This one is a bit darker (and less funny) than my usual stuff. I saw the image, fell in love with it, and tried to imagine the story behind it.
Those who judge me by my size are fools.
Those who try and touch me learn the meaning of pain.
Pixie. Half-pint. Midget. Little girl.
You look at me and see a wide-eyed doll, a violet-haired adolescent, wandering and lost. Nothing to fear, you think, but I am older than all of your kind. The heart inside of this little thing you see once knew contentment. I lived, under a thatched roof, with my confidante and lover.
Then, the things that go bump in the night, the things that render their minds and their flesh to the Dark One, came to our village. They killed her, my lover. A horde of beasts snuffed out her life and hunted my people to the precipice of extinction.
All but me … Kalliope.
I am the last of my kind—their powerful magic, a desperate gift from the dead, lives on as a collective force inside of me. The pain is an agony so great that it threatens to tear me apart. Would you like to know the twisted therapy that allows me to survive? Can you guess what has kept this defiant heart beating over the centuries?
I am the battle. I am the pain. I slaughter everything that stinks of evil. I stand over the rotting corpses, when it is done, and sing the songs of a departed people.
Not aligned with the Dark One? Not a part of the eternal hunt for me, his little prize? Defend yourself all that you like, but, I must warn you, your reasoning will fall on deaf ears. Ancient beings deal in absolutes—there can only be two sides to the coin that decides your fate, stranger.
If there is darkness in your heart.
If I FIND it.
I will KILL you.
And I will SING.