Sun breaks over the pur­ple hills. Warmed by the light, iris buds twitch atop leg­gy stems. They bloom lux­u­ri­ant­ly, stretch­ing soft limbs and del­i­cate, vio­let petal-wings. Tiny white hands ball into fists, rub gold­en pollen from new­ly split eye­lids.

The iris pix­ies begin to drop from their stems, gig­gle as they hit the grass. A high buzz goes up over the field; thou­sands of small voic­es, jubi­lant to be alive. They frol­ic, admir­ing each oth­er’s wings, rub­bing their pollen cov­ered heads, and hug­ging en masse.

Tiny bod­ies rise from the grass on flick­er­ing pur­ple wings, a thou­sand motile flow­ers. They flit and cavort under the sun, singing.

They hard­ly notice as dozens of their kind dis­ap­pear in puffs of pollen, plucked from the air by keg-sized, hun­gry bees.

Hor­ton looked up from his knit­ting. His cat, Dick, had hopped from the gar­den onto the porch. White and yel­low crust cov­ered the feline’s muz­zle. Some­thing wrig­gled in its jaws.

Hor­ton beck­oned to the tab­by. “Come ‘ere, Dick. What’s that you’ve got?”

The cat strut­ted to Hor­ton’s rock­ing chair, tail held high. It dipped its head, deposit­ed a sticky, twitch­ing yel­low thing at the old man’s feet. Hor­ton squint­ed at it.

It was a chewed up tulip pix­ie, cov­ered in its own sticky, yel­low flu­ids. Its del­i­cate, waxy pale arms were snapped, bent askew. One leg was gone entire­ly. It wrig­gled in dis­tress.

“Oh, ye damn cat” said Hor­ton. “I told ye not to kill me tulips.”

Dick meowed, perked up his ears. He looked at the pix­ie and thwacked it with a paw. It pro­duced a tiny scream.

“Damn sil­ly cat, don’ tor­ture ‘im” said Hor­ton. He shift­ed in his chair, crushed the man­gled pix­ie with the heel of his boot.

The rose reclines, purs­es her lips. She turns a glance to some pink lads on the toad­stool across from her, nar­rows her pollen-crust­ed bead-eyes. They grin in uni­son, begin pos­ing non­cha­lant­ly.

One, pos­sessed of flow­ing, lay­ered sta­men-locks, flits his wings. The oth­ers cheer him on. He alights on the rose’s toad­stool. In a high, smooth voice, he begins to ser­e­nade her.

The rose clos­es her eyes, breathes deep. The lad’s scent is suc­cu­lent, heady. In the shad­ed, musty mush­room patch, his voice is bright and sweet. Slow­ly, the rose stretch­es her long pink legs, stands. She approach­es the lad, runs a pale, nail-less thumb along his jaw. He flash­es white, flat teeth, leans for a kiss.

A crunch sounds over­head. Sun­light breach­es the mush­room patch. A giant, pudgy hand reach­es from the sky, stub­by nails smeared with mud. It seizes the rose round her tiny waist. With a yank, she dis­ap­pears.

“Ma’m, these ones were gonna snog” says a mud­dy girl, wav­ing the wrig­gling rose.

“Put it down, Dora” says her Gov­erness. “We must­n’t dis­turb the land­scap­ing.”

Few organ­isms have mas­tered the art of sex­u­al repro­duc­tion quite like pix­if­er­ous plants.

Pix­ifers pro­duce blooms which, after sev­er­al days of sun expo­sure, meta­mor­phose into sapi­ent, motile pix­ies. 

Pix­ies resem­ble humanoid flow­ers. They poss­es a sex, which may be deter­mined by the pres­ence of sta­mens or pis­tils atop their petaled heads.

Most species bloom in spring or through­out the sum­mer. In this time, they sing and cavort in an attempt to attract oth­er pix­ies, with whom they will mate repeat­ed­ly and cre­ative­ly. A suc­cess­ful mat­ing fer­til­izes the seed pod or bulb with­in females, which devel­ops upon death.

Pix­ies live for up to a month, depend­ing on species. By mid­sum­mer, gut­ters and road­sides are choked with their small, dry corpses. 

Pix­ies are the tar­get of sev­er­al preda­tors, the chiefest of which are bees. As pix­ies tend to be obliv­i­ous, they may be gob­bled up eas­i­ly, even by tor­tois­es. Oth­er threats to pix­ies include cats, who kill them in droves, and small chil­dren, who are apt to play with them.

Though pix­ies do not use a lan­guage as humans under­stand it, they use a tonal mode of expres­sion in their songs. Pix­ies are born with this knowl­edge. They appear to com­mu­ni­cate basic con­cepts with it.
Not all species of pix­ie are humanoid and sapi­ent. Exot­ic, trop­i­cal vari­eties, such as the lion pop­py, resem­ble large, fero­cious ani­mals.

Pixie Fancy

Pix­ies are fan­cied as orna­men­tal plants in Coastal gar­dens. They are enjoyed for their beau­ty whilst on the stem, and for their behav­ior while motile. 

Some species are kept for their tem­pera­ment; be they haughty, play­ful, or exceed­ing­ly lust­ful. Some are fan­cied for their song, the arrange­ment and choral nature of which also depends on species. Some are kept mere­ly for their beau­ty.

d100 Pixies

Below is a d100 list of the most com­mon species known to the Coast.

1. Ager­a­tum pix­ies are trea­sured for their propen­si­ty to remain on the stem if plucked from the ground. For this rea­son, they make for fine flo­ral arrange­ments. The pur­ple ima­gos hang from stems, peep­ing musi­cal­ly. 
2. Alli­um pix­ies are large­ly flight­less. They move about like odd, pink sea anemones, occa­sion­al­ly hop­ping from branch to branch. They are enjoyed as a sedate coun­ter­point to more ener­getic blooms.
3. Alyssum is a creep­ing plant apt to spread where oth­er blooms will not. Its pix­ies are small, explorato­ry, but unwise. Their lit­tle pur­ple, white, and pink bod­ies may be found in piles where a lack of com­mon sense has lead them astray.
4. Anemone flow­ers are frag­ile, tem­pera­men­tal things. The plant will rarely bloom in exces­sive drought or rain. Its sweet, egg yolk-and-white pix­ies are apt to drop dead from any mod­er­ate change in tem­per­a­ture. They will make sure to do so in clear view of any avail­able spec­ta­tors. 
5. Angel­i­ca, or wild cel­ery, is pop­u­lar­ly picked for its stems and root, which make a med­i­c­i­nal tea. The flow­ers are often dis­card­ed. The grey pix­ies lat­er devel­op into sick­ly, mal­formed things, bloomed sep­a­rate from the nour­ish­ing stem and unable to fly. Nat­u­ral­ly, they are mild, qui­et singers, but cry piteous­ly when robbed of flight.
6. Aster blooms are grand attrac­tors of but­ter­flies. Its pix­ies, once motile, still pro­duce nec­tar from their yel­low heads. They flee from hun­gry insects, tit­ter­ing soft­ly in sur­prise. Folk often mis­take the aster pix­ies’ aer­i­al reel­ing with but­ter­flies as play, and make an effort to cul­ti­vate but­ter­fly gar­dens with them.  
7. Astilbe, or false goat’s beard, was import­ed to the Coast by explor­ers on the track­less sea. It is a curi­ous plant, grow­ing well in damp and shade, and pro­duc­ing a marked­ly unique pix­ie. Each tall stalk-plume of the astilbe, come pix­ie sea­son, will sep­a­rate from the plant and walk away. These stalks may grow to become a meter or more in height. They wan­der, peep­ing sto­chas­ti­cal­ly, about the coun­try­side. 
8. Gold­bas­ket comes from the crag­gy peaks of East­ern Alagór. It may grow on near any sur­face, so long as it has sun and a bare foothold. The result­ing pix­ies are small, yel­low, and prone to sleep­ing in piles, thus their name.
9. Bar­ren­wort, or goatweed, is a rare ever­green bloom that grows only on the inner heel of the Alagóran penin­su­la. Its green­ish, four-petaled pix­ies lead small, polyamorous lives in the warm forests of the Sarobean coast. They lurk under oily leaves, hum­ming their con­tent­ed song. Such pix­ies’ idyll exis­tence is often end­ed, how­ev­er, as their petals are reput­ed to be an aphro­disi­ac.
10. Bee­balm attracts bees, hum­ming­birds, and but­ter­flies. Like the aster, bee­balm pix­ies remain attrac­tive to pol­li­na­tors after becom­ing motile. They, unlike the asters, are ter­ri­bly socia­ble, and may attempt to befriend, ride, or dec­o­rate their pur­suers. Many a bee has been accou­tred with woven vines and mud­dy paint; many a hum­ming­bird dragged to ground by fatal­ly friend­ly bee­balm blooms. 
11. Aza­lea, or the “roy­al­ty of the gar­den,” is a hardy shrub which may achieve great age. Its pix­ies, which an old plant may pro­duce in the thou­sands, are thought to be an ide­al species. Their light, choral song and gen­tle flight make them trea­sured fea­tures of many an antique estate.
12. Baneber­ry, or bug­bane, pos­sess­es a dead­ly poi­son. Only its white berries are more tox­ic than its pix­ies. Chil­dren are dis­cour­aged from play­ing with the friend­ly, lacy baneber­ry blooms, whose tox­i­c­i­ty may cause stu­por or death in all crea­tures but birds and cater­pil­lars.
13. Bego­nia has many cul­ti­vars, but only a few are fan­cied for their pix­ies. Red, yel­low, and pink blooms with fat, lay­ered petals are the most desired. The pix­ies bloom all sum­mer long, and remain on the stem for a week before fly­ing. There, they hum. Good patch­es of bego­nias can be heard hum­ming through­out a gar­den, a low and calm­ing fugue.
14. Bell­flower pix­ies are named for their bell-like mor­phol­o­gy and tin­kling song. A bit of folk advice dic­tates that wan­dery chil­dren should have a bell­flower pix­ie attached to their col­lar by a meter of string, that they may be heard and bet­ter seen from a dis­tance.
15. Berge­nia, or pigsqueak, pix­ies are small, round, and apt to roll about amorous­ly in their patch. The name “pigsqueak” comes from the sound their plants’ leaves make when rubbed togeth­er, as they often are by the rolling pix­ies.
16. Bleed­ing heart in an import from the swamps of the far South. It is named for its blooms, which appear like pink hearts drip­ping with white blood. These white “blood” petals even­tu­al­ly drop out and unfurl, becom­ing lit­tle pix­ies. The pix­ies fly off to sing their melodies. The heart remains.
17. Blood­root, or tet­ter­wort, pix­ies are white with yel­low fil­a­ments. They bleed shock­ing­ly red if squished, as do the plan­t’s roots. This blood, if applied to skin, caus­es a large, escharot­ic scab and may be severe­ly dis­fig­ur­ing. If eat­en, it will fill the stom­ach with blood. The poi­son pix­ies are play­ful and sing vibra­tious­ly, but shirk away if approached. Some say that ælves are apt to place blood­root pix­ies in the clothes and shoes of peo­ple they dis­like.
18. Blue­bell pix­ies are minute things, small­er than but quite sim­i­lar to blue­ber­ries with wings and legs. They are sweet-smelling, apt to waft their sug­ary per­fume over many meters sur­round­ing their patch. Their song is best described as a cas­cade of tiny, dis­con­nect­ed toots. 
19. Blue­bon­net, named for its blooms’ resem­blance to field-work­er’s sun bon­nets, grows on the flat and qui­et peperelle isles of the South. Its squat, cur­va­ceous pix­ies and their indi­go hue are cur­rent­ly in vogue, for the Suzerain of Oléroix, a design­ers, politi­cian, and pop­u­lar socialite, has tak­en a lik­ing to them. His work has intro­duced blue­bon­net pix­ies as a sym­bol of nou­veau sex­u­al­i­ty. It has become quite fash­ion­able in the Isles to wear glass charms con­tain­ing live blue­bon­net pix­ies. Their song, which is infra­son­ic, caus­es these charms to vibrate excit­ing­ly.
20. Bone­set, or thourough­wort, is used in the treat­ment of bone-break ague, which is preva­lent in the South­ern­most Isles where the plant grows. It pro­duces small, ball-like, fuzzy pix­ies with a sin­gle, white ten­dril atop their heads. These pix­ies are remark­ably fast. If caught, they are dried and tak­en as pills for ague or oth­er ail­ments.  
21. Bugle­weed is a low, dark plant apt to expand, if left to its devices. The lit­tle blue bugle-pix­ies hide with­in the wide shade of its pur­ple leaves, pro­duc­ing sounds not unlike tiny tubas. If dis­turbed, they will flee, shriek­ing like a poor­ly-main­tained trum­pet. 
22. Bugloss is plant­ed at the edges of gar­dens as a help­ful accent bloom. Its ugly foliage is for­giv­en as shade for clutch­es of blue pix­ies, whose curi­ous herd­ing behav­ior is val­ued by gar­den keep­ers. Bugloss pix­ies are apt to herd oth­er fly­ing crea­tures, be they insect or fel­low pix­ie. This behav­ior is sup­pos­ed­ly use­ful in keep­ing the fly­ers of more beau­ti­ful plants with­in the gar­den.
23. But­ter­cup, or ranun­cu­lus pix­ies are beloved for the mir­ror-like flash of their yel­low wings. Self-sus­tain­ing plots of hardy, love­ly but­ter­cup adorn the gar­dens of Coastal towns. Wild, yel­low-winged ima­gos rise and whirl plen­ti­ful­ly from coun­try­side patch­es, singing lark­ish­ly. Firl­ish chil­dren play a game with caught but­ter­cup pix­ies, where­by they hold the crea­ture to their chin. A yel­low reflec­tion from the shin­ing wings is said to indi­cate a fond­ness for but­ter. 
24. Cal­a­di­um thrives in shade. There, pink and pur­ple pix­ies with round heads bob­ble and flirt in the con­cealed pri­va­cy of green and red leaves. They sing all the day long, a sweet and mel­low war­ble, but only emerge in the gold­en after­noon. 
25. Cal­en­du­la is known both for its large, expres­sive­ly-orange pix­ies and its leaves, which serve as a spicy culi­nary gar­nish. Pick­ing said leaves is noto­ri­ous­ly dif­fi­cult, how­ev­er, as the out­sized cal­en­du­la pix­ies will become quite abrupt­ly, unusu­al­ly defen­sive if their plant is dis­turbed. They will employ snap­ping jaws lined with ridged, hard seed-teeth in their defense.
26. Can­dytuft, despite its sug­ary name, has noth­ing to do with sweets. Rather, it mere­ly hails from the Isle of Can­díe, a trop­i­cal par­adise. There, can­dytuft pix­ies, white and the size of a coin, have no inter­est in vis­i­tors. They keep com­plete­ly to them­selves, select­ing par­tic­u­lar roost­ing spots dis­tant from non-pix­ie life. They sing a calm and high­ly melod­ic cho­rus, but cease imme­di­ate­ly if eaves­drop­ping is detect­ed. In flo­ri­og­ra­phy, the can­dytuft apt­ly sig­ni­fies dis­in­ter­est.
27. Car­na­tion blooms are pre­sent­ed as flo­ri­o­graph­ic sym­bols of friend­ship or play­ful love. They one of few pix­ifer species to bloom into fly­ing pix­ies even after being plucked from the earth. The result­ing pink pix­ies are among the most affec­tion­ate and prone to human inter­ac­tion. Most would rather sing upon a human shoul­der than reside in nature.
28. Cas­tor Bean, or rici­nus, is a curi­ous plant. In the south, it grows so hardy as to become like a tree. This is unusu­al, as trees are rarely pix­if­er­ous. The female cas­tor pix­ie, tuft­ed and red, remains on her stem before mat­ing. There, she lurks and sings, attempt­ing to acquire the atten­tion of a flighty male. Once mat­ed, she will detach, leav­ing a spiny cas­tor bean pod in her stead. This is the self­same bean which may be made into both cas­tor oil and ricin, a lethal tox­in when puri­fied.
29. Cat­mint pix­ies are tiny, hap­py, pur­ple things born of stiff stalks. Their song is a mere, high buzz of trilling voic­es. Per their name, cat­mint pix­ies and their leaves are well-loved by cats, to whom the plant is a sort of nar­cot­ic. Cats will spend hours attempt­ing to swat cat­mint pix­ies from the air, dizzy with high. The pix­ies, true to form, are obliv­i­ous as dozens of their lot are smashed from the air and devoured. 
30. Celosia, or cock­’s comb, is a trea­sured orna­men­tal. Its large, crest­ful pix­ies are long lived, fly­ing for up to six weeks in fer­tile areas. Their exces­sive lifes­pan lends them time to devel­op star­tling­ly com­plex choirs and melodies, some of which sound near­ly human, and none of which are alike. Celosia orig­i­nates in the lands sur­round­ing Baramec­ca. It is that hot land’s heraldic flower. There, the plant is eat­en as a green and as a cere­al.
31. Chives are often grown by restau­rants in peren­ni­al gar­den tanks. The stem, bulb, and flower are all con­sumed for their mild wild onion fla­vor. The flow­ers, large, cone-shaped and pur­ple, are the most desired, for they serve as a dec­o­ra­tive ele­ment in high cui­sine. A live, squeal­ing chive pix­ie pinned atop a steak is thought to be high­ly taste­ful accom­pa­ni­ment. 
32. Chrysan­the­mum pix­ies are often net­ted, for their sweet bod­ies are deli­cious when steeped into a gold­en tea. They come from the island realm of Maples, where they are the nation­al flower. Chrysan­the­mum pix­ies are rarely regard­ed for their song, which is con­sid­ered to sound like a squeal­ing mock­ery of old opera.
33. Cleome pix­ies are whiskery, white things with gan­g­ly green legs. They were brought in jars from the Isle of Laught, a hot and dis­tant place thought to be an extra­world­ly locale. They sing con­stant­ly, qui­et­ly, with many ques­tion­ing sounds. Only in the pres­ence of cats do they grow silent. They are sold in wire cages, much like mince toads, to detect the pres­ence of moun­tain lions and oth­er such hun­gry cats. 
34. Columbine, or heart­stop, as the Firls call it; or aqui­le­gia, as it is called in the South, is among the most com­mon mead­ow flow­ers of the Coast. North, South, or oth­er­wise, some vari­ety of the bloom may be found. Due to their opposed, equal num­ber of sepa­ls and petals, columbine pix­ies appear to have lit­tle skirts. They are prone to danc­ing in rings, much like Awnish folk dancers, whilst singing and clap­ping their thin limbs. The crea­tures are sweet to the tongue, but quite poi­so­nous. The bloom, stem, and root of the columbine may stop the heart of even hearty man. The clever chefs of Empereaux have found a way to make columbine cock­tails which cause mere heart pal­pi­ta­tions. 
35. Com­frey pix­ies are flight­less. They may be found skip­ping over the rocks and roots of shal­low Aren­lan­dish swamps. They are unique, for their pis­tils devel­op into legs, come sep­a­ra­tion from the plant. Com­frey pix­ies thus walk about entire­ly shroud­ed by the bells of their petals. 
36. Cone­flower, while often cut as a hard-wear­ing table orna­ment, pro­duces large, hard-head­ed pix­ies of an attrac­tive vari­ety. Each pos­sess­es a large and weighty ball of prick­ly seeds atop its head. Such heady cra­ni­ums lead the crea­tures a wend­ing, unsta­ble flight upon their many sets of wings. Their clum­sy flight is amus­ing, so long as a prick­ly seed-head not col­lide with bare skin. Cone­flower pix­ies’ song is enjoyed in coun­try gar­dens, and is often com­pared to a chil­dren’s choir. 
37. Core­op­sis, or tick­seed, grows in the hot prairies of Baramec­ca. These red, orange, and yel­low wild­flow­ers may sub­sume entire leagues with qui­et­ly chat­ter­ing fly­ers. Core­op­sis pix­ies do not sing, instead flirt and laugh in a lan­guage of their own. Though schol­ars have spent innu­mer­able ages lis­ten­ing to this lan­guage, they have been unable to deci­pher it. It is regard­ed as a non­sense tongue, one known only by ælves and the art­ful­ly mad.
38. Cory­dal­lis is an obscure bloom. It grows in the gar­dens of nymphs and hul­drafolk. Out­side these oth­er­word­ly lairs, it exists only in the ter­rar­i­ums of magi­cians and botanists, for it requires pre­cise mois­ture and heat con­di­tions to flower. Its pix­ies are long-bod­ied, pur­ple-blue, and crest­ed round the neck like a cobra. They refuse to sing in com­pa­ny. The nec­tar in their bel­lies may be dis­tilled into a serum which induces ter­ri­ble obe­di­ence. Cory­dal­lis serum has played a role in many a case of tor­ture or illic­it coer­cion. 
39. Cro­cus is a wood­land wild­flower from the North. Its pix­ies are ten­der things. They clutch their peri­win­kle petals like skirts, flirt coy­ly and sub­tle­ty far from pry­ing eyes. Their song, if heard, only occurs in solo pieces meant to woo a mate. For their hid­den nature, cro­cus pix­ies are rarely fan­cied by gar­den­ers.
40. Cupflower is an herba­ceous, shrub­by wild­flower which grows in the damp spring­time of south­ern Alagór. Its pix­ies are prone to col­lect rain­drops in the upturned petals of their heads. Once full, they top­ple over, gig­gling. Their song, a sort of fast min­uet, is made spot­ty by this repeat­ed top­pling and refill­ing.
41. Daf­fodils are espe­cial­ly joy­ous and com­mu­nal. They fly in droves, reel­ing and play­ing in the air. Though their wings are a fine, bright gold, they are pri­mar­i­ly a wild species. Most gar­den­ers avoid daf­fodils, due to their propen­si­ty for orgies.
42. Dahlia blooms are among the largest pix­ies encoun­tered in Coastal gar­dens. They are many-petaled, round things, apt to lounge and tit­ter a stringy cho­rus. Red and white dahlias are most pop­u­lar. They are also the most prone for a sort of vain dig­ni­ty, for which the species is sym­bol­ic. A Dahlia pix­ie, if made over­ly dirty or tat­tered, will sim­ply hide and wait until death. 
43. Daisy is a pro­lif­ic species through­out the Coast. It will bloom any­where, giv­en sun­shine. The pix­ies are tru­ly exu­ber­ant things, apt to play with both each oth­er and non-pix­ies. This often leads them into the hands of chil­dren, who spear them onto daisy-chains. Their song is akin to many tune­less pen­ny-whis­tles tootling in vague har­mo­ny. Daisies are cul­ti­vat­ed for their astrin­gent prop­er­ties. Farmed pix­ies are caught and squeezed for their juice, which it then used to soak ban­dages.
44. Dias­cia, or twin­spur, is a curi­ous species import­ed from a lost isle on the Track­less Sea. Its pink, bibbed blooms each con­tain two sacs of black oil. To repro­duce, dias­cia pix­ies exchange oils in a rather sen­su­ous rit­u­al. Before engag­ing in said rit­u­al, they sing togeth­er for a week whilst on the stem. This song nat­u­ral­ly takes the form of a war­bling duet. Oil of dias­cia has become a pop­u­lar prod­uct in the Isles. If dropped into the eye, it caus­es an attrac­tive dila­tion of the pupils. Prof­it mar­gins for small-scale dias­cia farms are immense.  
45. Fen­nel pix­ies are rarely observed, for they are tru­ly minute. Each appar­ent fen­nel flower is com­prised of some three dozen pix­ies, each of which will even­tu­al­ly fly. These are mis­tak­en for tree pollen float­ing on the breeze, and are read­i­ly inhaled and swal­lowed. Their song resem­bles a mere rustling, rarely heard over even the sway­ing of grass on the wind.
46. Flax bears a blue and reflec­tive flower. These blooms remain on the stem for only a while before fly­ing as pix­ies. The fly­ers are often net­ted alive and set to mate in mesh cages by farm­ers, who col­lect their bod­ies, which con­tain seeds, to press for oil. Flax pix­ies are not val­ued for their song, which is con­sid­ered to be aton­al in a manor rem­i­nis­cent of Aren­lan­dish funer­al dirges.
47. Fox­glove must grow for two years upon moor­land soil before it first blooms. When it does, though, they are revealed as horns of unsur­passed ele­gance. Such horns are known for fit­ting even­ly over the thumb. Sto­ries tell that ælves place them on the toes of fox­es to silence their foot­falls. Fox­glove pix­ies are remark­ably short-lived. They pro­duce an echoic sort of song for only a few days before per­ish­ing. All parts of the fox­glove are tox­ic, but may also be tak­en in small dos­es to increase the strength and vol­ume of the human heart­beat. 
48. Guara, or bee­blos­som, pro­duces a pecu­liar breed of whiskered pix­ie. In order to pre­vent harass­ment by bees, these fly­ers will offer up globs of their own sweet nec­tar to pur­su­ing insects. Often, this allows them to escape unharmed. Guara pix­ies are notable for chang­ing abrupt­ly to a dark­er shade of petal the night before they die. 
49. Gera­ni­um, or cranes­bill, orig­i­nates from Illa Cor­voy. Much like the touch-me-not, a ver­mil­ion gera­ni­um pix­ie will burst and fling its seeds when fer­tile and ripe. This burst­ing pro­duces a gassy pop. Such pops nat­u­ral­ly inter­sperse the stilt­ed song of gera­ni­ums, and are oft-incor­rect­ly attrib­uted to the melody itself.
50. Geum, or avens, though a cousin to the rose, is a mere wild­flower. Geum pix­ies, which are typ­i­cal­ly red or orange, are affec­tion­ate and noto­ri­ous for a ten­den­cy to inci­den­tal­ly die while inter­act­ing with Lit­torans. They will drown in open drinks, burn in pipe bowls, or sim­ply become crushed under idle limbs. Their song may be described as naught but a lazy sort of yip­ping. 
51. Goats­beard pix­ies sport long, cream-col­ored ten­drils of many flo­rets atop their heads. Due to the ungain­ly nature of their head­gear, they are unable to fly, and instead make a habit of danc­ing on flat stones, click­ing odd­ly. They are native to the high plains of Lothrheim, where herds­men trea­sure crushed goats­beard as a salve for rheumat­ic ani­mals.
52. Gom­phre­na, or globe ama­ranth, is a wild­flower import­ed from the deep­est dust­plains of the South. Its glob­u­lar blooms meta­mor­phose into rotund pix­ies, which bob­ble through the air much like ungain­ly bum­ble­bees. Their song is a qui­et series of fast, undu­lant honks. Gom­phre­na is often kept dried, as it keeps its attrac­tive pur­ple shade inter­minably. The blooms and pix­ies are much like prick­ly pinecones, when dried. They are used as adorn­ments for flower chains, and tak­en as large pills for cough and irri­ta­tion of the lung.
53. Gorse pix­ies are an uncom­mon vari­ety. They fly in win­ter, even in great cold, for their bod­ies pro­duce, unusu­al­ly, their own heat. The yel­low glow of gorse pix­ies is in part due to reflect­ed light, and also in part due to a small exother­mic reac­tion occur­ring in their bel­lies. Every gorse pix­ie has a lim­it­ed sup­ply of fuel. Most die with­in a few days. In that time, how­ev­er, they pro­duce a whis­pery rhythm before mat­ing, steam­ing, in the snow.  
54. Heliotrope is a shade-grow­ing, dark-leafed plant. It pro­duces pix­ies of blue, white, or pur­ple. These blooms, despite their shady ori­gin, are prone to turn and face the sun, whether on the stem or fly­ing. Long-bod­ied heliotrope pix­ies will sun­burn until near­ly cooked and dried, at the height of sum­mer. 
55. Helle­bore, or win­ter rose, is a poi­son species native to the North, espe­cial­ly high moun­tain glades. Its blooms, which are often pur­ple or green shad­ed with black, are apt to droop on the stem, so heavy with nec­tar are they. The pix­ies are much they same. They droop about in a lush­ly depressed fash­ion, only fly­ing or mat­ing with appar­ent reluc­tance and dis­in­cli­na­tion. They do not sing. If any por­tion of the helle­bore plant is eat­en, it will cause cramp­ing, burn­ing, and, sup­pos­ed­ly, a grim mood. Folk­lore sup­pos­es that helle­bore, if eat­en along­side but­ter­cup, will engen­der a per­ma­nent state of ennui.
56. Hen­bane, or stink­ing night­shade, pro­duces unat­trac­tive mus­tard pix­ies with black heads. It is known as a plant of sor­cery, as its pix­ies smell of death, and its leaves pro­duce a pow­er­ful psy­choac­tive effect. Despite their ugli­ness, hen­bane pix­ies are a rec­og­niz­able sym­bol. Their like­ness is stamped on the crates and labels of gruit beer, to which hen­bane is an essen­tial ingre­di­ent. 
57. Hepat­i­ca, or liv­er­wort, may be found slow­ly spread­ing neath dark groves. Its pix­ies resem­ble pur­ple but­ter­cups in shape and song, but are not near­ly so reflec­tive. In fact, hepat­i­ca blooms seem to take in light. They are regard­ed as unnat­ur­al, a sign of the encroach­ing Oth­er. Hepat­i­ca pix­ies, mild and inclined to daw­dle, are eas­i­ly caught. They are mashed and used to coat the clothes of those who wish to go unseen.
58. Hol­ly­hock is a pop­u­lar orna­men­tal. Its pix­ies have broad, clothy wings and a ten­den­cy to reel and glide pleas­ing­ly. Their song, a sort of ring­ing chime, is unusu­al­ly loud. Attempts have been made to breed the vol­ume out of domes­tic hol­ly­hocks. Wild ones, which fre­quent­ly grow on, stream banks, are nat­u­ral­ly deaf­en­ing. Folk­lore states that one should nev­er drink at a hol­ly­hock stream, lest near­by preda­tors go unheard. 
59. Hos­ta was import­ed from the Isle of Witch­way. It pro­duces waxy, white pix­ies from long stalks. Though these fly­ers are wide­ly fan­cied, they are prone to becom­ing ragged in short time. Hos­ta pix­ies will reg­u­lar­ly hold aer­i­al duels in com­pe­ti­tion for mates. Their song, a chant which com­pa­nies the duel, may change to suit whichev­er fight­er is win­ning. The los­er will be thrown to the earth and vague­ly stamped upon, thus their ragged wings. 
60. Hys­sop is usu­al­ly har­vest­ed as a crop before its pix­ies fly. Each pix­ie, when upon the stem, has an oil-rich ach­ene with­in its chest, like a sin­gle, large pip of a straw­ber­ry. These ach­enes grow through­out their three-week peri­od of mat­ing, even­tu­al­ly falling away with the pix­ies’ death. These oily things are har­vest­ed en masse and squeezed for their essen­tial oil, which is used as a tra­di­tion­al anti­sep­tic and in the purifi­ca­tion rit­u­als of Aveth. Hys­sop pix­ies are small and pink, but poor­ly regard­ed, as their song is mere­ly a sort of vague dron­ing.
61. Iris­es are a prized, del­i­cate species. Their heavy wings are bil­lowy and desir­able, but tear eas­i­ly. Iris­es are both vain and obliv­i­ous. They rarely notice impend­ing, or even present, doom.
62. Lark­spur is known as the most flight-hardy breed of pix­ie in the North. Pos­sessed of sharp and durable petal-wings, lark­spur pix­ies will trav­el hun­dreds of leagues before dying. They trav­el to acquire gifts. The more exot­ic the present, the more impres­sive the pro­pos­al. Lark­spur pix­ies are respon­si­ble for the trans­port of many species of flower out­side their nat­ur­al ranges, and they are apt to car­ry col­or­ful dead pix­ies as gifts. Lark­spur pix­ies are often net­ted mid-trav­el, as their crushed bod­ies, when mixed with alum, pro­vide a bright blue ink.
63. Laven­der is native to the sea­side mead­ows and moor­land of Fir­lund. Its tiny pix­ies are mild. Their song sounds of tiny flutes. Their clean scent and noble demeanor have earned them a place on the her­aldry of count­less hous­es of Firl­ish his­to­ry.  
64. Lead­wort, or plumba­go, is a creep­ing plant which grows on the slopes of Illa Cor­voy. It forms mats of green­ery on the rocky out­crop­pings of that hot land. In good sum­mers, its pix­ies may fly all sea­son long. They are unas­sum­ing, soft-singing crea­tures prone to nap­ping. After a long South­ern sum­mer, the streets of Port Cor­voy becomes choked with their dry, blue bod­ies. 
65. Lilac pix­ies are small and slow. Tiny, soft, pur­ple nod­ules cov­er their legs. They are prized for their scent and dust, which they waft lazi­ly through the air. Their song is a low hum. Lilacs are prized for sum­mer par­ties.
66. Lily is a bloom pop­u­lar for its fra­grance and promi­nent petals. Its trum­pet­ing pix­ies are not so pop­u­lar. Their long legs are coat­ed in pollen, and are apt to leave yel­low stains wher­ev­er they go.
67. Lion Pop­py grows only in the high­est jun­gle canopies of Illa Cor­voy, where it pro­duces hang­ing vines. From these ten­drils grow blooms akin to pink, petal-maned cats with razor seeds for teeth. They roam the isle, search­ing for mates and prey. Any kills they make are left, rid­dled with seeds, to rot into fer­til­iz­er. Lion pop­pies are hunt­ed every sum­mer, for their pink blood is the leg­endary source of coqueli­cot: A resinous drug of great pop­u­lar­i­ty. 
68. Looses­trife grows on the banks of streams and ponds. Its yel­low pix­ies are prone to voy­ag­ing. They will take up leaf-boats and grass-pad­dles and float to new shores. As they voy­age, they sing curi­ous­ly deep dirges. Once they reach new land, they will mate and die. Their seeds will ger­mi­nate into gen­er­a­tions of voy­agers to come. 
69. Marigold pix­ies are sym­bol­ic of despair and pre­ma­ture loss. They are beau­ti­ful, bois­ter­ous things pos­sessed of a youth­ful dit­ty, but die after only a few days of flight. Dried marigolds are sent in con­so­la­tion let­ters to those who have lost.
70. Monks­hood, or wolfs­bane, grows in the high mead­ows of the Gorathi­an Moun­tains. Its root and flower are among the dead­liest of nat­ur­al poi­sons. If eat­en or tak­en par­enter­al­ly, it will cause sweats, burn­ing, and abrupt death as if by suf­fo­ca­tion. The flow­ers in ques­tion are long, hood­ed pur­ple things. As pix­ies, they are flight­less. They amble about in columns, con­cealed in their own petals as if robed. As they amble, they sing a light refrain akin to a monas­tic chant. Thus, they earn their name.
71. Moon­flower, or thor­nap­ple, is a poi­son species whose pix­ies only fly at night. They are fan­cied, nonethe­less, for said pix­ies have a habit of sleep­ing in fetch­ing pos­es with their wings draped about like bed­clothes. It is known in folk­lore as among the clas­sic “witch­es weeds,” all of which are night­shades thought to come from the oth­er­world. 
72. Nas­tur­tium is the heraldic flower of Illa Phe, a tiny repub­lic in the Sarobean Sea. Its pix­ies are large, gold­en, and fierce­ly ter­ri­to­r­i­al. They will chase all fly­ing beasts, save oth­er pix­ies, for their trel­lis­es, where they are most pop­u­lar­ly plant­ed. This proud ter­ri­to­ri­al­i­ty is an apt rep­re­sen­ta­tion of their home island, which has often resist­ed annex­a­tion by the Sov­er­eign Isles and Alagór. Nas­tur­tium pix­ies’ belt­ing song has also inspired that island’s nation­al anthem. 
73. Orchid describes a diverse and wild­ly col­ored col­lec­tion of species native to the sub­trop­i­cal Track­less Isles. Though their appear­ance varies wild­ly, even with­in sin­gle islands, they are uni­fied by a par­tic­u­lar trib­al behav­ior. Orchid pix­ies will divide into trib­al flights by col­or or body shape, regard­less of actu­al species. They will col­lec­tive­ly mate, even between species, so long as their mates are visu­al­ly sim­i­lar. Their song resem­bles a troupe of vocal­ists per­form­ing scales. Over 1,000 species of orchid have been iden­ti­fied, and the most beau­ti­ful are kept in ter­rar­i­ums by fanciers. 
74. Pan­sy pix­ies are idle crea­tures. They float through gar­dens, hum­ming their vague and sonorous tune. In the event they bump into anoth­er pan­sy, they will affect incred­i­ble sur­prise and ini­ti­ate a lengthy aer­i­al courtship. For these days-long dis­plays of idle love, not to men­tion their var­ied col­oration, pan­sies are high­ly pop­u­lar gar­den pix­ies in all Lit­toran lands. 
75. Peri­win­kle pix­ies are light pur­ple and remark­ably long-lived. For the first three weeks of their flighty lives, they live typ­i­cal­ly; flut­ter­ing, court­ing, and ema­nat­ing a song like mut­ed harps. After they mate and release seeds, how­ev­er, a peri­win­kle pix­ie changes. It will begin to act as if con­scious of its own mor­tal­i­ty, an aware­ness no oth­er species owns. Attempts at long-term sur­vival, such as crude leaf-house build­ing and para­noid stealth, begin to com­mand the peri­win­kle’s life. Some pix­ies will take up in tree hol­lows and live for some time, grow­ing pro­gres­sive­ly more ragged. Oth­ers, lucky ones, will be befriend­ed by Lit­toran chil­dren and kept as beloved pets for many years.
76. Petu­nia pix­ies are often likened to float­ing para­sols. Their umbrel­la-like skirts and drift­ing flight lends them an unhur­ried air, but also makes them espe­cial­ly catch-able by birds. Their flo­ri­o­graph­ic mean­ing imparts a grad­ual or impend­ing tone, appro­pri­ate to the pix­ie’s swelling fugue of a song. 
77. Pim­per­nel is the best-known dis­tinc­tion of prim­rose. Its red-petaled pix­ies are of an offi­cious and court­ly vari­ety. They Often lead dances con­duct­ed by a sin­gle singing offi­cial. Of course, once the seem­ing­ly-orga­nized dance ends, the lot of pim­per­nels dis­solve into sul­try plots of dis­or­ga­nized sen­su­al­i­ty. 
78. Pop­py pix­ies, plump and col­or­ful, are leg­endary blooms. The wilder­lands East of North­ern Alagór, where myth says cheva­liers of old made bat­tle with the awful Fair, are host to unend­ing leagues of pop­py fields, some of which are rumored to encroach upon the Oth­er­world. The blood­red, floaty pix­ies there­in pro­duce a sleepy drone of many thou­sands of over­lap­ping chords. Super­sti­tion says that sleep­ers midst the drowsy blooms will nev­er again awake to the world they knew before.
79. Quell­flower is nat­u­ral­ized in most Lit­toran lands, despite being a prod­uct of selec­tive breed­ing. Its pix­ies are ludi­crous­ly, enter­tain­ing­ly bash­ful. Often, they will aban­don their con­vo­lut­ed, gift-ori­ent­ed courtship rit­u­als at the slight­est hint of dis­in­ter­est. They were orig­i­nal­ly bred as table cen­ter­pieces, kept alive in glass globes for the enter­tain­ment of guests. Now, they exist in the wild, often attempt­ing, unsuc­cess­ful­ly, to apply their oft-abort­ed courtship to oth­er species. 
80. Ros­es are loud and roman­tic. Their song nat­u­ral­ly divides into a series of solo pieces. Their enor­mous, many-lay­ered heads keep them pri­mar­i­ly land-bound. They lounge about and mate with lux­u­ri­ant indo­lence.
81. Rue pix­ies are kept for their prop­er­ties as a mos­qui­to repel­lent. While some say the unas­sum­ing yel­low pix­ies actu­al­ly catch and eat bugs, this is untrue. Few species of pix­ie have diges­tive sys­tems. Instead, rue pix­ies exude a mild insect-repel­lent oil. They are some­times kept in small, mesh cages and used for this pur­pose. In this state, they live for up to a week, singing like minute peep­ing toads.
82. Saf­fron cro­cus, unlike its wild cousin, is a trea­sured cul­ti­var. It is so trea­sured, as its pix­ies are the source of saf­fron. Their styles and stig­mas devel­op into stringy red legs, which dan­gle weak­ly neath pur­ple petals. These legs, when plucked from the pix­ie, are known as saf­fron threads. Once dried and crushed, threads become the Coast’s most expen­sive spice. Saf­fron cro­cus grows only in cap­tiv­i­ty, and its ances­tor plant is long ago unknown. Its pix­ies are made flight­less and dull by thou­sands of years of selec­tive breed­ing. They live only long enough to drop from their stem, mate resigned­ly, and die. Most spend their last hours leg­less, peep­ing sad­ly. 
83. Sage leaf is among the old­est of Coastal herbs. It has a place in every cab­i­net. The pix­ies of sage are less well-regard­ed, but are nec­es­sar­i­ly paid a place of hon­or by gar­den­ers. A wise cul­ti­va­tor of herbs will not gath­er sage until they sight bell-top, trum­pet­ing sage pix­ies mat­ing upon their win­dowsill. Only then can they be con­fi­dent the seeds will soon be ripe for pluck­ing and replant­i­ng.
84. Sen­na pix­ies are unique, for they attract ants via nec­taries in their joints. The ants do not both­er them. Rather, they serve as a defense against those who would eat them. Sen­na pix­ies, despite hav­ing an attrac­tive poly­phon­ic song, are rather unpop­u­lar due to their insec­toid part­ner­ship.
85. Soap­wort is a wide­spread, redo­lent, and plen­ti­ful pur­ple bloom. It is kept both for its clean scent, the play­ful demeanor of its pix­ies, and said pix­ies’ util­i­ty in mak­ing soap. Soap­wort leaves, still blooms, and pix­ies are gath­ered up plen­ti­ful­ly, for they may be soaked and con­vert­ed into a mild soap.
86. Sil­ver­mound gives rise to many thou­sands of tiny, sil­ver pix­ies, but is rarely val­ued for their num­bers. Instead, it is kept for its ever­green foliage. The pix­ies are mere­ly regard­ed as a con­ve­nient means of spread­ing the plant, which is native to the fjords north of Fir­lund. It may be for­tu­nate they are so small, for sil­ver­mound pix­ies are apt to make long, cre­ative, and dis­tinct­ly erot­ic love in clear view of onlook­ers.
87. Snap­drag­on pix­ies are a rare, ani­mal­is­tic breed. Their snap­ping lips are pleased by any insect or tiny pix­ie which may fit with­in. They spend their days mat­ing and gob­bling til they are stuffed, at which point they die, pro­vid­ing their seeds a fer­tile patch com­posed of their own com­post­ing corpses. Snap­drag­on pix­ies are a fine accom­pa­ni­ment to oth­er gar­den species, as they east pet insects, so long as their neigh­bor­ing pix­ies aren’t small enough to eat. 
88. Snow­drop pix­ies bloom long before oth­er species. Their wide feet are adapt­ed to walk­ing on snow, which they do with a great amount of skip­ping. Snow­drops can­not fly for long, lest their wings freeze. Their song is an incred­i­bly soft refrain rife with hock­et. Its sound is regard­ed as the first her­ald of spring.
89. Spurge is regard­ed as a pest. The low and thick-leafed scrub pro­duces hordes of nib­bling yel­low pix­ies which cack­le as they nip. As to why spurge pix­ies bite, few can guess, save out of spite; though botanists sup­pose the crea­tures attempt to bring down minute mam­mals and use them as fer­til­iz­er. 
90. Tan­sies are a queer and wicked flower. Though their many-petaled orange blooms are sure­ly dec­o­ra­tive, they are uncom­mon gar­den fea­tures, for tan­sy pix­ies are pes­tif­er­ous and dis­turb­ing. They tug hair, dance with rude sex­u­al­i­ty, and sing with a dis­so­nance unpop­u­lar to Coastal ears. Their behav­ior is no sur­prise, for tan­sies are an inva­sive species spread from the oth­er­world. Fields rife with spread­ing tan­sies are thought to be cursed indeed.
91. This­tle pix­ies are a mil­i­tant sort. Even after leav­ing the stem, they retain prick­ly, knife-like leaves on their fore­arms. They make it their life’s work to mass togeth­er and launch raids on blue­bell and looses­trife pix­ies, among oth­er species. The prod­uct of these raids, unless repelled, is a pile of flower corpses suit­able for build­ing a cairn. Under this cairn, the pur­ple this­tles bury their dead, whose ger­mi­nate seeds ger­mi­nate in the rot of their ances­tor’s foes. 
92. Thrift is local to the salt marsh­es sur­round­ing Grey. Despite being quite dec­o­ra­tive, thrift pix­ies and buds are grown for medi­cial pur­pos­es. When grown in the min­er­al-rich earth of marsh­es, they become vit­a­minized and health­ful. They are eat­en by Firls, who say they boost con­sti­tu­tion. Thrift pix­ies fea­ture in sev­er­al nan­ny-songs, which mim­ic the can­ter­ing beat of pix­ies’ own tune.
93. Tulips are the most com­mon gar­den pix­ie of the North. They are easy to grow and sport a vari­ety of col­ors. Tulips tit­ter and gig­gle all day, but sing only in the gold­en after­noon. They are well known for their friend­li­ness, but also their fool­ish­ness.
94. Touch-me-not pix­ies were import­ed to the con­ti­nent from Chantofelle Island, north of Empereaux. They are so named for a explo­sive dehis­cence when fer­til­ized, which caus­es them to burst into many hun­dreds of seeds if touched. The high song of touch-me-nots is occa­sion­al­ly inter­spersed with small puffs of burst­ing kin.
95. Valer­ian pix­ies are sleepy pink-and-white things. They are tiny and apt to play dead if in dan­ger. They attract cats, who are wise to their tricks and often smash them to bits. Their song is notable for trail­ing off at odd moments, and is rarely val­ued for gar­dens.  
96. Ver­be­na attracts but­ter­flies. Ver­be­na pix­ies use this to their advan­tage. They wait to leave their stem until a pol­li­na­tor draws near. At that moment, they detach and leap astride it. Ver­be­na pix­ies may ride a but­ter­fly for leagues, only detach­ing to mate once sure they are in a new locale. Thus, they spread, for their long bod­ies make them unable to fly effec­tive­ly. When astride their pol­li­na­tor steeds, they sing hymn-like dit­ties to the wind. Some leg­ends will cred­it this song to but­ter­flies, unaware that it is the pix­ies aboard who are the per­form­ers.
97. Vio­let pix­ies are con­fused things. They are like­ly to attempt to woo and mate with any vague­ly humanoid thing, be it a vio­let, a human, or a pix­ie of anoth­er species. Many a spring­time sleep­er has been awak­ened by a lust­ful vio­let singing whis­tles in their ear, hop­ing to gain notice. 
98. Wish­bone grows its pix­ies on indi­vid­ual stems. These pix­ies are among the few to pos­sess the nec­es­sary struc­tures to con­sume food. They use this abil­i­ty for strange pur­pos­es, how­ev­er, as they are can­ni­bals. After mat­ing, the male pix­ie will per­ish dra­mat­i­cal­ly. His sweet flesh will be con­sumed by the female, who will pro­ceed to mate and eat sev­er­al more times before dying quite fat. Only a female wish­bone pix­ie will sing. She does so to attract mates, as her wings become even­tu­al­ly unable to lift her bulk.
99. Woodruff, though not awful­ly attrac­tive, pro­duces a scent rem­i­nis­cent of sug­ar and new­ly-mown hay. Its pix­ies, small and white, are some­times kept liv­ing in sachet-cages to treat laun­dry. Exper­i­men­tal fash­ions from the Rue de Cou­ture have involved keep­ing fly­ing woodruffs leashed by sil­ver chain about the neck. These are even­tu­al­ly an imprac­ti­cal prospect, as woodruff pix­ies are bound to do obscene things with a wear­er’s ears. 
100. Yarrow pix­ies, much like the snap­drag­on, are hunters. They fly in swarms, hop­ing to catch an insect among them. Once caught, they will form a ball about the bug and vibrate. Even­tu­al­ly, the built heat from this vibra­tion will lead to the bug, and sev­er­al pix­ies’, death. They may then be used as repos­i­to­ries for seeds. Yarrow pix­ies sing and mate only before they hunt, for they become imme­di­ate­ly and fero­cious­ly fer­tile after­wards. This song can only be described as akin to a war chant.

Note

You know how Pixar has a cre­ative prompt which goes “what if X had feel­ings?” Cars have feel­ings. Fish have feel­ings. Feel­ings have feel­ings. I like this.

My long­time cre­ative prompt is “what if X were peo­ple?” It’s great.

Also, it might be cool to play a series of pix­ies in an RPG. Die, get a new pix­ie. Repeat. (Don’t actu­al­ly do this.

Edit: Some time after the orig­i­nal pub­lish­ing of this arti­cle, I’ve added a sig­nif­i­cant list of pix­ie vari­eties. This will serve as a ref­er­ence for my lat­er sand­box con­struc­tion. It is by no means exhaus­tive, and will like­ly require me to go back and edit it as cor­rec­tions or nar­ra­tive changes are nec­es­sary. For now, it is my first d100 list.