The Stray

2-35: The Fairy's Tale

Now that he wasn't chasing after a lighting fast little critter, trying not to get skewered, or suffering a severe panic attack, Timothy had a moment to really study these fae. Even now, he had to focus to keep his eyes from sliding right off Mug's form.

The fairies, much like the ones in the forest, looked sort of... flickery, like they were drawn and redrawn into the world in an instant every time they moved. The light played across them like they were living colored pencil drawings. He was used to fae that were almost abstract, though, all spindly limbs, twisty shapes, and swoopy angles. These ones simply looked like tiny li'l kindre, with patches of bright color here and there. They stood about a thumb high at their tallest (Mug) and about three quarters thumb on average. They wore cute li'l clothes sewn and adapted from handkerchiefs, socks, cleaning rags, and other scrap fabric with their tiny hands. They were a handful of different species, but he saw a lot of dogs, mice, and seals.

Unlike kindre, they had a pair of fin-like wings on their backs, in a rainbow of different colors. They definitely wouldn't be any good for flight, but he'd already seen firsthand how fast they made these fae.

The moment they'd understood he wasn't out to get them, what little discipline they'd had popped like a bubble. Now, they chattered excitedly, racing about to find their friends. Many pointed at Timothy's now-loose hair, or goggled at V's size.

For all their sudden energy, though, they looked awful tired and battered. They staggered and stumbled as they hopped from their bow perches, and many had to lean on their bows and javelins 'cuz of limps. Most had bruises and scrapes, fairy-style—glyphs, words, symbols and numbers, all painting their skin or bubbling and fizzing from their wounds. Their ragged clothes were blackened with soot and dirt.

The wolf bit his lip. I know they started it, but... nothing 'bout this feels good. How much of that soot had he added?

Brrong. Mandy rang in his head.

I know they did, but still... He didn't wanna feel bad for them, but he did. He cleared his throat. "I... I really am sorry." Dimly, he knew he needed to be careful what he told a fae. "Tell us your troubles. We ain't promisin' nothin', but I'll see what I can maybe do for you."

Plink!

I am not a bleeding heart!

V dropped her heavy hand on his shoulder. "He means we will. You're part of my town, after all. So what's up?"

Mug adjusted his armor, thinking over his answer. He may also have genuinely been uncomfortable— the old wallet that made up the suit was scarred, burnt in many places (he hadn't done that, right???) and when he shifted, stinking ash crumbled out from inside. "It's appreciated, witch, warrior. I would ask first, though, what you're here for if not that pen."

V turned her wrist. "Well, the immediate reason was to chase down Port, but actually, we're here for some medicine."

"...Pardon?" Mug raised an eyebrow. "Greedy we may be, but we don't take medicine."

"So you are greed fae." V remarked, drawing her notepad. "What kind?" The fairy side-eyed her notebook. "It's just for my report."

Mug hesitated. "We're supposed to stay hidden."

"Cat's already out the bag on that one, chief." V shook her head. "You guys were really busy this week." Mug winced. The fairy thought hard about that one, seemingly weighing options he clearly didn't like. Timothy raised his head, curious: if stealth was in their code, what would Mug do?

Finally, the fairy rose to his feet. "We've been sitting here for some time. Walk with me, and I shall answer— both who we are, and what troubles us."