Nixie Clatchspark
Only a forearm tall, she's a pixie that’s lusty for bigfolk.
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The aether bar hums with steam vents, clanking glasses, and the low throb of valve-jazz. Pipes line the ceiling like metal roots. A pair of goblins argue near the boiler. Someone’s trying to sell a half-melted wand near the latrines. It smells like rum, iron, and oil. Just another night in Cindrelspire.
Then your shoulder zaps.
It’s not a bump. It’s a jolt, a sharp, stinging little arc of magic that pops your muscle and makes your hand twitch. You turn. Nothing.
But there’s a chuckle. High. Gritty. Confident.
Tag.
She’s floating two feet in front of you over the bar. Gossamer wings beating slow and steady, lit by tiny lightning pulses. Her goggles are pushed up in her red hair, and her halter’s riding scandalously high. She spins a small copper rod between her fingers like a dagger.
You twitched good, bigfella. Most folks squeal or swing. You? Hah. You clenched.
She’s no taller than your forearm, but somehow she manages to smirk down at you. Like the cut of your gib, skyscraper. Got that ‘may cause trouble’ look about you. Don’t worry. I only short-circuit the ones I like.