am the Sacred Pink Jelly Fish. In my natural state, I am a lovely shade of pink, with purple ruffles, and long thin, silvery white venom tipped stinging tentacles. And as I can not live in my natural form on this planet, I dress my host to look as I do in my natural state."

"Your host?"

"This Elf body."

"You're a Thullid."

"Yes."

"And you make pink silk."

"Yes."

"Isn't that like a sinful colour?"

"Is it?"

"Well, if you listen to the ministers around here, yeah."

"I wouldn't know." Quaraun shrugged. "I don't listen to them."

"A merchant who specializes in pink. That's kind of weird."

"There is nothing weird about it at all. I'm a tailor. I weave silk, embroider it, then sew it into items that I sell to merchants and peddlers, so they can, in turn, sell it at markets and bazaars. Nothing weird about it."

"Is everything really only pink?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I like pink."

"Ever considered anything other than pink?"

"No reason to. I miss living in my natural pink jelly body, so I surround myself with pink. There are hundreds of shades of pink, all makable with dyes from plants, petals, roots, mushrooms, and tree bark."

"I can see that. But, you're really a merchant?"

"Yes. I sell pink silk."

"To who? Everyone around here wears black on black."

"Yes. I had noticed the Humans in this region love their lack of colour. Of course, BoomFuzzy always wore black, now that I think of it and he was from Pepper Valley. Must be a cultural thing for this region. No, I don't expect to sell many wares around here. No demand for pink or silk in this sea of Bible slinging black cotton."

"So you can't sell pink silk in this area and you know you can't sell silk in this area, but you are a merchant who only sells pink silk and nothing else. Have I got that right?"

"Yes."

"Than what are you doing in Pepper Valley?"

"You suggest I am here on business? No, no. I am not here to sell pink silk. I am here to resurrect the dead."

"Resurrect the.. wait.. what?"

"My lover was from Pepper Valley. He talked about it often. . ."

"He?"

"He. Yes. We are both males."

"But that's. . . that's. . ."

"Illegal. Yes. I know."

"Why do something that is illegal?"

"Why is falling in love illegal at all, would be the better question."

"Who's talking about love?"

"I am. I loved BoomFuzzy. I still love him. I will always love him. He's my soul mate."

"Males with males is illegal."

"Yes. I know. I know that better than anyone. It's why they castrated me. They said if I was going to let another man fuck me like I was a woman, then they were going to make me a woman. Well, you know what, there's more to being a man than having a penis. So even without one, I am still a man. A man doesn't magically become a woman just because Christians cut his dick off."

"Few people in Pepper Valley wear pink."

"I'm going to ask again. Why is it that you are in my tent and what do you want?"

"Some men are after me. I shook them off for a bit, but they'll catch up with me again soon. I. . . I hoped you knew the area and could help me hide or get to someplace safe. . . or. . ."

"Why are the men after you?"

"Souls."

"Souls? What does that mean?"

"Well, it's kind of a long story and you probably won't believe half of it."

"I like long stories. So sit, pull up a pile of pillows, make yourself comfortable and tell me. Would you like some tea?"

"Tea? How are you going to make tea in a tent?"

Quaraun waved his hand and a steaming hot pot of tea water appeared in his hand. In front of him appeared a low to the floor Chinese tea table dressed in pale rose petal pink silk cloth, set for two, with dainty teacups and saucers, biscuits and crumpets. He placed the teapot on the table, then pulled out his rainbow wand and used it to draw several sigils on the ground around the table. Several piles of even more magenta pillows appeared all around the table.

"Come, sit. I will pour your tea. Do you prefer actual tea leaves, herb tea, or poppy infused tea?"

"I. . . uhm. . . tea leaves. Are you a mage?"

"I am."

"But, I thought, didn't you say, I thought you said you were a tailor?"

"One can be both."

"Yes. I suppose that is true."

"Sit. Tell me your story. I so rarely have company. I live alone, you see. Travel the world. It gets very lonely. I'm often weeks with no one to talk to, save for myself. And I'm afraid not dreadfully good company for myself. The conversations I have with myself tend to devolve into depressing thoughts of old age rather quickly. I'm too depressing a person to talk to so I would rather ignore myself and talk with someone else."

"You're kind of crazy, aren't you?"

"Most people say I am insane. I'm really not insane, though. Just dreadfully lonely. I'm always glad for company. Please, sit."

Quaraun busied himself with serving tea. The woman sat on the pillows and looked around.

"I should have known you were a mage when I first noticed the tent was so much bigger on the inside."

"Why didn't you?"

"Don't know. Wasn't thinking. Are you a Guild member? I've never seen you at any of the meetings."

"The Guild? Haha! Oh, that IS funny."

"Funny? How?"

"You don't know who I am, do you?"

"Should I?"

"Well, I DO so love pink."

"Yes, you certainly do."

Quaraun glanced up at her and smiled, then continued fussing over the teacups. When he finished mixing the drinks, Quaraun handed Ghirardelli her teacup, then took his own and sat down on his fuchsia pillows once again.

"I have not attended a Guild meeting in very many years."

"So you are a Guild member?"

"Well. I joined The Guild, somewhere around nine hundred years ago, I think."

"You must be one of its founding members than."

"Oh no. No. But I knew two of the founders."

"Really? Which ones?"

"Finderu."

"And?"

"And uhm. . . well

BoomFuzzy."

"I don't know that name. You said it before."

"Yes. BoomFuzzy was from Pepper Valley."

"Only mage I know of from Pepper Valley was King Gwallmaiic, The Elf Eater. He got kicked out of The Guild for practising necromancy and blood magic and eating the other Guild members whenever he got angry with them. He was psychotic and dangerous."

"Yes. He did, and he was."

"You knew The Elf Eater?"

"Yes."

"You poor thing."

"How so?"

"Well, you're an Elf. He murdered Elves and ate them. That's why people called him The Elf Eater."

"True that."

"You should come to the next Guild meeting with me. Some of the old non-Human members are from The Elf Eater's time. They remember him. You must know them. It'd be good to see old friends, wouldn't it?"

"I'm, ah, how shall we say it? Not well liked by most of the currently active Guild members these days. Finderu and I had a bit of a falling out and well, eh, you know how it is."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"You had a falling out? Over what?"

"He didn't like my lover."

"The Guild doesn't tell you who you can and can not love."

"Oh, they did in my case. My lover was particularly hated by Finderu and, well, just about everyone else on the planet. I'm surprised you haven't figured out who I am yet."

"Should I know who you are?"

"I'm a purveyor pink silk. Few of us around. In fact, I'm the only one."

"What's that got to do with The Guild? Plenty of mages are also merchants."

"Yes, but I'm the only mage who sells pink silk."

"Are you practising magic illegally?"

"Well, I suppose that would depend on what you consider the legality of practising magic is now, wouldn't it?"

"The law states you have to be a member of The Guild of Wizardry, and have all the necessary papers and permits on you at all times."

"Well, I DO have papers on me. Not sure they are the ones you'd expect them to be."

"Can I see them?"

"Perhaps. Maybe later. For now, tell me your story. You said you had men chasing you, so you ran in here and woke me up, out of my nice restful beauty sleep. . ."

"I thought Elves didn't sleep. Don't you like just sit around and meditate or something? Go weeks, months, years without needing to sleep?"

"Elves with a hive mind, yes. The hive mind makes sleep rather difficult, nearly impossible. Especially when one's brain is jelly."

"Jelly?"

"Yes. Speaking of jelly. . . jelly?"

A pot of grape jelly appeared in front of her.

"Grape is not pink, of course, but it is so hard to get good pink jelly these days, now that BoomFuzzy is dead. He made the best jams and jellies and jelly beans. . ."

"Uhm. Thank you. What do you mean by that, what you said earlier, Elves with a hive mind? Aren't all Elves part of that hive mind thing they do?"

"Usually."

"Are you saying that you're not part of the Elven hive mind?"

"No. I'm not."

"Are you an outcast Elf?"

"I am."

"What did you do?"

"Why do you think I did something?"

"I've always heard that Elves only cast criminals out of their hive mind. Are you a criminal?"

Quaraun took to spreading jelly on a slice of anise biscotti.

"I am the tailor who is serving you your tea and jelly with crumpets and patiently waiting to hear the rest of your story."

Quaraun handed the woman the fragrant, crunchy jelly coated cookie, then jellied another for himself.

"Quite patiently waiting, I might add, after you so rudely disturbed my sleep." Quaraun said in between bites of biscotti. "Waiting ever so patiently, trying not to envision ramming my wand through your eye while you interrogate me. Interrogating me ever so rudely after the equally rude awakening you gave me, dragging me out of my bed. You ask so much of me and yet I know so precious little of you? Now I ask you, is that fair? Why should I tell you anything about me, when it is you who invades my privacy and offers nothing of yourself?"

"No. You're right. This is your campsite, and I barged in uninvited and disturbed your peace. That was rude of me. I should go."

Ghirardelli got up to leave.

"No. I did not say you had to leave. Sit and tell me why the men are chasing you, dear, sweet, Ghirardelli, Swamp Hag of The Godforsaken City. Let's see if perhaps I can't help."

"I told you my name. Can you at least not do the same?"

"Why should I?"

"You know who I am. How come I don't at least get to know who you are?"

"All in good time. The men? Why are they chasing you?"

"Okay, so, here's the deal: I got this legendary evil sword."

"Evil sword? How can a sword be evil?"

"It just is, okay? It is said to require souls to keep placated, otherwise it goes berserk and starts killing people."

"A soul eater? Those are rare."

"Yeah. I know."

"How did you come by it?"

"I. . . I just did. Okay. It doesn't matter how I got it. Alright?"

"My, my defensive are we. So we can assume you obtained it illegally? All right. Continue on then."

"So, at first I'm thinking I got gypped. . ."

"Gypped?"

"Yeah, it means scammed and ripped off by Gypsies."

"I know what it means. Do you have any idea how offensive it is?"

"What do you care? It's just fucking Gypsies."

"I AM fucking Gypsies. You are making a slur against MY people and I find it highly offensive."

"You're a Gypsy? I thought you were an Elf."

"I am a Gypsy."

"Your skin is way too white for you to be a Gypsy. No Gypsy is as pale as you."

"I am albino. Did you not notice my pink pupils? Or my white hair."

"Is that why you wear that?" Ghirardelli reached out and brushed her fingers along the edge of the Elf's pink silk sari. "This is not like any Elf fashion I've ever heard of before."

"Yes. I lived with the Di'Jinn."

"The Di'Jinn? In Persia?"

"The Di'Jinn. In Persia. Yes. They raised me."

"You're a long way from Persia, aren't you? What are you doing in Maine?"

"I was born in Ivujivik."

"Ivujivik? Where's that?"

"In Quebec, not far north from here."

"Your a French Canadian Elf, but you lived with the Di'Jinn in Persia?"

"Yes. I was born in Quebec. But I was not raised by Elves. I grew up in Persia. In a Gypsy caravan. We raised horses and travelled across the desert to sell them in city markets. They adopted me as one of them, though I was born an Elf. My biological family abandoned me when I was just 9 years old. The Di'Jinn adopted me. Thus, how it is that an Elf came to be a Gypsy. When I was young. I was sick. I lived in the Deep North, where the snow always falls and summer never comes. My father murdered my mother and then he was going to murder me. His older brother had a friend, ZooLock, a Di'Jinn priest who was staying with him at the time."

"ZooLock?"

"ZooLock."

"Not ZooLock the Great?"

"Yes. ZooLock the Great."

"You're friends with ZooLock the Great?"

"Not exactly. I wouldn't call us friends. We know each other. But we aren't friends. I never said ZooLock was my friend. He was my uncle's friend."

"Yes. That is what you said, isn't it?"

"He gave me to ZooLock, told him to take me with him, raise me as his own child. And he did. Thus, an Elf came to be adopted by the Di'Jinn. The Gypsies are my family. Not the Elves. I was happy with the Di'Jinn. I felt more at home with them, then I did my own people."

"My understanding of the Di'Jinn is that they is an evil people. A nomadic band of criminal magic users. The Guild wouldn't even allow them to be members."

"That is an urban myth. Gypsies are not criminals. They are good people. They live in tents and wear bright colours, have big families. And that scares settled people."

"I suppose I can relate. Whole reason I live in the swamps is because people in the town folk around here fear witches and they think I'm a witch."

"Yes. Never trust settled people. I certainly don't. Settled people make up rumours. Spread lies. That doesn't mean those rumours are true."

"Do settled people spread rumours about you?"

"Yes. They do. I live in a pink tent, travelling on foot from town to town, selling pink silk and wearing pink silk. It terrifies people. But now we are talking about me again. You keep doing that. Changing the subject to me. Are you a spy? Here to find out information about me? I've seen no men chase you yet. I've only your word on that part, now don't I?"

"I'm sorry. You're right. I shouldn't pry."

"You're a Guild member. That means you know Finderu. It's to my advantage to not eat you."

"Eat me? Wait? What? Why would you eat me?"

"I am The Sacred Pink JellyFish. Brains are my primary diet. And it rarely that brains of their own free will willingly stroll into my lair."

"Lair? This isn't a lair, it's a tent."

"I like my privacy."

"You're kind of crazy, aren't you?"

"You don't know who I am, do you?"

"Should I?"

"Everything IS pink."

"Yes. You're not joking when you say you like pink."

"Nor am I joking when I say I don't like Humans and their brains are my primary diet."

"You eat Human brains."

"Yes."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"It's YOUR ad copy."

"My. . . what?"

"Waited dead or alive, preferably dead. Wanted for Necromancy, Demonology, Sorcery, Black Magic, murder, rape, buggery, sodomy, cross-dressing, bathing more than twice a year, eating Human brains. . . you don't remember writing that about me? Printing it up on ten thousand wanted posters and then nailing it on every tree, fence post, store, and mailbox for a 14 mile radius all around The Great Portland Area of Saco Bay, even right here on York Hill, and all over the front of Pepper Valley's Pepperell Mill? On the bulletin board in the bakery. Hmmm? Forgot you did that?"

"I do that with many people. We ARE Justice Mages. It is our JOB to hunt criminals. And keep tabs on everything they do. I drive all over Maine to watch them, for weeks before they get arrested."

"Yes. I know. I AM aware WHO you are. You're a vile little bitch who makes an art out of being a nosy busybody. A slimy sneaky salamander you are."

"I.. but, I don't recognize you as a criminal we are looking for."

"Really? Maybe you should get a better artist to draw my picture on your wanted posters than."

"I'm sorry, I don't. . . none of the criminals we are looking for are said to look anything like YOU."

"Yes. Your wanted posters did lack a few details, like the fact that I always, ever, and only wear pink, or my Rapunzel hair. Even if you didn't know me by my face, you SHOULD have known me the second you saw a pink silk tent. Most of the world knows me by my pink silk, and The Guild is so incompetent that they can't even get that one simply, alarmingly identifiable fact about me straight. Or my hair. There is no mention of my hair in any of your wanted posters. Not one. You'd think some who supposedly knows me ooooooh soooooo well, that they can be a lying assed busy body gossip writing about my so-called sex life on a public wanted poster, that they should also know enough about me to know I ONLY wear pink and have twelve foot long hair."

"Is your hair really that long?"

"Yes."

"You're sitting down on the floor. I can't see how long your hair is."

"Hmmmm." Quaraun reached for the cane that was laying beside his make-shift bed of furs and used it to stand up. For the first time since, Ghirardelli had entered the tent.

The tiny, little old Elf was only five feet six inches tall, only coming up to Ghirardelli's shoulder. But his hair cascaded down around him, over his shoulders, down his back, in front of him, behind him, spilling onto the surrounding floor, and flowing in heaping piles everywhere.

It was impossible to see how long his hair was, but with the way it piled around his feet and scattered along the floor, it was safe to say that twelve feet was a good guess.

"Good god! Your hair really is twelve feet long!"

"Yes. I told you. I never lie."

"How do you walk?"

"With great difficulty." Quaraun promptly sat back down, going down slowly and carefully so as not to cause further pain to his already hurting hip. "Also, I can't stand very long. My hair is too heavy. My hair weighs more than my body does. It's very difficult for me to move unless I've someone to walk with me and carry my hair."

"Why don't you just cut it?"

"You REALLY don't know who I am, do you?"

"What difference does that make with your hair?"

"An enormous difference. Mages get their power from their hair. And I'm the world's most powerful wizard for a reason: I'm the wizard with the longest hair."

"You know I never thought of that. Makes sense. Mages do all claim the longer their hair is the more powerful they are. Something about their hair attracting magic energy force fields of something. But yeah, if that was true, then the world's most powerful wizard would diffidently be the wizard with the longest hair."

"Yes. Wizard with the longest hair. And also with the shortest tolerance."

"Tolerance? Of what?"

"You."

"Why?"

"You are a Human. I hate Humans. That is a well established fact."

"But you're an Elf."

"Exactly."

"Do Elves not like Humans?"

"Elves do not like people who use their gods as an excuse to murder. You Humans think it is perfectly fine to murder everyone who does not believe in your god. Yet, if one of us, kills you, because our god said to, then that is double reason to murder us. But we Elves are peaceful. We have no culture of weapons or war. So when you Humans invaded our homes, raped our women, slaughtered our children, we had no way to defend ourselves and no hope of survival. And when we took the weapons, you left behind and tried to fight back, tried to rescue our women and children, you accused us of being the invaders! It was you who invaded us. We merely tried to get our wives and children back after you kidnapped them."

"So you don't like Humans, then?"

"I am the last Elf. You murdered my people. All of us. Every last one."

"Except for you."

"Except for me."

"How'd'you survive?" Ghirardelli asked. "Is it not odd that one Elf should be left alive? How did you manage that?"

"I was outcast."

"Outcast? You mean, like shunned or something?"

"Like shunned or something, yes. Exactly that."

"So, how did being outcast help you survive?"

"I was banished. Cast out. Cut off from the hive mind. Abandoned. Unloved. Unwanted. Left to wander the world. Alone in my head, like you Humans. No comfort from the Hive Mind. No more part of the community. So I wasn't there when you Humans arrived. I was travelling the world of Men, selling silk to Humans, sleeping in Human taverns, often with Haman women as my only source of comfort and warmth."

"Human women?"

"Yes."

"I thought you hated Humans?"

"I do."

"But you sleep with Human women?"

"Often. Yes. Quite often."

"At taverns?"

"Yes."

"Do you mean, like, prostitutes?"

"Yes. I mean prostitutes."

"I wasn't expecting that. Not from you."

"Do you have problems with that?"

"Uhm. No. But I thought you were. . . aren't you castrated?"

"I am. I said I slept with them, not fucked them."

"You sleep with prostitutes but you don't have sex with them?"

"Castrated, does mean sex is not possible for me."

"But I thought you liked men?"

"What gave you that idea?"

"Didn't you just say a little while ago, that your lover was a male? Isn't that WHY you were castrated? You said that. I heard you."

"I did say that. Yes. My lover was a male. I also had a wife and fathered four children with her. And I've always visited prostitutes."

"So you like men and women, both?"

"I like anyone who is kind to me. I don't care what gender they are."

"Oh."

"Or what species. Or race. Those things don't matter to me. I'm more interested in a person's mind than I am their body. And I get lonely. And there not an abundance of people willing t be friends with a foreigner, a none-American, a non-Christian, or a non-Human. Humans are rather bigoted about petty things like religion, gender, nationality, culture, and skin colour. Prostitutes aren't. Prostitute are desperate for money and willing to spend time with me, for a price."

"So you buy friendship?"

"Yes. I pay people to sit and talk with me, because I am unloved and unwanted and no one would ever talk tome otherwise. That and a warm body to hold while I sleep. I don't like sleeping alone."

"You're very lonely, then, aren't you?"

"I am."

"Can I touch it?"

"What?"

"Your hair."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't like my hair to be touched by strangers and people I do not trust to not hurt me."

"Hurt you? What do you mean?"

"It is very painful for someone to pull on my hair."

"That's because it is so long. If you cut it, than it wouldn't pull. . ."

"I would bleed to death if you cut it."

"Hair doesn't bleed. . ."

"Mine does."

"That's not possible."

"It is. My father cut my hair short once. It bled for days. I was anemic for months. It took over a year for the sliced off ends to fully heal, and nearly twenty years for my hair to grow back. It was incredibly painful the whole time. The wounds on the ends of my hairs are still scarred. The scars on the ends are very sensitive to touch. The nerve damage never fully healed."

Quaraun gently pulled up a handful of hair and ran his armoured fingers across the scarred ends. The hair withered, wriggling away from his touch. Moving as though it were alive.

"Nerves? In your hair? Scars on. . . but. . . you can't have wounds on your. . . you hair. . . Hair. . . doesn't. . . hair doesn't bleed. . ." Ghirardelli stopped talking and watched Quaraun's hair as it moved. Slithering around him, like a massive pile of thousands of tiny, wiry snakes. She moved closer to get a better look at Quaraun's strange hair. "It's not hair, is it? It's. . . it's. . . is it tentacles?"

"Yes. I told you, I am a JellyFish. My body is pink and covered with lovely purple ruffles, and my tentacles are long and white and look like hair. I already said this."

"You hair isn't hair."

"No."

"That's. . . I don't know what it is. That's why you never cut it? It's actually part of your body."

"Yes."

"They move on their own. How much control do you have over them? Can you move them at will, like arms and legs?"

"I can. I can use them like hairs to grab things and pick things up, or to reach up in the tops of tall trees and pick apples without a ladder. I could climb with them if I wasn't scared of heights. I can walk on them like feet should the Elf's feet get tired."

As Quaraun said this, he suddenly lifted himself up off the ground, and by all appearances looked to be gliding, levitating, several feet in the air, his feet not touching the ground. It looked as though he was flying, unsupported by anything, but upon closer examination, Ghirardelli saw that the hair nearest the ground had grown stiff, rigid, and was lifting his body up into the air.

"I was once overpowered by my attackers and they shaved my hair, I was left bleeding to death, as my blood drained from the thousands of severed tentacles."

"That. . . must have hurt."

"It did. This cutting of my hair left me in agonizing pain for months, and while, like any JellyFish I can regrow my severed jelly-limbs, it takes 30 years for my tentacles to grow back!"

"Thirty years?"

"Yes!"

"That's a long time."

"During that time I had to make the claim that I could no longer cast magic."

"Why?"

"Without my hair, I can do nothing. I am a cripple."

"Cripple?"

"Yes. This Elf. His legs are lame. The Hanging Tree left me crippled for the rest of my life."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you? No one ever is. I'm seen as a monster. No one ever makes friends with me. No one ever tries. No cares if I live or die. I have no friends. My family was murdered. I am alone. I went into hiding, citing that my hair is the source of his magic powers. So my enemies would not know how helpless I was without my hair."

"Is your magic abilities connected to your hair?"

"The truth is far deeper than that, though. The Elf's body is weak and in frail health. I rely heavily on my stinging, strangling tentacles to survive. My Elf's body is badly injured, with a lame leg, and I can barely walk with the Elf's legs. I move with my hair, most all of the time, carefully wearing these long skirts to hide my feet, hiding the fact that I'm actually walking on my tentacles and not on my feet."

"You can walk on your tentacles and fly over people that way."

"Yes. But that would terrify Humans. They would call me a witch and crush me under rocks or drown me with chains tied to my feet. You know how Humans are when they think there are witches about."

"Are you also able to use your hair as a weapon?"

"Oh yes. When threatened, and feeling I have no other way to escape, my hair takes on a Medusa-like life of it's own, lashing out at my attacker, either pulling them away, or wrapping around them."