In one of the most stained moments of the rhapsody is the demise of the sweet-pixie, its most beloved heroine. From her thorax were her wings ripped, from her mop were her pigtails sliced, from her abdomen were her legs stripped. Her eyes did weep tears of blood, but not until her head was severed did she yield to His frigid mercy.

Moreover that hers was a gruesome spectacle, the sweet-pixie's death throes conjured forth the artist's eternal foe, the censor, for in life her sole purpose had been to conjure forth the reaper and quell Him. From their quarantines did the patients of the plague decry her quest: they had sworn to sacrifice aught they could that they might be free of their ailment, but the pixie's pretty penny was a price they would not pay. Perhaps the pixie, they did reason, had not truly valued her offering to the dragon. Yet if her sacrifice had meant naught to her, it would have meant naught to Him.

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