Suzette is 5 1/3" of fighting pixie.  Banished from the Happy Grove of Happiness (translation from Pixie Squeek Speak is an imprecice art at best) for falling asleep on guard duty and allowing an ignorant unicorn to eat the last bluebell in the clearing, she wended her weary, depressed way through the forest, wings drooping with sorrow, until she came across a Man.  The Man was the First Man she had ever encountered... he was taking a nap, his head pillowed on a convenient stump.  He had an open flask.  Suzette had been flying ALL DAY LONG, and all the dewdrops had long since evapourated.  She was really thirsty.  So she took a drink.  Her eyes bulged out, and she began coughing little pixie coughs.  The moonshine burned all the way down, and made her tingle kind of like she tingled that time she had tasted the toad-oil drink they fed the captive fairy shaman, except instead making everything look inside out for the rest of the week, it just made her HAPPY.  She drank more and more and more, and took a nap on the stump too.

Suzette woke up in a bag, with a dry mouth, a splitting headache, and a burning desire for more of the burning liquid.  The man kept her in a cage, and his friends paid round shiny things to see her.  The man then gave other men the shiny things, and got the burning water in return.  Suzette began to understand how this world worked.  He gave her discusting cooked meat to eat (no fruit, no plants, no grashoppers, no raw wild boar), and a little bit of the magical water every night.  One day, he tied a little leash around her neck and took her out to impress his friends.  She broke three of his fingers before he let go of the leash and then she knocked out everyone with her handy dandy Sleepy Dust.  She then tied all their thumbs together, and quickly broke the rest of his fingers.  She kicked him in the eye a few times too, for good measure, took a last drink of his firewater, and flitted off into the city.

Sometimes she misses her old home, the Happy Grove of Happiness; the early morning harvesting the dew.  Massaging the poison dart frogs in their corrals, using leaves to avoid getting even an eensy weensy bit of parylitic neurotoxin on her fingers.  The nights tying groups of fireflies together, and then dying with giggles as they careened through the forest, leading travellers astray.  But she has found solace in the firewater, and in the new languages she has been learning which, while they may not have a word for 'Dew Collector Made From Half a Leaf and Spider Silk', do have words for 'Get me another drink you impotent, pussbrained son of a dockside drab, or I'll fly up your pantleg and ...'

Tee-Hee!