This fantasy quickie is for mature readers only. It’s dedicated for everyone who’s ever had naughty thoughts about little green fairies.
“You don’t suppose it’s dead, do you?”
Dagfinn poked a nervous finger at the slender creature cradled in his father’s hand. If the old man was right, then the two of them were looking at an honest-to-Thorbjorn fairy. For all of the stories about the mischief they would enact on innocent village folk, seeing one in the flesh was underwhelming.
The fairy could sit comfortably in Dagfinn’s hand. Her head lacked ornament, but Dagfinn had no trouble imagining a crown of petals that might have once adorned it. She wore a short dress made of woven plant life and chitin, tailored without a sense of modesty. Her arms and legs were bare, and since his father had taken no time to cover the fairy up in the name of decency, Dagfinn could just make out a miniature womanhood. If she elicited any feelings in the growing Northman, all of them were coming from his groin.