My mother used to warn me: don’t fly too far from home. Home being Faerieland, where all is safe and soft as an embrace. But before I was an oddity, I was a fool. I wanted to see the world. I floated down, down, down from the dream-cotton cloud I was beholden to. You see, faeries are fierce, but we are also quite fragile. We are only as strong as our weakest points. Not bones or skin, but something even more gossamer, always trailing behind or above us. I flew from Faerieland to the tundra of Terror Mountain. I skimmed the gleaming surface of Maraqua, hovered above the miasma of the Haunted Woods. The bustle of Neopia Central; the green palm of Meridell, beckoning me like summer. I was quite proud of myself. I had done what very few faeries had managed. I had eaten eggy, mysterious omelettes, fruits that stained my fingers red, met children who smiled at me as I went—Aishas and Poogles and Cybunnies, painted in colours I’d never before seen.