Planted at the foot of a mountain, bees refused to gather its pollen.
‘Go fetch for me a flower even bees refuse to pollinate; go fetch for me a sewer drain so pitted from oxidization; go fetch for me the wretched tanned skin of an opera singer’.
He stood by closely, effortlessly jotting down the details for the alchemist.
‘What order must I—’
‘You must only bring the sewer drain so pitted from oxidization now. The rest may wait’.
The good-doer jumped out the back door, sprinting to the newfound goal.
‘Then, let’s have tea’, he said mostly to himself, but somewhat to the elder fairy in his ear too. Don’t give up! Fear will thrash around in its death rattle yet!
She is 333 years old, though he had his skepticisms. You never believe a fairy. You never believe something so old that morality and boredom escape it.
The good-doer arrives at the spot where all sewer drains go to die: the foot of a mountain where a flower bees refuse to gather pollen for grows. Uniquely, this is where the corpse of a tanned opera singer lays too. It was here that the good-doer notices something strange in the air: a smokey puff of smoke, tufts of grass being thrown in the air, loud chanting by centaurs locking hooves. What he sees startles him, and so he peeps.
It is dreadful that he peeps, but he peeps anyway, knowing that it is dreadful to peep.
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