The Ixi and Pixie

For here an Ixi dwells, casting magic spells. In a thatched hut and bramble cut, within she learned to discern what heals and burns; under tutelage of a Faerie, who was kind and scary.

Wafting aromatic, decoctions boiled; crafting chromatic, concoctions, they toiled. Bubbling brew, skews the cauldron’s rim; troubling blue hues, scalded and brimmed. Hissing expediently, a potion lurched; missing ingredients, a notion searched.

Lolling Meowclops stirs from slumber, clawing tallies for every number. Appalling scraps to sate its appetite; gnawing, lapping on spools of Maractite. Dropping from the pile, a berry fish pop. Flopping for awhile, fetch a fresh mop.

Many a time she felt alone, under moon as pale as bone. Reminiscing of life she can’t forget, now all she had was her feline Petpet. Always one eye did it keep on her, not once did it stray, not even a day. All night it was quiet, it didn’t stir or purr; all the while danger was kept at bay.

She did concede that she almost had all that she’d need. Yet a feeling couldn’t be shook, it binds and taunts. For what she truly aspired was for those left behind to be freed. Avarice and vanity took them for fools, now neither palace nor sanity could fulfill their wants. Despite their foibles, their curse should be lifted, indeed.

Alas, an idea gained traction, she sensed a plan churn as it turned into action. Though where could that Earth Faerie be, so this Meowclops is all she could see.

A family restored is what drives her dream, yet not all could be imagined or were what she deemed. Still, she required help, which would soon take on the form of a Usul whelp.

And so begins a tale of woe, no longer did she wear a satin bow. What she did next was for neither accolade nor trophy, for few would know her or call her Sophie.