Lily ran to the shed. “Twig! We need you!”
He was a Pixiehuge.
Twig was trying to sew a tiny saddle for a field mouse who had gotten a thorn in its paw. His huge, clumsy fingers fumbled with the needle made from a pine spine. The mouse squeaked in pain. pixiehuge
Standing almost a foot tall, he was a giant among his kind. His wings, though still iridescent, were as broad as a robin's. His voice, instead of a tinkling chime, was a warm, resonant hum that could rustle the leaves on a branch. The other pixies found him clumsy. He couldn’t ride a bumblebee without it bucking him off. He shattered dew-drop chandeliers with his elbows. He was kind, gentle, and terribly, terribly lonely. Lily ran to the shed