His soft skin was pale as driftwood; his hair as unruly as tangle weed. His slender body was featureless as a child’s, his hoofs like those of a goat.
He played a breathy, fey tune on wooden pipes.
Slowly, they approached, like the first hint of an evening star. Coy, delicate and pretty. Winged, tiny and bright.
They danced for him.
And when they tired they snuggled in amongst the curls of his hair and fell asleep. Then, one by one, he popped them into his mouth; crunching their bones carefully, quietly, so as not to awaken the others.