Not that easy

And a few days later, you return. A single pixie in hand, you walk through the door with a smile. Your clothes are ragged, your hair is disheveled, your body is sore, and you have a new bruise or two, but you accomplished the task.

Patricia greets you with a smile, "There's the little rascal. Did they give you much trouble?"

"Yes," you respond, exhausted.

"Good."

The pixies had not only put up a fight, they'd done their damnedest to humiliate you, too. It seems like every time you thought you had the upper hand, they'd make some snarky comment and send you off-balance.

You sigh.

Patricia, though, looks very interested in the pixie. "Hello, cutie," she murmurs, and the pixie, bound by her own skirt and wings, struggles a bit. "Welcome to a new home."

"Fuck you, bitch," the pixie spits. "Let me go!"

Patricia smiles, and it's not a kind smile.

"We'll get there. Eventually."

"Bitch."