Captured Tales

by Bill Tiepelman

Queen of the Gossamer Hive

The Buzzening It began on a Tuesday, which was already suspicious. Tuesdays have a way of feeling like Mondays in a cheaper outfit, and this one had a particularly uncanny vibe—like reality was wearing its seams inside out. Desmond Flarrow, mild-mannered beekeeper and semi-retired baritone, stood ankle-deep in clover, admiring his hive and nursing a lukewarm thermos of chamomile gin. It was his daily ritual: check the bees, mutter something poetic, then go inside and pretend to write a novel. But today, something was... humming. Not just the usual bee buzz, but a rich, harmonic vibration that shimmered through the air like a choir of tuning forks singing in Latin. The clover swayed as though tickled by unseen hands, and the sky—was that glitter? From the heart of Hive 7, the one Desmond always suspected was a little “extra,” erupted a flash of gold and cobalt light. The top of the hive popped off like a champagne cork, releasing a scent somewhere between caramel thunder and ancient spellbook. Then, from the misty interior, she emerged. Not a queen bee. The Queen. The mother of buzz. The feathered empress of nectar. She hovered five feet in the air, wings vibrating with lace-like precision, her fur a velvet tapestry of burnt orange, turquoise, and secrets. Eyes like midnight gemstones. She was part insect, part divine fashion statement, and 100% not supposed to be real. "Hello, Desmond," she said, her voice like wind chimes at a burlesque show. "I’m Queen Aurelia. We’ve got work to do." Desmond, to his credit, only spilled half his gin. Before he could ask how or why a bee was speaking to him—and doing it with more charisma than most mayors—Queen Aurelia extended a wing, traced a circle in the air, and opened a glowing portal made entirely of honeycomb patterns and electric tangerine light. "You’ve been chosen," she said. "You’re not just a beekeeper, Desmond. You’re the Keeper of the Old Nectar." "The what-now?" he stammered, already feeling the pull of the portal. His feet lifted off the ground as if the grass had given up on gravity. He floated toward the opening, gin thermos still clutched in one trembling hand. "You’ll understand soon," she purred. "But for now, hold on tight. We’re going beyond the veil. And there’s a bureaucratic centipede who owes me a favor." And with that, they vanished into the glowing vortex, leaving only a scorched clover patch and a very confused squirrel behind. The Nectarverse Bureaucracy and the Dance of Seven Stingers Desmond landed not with a thud, but with the disconcerting squelch of a mushroom sofa. The realm around him pulsed with soft light and whispered in six dialects of Bee. He was inside the Nectarverse—a hidden dimension somewhere between dream logic, jazz improv, and the inside of a Fabergé egg. Everything sparkled, but also somehow smelled faintly of smoked paprika and regret. Queen Aurelia fluttered beside him, radiating confidence and pheromonal majesty. “Welcome to Central Apis,” she declared. “The capital of the pollinational multirealm.” “It’s... weirdly moist,” Desmond muttered, brushing a small constellation of glittering beetles off his shoulder. One of them gave him a tiny thumbs-up. He would later discover this was a political gesture, and he had accidentally committed to sponsoring a dung beetle election campaign. They were greeted by a footman—a centipede in a waistcoat with a monocle on each of his first eight eyes. “Her Majesty Queen Aurelia, Sovereign of Pollenlight, Duchess of Dandelion Dust, and Keeper of the Forbidden Buzz,” he intoned. “And... guest.” Desmond waved sheepishly. “Hi. Just here for the ride, honestly.” Queen Aurelia ignored the formalities. “We need a pass to the Blooming Courts. The Queen of Hornets is stirring again.” The centipede sniffed and unfurled a scroll longer than a tailgate party. “You’ll need to submit Form Bee-17B, request an audience with the Floral Conclave, and schedule a pollen audit. Oh, and your human companion must undergo the Trial of Seven Stingers.” Desmond’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry—the what?” He was immediately whisked away by a swarm of very polite moths in tuxedos, leaving Aurelia behind with the centipede and some impressively tense diplomatic stares. He was flown into a glowing amphitheater made of thistleglass and echoing with murmurs of ancient pollen law. At the center: a circle of thrones shaped like giant flower pistils. On each sat a member of the **Council of Seven Stingers**, draped in pollen-robes and judging everyone with the kind of intensity usually reserved for drag queens and dental hygienists. “State your nectar lineage!” one barked. “Um. I like honey in my tea?” “Unacceptable!” shouted another. “Perform the Dance of Seven Stingers or face eternal reclassification as Floral Debris!” Desmond, not a man of movement, stared into the glowing dance pit. Music began: part techno, part beeswax gospel. A drone passed him a glittering leotard with sequins that spelled “BUZZWORTHY” in six languages. The choice was clear: dance or die. What followed was thirty-seven minutes of increasingly erratic flailing, interpretive twirls, and one accidental summoning of a pollen storm spirit named Todd. The crowd roared. The Council wept. One old wasp knight whispered, “He has the nectar in him.” Back in the foyer of fragrant madness, Queen Aurelia was sipping nectar out of a chalice shaped like a tulip martini glass when Desmond returned, panting and slightly radioactive. “Did I pass?” he croaked. “Oh yes,” she beamed. “Not only did you pass, you’re now legally considered a Demi-Buzz Entity. It comes with dental.” With the bureaucratic nonsense cleared, Aurelia flared her wings, casting dazzling patterns of sacred geometry across the realm. The air vibrated with anticipation. “Now,” she said, “to the Blooming Courts. The Queen of Hornets is plotting to rewrite the Floral Constitution. And I need someone who can dance the unholy pollen out of her.” Desmond blinked. “You want me to dance again?” “Oh, sweetheart,” she smirked, “we’re just getting started.” And with that, they vanished once more into a swirl of chromatic light, ready to face conspiracy, chaos, and at least one ballroom showdown that would be remembered in bee folklore for centuries to come.     🛍️ Take a Piece of the Hive Home If you’re still buzzing from Desmond’s dance of destiny and Queen Aurelia’s gilded glory, why not bring a bit of that enchantment into your own realm? Canvas prints of Queen of the Gossamer Hive capture every luminous detail, while the tapestry turns your wall into a portal to the Nectarverse itself. Sip your own brew like a demi-buzz deity with a mug, cuddle up with a throw pillow, or flaunt your allegiance to the hive with a tote bag. And yes, there’s even a sticker for those of you who want to make your laptop or journal 86% more royal. Long live the buzz!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Chromatic Dragonling: A Tale of Mischief & Mayhem

The Most Unreasonable Egg Roderic was many things—an adventurer, a scholar, a man who could drink his own weight in mead without embarrassing himself (too much). But he was not, under any circumstances, a babysitter. Yet here he was, staring down at the newly hatched creature sprawled across his desk—a tiny dragon with scandalously bright scales and enormous golden eyes that screamed trouble. It had hatched from what he thought was a priceless gemstone he’d “borrowed” from the hoard of an elderly dragon named Morgath. Turns out, Morgath hadn’t been hoarding treasure. He’d been hoarding offspring. “Alright, listen,” Roderic said, rubbing his temples as the dragonling stretched its wings and yawned, completely unbothered. “I don’t know how to raise a baby dragon. I have very little patience. Also, I’m fairly sure your father would like to murder me.” The dragonling let out an exaggerated sigh—as if it were the one suffering—and then flopped onto its back, kicking its stubby little legs. Roderic narrowed his eyes. “Oh, fantastic. You’re dramatic.” In response, the dragonling blew a puff of smoke in his face. Roderic coughed, waving it away. “Rude.” The dragonling grinned. The Problem With Tiny Dragons Over the next few days, Roderic discovered something important: baby dragons were insufferable. First, the dragonling refused to eat anything normal. Fresh meat? No. Roasted chicken? A scoff. Expensive smoked salmon? Spat out onto the rug. The only thing it wanted to eat was a chunk of enchanted obsidian from Roderic’s alchemy stash. “You’re a spoiled little beast, you know that?” he muttered, watching as the dragonling gleefully crunched the magical rock like a snack. Second, it was dramatic. Everything was a performance. The dragonling would flop onto its back if ignored for too long. It would make tragic whimpering sounds when it wasn’t the center of attention. When Roderic dared to leave the room without it? Oh, the betrayal. The screams were enough to make a banshee jealous. Third, and perhaps worst of all, it was an escape artist. Roderic awoke on the third morning to find the dragonling missing. His stomach dropped. His mind immediately conjured images of it accidentally setting his cottage on fire, or worse—running into an angry mob that didn’t appreciate flying fire hazards. Throwing on his cloak, he burst through the front door… only to find the dragonling perched smugly atop his neighbor’s roof, nibbling on what appeared to be a stolen silver necklace. Lady Haversham stood below, hands on her hips. She did not look pleased. “Roderic,” she called sweetly. “Why is there a dragonling on my house?” Roderic sighed. “He’s a menace.” The dragonling chomped the necklace in half and burped. Lady Haversham stared. “I see.” Roderic pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll get him down.” Which was easier said than done. The dragonling was thrilled with its newfound height advantage and had no intention of coming down without a game of chase. Roderic had to climb onto the roof, where the little beast made a show of dodging him—skipping, fluttering just out of reach, and chirping happily as if this were the greatest entertainment of its life. Roderic, panting, finally lunged and caught the dragonling mid-air. “Got you, you little gremlin,” he grunted. The dragonling gave him an unrepentant grin and licked his nose. And that’s when Roderic realized three things: This dragonling had absolutely no respect for him. He was completely and utterly outmatched. He was going to have to raise it, whether he liked it or not. He groaned. This was going to be a long adventure.     A Very Illegal Dragon Three weeks later, Roderic had learned two valuable things about raising a dragonling: Nothing in his home was safe. Not his books, not his furniture, certainly not his dignity. Baby dragons grew fast. The once-tiny menace was now twice its original size, still small enough to perch on his shoulder but big enough to knock over shelves when it got excited (which was often). The dramatics hadn’t stopped, either. If anything, they had gotten worse. If Roderic didn’t immediately acknowledge the dragonling’s existence upon waking up, he was met with a series of high-pitched wails that could wake the dead. And the appetite? Impossible. Roderic was now regularly bribing the blacksmith for bits of enchanted metal, all while dodging questions from the local magistrate about why there were occasional flashes of dragonfire coming from his cottage. Which, technically speaking, was a felony. Baby dragons weren’t exactly legal in town. So when a loud BOOM echoed through the streets one evening, Roderic knew—instantly—it was his problem. The Jailbreak Incident He sprinted outside to find that his neighbor’s barn had been blown apart. Standing in the smoldering wreckage was his dragonling, tail flicking, eyes wide with what could only be described as giddy chaos. Next to it stood a very unimpressed city guard. “Roderic,” the guard said, folding his arms. Roderic doubled over, panting. “Hey, Captain. Fancy meeting you here.” “Do you want to explain why your dragon just exploded a barn?” The dragonling puffed up indignantly. It chirped. Roderic straightened, pushing sweat-damp hair out of his face. “I feel like ‘exploded’ is a strong word.” The captain pointed to the burning rubble. “Is it?” Roderic sighed. “Okay, fine. I’ll pay for it.” “You will,” the captain agreed, then lowered his voice. “You need to get that thing out of town. If the magistrate finds out—” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Roderic turned to the dragonling. “Well, congratulations, you tiny disaster. We’re fugitives now.” On the Run Fleeing town in the dead of night with a smug baby dragon was not how Roderic had planned his life, and yet here he was—leading his horse through the forest, cursing under his breath as the dragonling perched on the saddle like a royal prince. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he muttered. The dragonling yawned, utterly unrepentant. “Oh, don’t act innocent. You blew up a barn.” It flicked its tail. Chirp. Roderic groaned. “I should’ve left you on that roof.” But they both knew that was a lie. He was stuck with this dragonling. And, worse, a part of him didn’t mind. The wind rustled through the trees. In the distance, he heard the faint sound of riders—probably guards searching for them. He exhaled. “Well, little terror, looks like we’re going on an adventure.” The dragonling blinked, then nuzzled against his cheek. Roderic grumbled. “Ugh. You can’t bribe me with cuteness.” It licked his ear. He sighed. “Fine. Maybe a little.” And so, with no destination in mind and a very illegal dragonling in tow, Roderic took his first step into the unknown. To Be Continued…?     Bring The Chromatic Dragonling Home! Fallen in love with this mischievous little dragon? Now you can keep a piece of its playful magic with you! Whether you want to add a touch of whimsy to your walls, cozy up with its fiery charm, or carry its adventurous spirit wherever you go, we’ve got just the thing: ✨ Tapestries – Transform any space with a touch of dragon magic. 🖼️ Canvas Prints – A stunning centerpiece for any fantasy lover. 🛋️ Throw Pillows – Because every couch deserves a bit of dragon mischief. 👜 Tote Bags – Take the adventure with you wherever you go. 🔥 Stickers – Add a little dragon attitude to your world. Don’t just read about The Chromatic Dragonling—bring it into your realm!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Grumpy Griffin Hatchling

A Face Only a Mother Could Slap Barnaby knew he had made a mistake the moment the egg cracked open. He had expected something majestic—perhaps a regal beast that would soar the skies and guard his treasure hoard. What he got instead was a fistful of pissed-off fluff with the attitude of a bar bouncer who just got stiffed on a tip. The tiny griffin glared up at him with an expression that said, "I already hate you, and I’ve only been alive for twelve seconds." Its golden feathers bristled, its curled tail flicked like an irritated cat’s, and its beady little eyes burned with the fiery rage of an overcooked omelet. "Well, aren’t you just the embodiment of sunshine and rainbows," Barnaby muttered, rubbing his temples. The griffin let out a sound—part squawk, part growl, part tax audit notice. Then it immediately turned, lifted its tiny lion-esque rear, and shat on his boots. "Oh, for fu—" Barnaby grabbed an old towel, cursing whatever gods had let him hatch this grumpy abomination. He had paid a shady wizard a fortune for a 'Rare & Exotic Mystic Guardian.' Instead, he got a sentient middle finger wrapped in fur and feathers. A Starving, Screeching Nightmare Day two was somehow worse. As soon as the sun rose, so did the hellspawn, screeching with the desperate hunger of a drunken noble who just realized his servants forgot to restock the wine cellar. Barnaby tried raw meat. The griffin sniffed it and kicked it away like a snobby food critic. “Alright, asshole. What do you want?” he groaned. The griffin stared at him with all the warmth of a tax collector. Then, in a move that should not have been possible for something so tiny, it pounced—sinking its baby talons into his arm. “GAH! What the hell?! You little—” The creature didn’t bite. Instead, it glared at him harder. And then, with painstakingly slow effort, it reached over, grabbed the hunk of meat it had just rejected, and took a delicate, smug little nibble. "Oh, so you just wanted to establish dominance first, huh? Great. I’m raising a tiny warlord." The griffin made a chirping sound that almost sounded like laughter. Destroyer of Sleep, Devourer of Sanity By the end of the first week, Barnaby had reached new levels of exhaustion. The griffin, whom he had begrudgingly started calling "Bastard" because that’s what he shouted most often, had two hobbies: Judging him from atop furniture he had no business climbing. Waking him up every two hours with a scream that could curdle milk. It was like raising a demonic toddler with wings. Every time Barnaby thought he had a moment of peace, Bastard would knock something over, screech at nothing, or—on particularly annoying days—stare at the wall for hours, making Barnaby increasingly paranoid that he was about to be murdered by an invisible entity. And yet… the little bastard was kind of adorable. In an “I-hate-you-but-would-also-kill-anyone-who-hurt-you” kind of way. But there was no way in hell Barnaby was ready for what came next. The Tiny Terror Ascends Barnaby had survived bandits, bounty hunters, and one particularly bad case of dragon-induced food poisoning, but nothing had prepared him for the absolute nightmare that was a griffin experiencing its first wing growth spurt. “I swear to the gods, Bastard, if you knock over one more—” CRASH. “—thing.” Bastard sat on the floor, staring blankly at the shattered remains of a priceless vase. His golden wings, still awkward and too big for his tiny frame, twitched in what could only be described as absolute lack of remorse. Barnaby pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was an antique.” The griffin blinked. Then, in a deliberate move that was clearly designed to ruin his entire week, it stood up, strutted over to another vase, and swiped it off the table while maintaining direct eye contact. Barnaby let out a long, defeated sigh. He was never going to financially recover from this. Attempted Flight, Attempted Murder It was inevitable that Bastard would eventually try to fly. And, much like every other moment of his short existence, he approached it with a mix of arrogance and homicidal intent. The first attempt was harmless enough—mostly flapping, a lot of screeching, and a dramatic faceplant into Barnaby’s laundry pile. The second attempt, however, involved launching himself off the bookshelf while Barnaby was in the middle of breakfast. There was no warning. No chirp, no squawk, no malicious glint in his eye. Just *WHUMP*—a sudden impact as an entire griffin hatchling landed on Barnaby’s face. His chair tipped over. His breakfast flew across the room. His life flashed before his eyes. “YOU FEATHERED DEMON,” he bellowed, flailing wildly as Bastard flapped like a panicked bat and promptly got tangled in his hair. It took several minutes, a lot of screaming, and one overturned table before the two of them emerged from the disaster, panting and covered in food. Bastard, as usual, looked completely unbothered. “I hope you choke on your own smugness,” Barnaby grumbled. The griffin chirped, pecked at a bit of egg in Barnaby’s beard, and then strutted away like he hadn’t just committed attempted manslaughter via dive bomb. Mutual Loathing, Mutual Loyalty Weeks passed. Bastard grew bigger. More graceful. Slightly less inclined to wake Barnaby up at ungodly hours. He still judged him constantly, still acted like an entitled little prince, but somewhere between the destruction, the screaming, and the minor injuries, a grudging respect had formed. Barnaby had once thought about selling him back to that shady wizard, but the moment some idiot tried to mug him in the alley, Bastard had detached a man’s ear in under four seconds. After that, Barnaby figured… maybe the little hellspawn wasn’t so bad. Maybe. One evening, as Barnaby sat by the fire nursing a well-earned ale, Bastard flapped up onto his shoulder. He weighed a lot more now, and his talons dug into his skin, but Barnaby was too tired to care. The griffin let out a low, contented chirp and—perhaps for the first time ever—nuzzled his cheek. Barnaby narrowed his eyes. “If you puke on me, I swear—” But Bastard just curled his tail around Barnaby’s neck and dozed off, golden wings twitching as he fell into sleep. Barnaby exhaled, took another sip of ale, and grumbled, “Fine. But you’re still a little shit.” Somewhere in the realm of sleep, Bastard chirped in agreement.     Take Home Your Own Little Bastard Love Bastard but not quite ready for the whole ‘raising a chaotic griffin’ experience? Good news—you can still enjoy his grumpy little face without dealing with the destruction! Check out these glorious ways to bring The Grumpy Griffin Hatchling into your home: Need a statement piece that silently judges your life choices? Get a Canvas Print. Want your space to exude the energy of a tiny, furious guardian? Snag a Tapestry. Feel like your couch is too peaceful? Add some attitude with a Throw Pillow. Want to carry around a piece of griffin-fueled chaos? Grab a Tote Bag—perfect for storing snacks, spellbooks, or questionable life decisions. Unlike the real Bastard, these versions won’t destroy your furniture, scream at ungodly hours, or attempt aerial assassinations. Probably.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Fluff of Wrath

A Feathered Menace is Born The villagers of Ember Hollow had many things to fear—rogue spells, mischievous sprites, the occasional fire-breathing goat (long story)—but nothing prepared them for the wrath of a particularly tiny, exceptionally furious ball of fluff. It began, as most catastrophes do, with an innocent mistake. Old Maeryn, the town’s eccentric herbalist, had discovered a peculiar egg nestled in the roots of a charred oak. Thinking it abandoned, she took it home, set it by the fire, and promptly forgot about it. That is, until it hatched. And oh, what a hatching it was. With a crack, a snap, and an explosion of embers, out popped a creature so ridiculously adorable it should have been illegal. But instead of soft peeps and wobbling steps, this fiery fledgling locked eyes with Maeryn, fluffed up its smoking feathers, and let out a shriek of pure, unfiltered rage. “What… in the blazes… are YOU?” Maeryn muttered, brushing soot from her apron. The chick’s eyes burned—literally—like twin molten suns, its expression that of a tiny overlord who had just discovered his empire was made of peasants. With an indignant chirp, it stomped forward, radiating a heat that singed Maeryn’s hem. She grabbed a wooden spoon and pointed it at the chick like a sword. “Now listen here, you little fire hazard,” she scolded. “I saved you, so you’d best drop the attitude.” The chick did not drop the attitude. If anything, it doubled down. It flared its wings (adorably useless), puffed out its chest (somehow even fluffier), and narrowed its smoldering eyes with all the menace of a pint-sized warlord. Then it sneezed. And set the curtains on fire. “Oh, fantastic.” Maeryn groaned as she grabbed a bucket. The fire was quickly extinguished, but the chick remained, unbothered, glaring at her with the silent fury of an emperor insulted by an unworthy subject. With a sigh, Maeryn folded her arms and stared back. “I suppose you need a name, don’t you?” she mused. “How about Ember?” The chick’s feathers flared brighter. It did not look impressed. “Ignis?” The chick let out a disgusted chirp. “Oh, for the love of—FINE. You tell me then.” The chick blinked. Its beak curled in the tiniest, most mischievous smirk. Then, with slow, deliberate menace, it hopped onto a wooden spoon, balanced itself like a feathered king upon his throne, and stared deep into Maeryn’s soul. “Blaze.” Maeryn’s jaw dropped. “Did you just—did you actually just name yourself? By the stars, what are you?” Blaze said nothing. He simply fluffed up, smirked again, and hopped off the spoon as if to say, You’ll find out soon enough. And that was the moment Maeryn realized she had made a terrible mistake. The Reign of Blaze It didn’t take long for the villagers to realize something was… different about Maeryn’s new ‘pet.’ For one, Blaze had opinions. Strong ones. And he expressed them with fire. The baker learned this the hard way when he refused to give Blaze an extra pastry. A perfectly golden croissant was exchanged for a pile of ashes. The town’s blacksmith, a burly man with the patience of a saint, tried to “train” Blaze into behaving. Blaze responded by perching on his anvil and making every single horseshoe he forged mysteriously melt into puddles. And poor old Thom, who dared to call Blaze ‘cute,’ found himself inexplicably locked in his outhouse for three whole days. “That chick is pure chaos.” Thom declared once freed. Maeryn, now sporting singed eyebrows and an ever-present air of exhaustion, could only nod. “I’d give him away, but I think he’d just set my house on fire in revenge.” Meanwhile, Blaze was busy asserting his dominance. He had claimed a spot on the village fountain, where he would sit, fluffing and glaring, as if he were the self-appointed king of Ember Hollow. Passersby would cautiously nod in greeting, lest they incur his wrath. The mayor, in a last-ditch effort to regain control, even tried offering Blaze an “Official Town Mascot” title. Blaze listened. Considered. Then set the mayor’s hat on fire. Things only escalated from there. It started small—chamber pots mysteriously heating up, porridge bowls boiling over before anyone touched them. Then, Blaze discovered revenge. A woman who shooed him out of her garden woke up to find every vegetable in it roasted. A man who laughed at Blaze’s size found his boots melted to the cobblestone. By the time the villagers realized they were living under a tiny, flame-feathered tyrant, it was too late. Blaze had taken full control. “We have to do something!” one of the council members whispered at a secret meeting. “Like what?” another hissed. “He’s unstoppable! He sneezes, and half the town needs repairs!” “Then we outsmart him,” Maeryn declared. “He’s got power, but he’s also got an ego bigger than his body. We just have to make him think it’s his idea to leave.” And so, the next morning, the town gathered at the square, where Blaze sat atop his usual perch, peering down at them like an unimpressed deity. Maeryn stepped forward, clearing her throat. “Oh great and powerful Blaze,” she began, barely suppressing her sarcasm, “we have an honor to bestow upon you.” Blaze blinked, intrigued. “You, our glorious overlord, have clearly outgrown this humble village,” she continued. “Your power is too grand, your presence too mighty. It is time you take your rightful place in the Royal Palace.” Blaze tilted his head. Palace? “Yes, yes!” one of the council members jumped in. “A legendary place where great beings such as yourself are worshipped and given endless food.” Blaze ruffled his feathers, considering this. Worship? Endless food? A palace? He let out a smug little chirp. “We shall escort you there in glorious procession,” Maeryn said dramatically. “Immediately.” With that, they placed Blaze onto a velvet pillow, carried him to the grandest carriage in town, and—with a final chorus of exaggerated praises—sent him off to a castle many miles away, where he would definitely be someone else’s problem. The villagers watched as the carriage disappeared over the hills. Then, in unison, they exhaled. “Do you think he’ll actually make it to the palace?” Thom asked. Maeryn shook her head. “Oh, absolutely not. But that’s a future problem.” And with that, Ember Hollow was free. For now.     Bring the Wrath Home! 🔥 Blaze may have left Ember Hollow, but his fiery spirit lives on! Want to add some smoldering attitude to your space? Check out The Fluff of Wrath collection and take home this mischievous little tyrant in style: 🔥 Tapestry – Let Blaze loom over your kingdom (or living room) like the tiny overlord he is. 🔥 Canvas Print – Perfect for anyone who appreciates a side of attitude with their décor. 🔥 Tote Bag – Carry a little chaos with you wherever you go. Warning: May intimidate lesser bags. 🔥 Round Beach Towel – Because nothing says “don’t mess with me” like sunbathing with a furious fireball. 🔥 Throw Pillow – Soft, sassy, and slightly menacing. Just like Blaze. Get yours now and channel your inner firebird! 🔥🐤

by Bill Tiepelman

Grumpy Rain Sprite

A Sprite's Soggy Misery It had been a perfectly pleasant morning in the enchanted forest—until, of course, the sky decided to have a breakdown. One moment, the birds were singing, the mushrooms were gossiping, and the sun was doing its usual “Look at me, I’m glorious” routine. The next? A torrential downpour turned the world into a damp, sloshing nightmare. And no one was more annoyed than Thistle, the resident rain sprite with a temperament as stormy as the weather. She sat in a growing puddle, wings sagging under the weight of a thousand raindrops, her favorite moss dress clinging to her like a soggy tea bag. Her silver hair, normally a wild halo of untamed curls, was now a limp, rain-drenched disaster. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, hugging her arms tightly against her chest. “Absolutely ridiculous.” She yanked her massive leaf-umbrella lower over her head, scowling as another rivulet of water dripped off the edge and splattered onto her nose. The universe clearly had a vendetta against her today. Probably because of that whole "convincing the fireflies to unionize" incident last week. The elders had warned her about the consequences of mischief, but seriously, who even enforces karma these days? A rustling sound made her glance up, her pointed ears twitching. Emerging from behind a cluster of mushrooms was a familiar figure—Twig, the local mischief-maker and general pain in her leafy backside. Of course, he would show up now, probably just to mock her. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, his wings twitching with amusement. “If it isn’t Queen Soggy of Puddleland. Shall I fetch you a throne made of mud, or are you still holding court in your personal swamp?” Thistle fixed him with a withering glare. “If you value your wings, Twig, you will remove yourself from my miserable presence before I hex you into a slug.” Twig gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “A slug! Oh no! Whatever shall I do? It’s not like it’s already so wet I’d probably thrive as a slimy, wriggling creature.” He smirked, then plucked a dripping mushroom from the ground. “But honestly, Thistle, why the tragic act? You’re a rain sprite. This is literally your element.” “I control rain, I don’t enjoy being waterboarded by it,” she snapped. “There’s a difference.” “Ah, so it’s the ‘do as I say, not as I do’ approach. Very powerful leadership strategy.” Twig leaned on her leaf umbrella, making it droop dangerously close to collapsing entirely. “But hey, if you hate it so much, why not stop the rain?” Thistle let out a long, slow breath, resisting the urge to throttle him. “Because,” she gritted out, “that would require effort. And right now, I am choosing to marinate in my suffering like a dignified and tragic figure.” “Uh-huh. Super dignified,” Twig said, tilting his head at the way her damp dress clung to her legs. “You look like a particularly upset swamp rat.” Thistle reached out and shoved him into the nearest puddle. “That was uncalled for!” he sputtered, sitting up, now as drenched as she was. “You know what else is uncalled for? This entire rainstorm!” she barked, throwing her hands up, sending a gust of wind through the trees. “I had plans today, Twig. Plans. I was going to nap in a sunbeam, bother some butterflies, maybe even steal a honey drop from the pixie hive. And instead? Instead, I am here. In this puddle. Soaking. Suffering.” “Truly tragic,” Twig said, flopping backward into the puddle dramatically. “Someone should write a song about your struggle.” Thistle growled. She was going to kill him. Or, at the very least, strongly inconvenience him. A Sprite’s Revenge is Best Served Soggy Thistle took a deep breath, inhaling the damp, earthy scent of the rain-soaked forest. She needed to calm down. Committing sprite-on-sprite violence would only get her in trouble with the elders again, and honestly, their lectures were worse than Twig’s face. Twig, still sprawled in the puddle like some kind of lazy river nymph, smirked up at her. “You know, if you stopped sulking long enough, you might realize something.” Thistle narrowed her eyes. “Oh, this should be good. Enlighten me, oh wise and irritating one.” “You love chaos, right?” He flicked some water at her, and she barely resisted the urge to fry him with a well-aimed lightning bolt. “So why not embrace the storm? Make everyone else just as miserable as you?” Her scowl twitched. “Go on…” He sat up, grinning now, sensing he had her attention. “Think about it. The dryads just put up their new moss tapestries—imagine the heartbreak when they find them soggy and ruined.” He gestured wildly. “The mushroom folk? I hear they just finished harvesting their prized sun-dried spores. And the pixies? Ha! They’ve been preening their wings all week for the Solstice Ball. One extra gust of wind and—” Thistle’s face split into a wicked grin. “—frizz city.” “Exactly.” Twig leaned in conspiratorially. “You have the power to turn a minor inconvenience into a full-blown disaster. You could make this the most memorable storm of the decade.” Thistle tapped her fingers against her arm, considering. The elders would frown upon it. Then again, the elders frowned upon pretty much everything she did, and honestly, at this point, she was just collecting their disapproval like rare artifacts. Slowly, a plan began to form. She stood, shaking the rain from her wings with an air of purpose. “Alright, Twig. You’ve convinced me. But if we’re doing this, we’re going all in.” His grin widened. “Oh, I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Thistle cracked her knuckles. The sky rumbled in response. The first thing she did was kick up the wind—not enough to be dangerous, but just enough to make all the well-groomed pixies regret their life choices. Delicate curls frizzed instantly. Dresses caught in the wind, wings flapped uselessly, and the air was filled with high-pitched shrieks of horror. Next, she turned her attention to the dryads. Oh, their moss tapestries had been beautiful. Key word: had. Now? Now they were nothing more than damp, sagging clumps of regret. “This is delightful,” Twig sighed happily, watching a group of mushroom folk scramble to cover their precious spores. “I haven’t had this much fun since I convinced the fireflies that blinking in Morse code was a revolutionary act.” Thistle let the rain surge for one last dramatic flourish, sending a final gust of wind to scatter the pixies like irate confetti. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, she stopped it. The rain ceased. The wind died. The forest was left in a state of soggy, chaotic despair. And in the middle of it all, Thistle stood, looking very pleased with herself. “Well,” she said, stretching lazily. “That was satisfying.” Twig clapped her on the back. “You, my dear, are a menace. And I respect that.” She smirked. “I do try.” From somewhere deep in the forest, a furious elder’s voice rang out. “THISTLE!” Twig winced. “Oof. That’s got some real ‘disappointed parent’ energy.” Thistle sighed dramatically. “Ugh. Consequences. So tedious.” “Run?” Twig suggested. “Run,” she agreed. And with that, the two sprites vanished into the drenched, chaotic forest, cackling like the absolute menaces they were. Bring Thistle’s Mischief Home! Love the sass, the storm, and the sheer chaotic energy of our favorite rain sprite? Now you can capture her brooding brilliance in a variety of stunning formats! Whether you want to add a touch of whimsical rebellion to your walls, solve a puzzle as tricky as Thistle herself, or jot down your own mischievous plans, we’ve got you covered. ✨ Tapestry – Let Thistle reign over your space with fabric as dramatic as her attitude. 🖼️ Canvas Print – Museum-quality snark for your walls. 🧩 Jigsaw Puzzle – Because piecing together chaos is surprisingly therapeutic. 💌 Greeting Card – Share the moody magic with your fellow mischief-makers. 📓 Spiral Notebook – Perfect for plotting pranks, poetry, or your next escape plan. Don’t just admire Thistle—invite her into your world. She promises to bring charm, attitude, and possibly a little rain.    

by Bill Tiepelman

High & Fungi

The Chillest Cap in the Forest The forest was alive with the sounds of rustling leaves, chirping crickets, and the occasional giggle of a mischievous fairy. Deep within the mossy undergrowth, nestled between the roots of an ancient oak, sat a mushroom unlike any other. His cap was lopsided, his red spots slightly faded, and his wooden-textured skin bore the wisdom of countless seasons. His name? Shlomo the Shroom. And if there was one thing Shlomo knew how to do better than any other fungi in the woods, it was to chill. “Brooo,” he exhaled, though mushrooms don’t technically breathe. “The air is like… so thick with vibes today, man.” A tiny glowing fairy, named Zibbit, fluttered down onto his cap, casually reclining like it was the comfiest beanbag in the world. “Shlomo, you’ve literally been sitting in the same spot for, like, a hundred years.” Shlomo squinted his oversized, half-lidded eyes. “Exactly. You think enlightenment just grows on trees?” He chuckled to himself. “Well, actually, it kinda does, but you know what I mean.” Zibbit rolled onto her back, stretching her tiny arms. “You ever get tired of just… doing nothing?” Shlomo wobbled slightly. “Oh, my sweet, sweet, naïve little winged homie. Nothing is everything. You gotta just be, man. Like, let the wind carry your worries, let the earth hold your past, and let the morning dew… like… I dunno, moisturize you or whatever.” Zibbit stared. “That might be the dumbest but most profound thing I’ve ever heard.” Just then, a rustling in the bushes made them both pause. Out of the shadows emerged a frantic-looking squirrel, eyes wide, tail twitching like it had just been struck by lightning. “GUYS!” the squirrel screeched. “THE OWLS! THEY KNOW!” Shlomo blinked slowly. “Know what, my hyperactive acorn-munching amigo?” The squirrel darted back and forth like it had overdosed on espresso. “I— I don’t know! BUT THEY KNOW!” Zibbit sat up. “Wait… what are we talking about?” The squirrel grabbed its own face, hyperventilating. “THE OWLS KNOW, MAN! ABOUT— ABOUT THE THING! THE SECRET! THE BIG, HUGE—” Shlomo let out a long, slow sigh. “Dude. Relax. Take a breath. Let the cosmic currents, like… un-knot your little tail, bro.” The squirrel stopped. He looked at Shlomo. Then at Zibbit. Then back at Shlomo. “Oh. Yeah. Good call.” He took a deep breath. Then another. Then, with sudden clarity, he whispered, “Wait… what were we talking about?” Shlomo grinned. “My dude. Exactly.” The Cosmic Revelation The squirrel, now in a state of deep existential confusion, flopped onto the forest floor, staring at the sky. “Whoa… I feel… kinda better. Maybe I just needed to slow down.” Shlomo nodded sagely, his cap wobbling slightly. “That’s the thing, little buddy. You rush around, chase acorns, worry about owls, and next thing you know, you forget to just exist, ya know?” Zibbit, still lounging on Shlomo’s cap, flicked a tiny spark of fairy dust into the air. “You’re really just making all of this up as you go, aren’t you?” Shlomo grinned. “Absolutely. And yet… doesn’t it make perfect sense?” The squirrel, now reclining in the moss, let out a relaxed sigh. “Damn. Maybe I have been overthinking things. Like… what if the owls don’t actually know anything?” Shlomo’s eyes widened slightly. “Whoa. What if, like… nobody knows anything?” A hush fell over the forest. Zibbit sat up. “Wait. Hold on. That’s actually kind of deep.” Shlomo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What if… reality is just, like… one big dream, man? Like, some enormous being is just tripping HARD right now, and we’re all part of its hallucination?” The squirrel gasped. “And when it wakes up…” “…POOF,” Shlomo said, wiggling his little wooden fingers for dramatic effect. “Gone. Just… spores in the wind.” Zibbit shuddered. “Dude, I was just here for the vibes. Now you’ve got me questioning the nature of my existence.” Shlomo exhaled—again, despite not having lungs. “Hey, don’t stress it, little winged wonder. Even if we’re all just part of some cosmic fever dream, it’s a pretty damn nice dream, yeah?” The squirrel nodded slowly. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right. I mean, I get free acorns. I got trees. I got my little twitchy tail. Life’s good.” Zibbit flopped back onto Shlomo’s cap, wings twitching. “You know what? Screw it. If reality is just a hallucination, I’m at least gonna enjoy it.” Shlomo grinned. “Now you’re getting it.” The trio sat in comfortable silence, watching the forest sway gently in the golden light. Birds chirped. Leaves rustled. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. The squirrel bolted upright. “Wait—THE OWLS KNOW! WE FORGOT!” Shlomo chuckled, eyes half-lidded once more. “Did we, though?” The squirrel blinked. Thought for a moment. Then let out a slow exhale. “Damn. Good point.” And just like that, the great owl conspiracy was forgotten forever. Probably.     Take the Chill Vibes Home Love Shlomo’s laid-back wisdom? Now you can bring his mellow energy into your space with exclusive “High & Fungi” merch! Whether you're decorating your home, solving a puzzle, or carrying your essentials in style, we've got something for every fungi fan. 🌿 Tapestry – Perfect for transforming your space into a chill zone. 🎨 Canvas Print – Let Shlomo’s wisdom hang on your walls. 🧩 Puzzle – A trippy way to relax, one piece at a time. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry your essentials with mushroom-level chill. Get yours today and embrace the ultimate fungi philosophy—sit back, vibe, and let the world flow, man. 🍄✨

by Bill Tiepelman

The Grumpicorn's Garden

The Curse of the Eternal Mood In the heart of the Enchanted Woodland, nestled between the Gigglebrook River and the Whimsydale Meadow, lay the most peculiar of places—The Grumpicorn’s Garden. A land of sparkling petals, twinkling dewdrops, and fluffy pastel clouds that floated lazily in the sky. It was, without question, a paradise. And yet, its self-appointed ruler was the grumpiest little creature to ever exist. Her name? Lady Fluffington Von Sassypaws III. Her title? The Supreme Empress of Perpetual Discontent. Her mood? Permanently unimpressed. Legend has it that Lady Fluffington was once an ordinary, albeit incredibly dramatic, feline. But one fateful day, a mischievous fairy named Glimmerdew tripped over her tail. In a fit of melodramatic rage, Fluffington unleashed a tantrum so magnificent that it sent Glimmerdew spiraling into a bush of sentient tulips. Enraged (and covered in pollen), the fairy placed a curse upon Fluffington. “May your fur be forever fabulous! May your horn shine brighter than the stars! And may you, above all else, be doomed to a life of… unbearable sassiness!” There was a dramatic clap of thunder (despite it being a perfectly clear day), and Fluffington was transformed into what she was always meant to be—a Grumpicorn. A tiny, fluffy, pink-maned, unicorn-horned feline with a permanent look of pure judgment. A being of beauty, but also of unrelenting moodiness. A Reign of Grumpiness Now, instead of spending her days doing normal cat things—like knocking cups off tables or plotting world domination—Fluffington ruled over her garden with an iron paw. She had a strict set of rules, all written in glittery ink on a scroll of enchanted parchment: Rule #1: No excessive cheerfulness. Smiling is acceptable in moderation, but giggling? Punishable by an immediate, soul-piercing glare. Rule #2: Do not, under any circumstances, call her “adorable.” The penalty? A single, dramatic hair flip followed by an exasperated sigh. Rule #3: Offerings of fine tuna and imported cream are required upon entering the garden. Rule #4: If one must compliment her, the words “majestic,” “glorious,” or “queenly” are preferred. Despite these rules, the woodland creatures couldn’t help but adore Lady Fluffington. The enchanted rabbits fluffed their tails in admiration. The owls whispered about her legendary sass. Even the fairies, despite their grudge, frequently peeked into the garden just to bask in her undeniable aesthetic. The Arrival of Trouble One peaceful afternoon, as Fluffington lounged on a plush velvet cushion (because grass was simply too pedestrian for her delicate paws), a shadow loomed over her kingdom. “HARK, MORTAL BEAST!” a voice bellowed. “I, PRINCE GUMDROPLEON OF THE GIGGLE FAIRIES, DEMAND AUDIENCE!” Fluffington, without even opening her eyes, exhaled the most exasperated sigh in the history of sighs. Fairies. Again. The prince, clad in shimmering golden tights and a cape made of literal stardust, fluttered down in a swirl of unnecessary dramatics. “You have long defied the Sacred Code of Whimsy! Your kingdom of perpetual sass threatens the balance of the Enchanted Woodland! By decree of the Grand Council of Unrelenting Cheerfulness, I demand you lighten up!” Fluffington finally cracked one eye open, her gaze dripping with disdain. “I will lighten up when the sun stops being an overachiever, Greg.” “It’s PRINCE GUMDROPLEON.” “Mmmhmm. Sure, Greg.” The prince huffed, twirling his wand impatiently. “You leave me no choice, Lady Fluffington. If you do not surrender your grumpiness willingly, we will FORCE you to experience joy!” At this, Fluffington’s tail twitched ever so slightly. “Excuse me?” “By the power vested in me, I hereby challenge you to the most sacred of fairy duels—The Trial of Ultimate Delight!” The enchanted woodland fell silent. A single petal drifted dramatically through the air. Somewhere, a butterfly gasped. Lady Fluffington narrowed her eyes. “You dare challenge me?” Prince Gumdropleon nodded. “If you lose, you must embrace whimsy, laughter, and all things joyous. If you win, well… you won’t win.” Fluffington rose to her paws, her horn glistening with defiant radiance. “Oh, sweet summer child,” she purred, “prepare to be grump-smacked.” The Trial of Ultimate Delight The air crackled with anticipation as woodland creatures, fairies, and a particularly nosy squirrel gathered to witness the most absurd showdown in enchanted history. Lady Fluffington Von Sassypaws III stood on one side, her tail swishing with supreme irritation. On the other, Prince Gumdropleon, his wings glittering with unearned confidence. A floating, sentient parchment hovered between them, unrolling with a flourish. “BEHOLD!” it boomed. “The sacred rules of The Trial of Ultimate Delight are as follows: The challenger—Prince Gumdropleon—shall present a series of whimsical challenges designed to break the accused’s grumpy demeanor. The accused—Lady Fluffington—must endure each trial without succumbing to joy.” Fluffington yawned. “Fabulous. Let’s get this nonsense over with.” Trial One: The Dance of Inescapable Cheer With a snap of his fingers, Gumdropleon summoned a battalion of enchanted tap-dancing mushrooms. They shuffled, twirled, and clicked their tiny feet in a synchronized performance so aggressively delightful that birds started harmonizing in the trees. The fairies swayed. The woodland creatures clapped. Even the trees seemed to bop along. Lady Fluffington? She blinked once. Slowly. “Not even a toe tap?” Gumdropleon gasped. Fluffington’s eyes remained void of amusement. “Your fungi are basic, Greg.” The mushrooms, insulted, pirouetted away in defeat. Trial Two: The Giggle Gauntlet Undeterred, the prince summoned a team of expert gigglers—fluffy baby bunnies, baby goats in pajamas, and one particularly chubby hedgehog in a tiny top hat. They snorted, wheezed, and tumbled over each other in a display of weaponized cuteness. The fairies collapsed from sheer delight. Fluffington watched, her expression colder than an ice sculpture of disappointment. “Precious,” she finally muttered. “But I have witnessed greater chaos at a brunch buffet.” The hedgehog dramatically fainted. Trial Three: The Sacred Sprinkles of Doom Prince Gumdropleon was sweating now. “Fine,” he said. “You leave me no choice. I must unleash the ultimate weapon.” He raised his wand, and from the heavens rained down… sprinkles. Pink. Blue. Glittering. Swirling in the air like a whimsical blizzard of saccharine doom. Fluffington gasped. Not out of joy—but out of pure, undiluted fury. “HOW DARE YOU?” she bellowed, shaking off the cursed confetti. “DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO GET SPRINKLES OUT OF FUR? THIS IS A WAR CRIME!” Gumdropleon smirked. “Ah-ha! You reacted! That counts as a—” Before he could finish, Fluffington’s horn pulsed with a blinding light. The ground trembled. The flowers shrank back in fear. The prince barely had time to yelp before a powerful GRUMP-WAVE exploded from the tiny unicorn-cat. The sprinkles disintegrated midair. The giggling bunnies went solemn. Somewhere, in the distance, a rainbow curled in on itself and wept. Victory and Consequences When the dust settled, Prince Gumdropleon lay face-down in a pile of existential dread. “So,” Fluffington said, delicately licking her paw, “who, exactly, was supposed to win again?” The sentient parchment twitched. “The accused has successfully resisted all forms of delight. She is, without a doubt, the Supreme Empress of Perpetual Discontent.” The woodland erupted into cheers—not of joy, but of deep, unwavering respect. Even the grudge-holding fairies had to admit it. Lady Fluffington Von Sassypaws III was simply too powerful. The Aftermath Prince Gumdropleon, now emotionally wounded beyond repair, rose with a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” he muttered. “You win. Keep your grumpiness. But know this…” He pointed a glittery finger at Fluffington. “I WILL RETURN.” “Mmhmm,” she said, already walking away. “Let me know how that works out for you, Greg.” And with that, the Grumpicorn stretched luxuriously, climbed onto her velvet cushion, and went back to what she did best—being gloriously, unapologetically unimpressed. Her garden remained as it always had—enchanted, beautiful, and ruled by the world’s most magnificent, moody, undefeated little creature.     Bring the Grumpicorn Home Do you feel a deep, spiritual connection to Lady Fluffington’s unmatched level of sass? Do you, too, wish to bask in her unimpressed majesty? Good news—you can now welcome the Grumpicorn into your own kingdom! From regal canvas prints to mood-boosting (or mood-matching) throw pillows, you can bring her iconic presence into your home. Whether you need a tapestry to transform your space, a wood print to add timeless elegance, or even a puzzle to ponder her greatness piece by piece—there’s a Grumpicorn for every occasion. Remember: A home without a Grumpicorn is just a house. Make yours truly enchanting.

by Bill Tiepelman

A Trio of Springtime Mischief

The Great Bloom Heist Spring had arrived in the Enchanted Grove, and with it came the annual Cherry Blossom Festival—a time when the air smelled like honeyed petals, and even the grumpiest trolls cracked a smile (albeit begrudgingly). The festival was a sacred event, marked by a grand ceremony where the first bloom of the season was plucked and turned into the legendary Nectar of Eternal Delight, a potion so potent that one sip could make a banshee giggle. At the heart of this festival stood three very particular gnomes: Pip, Poppy, and Gus. They were known throughout the Grove not for their wisdom or generosity, but for their unrivaled talent in causing mayhem. Where there was trouble, there was a gnome-shaped footprint leading to it. “This year, we’re going to be legendary,” Pip declared, adjusting his oversized, rose-colored hat adorned with embroidered daisies. “We’re going to steal the First Bloom!” Poppy, the mastermind of the group, twirled her white beard thoughtfully. “The Blossom Keepers will be watching the tree all night. We’ll need a flawless plan.” Gus, who was currently stuffing his face with honeyed acorn pastries, raised a sticky finger. “What if we... bribe them?” Pip sighed. “Gus, we do not have enough pastries to bribe an entire guild of Keepers.” Poppy grinned. “But what if we make them think they’re needed elsewhere?” That was all it took. With a gleam in their eyes, the gnomes set their plan in motion. The Plan (Which Was Definitely Not Foolproof) At midnight, the Cherry Blossom tree stood tall and resplendent, its petals glowing faintly under the moonlight. The Blossom Keepers, clad in their ceremonial robes (which honestly looked suspiciously like oversized pajamas), stood at attention. No squirrel, fairy, or gnome would get past them. Or so they thought. Phase One: Distraction. Gus, wearing an absurdly large cloak that made him look like a sentient pile of fabric, waddled up to the Keepers. “I have urgent news!” he gasped dramatically. The eldest Keeper peered down. “What news, little one?” “The Moon Moths are revolting! They’re demanding better working conditions and have threatened to, uh, boycott the night sky!” The Keepers blinked. “That... doesn’t sound real.” “Oh, it’s VERY real,” Gus continued, summoning every ounce of fake sincerity he could muster. “Just imagine—no shimmering wings, no graceful moonlit dances. Just an empty sky, like a sad, forgotten soup bowl.” The Keepers exchanged nervous glances. They couldn’t risk a celestial labor strike. With a hurried nod, they rushed off to investigate, leaving the sacred First Bloom unguarded. Phase Two: The Heist With the Keepers gone, Pip and Poppy sprang into action. Pip climbed onto Poppy’s shoulders, teetering dangerously as he reached for the blossom. “Almost... got it...” Just as his fingers brushed the delicate petals, a gust of wind sent him toppling off Poppy’s shoulders and straight into the tree, where he clung like an oversized, panicked squirrel. Poppy, trying to be helpful, grabbed a stick and poked at him. “Just let go, Pip. I’ll catch you.” “That is an unbelievable lie, Poppy.” “Fair enough. Just—” Before she could finish, Pip lost his grip. With a dramatic yelp, he plummeted, bounced off a lower branch, and landed with a soft poof into Gus’s fluffy hat. They sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then Poppy grinned and held up the First Bloom, which had fallen neatly into her hands. “Would you look at that?” Victory! But just as they were about to celebrate, a shadow loomed over them. It was the Head Keeper. And he did not look pleased. “Well, well, well,” the Keeper said, arms crossed. “If it isn’t the Blossom Bandits.” Pip swallowed hard. “We prefer ‘Mischievous Floral Enthusiasts.’” The Keeper narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any idea what kind of punishment is in store for thieves like you?” Silence. Then Gus, ever the opportunist, cleared his throat. “Would you, uh, accept a bribe?” The Keeper raised an eyebrow. “Go on.” Gus pulled a slightly smushed acorn pastry from his pocket and held it out with a hopeful grin. And that was when the real trouble began. The Trouble with Bribes The Head Keeper eyed the smushed acorn pastry in Gus’s outstretched hand. The gnome trio held their breath. For a moment, it seemed like the Keeper might accept the bribe. His fingers twitched. His nostrils flared ever so slightly, catching the scent of honeyed nuts. But then, with a sigh, he crossed his arms. “I’m allergic to acorns,” he said flatly. Gus gasped in horror. “But they’re a superfood!” “For you, perhaps,” the Keeper said. “For me, they’re a death sentence. Now—” He snatched the First Bloom from Poppy’s hands. “You three are in a world of trouble.” The Trial of the Gnomes By dawn, Pip, Poppy, and Gus found themselves standing before the Grand Council of the Enchanted Grove—a collection of elders who looked very wise but also, conveniently, quite sleepy. Apparently, holding a trial at sunrise wasn’t an especially popular idea. “Gnomes Pip, Poppy, and Gus,” droned the eldest Council member, a wrinkled elf named Elder Thimblewick. “You have been charged with grand floral larceny, Keeper deception, and—” he squinted at the scroll in his hands, “—‘reckless tree climbing without a permit.’ How do you plead?” Pip glanced at his friends, then puffed up his chest. “Not guilty, on account of technicality.” Thimblewick frowned. “What technicality?” “The First Bloom fell into Poppy’s hands. Gravity did the real stealing.” The Council murmured amongst themselves. It was, admittedly, a solid point. The Head Keeper, still seething, stepped forward. “I demand justice! They plotted this crime! They tricked the Keepers and endangered the sacred blossom!” Gus cleared his throat. “To be fair, you abandoned your post because of a made-up moth strike. That’s on you.” “Silence!” the Keeper snapped. The Council exchanged glances. Finally, Elder Thimblewick sighed. “This is a mess. But a crime was committed. A punishment is required.” The Unusual Punishment The gnomes braced themselves. Banishment? Hard labor? Were they about to be sentenced to a life of unpaid squirrel-wrangling? Thimblewick cleared his throat. “For your crimes against the Enchanted Grove, your punishment is thus: You must personally assist in the Cherry Blossom Festival preparations.” The gnomes stared. “That’s it?” Pip asked. “You want us to—what—hang banners and sprinkle flower petals?” “Among other things,” Thimblewick said. “You will also oversee the nectar-making process and act as official greeters for every guest.” Poppy groaned. “Ugh. That means smiling, doesn’t it?” Thimblewick nodded. “Oh yes. And wearing matching festive gnome tunics.” At this, Gus let out a horrified gasp. “You mean—uniforms?” “Precisely,” the elder said with a smirk. “Pink ones. With ruffles.” The gnomes shuddered. The Worst Day of Their Lives Thus began the worst—and most humiliating—day in Pip, Poppy, and Gus’s mischievous little lives. First, they were forced into the most frilly, lace-covered, pastel-pink tunics imaginable. Gus nearly fainted. Poppy cursed under her breath. Pip, always the optimist, tried to convince himself they were wearing “intimidation garments.” They were not. Then came the endless festival preparations. They spent the morning filling nectar jugs, which was dull enough—until Gus accidentally fell into a vat of the sacred liquid and had to be fished out with a broom. By noon, they were tasked with handing out floral garlands to visitors. This part should have been easy, except that Pip got carried away and turned it into a competitive sport, aggressively throwing garlands at unsuspecting guests. “YOU GET A WREATH! YOU GET A WREATH!” Pip shouted, pelting a confused centaur in the face with a ring of daisies. By evening, they were utterly exhausted. They slumped against a cherry tree, their once-vibrant tunics now covered in flower petals, spilled nectar, and Gus’s dignity. “I can’t believe we got caught,” Poppy groaned. “We had such a solid plan.” Pip sighed. “Maybe we should retire from crime.” They sat in silence for a long moment. Then Gus snorted. “Nah.” They burst into laughter. Mischief, after all, was in their blood. As the festival continued around them, the three gnomes made a silent pact: Next year, they wouldn’t just steal the First Bloom. They’d steal the whole tree. But for now? They’d suffer through the ruffled tunics, hand out garlands, and bide their time. The gnome way.     Bring the Magic Home Love the mischievous charm of Pip, Poppy, and Gus? Now you can bring their whimsical world into your home! Whether you want to cozy up with a stunning tapestry, add a touch of enchantment with a canvas print, or challenge yourself with a delightful puzzle, there's a perfect way to keep the gnome mischief alive. Looking for a charming gift? Send a magical message with a beautiful greeting card featuring this playful trio! Embrace the whimsy—shop the collection today!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Grumpiest Unicorn-Kitten

The Grumpiest Unicorn-Kitten’s Most Unfortunate Quest Once upon a very irritated time, in a realm where the flowers were too perky, the fairies were too chatty, and the air smelled aggressively like sugared violets, there lived the grumpiest unicorn-kitten ever to grace the land. Her name? Lilith von Fluffenstein. But she preferred "Lilith the Doomed"—because, in her words, "life is suffering, and so is my patience." Her white fur was pristine, her pink-tinged tail swayed with unimpressed authority, and her violet eyes could cut through the soul of anyone who dared to ask, “Who’s a cute little floof?” (The last creature who tried? A sprite named Jingles. He now exclusively communicates in terrified squeaks.) And yet, despite her magnificent disdain for most things, Lilith had a destiny. A prophesied quest. A divine calling that she absolutely did not ask for. The Worst Morning Ever It all began on a particularly infuriating morning, when Lilith awoke to find a scroll wedged between her tiny, majestic paws. A scroll wrapped in gold ribbon and sprinkled with—dear gods—glitter. "Nope." She flicked it off her pillow. Unfortunately, the scroll had other plans. It hovered mid-air and *booped* her grumpy little nose before unrolling itself: "Dearest Lilith von Fluffenstein, The realm of WhimsyWaddle has fallen into chaos! The Sacred Sprinkles have been stolen from the Cupcake Caverns! Without them, the Grand Muffin Mage cannot perform the Annual Sweetening Ritual, and soon all pastries shall turn bland! Bland, Lilith. You are our last hope. Retrieve the Sprinkles. Save the kingdom. Blah blah blah. You get the idea. P.S. This message will self-destruct in three… two…" "Oh for—" POOF! The scroll burst into a puff of vanilla-scented smoke, leaving Lilith covered in sparkles. There was only one thing to do. "I'm going to set something on fire," she muttered, shaking off the offending glitter. Enter: A Moth With Too Much Enthusiasm As Lilith plotted her most efficient route to vengeance—or at least a way to blame someone else for this nonsense—her least favorite being in all the land fluttered into her chamber. "LILITH! OH WOW, LOOK AT YOU! YOU’RE SO SHINY RIGHT NOW!" It was Mothsworth, a sentient, overenthusiastic moth with the attention span of a particularly caffeinated squirrel. "No." Lilith turned away. "No, what?" Mothsworth beamed, his tiny wings flapping with excitement. "No to everything you are about to say." "BUT LILITH!" He zipped around her, his dust-trailing wings leaving streaks of gold in the air. "YOU’VE BEEN CHOSEN FOR A QUEST! AN ADVENTURE! A HEROIC—" "Do you know what I was chosen for, Mothsworth?" Lilith narrowed her glowing violet eyes. "A nap. A peaceful, undisturbed nap. But now, thanks to celestial nonsense, I’m covered in glitter and being forced into some absurd pastry-related crisis." "OH OH OH!" Mothsworth did a mid-air somersault. "THIS IS PERFECT BECAUSE I WAS JUST THINKING THIS KINGDOM NEEDED MORE SPARKLE—" "I am going to eat you," Lilith said flatly. Mothsworth giggled. "YOU'RE SO FUNNY!" Lilith sighed and began padding toward the castle’s exit. "Fine. If I have to do this, I’m doing it my way. That means no singing, no clapping, and absolutely no heartwarming character growth." "OOOH, YOU’RE SO EDGY!" She flicked her tail. "Edgy gets things done, Mothsworth. Now, let’s go steal back some sprinkles before my patience crumbles like a week-old biscuit." And with that, the grumpiest unicorn-kitten stomped off into the unknown, a reluctant hero on a most unfortunate journey. A Totally Avoidable Detour Lilith trudged through the Twinkling Thicket with all the enthusiasm of a cat being forced into a holiday sweater. Mothsworth, as expected, was being the absolute worst. “LILITH, THIS IS AMAZING! THE STARS ARE SO BRIGHT! THE AIR IS SO FRESH! THE MAGIC IS SO—” “Do you ever shut up?” Lilith grumbled, shoving a glowing flower out of her way. “NOPE! NOT EVEN ONCE! DO YOU THINK THAT’S A PROBLEM? SOMEONE TOLD ME IT’S A PROBLEM, BUT I THINK—” “Mothsworth.” Lilith stopped and turned to him, her violet eyes darkening. “You are one sentence away from being personally responsible for the first recorded case of ‘moth-based homicide.’” He blinked. “DID YOU JUST THREATEN TO KILL ME?” “What? No. You’d just respawn somewhere annoying.” She sighed. “Now, can we please focus? We need to get to the Cupcake Caverns, steal back the Sacred Sprinkles, and get out before I lose what little faith I have in the universe.” “GOT IT! NO MORE DISTRACTIONS!” Thirty-seven seconds later, they were thoroughly distracted. “Mothsworth,” Lilith growled as she dangled upside down from a very suspiciously sentient vine, “do you want to explain to me why, instead of following the Very Clearly Labeled Path, we are currently being strangled by a plant?” “BECAUSE LOOK AT THIS ADORABLE LITTLE SIGN!” Mothsworth flailed his tiny wings, pointing to a wooden post. The sign, written in looping golden letters, read: “TOTALLY NOT A TRAP! FREE CUPCAKES THIS WAY!” “It literally says ‘totally not a trap,’” Lilith deadpanned. “WHICH MEANS IT PROBABLY WASN’T A TRAP UNTIL WE GOT HERE, RIGHT?” “I hate you.” The Argument That Saved Their Lives “Excuse me.” A gravelly voice interrupted their bickering. “Would you two mind screaming a little less? I’m trying to enjoy my afternoon tea.” Lilith twisted in the vine’s grip to get a better look at their captor. It was a giant carnivorous plant. With a monocle. The plant sighed and took a dainty sip from an extremely tiny porcelain teacup. “You know, back in the day, travelers had the decency to tremble before me. But no. Now it’s all sarcasm and attitude.” “Look, buddy,” Lilith said, flicking her tail, “you’re a talking plant with an accessory budget. I respect that. But do you really want to eat us?” The plant hesitated. “Well… I do like the dramatic ones.” “Let’s be honest. I’d taste like existential dread and misplaced aggression.” Mothsworth chimed in. “AND I’D TASTE LIKE SUGAR AND GLITTER!” The plant considered this. “Hmmm. Glitter is terrible for digestion.” “Exactly,” Lilith said. “Let us go, and I promise we’ll tell everyone you’re still very terrifying.” The plant huffed. “Fine. But next time, at least pretend to be scared.” With a flick of its leafy appendage, the vine released them. Lilith landed on all fours with an elegant *plop*. Mothsworth face-planted. “You’re the worst hero,” the plant muttered as it slithered back into the ground. The Cupcake Caverns By the time they arrived at the Cupcake Caverns, Lilith was out of patience, out of energy, and dangerously close to committing her first (and probably not last) act of pastry-related arson. The cavern itself was magnificent. Walls of golden caramel, chandeliers made of spun sugar, and a floor that smelled suspiciously like buttercream. But at the center of it all, atop a pedestal made of waffle cone, sat a small, glowing jar. The Sacred Sprinkles. And guarding them? A creature so utterly ridiculous that even Lilith had to take a moment to process it. A dragon. A dragon made entirely of… marshmallow fluff. “Oh, for the love of—” Lilith pinched the bridge of her tiny pink nose. “I am so tired.” The dragon yawned, stretching its gooey wings. “WHO DARES DISTURB—oh, it’s just a cat.” “Excuse me.” Lilith’s tail bristled. “I am a unicorn-kitten. There is a difference.” “Sure.” The dragon shrugged, sending a ripple through its marshmallow body. “And I am the Grand Protector of All That Is Sweet.” “Are you, though?” Lilith squinted. “Because you look like something I could spread on toast.” The dragon huffed. “RUDE.” “Yeah, yeah. Listen, here’s how this is gonna go.” Lilith stretched her paws. “You let me take the sprinkles, and I don’t roast you over an open fire.” The dragon snorted. “I’m immune to fire.” Lilith smirked. “Not magical fire.” She flicked her tail, and a very small but very determined spark of unicorn magic ignited at her horn’s tip. The dragon gulped. “Fine,” it grumbled, stepping aside. “But I hope your kingdom enjoys their diabetes.” Lilith grabbed the sprinkles, tossed them into her satchel, and turned on her heel. “Come on, Mothsworth. Let’s get out of here before I develop a real personality disorder.” And with that, the world’s grumpiest unicorn-kitten saved the kingdom. By accident. And under protest. THE END.     Bring Lilith’s Sass Into Your World Do you need more grumpy magic in your life? Now you can own a piece of Lilith von Fluffenstein’s unimpressed glory! Whether you want to decorate your space, carry her attitude with you, or send some snark to a friend, we’ve got you covered. ✨ Tapestries – Cover your walls in fluffy rage. 🖼️ Canvas Prints – Frame her disapproval for all to see. 👜 Tote Bags – Carry your stuff with maximum attitude. 💌 Greeting Cards – Send a little grumpiness with love. Because let’s be honest—life is better with a little sass and a lot of fluff. Grab yours today and let Lilith judge your life choices from the comfort of your own home! 😾✨

by Bill Tiepelman

Old Magic and Stale Ale

The Pint of No Return Gorbwick the Grumpy Fae was having a day. A long, painful, gods-forsaken kind of day. The kind of day that made him question why he ever bothered getting out of his moss-covered bed. His wings, once shimmering gold and translucent like the morning dew, now looked like someone had used them to wipe up a particularly messy bar brawl. His tunic, which had probably been green in some distant past, was now a patchwork of ale stains, mud, and the occasional mysterious substance that he didn’t care to investigate. And worst of all? His beer was too damn foamy. “For fuck’s sake,” he grumbled, watching as another dollop of foam dribbled over the side of his wooden mug and plopped onto his bare foot. “Is it too much to ask for a proper pour? This is why I drink at home.” The bartender, a willowy dryad with an attitude as thorny as her ivy-wrapped arms, rolled her eyes. “You don’t have a home, Gorbwick. You have a tree stump that smells like regret.” “A tree stump is a home if you believe hard enough.” He took a long, slow sip of his ale, glaring at the world as if it had personally wronged him. Which, to be fair, it had. Once upon a time, he had been a trickster, a legend, a mischievous little shit whose name was whispered in taverns with a mixture of awe and irritation. Now? Now he was just the cranky bastard who never tipped. And that, dear gods, was unacceptable. “You know what?” he said suddenly, slamming his mug down on the counter. “I’m done with this. Done with the self-pity, the sitting around, the endless fucking drinking—” “You literally started today with a breakfast beer,” the dryad pointed out. “—Done, I say!” Gorbwick continued, ignoring her. “It’s time for a comeback.” “Oh no.” “Oh yes.” He stood up dramatically. At least, he tried. His left leg had fallen asleep, and instead of rising like a victorious warrior, he wobbled like a drunken goat. The dryad sighed. “You’re going to embarrass yourself.” “That’s how all the best stories start.” And with that, Gorbwick the Grumpy Fae, washed-up legend, set out on a grand new adventure—the first step of which was, of course, stumbling over a root and landing face-first in the dirt. The comeback was off to a fantastic start. A Fae, a Fool, and a Fistful of Bad Decisions Gorbwick peeled his face off the dirt with all the grace of a snail getting evicted from its shell. He spat out a mouthful of moss, muttered a curse that made a nearby squirrel cover its ears, and staggered to his feet. The comeback was still on. “Where the hell are you even going?” the dryad bartender called after him. “Adventure, my dear Twigs, adventure!” he shouted over his shoulder. Her actual name was Lissandra, but Gorbwick had been calling her Twigs for years, mostly because it annoyed the absolute shit out of her. “Well, at least let me get you some pants first!” she yelled. Gorbwick glanced down. Ah. That explained the draft. “No time! The wind shall cradle my nethers like a gentle lover!” “You’re gonna get arrested.” “Only if I get caught!” With that, he stumbled deeper into the forest, barefoot, pantless, and fueled by equal parts determination and whatever questionable liquor still sloshed around his gut. His goal? He had no idea. His strategy? None. His plan? Absolute nonsense. And that’s when he walked straight into the Goblin Mafia. A Poorly Timed Introduction Now, goblins are many things—shrewd, ugly, a little too enthusiastic about stabbing—but they were also businessmen. And business, on this particular evening, was going down in a clearing just past Gorbwick’s favorite piss-tree. Unfortunately, Gorbwick did not know this. Because Gorbwick, despite his magical heritage, was not what anyone would call “observant.” “Well, well, well,” drawled a greasy voice from the shadows. “Look what we got here.” Gorbwick blinked. Five goblins stood before him, dressed in ragged vests, fingerless gloves, and the kind of trousers that screamed, “I live in a hole but want to look professional.” At their feet were wooden crates labeled ‘DO NOT TOUCH OR YOU WILL BE STABBED’—a very specific warning. The lead goblin stepped forward. He had a face like a pug that had lost a fistfight and a permanent sneer that suggested he didn’t particularly like his own existence. “You lost, fairy boy?” Gorbwick dusted himself off, doing his best to stand tall despite the fact that he was very obviously half-dressed and covered in dirt. “I, good sirs, am not lost! I am merely… uh… assessing the perimeter.” The goblins looked at each other. “What?” “You know. Scouting.” “For who?” “…Future me.” The pug-faced goblin, whom Gorbwick now mentally named Squintsy, narrowed his beady eyes. “You a cop?” Gorbwick snorted. “Do I look like a cop?” Another goblin, this one with a tooth so long it curved over his bottom lip, leaned in. “Kinda, yeah.” “Oh, piss off.” Gorbwick sighed and crossed his arms. “Look, I don’t know what you little shits are smuggling, but I’m not here to mess with your business. I’m on an adventure.” “An adventure.” Squintsy deadpanned. “Yes.” “And you just happened to walk into our highly illegal, very secret deal?” “Yes.” “With no pants?” “…Yes.” The goblins mulled this over. Finally, Squintsy sighed and rubbed his face. “Okay. We’re gonna have to kill you.” Gorbwick threw up his hands. “Oh, come on. That’s excessive.” “Rules are rules.” “Can’t you just, I don’t know, kick me in the shin and call it a day?” “Nah, see, we’ve got a reputation to maintain.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake—” Before Gorbwick could finish, there was a loud crash. A wooden crate burst open, spilling its contents everywhere. Glittering, shimmering, bouncing contents. Pixie dust. Loads of it. A Brilliantly Terrible Idea Every goblin froze. Pixie dust was a tricky thing. In small doses, it could make you light on your feet. In moderate doses, it could make you float. But in high doses? It could turn an entire bar fight into a floating, screaming disaster. Gorbwick grinned. “No,” Squintsy said immediately. “No. Don’t even think about it.” Too late. Gorbwick lunged, grabbing two fistfuls of stolen pixie dust and launching himself backward, throwing the sparkling powder into the air like a deranged carnival performer. Chaos. One goblin shot straight into the tree canopy, screaming bloody murder. Another spun in midair, flailing as if he were trying to swim through honey. Squintsy, who had clearly been through this shit before, just sighed and let himself hover two feet off the ground. Gorbwick? Gorbwick rocketed up like a fucking firework. “WOOHOOOOO!” The world became a blur of treetops and moonlight as he spiraled uncontrollably through the sky. His wings, pathetic as they were, fluttered uselessly against the sheer force of pixie-fueled propulsion. Somewhere below, Squintsy’s voice echoed through the forest: “I hate fairies.” Gorbwick didn’t care. He was flying! He was free! He was— Oh. Oh no. He was losing altitude. “Oh, sh—” Gravity kicked back in like a pissed-off landlord, and Gorbwick plummeted toward the ground. He crashed through a tree, smacked into a branch, tumbled through a bush, and finally landed— —right back at the tavern’s doorstep. Lissandra the Dryad looked down at him. “So. How’d the ‘adventure’ go?” Gorbwick groaned. “I need another beer.” “Told you.” And with that, the grand comeback of Gorbwick the Grumpy Fae ended exactly where it began—on his ass, in the dirt, with a desperate need for alcohol.     Take a Piece of Gorbwick’s Grumpy Glory Home Love Gorbwick's cranky, chaotic energy? Bring a bit of his misadventure into your space with Old Magic and Stale Ale—available as high-quality tapestries, canvas prints, tote bags, and even throw pillows for the ultimate fae-approved lounging. Perfect for lovers of fantasy, humor, and a touch of grumpy goblin magic, these unique pieces are a must-have for any adventurer—whether you're stumbling through a forest or just trying to survive another Monday. Shop now and let Gorbwick’s legendary attitude take up residence in your home!

by Bill Tiepelman

Blue Jay in the Mystic Winterwood

The Fractal Perch and the Peculiar Prophecy Jasper was no ordinary blue jay. He was, as he often reminded his reflection in frozen puddles, an exceptional blue jay—cunning, curious, and just the right amount of handsome. But even he had to admit that today’s surroundings were, in his expert avian opinion, utterly bizarre. He was perched on what should have been an ordinary tree branch, but instead, it swirled and twisted in fractal spirals, growing smaller branches that mirrored themselves infinitely, all glowing with an eerie blue luminescence. The trees around him stretched impossibly tall, their trunks bathed in golden light, while the sky above shimmered like a mirage. The air smelled like winter and electricity, as if someone had left the northern lights on a slow simmer. “Well, this is new,” Jasper muttered, clicking his beak. Just then, a voice floated through the swirling frost. “You there, bird! Yes, you, with the judgmental eyes and the unreasonably perfect plumage!” Jasper fluffed up indignantly, ready to defend both his eyes and his plumage, when an ancient-looking squirrel emerged from the undergrowth. His fur was an unnatural shade of silver, and he had the weary expression of someone who had seen one too many prophecies. “Ah, another day, another feathered fool,” sighed the squirrel. “Welcome to the Mystic Winterwood. You are the Chosen One.” Jasper blinked. Then he laughed. A full, unapologetic cackle that echoed through the shimmering trees. “Me? The Chosen One? I think you’ve got the wrong bird, buddy. I’m more of a ‘steal peanuts from backyard feeders’ kind of guy.” But the squirrel remained unfazed. “The Frostseer has spoken. The Blue Jay of Unparalleled Beauty shall undertake the Great Quest to restore balance to the Winterwood.” He squinted at Jasper. “You are a blue jay, are you not?” Jasper smoothed down his chest feathers. “I mean, obviously. But unparalleled beauty is subjective.” “Oh, spare me the false modesty,” the squirrel huffed. “Now, listen closely. The Winterwood is trapped in an infinite loop of fractal frost. If we don’t break the cycle, we’ll be stuck in this mesmerizing yet increasingly annoying pattern forever. I, personally, am tired of my tail repeating itself.” He flicked his tail, and sure enough, tiny silver tails spiraled out of it in an infinite loop. Jasper tilted his head. “So, what exactly do I have to do?” “Simple.” The squirrel produced an acorn, except it wasn’t an ordinary acorn—it glowed with the same fractal energy as the trees. “You must take this to the Heart of the Winterwood and plant it. But beware! The path is filled with confusing illusions, mischief, and creatures that may try to steal your undeniable handsomeness.” Jasper scoffed. “Pfft. Good luck to them. But alright, fine. I’ll do it. Not because I believe in destiny, but because I’m curious, and also, I have literally no idea how to get out of here otherwise.” “Excellent,” the squirrel said, shoving the glowing acorn into Jasper’s wing. “Now, don’t mess this up. The fate of the Winterwood depends on your slightly above-average intelligence and outrageously good looks.” Jasper sighed, took a deep breath, and flapped into the swirling frost. The Perils of Vanity and the Unexpected Truth Jasper soared through the fractal frost, the glowing acorn tucked securely beneath his wing. The trees below twisted and curled like frozen ocean waves, their swirling branches whispering secrets that made absolutely no sense. “The snow remembers…” one tree murmured. “Your reflection is watching you,” another warned. Jasper rolled his eyes. “Fantastic. Cryptic trees. Just what I needed.” As he flapped deeper into the Winterwood, the air grew thick with shimmering fog, and suddenly, the world around him began to shift. Trees stretched and bent into impossible angles. The sky turned into a vast, reflective lake, and Jasper realized with horror— He was flying into a world made entirely of mirrors. Jasper screeched to a halt midair, barely avoiding colliding with himself. Or at least, a reflection of himself. No, wait—thousands of reflections, all staring back at him with the same expression of mild concern and impeccable plumage. “Ooooooh no,” he muttered. “This is a trap. A very vain trap.” A soft chuckle echoed from the endless reflections. “Oh, come now, Jasper. Is it really a trap… or an opportunity?” Jasper turned toward the source of the voice. In the center of the mirrored world, perched on a pedestal of pure ice, was another blue jay. Identical to him in every way—except for one unsettling detail. His duplicate was even more handsome. Jasper gasped. “What… but… how?” “I am your reflection, your potential, your better self,” the Handsomer Jasper said, preening. “I could be you, if only you stopped wasting time on silly little quests and embraced your true purpose: admiring your own perfection.” Jasper hesitated. This was, without a doubt, the most compelling argument he had ever heard. “I mean… that does sound nice,” he admitted. “But, uh, I do have an important quest. Something about saving a forest?” “A forest that will always be there,” Handsomer Jasper said smoothly. “But this moment? This chance to bask in your own greatness? Fleeting. Imagine the hours of self-admiration you’ve lost over the years, wasted on pointless flying and peanut theft. You could stay here forever, contemplating your own magnificence.” Jasper nodded thoughtfully. “That is a solid point. I do look incredible today.” He glanced at his many reflections, all nodding in agreement. This was dangerous. He was dangerously close to abandoning everything for the simple pleasure of gazing at himself forever. Then, out of nowhere, a peanut hit him square in the forehead. “Ow! What the—” Jasper spun around just in time to see a tiny, furious squirrel charging toward him, brandishing another peanut like a weapon. It was the silver squirrel from before, but now he looked very unimpressed. “Snap out of it, Pretty Boy!” he barked. “You’re being bamboozled by your own vanity!” “Am not!” Jasper shot back, but the tiny squirrel pelted him with another peanut. “Okay, maybe a little.” “More than a little!” The squirrel hopped onto a nearby mirror, his reflection splitting into infinite versions of himself. “This place is a trap! A perfectly crafted, wildly effective, vanity trap. It lures in creatures who are too impressed with themselves, and they never leave!” Jasper frowned. “Huh. That… does sound like me.” Handsomer Jasper sighed dramatically. “You don’t have to listen to him, you know. Look at you. Look at us! We could be so much more if we just stayed here and—” “Yeah, yeah, that’s great,” Jasper interrupted. “But I have a glowing acorn and a prophecy to fulfill, so I should probably get going.” He turned toward the silver squirrel. “How do I get out of here?” “Simple,” the squirrel said. “You just have to stop looking at yourself.” Jasper blinked. “I’m sorry, what now?” “Don’t look at any reflections. No mirrors, no polished feathers, nothing. Just close your eyes and fly.” Jasper paled. “That sounds insanely dangerous.” “More dangerous than being stuck here forever?” the squirrel shot back. Jasper groaned. “Fine. But if I fly into something, I’m suing.” He squeezed his eyes shut and flapped. The moment he did, the world around him seemed to shake. The endless reflections flickered, wavered, and then— CRACK! Like a shattered ice sculpture, the mirror world collapsed. Jasper burst through a wall of glistening frost and landed, panting, in a clearing bathed in soft, golden light. The swirling frost patterns had faded, replaced by gentle snowfall. The silver squirrel landed beside him. “Well, that was horrifying.” Jasper opened his wings. The glowing acorn was still there. “Huh. Guess I didn’t drop it.” The squirrel smirked. “Even you aren’t that self-absorbed.” Jasper huffed. “Debatable.” Before them, in the heart of the Winterwood, stood a single patch of untouched earth. Jasper hesitated, then gently placed the acorn in the soil. The ground rumbled. Light burst from the spot, shooting up in spirals that spread through the forest, washing away the fractal frost and restoring balance. The trees whispered a final message: “Thank you.” Jasper blinked as the world settled around him. Then he turned to the squirrel. “So… what now?” The squirrel grinned. “Now? We get peanuts. Lots and lots of peanuts.” Jasper grinned back. “Best prophecy ever.” And with that, the two unlikely heroes disappeared into the now-normal, much-less-fractally, but still slightly magical Winterwood—where they lived out their days telling exaggerated stories about their bravery and eating entirely too many peanuts.     Bring the Magic of the Mystic Winterwood Home Jasper’s whimsical journey through the Mystic Winterwood doesn’t have to end here! You can bring a piece of this enchanting world into your own space with stunning artwork featuring the mesmerizing blue jay and his fractal frost surroundings. Whether you want to adorn your walls with a canvas print or a cozy tapestry, you can capture the essence of this magical forest. Looking for a fun challenge? Try piecing together the intricate details of the Winterwood with a beautiful puzzle, or carry a little enchantment with you wherever you go with a stylish tote bag. Whatever you choose, let Jasper’s adventure remind you that sometimes, the most magical journeys begin with curiosity… and a really good peanut.

by Bill Tiepelman

Paws, Claws, and Dragon Flaws

A Hatchling's First Crime Spree The problem with baby dragons—aside from the fire, claws, and tendency to bite first and ask questions never—is that they have zero sense of consequences. That was exactly the issue with Scorch, a freshly hatched menace with a face too cute for its own damn good. Scorch was small, green, and absurdly chonky for a dragon. He had big, round eyes that made villagers go “Awww!” right before he set their laundry on fire. His wings were still useless, which made him mad as hell, so he compensated by getting into everyone’s business. If you had food? It was his now. If you had valuables? Also his. If you had dignity? Kiss that goodbye. Unfortunately for the town of Bramblewick, Scorch had decided that today was the day he would make the entire village his. And that meant looting. A lot of looting. A One-Dragon Heist It started at Old Man Higgins’ bakery. The old bastard never stood a chance. One second, he was setting out a fresh tray of honey buns, and the next, a green blur shot through the open window, snagged the entire batch, and scurried off under a cart. “What the—” Higgins sputtered, staring at his empty counter. Then he spotted the culprit. Scorch, sticky-faced and smug, licked honey off his claws and burped directly in Higgins’ direction. “Why, you little—” Scorch took off, tail wiggling as he darted down the street, leaving a trail of crumbs and zero remorse. Criminal Mastermind… Kinda By noon, he had: Stolen a pie from the windowsill of Widow Gertrude (who threw a broom at him and missed). Pilfered a pair of underpants off someone’s clothesline (why? No one knows). Scared the blacksmith’s apprentice by sneaking up behind him and exhaling just enough smoke to make him pee himself. Bit a knight’s boot because it was shiny. The villagers were beginning to take notice. A posse formed. Angry murmurs spread. “That little bastard just stole my lunch.” “He’s been terrorizing my chickens!” “He stole my wife’s best cooking pot! And she’s pissed!” Scorch, completely unbothered, was currently sitting in the middle of the fountain, feet kicked up, gnawing on a stolen ham hock. Then, just as he was really getting comfortable, a shadow loomed over him. Enter Trouble “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the town’s newest pain in my ass.” Scorch paused mid-chew and looked up. It was Fiona. The town’s official problem-solver. She was tall, scarred, and wielded an attitude as sharp as the sword on her hip. She also looked thoroughly unimpressed. “You done yet, Tiny Terror? Or are you planning to rob the mayor next?” Scorch blinked his big, innocent eyes. Fiona crossed her arms. “Don’t even try it. I’ve been around too long to fall for that cute act.” Scorch, deciding he did not like this woman, stuck his tongue out and immediately launched himself at her face. Unfortunately, his tiny, useless wings did nothing, so instead of an epic attack, he just face-planted onto her boot. Silence. Fiona sighed. “Gods save me, this is going to be a long day.” How to Train Your Disaster Fiona had dealt with all kinds of problems before—bandits, mercenaries, one very drunk wizard—but never had she been tasked with disciplining a pint-sized dragon with a superiority complex. She bent down and picked up Scorch by the scruff like an angry mother cat. He flailed. He hissed. He smacked her in the face with his chubby little paw. None of it was effective. “Alright, you tiny bastard,” she muttered. “You’re coming with me.” The townsfolk cheered. “About time someone dealt with that little menace!” “Throw him in the stocks!” “No! Send him to the mines!” Fiona gave them all a look. “He’s a baby.” “A baby criminal,” Widow Gertrude shot back. “He stole my pie.” Scorch, still dangling from Fiona’s grip, licked his lips loudly. “See? No remorse!” Gertrude shrieked. Fiona sighed and turned on her heel. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll deal with him.” And before the mob could organize itself further, she marched off, dragon in tow. The Art of Discipline (or Lack Thereof) Fiona’s idea of “dealing with” Scorch turned out to be plopping him down on her kitchen table and pointing a finger at him. “You need to stop stealing things,” she said firmly. Scorch yawned. “I’m serious. You’re pissing everyone off.” Scorch flopped onto his back and dramatically threw his legs in the air. “Oh, don’t even. You’re not dying. You’re just spoiled.” Scorch let out a very unconvincing death rattle. Fiona pinched the bridge of her nose. “You know what? Fine. You wanna be a little menace? Let’s make it official. You work for me now.” Scorch stopped fake-dying. He blinked. Tilted his head. “Yeah,” Fiona continued. “I’m making you my apprentice.” Scorch stared. Then he did the only logical thing—he stole her dagger straight from its sheath. “You little shit—” A New Partnership It took fifteen minutes, a chair tipped over, and a very unfortunate headbutt to get the dagger back. But once she did, Fiona knew one thing for certain: She had made a mistake. Scorch was already investigating every corner of her house, sniffing things, chewing things, knocking things over just because. He had the attention span of a drunk squirrel and the morals of a highway robber. But… She watched as he scrambled onto the counter, knocking over a stack of papers in the process. He was clearly proud of himself, tail wiggling, tongue sticking out as he surveyed his domain. Fiona sighed. “You’re going to burn this town down someday, aren’t you?” Scorch burped out a tiny ember. “Gods help me.” And just like that, the town’s biggest problem became Fiona’s personal headache.     Bring Scorch Home—If You Dare! Can’t get enough of this tiny troublemaker? Lucky for you, Paws, Claws, and Dragon Flaws is available as stunning artwork on a variety of products! Whether you want to cozy up with a tapestry, challenge yourself with a puzzle, or send some fiery charm in a greeting card, Scorch is ready to invade your space. 🔥 Tapestry – Turn any wall into a dragon’s lair. 🎨 Canvas Print – High-quality artwork, perfect for fantasy lovers. 🧩 Puzzle – Because wrangling a dragon should be a challenge. 💌 Greeting Card – Share some mythical mischief with friends. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry your essentials with a bit of dragon sass. Grab your favorite, or collect them all—just be prepared for a little chaos. 😉

by Bill Tiepelman

The Peacock of a Thousand Sunsets

Spring had arrived in the Enchanted Glade, and with it came the annual Festival of Flourish, a spectacle of nature’s grandest show-offs. Flowers bloomed in synchronized bursts of color, trees shook off their winter moods like sassy models on a runway, and birds trilled complex symphonies composed over months of gossip and questionable life choices. And at the heart of it all—preening, posing, and absolutely reveling in the chaos—was Percival the Peacock. Percival wasn’t just any peacock. He was the peacock. The kind of bird that made sunsets jealous. His feathers shimmered in shades of molten gold, iridescent greens, and the sort of blues that could make the ocean question its self-worth. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, knowing full well that every step left an emotional scar on those who could never be him. “Darlings, darlings,” he cooed, flicking his tail just enough to catch the light. “Do try to keep up. I can’t be expected to carry this entire festival on my back—though, let’s be honest, I do.” The rabbits, who had been nervously nibbling on flower stems nearby, exchanged glances. “Here we go again,” whispered one. Every year, Percival treated the Festival of Flourish as his personal fashion show, and every year, the woodland creatures were caught somewhere between admiration and the deep, soul-crushing exhaustion that comes from dealing with divas. Even the bees—hardened workers that they were—took extra long breaks when Percival was around, unable to endure his dramatic monologues about wing-to-tail coordination and “the struggle of being this radiant.” “Excuse me,” came a voice, cutting through the crowd’s collective weariness. It belonged to Beatrice, a rather no-nonsense sparrow who had exactly zero patience for theatrics. “Ah, Beatrice,” Percival purred, turning ever so slightly to offer her his most devastating profile. “To what do I owe this delightful interruption?” Beatrice landed in front of him, wings folded. “You are aware that the Festival of Flourish is not a one-bird show, yes?” Percival gasped. The kind of gasp that required a deep inhale, a strategic wing placement, and just the right tilt of the beak to convey a mixture of offense and allure. “How dare you? I am the embodiment of spring! The very essence of renewal! The—” “You are a peacock with a superiority complex,” Beatrice interrupted. “And the festival committee is putting you on a performance schedule this year, so you don’t hijack the entire event.” The silence that followed was deafening. Even the flowers seemed to stop blooming for a second, unsure of how to process the sheer scandal of it all. Percival’s eye twitched. “A schedule?” he echoed. “You mean… regulations? On me? How dare you place limits on art?” Beatrice did not blink. “Yes. You’ll have a designated time slot—fifteen minutes, tops.” Percival staggered backward as if she’d slapped him with a particularly wet fern. “Fifteen minutes? That’s barely enough time for my opening strut!” “Then walk faster.” The festival crowd murmured, eyes darting between the two birds like they were witnessing the avian equivalent of a reality TV showdown. Beatrice remained unfazed. She had spent years navigating bureaucracy in the Festival Committee, and she was not about to be emotionally blackmailed by a bird with trust issues and an elaborate feather care routine. “You have three options,” she continued. “One, you follow the schedule. Two, you don’t perform, and we give your slot to Nigel the Nightingale—” “Ugh,” Percival shuddered. “Nigel’s ballads are a crime against sound.” “Or three,” Beatrice continued, ignoring him, “you can cause a scene, in which case, we have an incident, and I call for an emergency committee meeting, and trust me, Percival, I am not above paperwork.” Percival groaned, dramatically flopping onto a mossy branch, his tail feathers pooling around him like a spilled sunset. “Fine,” he huffed. “But just know, this is an attack on free expression, and I shall require emotional support worms to recover.” Beatrice smirked. “I’ll get right on that.” With the terms begrudgingly accepted, the festival preparations resumed, but not without the lingering knowledge that this was far from over. Percival had agreed to the terms, yes—but whether he would stick to them? That was an entirely different story. The Grand Finale (and the Slightly Illegal Pyrotechnics) The day of the Festival of Flourish arrived, and the Enchanted Glade buzzed with excitement. Butterflies flitted like confetti, the air smelled of fresh blooms and questionable herbal teas, and woodland creatures bustled around in their finest seasonal accessories. Even the usually grumpy hedgehogs had made an effort, wearing tiny flower crowns that made them look like dangerously adorable rolling bouquets. And then, of course, there was Percival. Perched on a mossy archway at the center of the festival grounds, he sat in a dramatic repose, awaiting his moment. His feathers had been fluffed, glossed, and preened to near-mythical levels of perfection. A single cherry blossom was delicately placed behind his crest—a final touch, inspired. Every angle, every shimmer, every molecule of his being was calculated for maximum visual devastation. His time slot was scheduled. He had agreed to the terms. And yet… “I simply refuse to be bound by mortal limitations,” Percival whispered to himself, eyes scanning the festival stage. The crowd had gathered for his grand performance. Beatrice, ever the festival enforcer, perched nearby, suspiciously eyeing him with the weary exhaustion of someone who knew she was about to regret allowing him to exist freely. As the announcer stepped forward, a soft hush fell over the crowd. “And now,” the chipmunk host declared, “for his—ahem—scheduled performance, please welcome Percival the Peacock!” Thunderous applause erupted. Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel fainted. Probably. With the grace of a creature who absolutely understood the assignment, Percival spread his dazzling tail, stepping forward in slow, deliberate elegance. The golden glow of the late afternoon sun hit his feathers just right, sending shimmering waves of color across the audience. Gasps of admiration rippled through the crowd. But just as Percival reached the center of the stage, something… shifted. The energy in the air changed. Beatrice’s feathers ruffled. She knew this feeling. It was the unmistakable sensation of being played. “Oh no.” Too late. Percival, the absolute menace of the avian world, had somehow—somehow—coordinated an unauthorized, unhinged, and possibly illegal pyrotechnic display. With a flick of his tail, tiny enchanted fireflies burst into the air, forming a glowing halo around him. A sudden gust of wind, no doubt orchestrated by a complicit owl, sent flower petals swirling in a dramatic cyclone of beauty. And then—because Percival never did anything halfway—he unfurled his full plumage, shaking his tail feathers with such force that tiny bursts of golden pollen exploded into the air, catching the light in a way that made it look like a literal divine intervention. The crowd lost their minds. Screaming, clapping, possibly fainting. Beatrice’s beak twitched. “You absolute menace.” Percival executed a flawless spin, his tail feathers sweeping in an arc of shimmering gold. He smirked. “Oh, Beatrice, darling. You cannot regulate destiny.” “DESTINY IS NOT SUPPOSED TO INVOLVE EXPLOSIONS,” Beatrice screeched, as a particularly excitable firefly nearly singed a dandelion. Percival ignored her. He was in the zone. He launched into his closing act—a dramatic, slow-motion strut toward the edge of the stage, pausing just long enough for the final burst of sunset light to hit him in exactly the right way. The applause? Deafening. The festival committee? Speechless. Beatrice? Trying to legally process what had just occurred. “You do realize,” she said, rubbing her temples, “that this was a gross misuse of festival resources.” Percival turned, utterly unbothered. “Correction: it was inspired use of festival resources.” She exhaled sharply, knowing she had lost this round. The festival-goers erupted in cheers, chanting his name. Beatrice begrudgingly admitted that, despite the chaos, it had been… well… stunning. A scandal, sure. But a beautiful one. Percival stepped off the stage and leaned in. “Now, about those emotional support worms?” Beatrice sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.” As the festival continued, it became clear that Percival had, once again, cemented himself as the icon of spring. Love him, hate him, fine him for unauthorized magic—one thing was undeniable: Spring had officially begun.     Bring Home the Magic of Percival If you fell in love with the dazzling spectacle of The Peacock of a Thousand Sunsets, why not bring a piece of that enchantment into your own space? Whether you're looking to add a touch of whimsy to your walls, cozy up with an artistic tapestry, or even challenge yourself with a beautiful puzzle, we’ve got you covered! ✨ Tapestry – Transform any room with the vibrant elegance of Percival’s legendary plumage. 🖼️ Framed Print – A stunning centerpiece for your home, capturing all the magic of spring. 🧩 Jigsaw Puzzle – Piece together the beauty of this flamboyant feathered icon. 💌 Greeting Card – Send a bit of avian attitude and charm to someone special. 👜 Weekender Tote Bag – Carry a bit of drama and elegance wherever you go. 🏖️ Round Beach Towel – Because even your beach days deserve a touch of fabulous. Don’t miss out—shop now and let Percival’s radiance shine in your life! 💛✨

by Bill Tiepelman

Rainbow Plumage & Petal Dance

The Diva of the Garden Spring had finally arrived, and with it, the annual awakening of the garden. The bees were back on their pollination grind, the flowers were flaunting their petals like contestants in a floral beauty pageant, and the breeze carried the distinct scent of fresh blossoms and questionable pollen decisions. And then, there was *her*. Lady Beatrix Featherbottom III—known simply as *Bea* to her adoring fans—was the most radiant bird in the entire garden. Her feathers shimmered with a pastel iridescence so dazzling it made rainbows weep. She wasn’t just a bird; she was an *experience*. And she knew it. Bea perched delicately on a budding branch, basking in the golden glow of the sun. Below, the lesser birds (read: *everyone else*) bustled about, pecking at crumbs, building nests, and generally existing in an exhausting, non-glamorous fashion. "Ugh, Gerald, darling," Bea sighed dramatically, turning to a rather drab-looking sparrow beside her. "Spring is *so* high-maintenance. All this blooming and chirping—exhausting, really. It's like nature's version of a soft launch, and frankly, I don't have time for it." Gerald, accustomed to Bea’s *fabulous* monologues, preened a wing absentmindedly. "Uh-huh. Sure, Bea. But I think the real problem is your diet. You eat too many flower petals. I’ve seen you do it. That can't be normal." Bea gasped, clutching her tiny chest dramatically. "How *dare* you, Gerald! Are you implying I don’t have a refined palate? You think I should be one of those *barbaric seed-eaters*? I have delicate sensibilities!" Gerald rolled his beady little eyes. "I think you have expensive taste and no survival instincts." Bea scoffed, fluffing her tail feathers. "Please. Do you see this plumage? This level of beauty is *not* for the common bird. My aesthetic alone is a public service. I should be getting paid for this." "Bea, you literally don’t have a job. You just sit here and pose all day," Gerald deadpanned. "Excuse me," Bea huffed. "I am a *seasonal muse*, Gerald. A living work of art. My presence brings joy to photographers, artists, and the occasional lost poet. And what do you do? Eat bugs and look confused?" Gerald stared blankly. "Bugs are delicious." Bea shuddered. "You disgust me." Just then, a particularly bold butterfly fluttered past, its wings a vibrant shade of orange and blue. Bea’s sharp eyes locked onto it immediately. "Oh, *absolutely not*," she declared. "I refuse to be outshone by an *insect* with commitment issues." "Bea, it's just a butterfly," Gerald sighed. "*Just* a butterfly?!" Bea squawked. "That *winged peasant* just tried to upstage me in my own garden. I will *not* stand for this!" She puffed out her chest and struck her most dazzling pose, the sunlight hitting her feathers in such a way that even the most indifferent onlooker would be blinded by sheer magnificence. The butterfly, completely oblivious, continued on its merry way. Bea blinked. "Unbelievable. It didn’t even acknowledge me. Gerald, do you know how *insulting* that is?" Gerald did, in fact, know. But he also knew better than to engage. Spring was here, and with it, Bea’s annual battle to remain the most visually stunning thing in the garden. And as far as she was concerned, she was *winning*.     The Garden Party Scandal The garden had been abuzz with whispers all morning. Something *big* was happening. The annual Spring Garden Party, hosted by Lady Primrose the Wise (a rather large and intimidating robin), was set to begin at high noon, and every bird, insect, and suspiciously nosy squirrel was invited. Bea, naturally, was already fashionably late. "Darling, a queen never arrives *on time*," she mused, delicately fluffing her tail feathers. "She arrives precisely when the peasants are at peak desperation." Gerald, who had somehow been roped into being her reluctant plus-one, frowned. "Bea, *nobody* is desperate for your arrival." "Gerald, please," Bea scoffed. "They live for my presence. You think they come for the *seeds* and *nectar*? No, darling. They come to *witness*." With that, she swooped gracefully down into the clearing, landing in the center of the gathering with a flourish. Birds turned. Squirrels paused mid-nibble. Even the bees hesitated (which, frankly, was a bit dangerous given their flight patterns). Lady Primrose the Wise blinked, unimpressed. "Ah. Lady Featherbottom. Late, as usual." Bea beamed. "Fashionably, darling. Fashionably." "Hmm," Primrose sniffed, before turning back to a tray of particularly well-arranged berries. Bea, not one to let an entrance *flop*, sauntered toward the center of the gathering. "So, what are we discussing? My breathtaking beauty? My undeniable grace? My upcoming memoir?" "We're discussing *actual* survival tactics for spring migration," a gruff pigeon named Frank muttered. Bea wrinkled her beak. "How utterly *dull*. Migration is for birds who can't handle a bit of seasonal inconvenience. I *thrive* in all climates." "You live in a *garden*," Frank deadpanned. "A *well-curated* garden," Bea corrected. "And I am its crown jewel." Frank groaned. "Some of us actually have to *fly* south." "Some of you should consider flying *elsewhere*," Bea retorted sweetly. A collective gasp rippled through the gathering. Lady Primrose cleared her throat. "Alright, alright. That’s enough. Let’s not start a *war* over *feathered theatrics*." Bea smirked. "*Feathered theatrics* is such a good brand name. I might use that." And with that, spring’s most *scandalous* garden party was officially underway.     ✨ Bring Bea’s Glamour Into Your Home! ✨ Lady Beatrix Featherbottom III demands an audience, and now, you can bring her *unmatched elegance* into your space! Whether you want a statement piece for your living room or a touch of whimsy in your daily life, Rainbow Plumage & Petal Dance is available in stunning formats: 🏡 Canvas Prints – Perfect for adding a dreamy, artistic touch to your walls. 🖼️ Wood Prints – Bring natural warmth and elegance into your space. 🌟 Metal Prints – Sleek, modern, and vibrant, just like Bea herself! 🛏️ Tapestries – Turn your space into a whimsical haven. 🚿 Shower Curtains – Because even your bathroom deserves fabulousness. 👜 Tote Bags – Strut your stuff in style, just like Bea would want. Don’t let your walls (or bathroom, or wardrobe) suffer from *boring bird syndrome*. Give them the royal treatment with Bea’s dazzling presence! 🌸✨

by Bill Tiepelman

Mystic Feathers and Cosmic Light

Once upon a particularly weird Tuesday night, somewhere between a dream and an ill-advised fourth glass of wine, an owl named Professor Hootsworth McFluffington III found himself in an unusual predicament. He had been, quite frankly, minding his own feathery business—perched atop the tallest branch of the ancient Gloombark tree, contemplating the existential meaning of bread crusts—when the universe, in all its chaotic wisdom, decided to mess with him. With an unexpected POP! that sounded suspiciously like someone opening a bag of cheese puffs in a silent library, a rift in reality tore open before him. It shimmered in swirling neon hues—blue, red, and just a hint of existential dread. A moment later, something sucked him in like a cosmic vacuum cleaner set to “Maximum Nope.” The Unexpected Detour Through Space and Questionable Dimensions Now, to be fair, this wasn’t the first time something bizarre had happened to Professor Hootsworth. Once, he had mistakenly swallowed a glow-in-the-dark beetle and spent three days as a sentient nightlight. But this? This was new. As he tumbled through the void, surrounded by floating pocket watches, confused fish, and what he was fairly certain was his Aunt Mildred’s missing teapot, he pondered the choices that had led him here. Should he have ignored that weirdly glowing worm earlier? Was this the owl version of a midlife crisis? Why did space smell like burnt toast and mild regret? Before he could reach any satisfying conclusions, he crash-landed onto what appeared to be a throne made entirely of misplaced socks. And sitting before him, looking both regal and slightly constipated, was an eight-foot-tall cosmic hamster wearing a monocle. Lord Cheddington’s Demand “Ah, at last!” the hamster boomed, adjusting his monocle dramatically. “The Prophecy foretold of your arrival!” Professor Hootsworth sighed. “Of course, it did. Because why not?” The hamster ignored the sarcasm. “I am Lord Cheddington, ruler of the Interdimensional Lost & Found. And you, noble owl, have been chosen for a task of utmost importance!” Professor Hootsworth flexed his wings. “If this involves rescuing a princess, slaying a dragon, or assembling an ancient puzzle box, I’m going to need a drink first.” “No, no!” Lord Cheddington waved a tiny paw. “We need you to retrieve the Celestial Spork from the Realm of Infinite Bureaucracy.” There was a beat of silence. Then another. Finally, the Professor spoke. “…A spork?” “A Celestial Spork.” “…That is different from a regular spork in what way exactly?” Lord Cheddington’s whiskers twitched. “It glows.” Professor Hootsworth rubbed his temples with his wing. “Right. Of course. And why do you need me?” “Because,” the hamster said, eyes gleaming with dramatic importance, “you are the only one who can fill out the necessary paperwork.” The Trials of Bureaucratic Hell It turned out that the Realm of Infinite Bureaucracy was, in fact, exactly what it sounded like. Upon arrival, Hootsworth was immediately handed a Form 982-B (Request for Retrieval of Interdimensional Eating Utensils), followed by a Sub-Clause 17-A (Certification of Non-Malevolent Intent), and—his personal favorite—a W-2 Tax Form because, apparently, claiming celestial artifacts counted as taxable income. Three hours and one existential crisis later, he was sitting across from a gelatinous, sentient blob named Greg, who was, according to his name tag, an Assistant Manager of Mundane Cosmic Objects. “Sooo,” Greg slurped, “you’re saying you need the Spork because… a giant hamster in a sock palace told you to?” Professor Hootsworth, dead inside, nodded. Greg blinked. “That checks out.” And just like that, Greg handed over the glowing Celestial Spork. Mission Accomplished? Upon returning to Lord Cheddington, Hootsworth tossed the Spork onto the hamster’s ridiculously ornate cheese-shaped table. “Here. Glow-in-the-dark utensil, as requested.” Cheddington gasped. “You have done well, noble owl! The prophecy is fulfilled!” Professor Hootsworth narrowed his eyes. “So, uh, what does it do exactly?” Cheddington twirled his whiskers. “It… it, uh… allows me to eat soup and solid food with the same utensil.” Hootsworth stared. Then blinked. Then stared some more. “You sent me through literal bureaucratic hell for that?” Cheddington nodded. “Yes.” Hootsworth exhaled slowly. “You are aware that regular sporks exist?” “…They do?” “…You absolute rodent.” The Aftermath And that was how Professor Hootsworth McFluffington III decided he was done with interdimensional nonsense. He returned home, opened a bottle of wine, and swore that if he ever saw another glowing utensil, he would personally feed it to the nearest black hole. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans. Because the very next morning, a glowing fork appeared on his doorstep… with a note: “Dear Professor, I require a matching set. Sincerely, Lord Cheddington.” Hootsworth screamed into the void. THE END.     Bring a Piece of the Cosmic Owl Home While Professor Hootsworth McFluffington III might not be thrilled about his latest interdimensional adventure, you can at least enjoy the mystic beauty of his world—without the bureaucratic nightmare. 🌌✨ Adorn your space with the ethereal glow of Mystic Feathers and Cosmic Light, available in stunning formats: 🌟 Tapestry – Transform your walls into a portal to another dimension. 🖼️ Acrylic Print – Vibrant colors, cosmic vibes, and a glossy finish. 🛋️ Throw Pillow – Perfect for existential pondering… or taking a nap. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry your belongings with the wisdom of the universe (and maybe a Celestial Spork). Don’t let the mysteries of the cosmos pass you by—grab your piece of intergalactic whimsy today! 🚀🦉

by Bill Tiepelman

Inferno Fang & Ocean Vein

The Awakening The legend was whispered in alleyways, scribbled in the margins of forbidden texts, and told in hushed voices among those who knew better than to dismiss the old myths. A serpent, vast as a river and ancient as the bones of the earth itself, lay sleeping beneath the city—a guardian of equilibrium, a harbinger of destruction. Few believed in the tale, of course. In a metropolis choked by neon lights and the hum of industry, there was no room for ancient gods. Yet, those who dug deep enough into the history of the city found signs—archived reports of sudden, inexplicable fires in one district while, mere miles away, streets were swallowed by floods. Survivors spoke of something slithering beneath the asphalt, something that should not exist. Amara Santiago had never believed in ghosts or folklore. A journalist hardened by years of covering crime and corruption, she dealt in facts, not fairy tales. That was until she received an anonymous email with a single image attached: a grainy, almost surreal photograph of a serpent with **one half engulfed in flames, the other dripping with water, its scales glistening with moss and embers alike.** The subject line read: **"It has begun."** At first, she dismissed it as a hoax, yet something gnawed at her—the image felt wrong, too vivid to be mere fabrication. Then the **earthquake** struck. Buildings groaned as the ground trembled, car alarms blared, and a deep, guttural sound echoed beneath the streets. Amara barely managed to grab her camera before rushing outside. What she saw would haunt her forever. Through the cracked pavement of **the Old District**, steam and fire erupted in one block, while another was swallowed by a sudden downpour, a torrential flood that defied all logic. And then, she saw it—the silhouette of the serpent, slithering just beneath the fractured cityscape, **its presence warping the very laws of nature.** “The Balance is broken.” The words were spoken by a man who appeared beside her, his face obscured by a hood. “The Inferno Fang has awakened, and Ocean Vein is not far behind. You have seen the signs, haven’t you?” Amara turned, her pulse hammering. “Who are you?” The man ignored the question, stepping forward as if watching something unseen. “It was bound beneath this city centuries ago, sealed by those who understood its power. But now… now the bindings are unraveling.” He turned to her, and for the first time, she saw his eyes—one flickering like embers, the other shimmering with deep blue light. “You have a choice, journalist. You can run, pretend this is another mystery with no answer, or you can seek the truth. But know this—once you step into the storm, there is no turning back.” A second tremor rocked the city, this one deeper, more violent. The sound of sirens filled the air, and in the distance, beyond the skyline, **the sky itself split—one half burning in an eerie red glow, the other shrouded in storm-laden darkness.** Amara’s instincts screamed at her to leave, to forget this madness. But she had spent her life chasing the truth. And something told her that if she did not seek the answers now, **there would be no world left to report on.** She took a breath and turned to the hooded man. “Where do we start?” He smiled grimly. “Where all great disasters begin—at the end of an old era and the birth of something new.” And with that, they descended into the depths of the city, unaware that the **Inferno Fang & Ocean Vein were watching, waiting.**     The Reckoning The underground passage smelled of damp earth and something older—something that reeked of decay and forgotten time. Amara followed the hooded man deeper beneath the city, her mind torn between disbelief and the raw instinct to run. The tremors above grew stronger, and the sound of rushing water echoed through the tunnels, mingling with the distant roar of unseen flames. “We’re running out of time,” the man muttered. “They will awaken fully soon. And once they do—” He stopped abruptly, staring at the walls. Amara’s breath hitched. **The walls were moving.** No, not walls—**scales.** A colossal, breathing presence pulsed beneath the stone, its rhythm slow, measured, like something in the final moments of slumber. One side of the tunnel was warm, **pulsing with heat**, as if an unseen fire raged just beneath the surface. The other was slick with moisture, **coated in thick moss**, the air heavy with the scent of rain. “What the hell is this?” Amara whispered. “Their prison,” the man replied. “But the lock has broken. And soon, they will rise.” The ground shook violently, nearly knocking her off her feet. A deafening **crack** split the air, and then—darkness. The Eyes of the Serpent When Amara opened her eyes, she was no longer underground. She stood atop a ruined cityscape, skyscrapers shattered, streets flooded with fire and water alike. **The sky itself was divided—one side a searing inferno, the other a maelstrom of raging waves.** And in the center of it all, she saw them. The **Inferno Fang & Ocean Vein** had awakened. The twin serpents coiled around one another, massive beyond comprehension, their scales reflecting the ruin of the world they had been bound to protect. One glowed with the molten heat of the earth’s core, its every breath sending ripples of flame through the air. The other pulsed with the force of the oceans, its body trailing torrents of cascading water. **They were not enemies. They were balance.** And now, that balance was broken. The hooded man appeared beside her, his form flickering in and out of reality. “They were never meant to be separated, never meant to awaken apart. The city was their cage, but also their harmony. The people have shattered that balance—unchecked greed, reckless ambition, the belief that they were masters of this world.” Amara felt something shift within her, a deep, painful truth clawing at her soul. She had spent her life chasing corruption, exposing the rot of power, believing in justice. But this—**this was something older than justice. Older than humanity.** “Can we stop them?” she asked. The man turned to her, his eyes burning with both flame and water. “Not stop. **Choose.**” The words sent a chill through her bones. The serpents roared, their voices shaking the heavens. **Fire or water. Destruction or renewal.** Amara realized, with horrifying certainty, that the choice had never been theirs. It had always been humanity’s. And now, in this moment, it rested with her. The Final Choice Her mind raced. If she chose Inferno Fang, the world would burn. Fire would cleanse the land, reduce it to ash, and in time, new life would rise. But at what cost? If she chose Ocean Vein, the world would drown. Civilization would wash away, and nature would reclaim its dominion. But could humanity survive such a rebirth? Or—was there another way? The serpents watched her, waiting. **Judging.** She took a deep breath and stepped forward. “We do not need destruction to find balance,” she whispered. “We need understanding.” Her voice carried through the storm, through the fire, and for a moment—just a moment—the serpents hesitated. The hooded man’s expression shifted, a flicker of something almost like hope in his ageless eyes. Then, the world shattered. The Legend Continues... When Amara awoke, the city was whole. The earthquakes had stopped. The fires and floods had vanished. The sky was as it had always been—gray with morning smog. Had it been a dream? And yet, as she stood there, catching her breath, she noticed something beneath her fingertips— Her skin was warm on one side, cool on the other. Somewhere, in the depths of the world, **the Inferno Fang & Ocean Vein still waited.** Watching. Judging. And one day, when the balance is broken again, they will rise once more. The End?     Bring the Legend to Life The tale of Inferno Fang & Ocean Vein is more than just an urban myth—it’s a symbol of balance, power, and the forces that shape our world. Now, you can bring this legendary imagery into your own space with stunning artwork and merchandise inspired by the story. 🔥🔥 Tapestries to transform your walls with the energy of fire and water. 🎨 Stunning canvas prints capturing the mythical serpent in breathtaking detail. 🛋️ Throw pillows that let you rest against the power of the elements. 👜 Tote bags infused with the energy of fire and water, perfect for everyday legends. Whether as a reminder of the story’s message or as a statement piece in your home, these items embody the raw power of Inferno Fang & Ocean Vein. Will you embrace the legend?

by Bill Tiepelman

Aged Like Fine Wine and Dark Magic

The problem with being an immortal fae wasn’t the magic, the wings, or even the centuries of unpaid taxes. No, the real issue was the hangovers. The kind that lasted decades. Madra of the Withered Vale had once been a sprightly little thing, flitting through the moonlit woods, enchanting mushrooms, cursing ex-boyfriends, and generally making a nuisance of herself. That was a long time ago. Now, she was what the younger fae rudely referred to as “vintage,” and she had no patience for their nonsense. She took a long, deliberate sip from her goblet of Deepwood Red, a cursed wine so potent it had ended kingdoms. The glass was chipped, but so was she. “You’re staring again,” she muttered. There was, of course, no one around. Except for a particularly nosy squirrel perched nearby, watching her with its beady little eyes. It had been doing this for weeks. “I swear, if you don’t scram, I’ll turn you into an acorn. Permanently.” The squirrel chittered something obscene and darted up a tree. Good. She had enough problems without dealing with judgmental rodents. The Golden Age of Poor Decisions Once upon a time (which, in fae terms, meant somewhere between fifty years and five hundred, she had stopped counting), Madra had been at the center of every enchanted revelry. She had danced on tables, cast spells of questionable legality, and made absolutely terrible choices involving attractive strangers who later turned out to be cursed frogs. Or worse—princes. Then one fateful evening, she had challenged the wrong elf to a drinking contest. Elves, being the smug little tree-huggers they were, rarely drank anything stronger than honeyed mead. But this one had been different. He had a wicked grin, a suspiciously high alcohol tolerance, and the kind of bone structure that suggested he’d never known true hardship. “I bet I can drink you under the table,” she had declared. “I bet you can’t,” he had replied. Madra had won. And lost. Because the elf, in a spectacularly petty move, had cast a drunken curse upon her before passing out in a puddle of his own hubris. She would never, ever be able to get properly drunk again. “May your tolerance be eternal,” he had slurred. “May your liver be unbreakable.” And that was that. Decades of drinking and nothing. She could chug a bottle of fae whiskey without so much as a dizzy spell. All the joy, all the chaos, all the questionable decision-making? Gone. And now she sat here, on her usual branch, drinking out of pure spite. Visitors are the Worst She was midway through her fourth glass of sulk-wine when she heard the distinct sound of footsteps. Not the light, careful steps of an animal or the sneaky little scurrying of goblins trying to steal her socks. No, this was a person. She groaned. Loudly. “If you’re here to ask for a love potion, the answer is no,” she called out. “If you’re here to complain about a love potion, the answer is still no. And if you’re here to steal my wine, I’ll turn your kneecaps into mushrooms.” There was a pause. Then a voice, deep and annoyingly smooth, called back. “I assure you, I have no interest in your wine.” “Then you’re an idiot.” The owner of the voice stepped into view. Tall. Dark hair. The kind of smirk that suggested he either had a death wish or was a professional seducer. “Madra of the Withered Vale,” he said, with the kind of dramatic flair that made her want to throw her goblet at his head. “I have come to seek your wisdom.” Madra sighed and took another sip. “Oh, stars help me.” She had a feeling this was about to be one of those days.     Some People Just Don’t Listen Madra stared at the mysterious visitor over the rim of her goblet, debating whether she was sober enough to deal with this nonsense. Unfortunately, thanks to the elf’s curse, she was always sober enough. “Listen, Pretty Boy,” she said, swirling her wine in a way that suggested she was this close to throwing it at him. “I don’t do ‘wisdom.’ I do sarcasm, mild threats, and occasionally, revenge-fueled spellcraft. If you’re looking for a wise old fae to give you a heartwarming prophecy, try the next forest over.” “You wound me,” he said, placing a hand on his chest like some kind of tragic bard. “Not yet, but I’m seriously considering it.” He chuckled, entirely too at ease for a man standing in front of a clearly irritated fae with questionable morals. “I need your help.” “Oh, for the love of the Moon.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. What exactly do you want?” He stepped closer, and Madra immediately pointed a clawed finger at him. “If you’re about to ask for a love spell, I swear—” “No love spells,” he said, holding up his hands. “I need something much more serious. There’s a dragon.” She sighed so hard it rattled the leaves. “There’s always a dragon.” Why is it Always a Dragon? Madra took a long, slow sip of her wine, staring at him over the rim of her goblet. “Let me guess. You need a magic sword. A fireproof cloak. A blessing from an ancient fae so you can fulfill some ridiculous prophecy about slaying the beast and reclaiming your lost honor.” He blinked. “...No.” “Oh. Well, that’s disappointing.” He shifted on his feet. “I need to steal something from the dragon.” She snorted. “So, what you’re saying is, you don’t just want to get yourself killed—you want to do it in the most spectacularly bad way possible.” “Exactly.” “I like you.” She took another sip. “You’re an idiot.” “Thank you.” Madra sighed and finally set down her goblet. “Alright, fine. I’ll help. But not because I care. It’s just been a while since I’ve watched someone make absolutely terrible decisions, and frankly, I miss it.” Bad Plans and Worse Ideas “First things first,” she said, sliding off the branch with surprising grace for someone who looked like she’d been through at least three wars and a questionable marriage. “What, exactly, are you trying to steal?” He hesitated. “Oh, no.” She pointed a gnarled finger at him. “If you say ‘the dragon’s heart’ or some other romantic nonsense, I am leaving.” “It’s… uh… a bottle.” She narrowed her eyes. “A bottle of what?” He cleared his throat. “A very old, very magical bottle of enchanted liquor.” Madra went completely still. “You mean to tell me,” she said, voice dangerously low, “that there exists a drink strong enough to be locked away in a dragon’s hoard, and I have been suffering through this for centuries?” She waved at herself, meaning the curse, her sobriety, and possibly her entire life. “...Yes?” Madra’s wings twitched. “Alright,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “New plan. We’re stealing that bottle, and you are my new favorite human.” He grinned. “So, you’ll help?” She grabbed her staff, took a final sip of wine, and flashed a wicked, too-sharp smile. “Darling, I’ll do more than help. I’ll make sure we don’t just survive this—we’ll make it look good.” And with that, Madra of the Withered Vale set off to do what she did best. Cause absolute, spectacular chaos.     Take a Piece of the Magic Home Did Madra’s snarky wisdom and thirst for chaos resonate with you? Perhaps you, too, appreciate a fine wine, a terrible decision, or the idea of an ancient fae who’s just so over it. If so, you can bring a little of her enchanted, slightly tipsy magic into your own world! 🏰 Enchant Your Walls with a Tapestry – Let Madra’s unimpressed gaze remind you daily that life is short, but wine is forever. 🌲 A Rustic Wood Print for Your Lair – The perfect addition to any home, office, or mysterious forest dwelling. 🧩 A Puzzle for the Cursed and the Cunning – Because assembling a thousand tiny pieces is still easier than dealing with adventurers before coffee. 💌 A Greeting Card for Fellow Mischief Makers – Share Madra’s unimpressed expression with friends and let them know you care—just, you know, in a fae kind of way. Whether you're decorating your walls, sending a snarky note, or testing your patience with a puzzle, these magical creations are the perfect way to celebrate fae mischief and questionable life choices. Shop the collection now and bring a little enchanted attitude into your world. Just... don’t challenge an elf to a drinking contest. Trust us.

by Bill Tiepelman

Earth’s Fury, Earth’s Grace

There is a story whispered among the mountain towns of the Pacific Northwest, a tale the old hunters refuse to tell after dark. They call it The Burning Bear, a guardian, a curse, or perhaps something far worse. It is said to appear in the deepest parts of the forest, where no roads dare go, where the trees twist unnaturally, and the air hums with unseen energy. Few have claimed to see it and lived. One of those men was Daniel Holt, a seasoned survivalist and tracker. He spent his life navigating the treacherous backcountry, unafraid of the wild—until the night he encountered something the wild itself feared. The Descent into the Forbidden It began in early November, when the air carried the sharp scent of winter and the ground crackled underfoot. Holt had heard rumors of missing hikers near Blackthorn Ridge, a stretch of land so untouched that even the most experienced explorers steered clear. But Holt was never one to turn down a challenge. Armed with his rifle, a pack of supplies, and his instincts, he ventured into the heart of the forest. For the first day, everything seemed ordinary—just another stretch of towering pines and winding streams. But as he moved deeper, he noticed strange signs. Trees split in perfect halves, one side charred and crumbling, the other vibrant with moss and dripping water. Animal tracks—huge, clawed, and burned into the earth—led forward, as if daring him to follow. Something Watches By nightfall, the feeling of being watched became unbearable. Holt set up camp near a small creek, the sound of rushing water grounding him. He was used to the silence of the wilderness, but this silence felt unnatural, pressing in on him like a held breath. Then came the sound—a low, guttural growl that seemed to rise from beneath the earth itself. Holt’s fingers tensed around his rifle. The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows across the trees. And then… he saw it. Emerging from the darkness, the beast was unlike anything he had ever imagined. A bear, but something more. Its left side seethed with molten cracks, embers drifting from its fur like dying stars. The right side was a vision of untouched wilderness, waterfalls cascading down its muscular form, moss and wildflowers blooming in its wake. Its eyes—one burning like a furnace, the other deep and endless like an ancient river—locked onto him. Holt’s breath hitched. This wasn’t just an animal. This was a force, something beyond nature itself. The Chase Before Holt could move, the bear let out a sound that shook the ground. He turned and ran. He had faced wolves, storms, starvation—but nothing compared to the primal terror that gripped him now. The creature didn’t chase him in the way a predator would. It moved with purpose, as if it already knew how this would end. The forest blurred around him. Trees split apart in its wake—one side turning to ash, the other sprouting new life. Holt’s lungs burned. He didn’t know where he was running, only that he had to get away. Then he saw it—a rusted fire lookout tower, long abandoned. He scrambled up the ladder, breath ragged, muscles screaming. Below, the bear stopped at the base, lifting its monstrous head. Its molten side pulsed with fiery veins, its lush half dripping with the scent of fresh rain. And then… it spoke. “You should not have come.” Holt froze. His mind refused to accept what had just happened. The voice—deep, guttural, ancient—was not the growl of an animal, nor the voice of a man. It was something else, something primal and immense, as if the mountain itself had spoken through the beast. He pressed his back against the splintered wood of the fire lookout, gripping his rifle with white-knuckled hands. The beast remained at the base of the tower, its molten eye flickering like a dying sun, its forested side releasing a damp mist into the cold night air. “Leave this place,” it said again, the words vibrating through Holt’s bones. “You were not meant to return.” The Truth Beneath the Earth Holt swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak. “What… what are you?” The beast lifted its head, as if considering his question. “I am what remains.” The words made no sense. The burning embers that lined its fur crackled softly in the night, while the tiny waterfalls on its back shimmered under the moonlight. It was impossible—fire and water, destruction and renewal, existing in the same form. And yet, here it was, watching him with knowing eyes. Holt had spent years dismissing local legends as nonsense, tales meant to scare tourists and keep outsiders from the deep woods. But this—this was real. And it was looking directly at him. “This land does not belong to you,” the bear continued. “It was never yours to take.” Holt’s pulse hammered in his throat. “I’m not trying to take anything.” The bear exhaled, and for a moment, the night smelled of smoke and pine, of ash and rain. “You already have.” Then the images hit him—flashes of something ancient, something buried beneath the roots of the mountain. A vision seared into his mind. He saw men with axes, cutting deeper into the forest than they should have. He saw rivers poisoned, mountains scarred, fire sweeping across the land where it was never meant to burn. He saw his own ancestors, men who had taken from this place without understanding what they had disturbed. And finally, he saw it—the moment when nature fought back. The First Fire Long ago, before roads carved their way into the mountains, before men built their towns and claimed dominion over the wild, the land had been whole. A sacred balance had existed, untouched and eternal. But then, greed came. Trees fell, rivers were dammed, the land was forced into submission. And with each wound inflicted upon the earth, something beneath stirred. The first fire had not been natural. It was a warning. The ground had cracked open, and the bear had risen. Born from the fury of the scorched land and the sorrow of the wounded forest, it had been neither fully beast nor spirit. It was vengeance. It was renewal. It was the reckoning of everything mankind had forgotten. It had burned the invaders to ash. But nature was not only wrath—it was also mercy. The bear had not destroyed all. It had allowed the survivors to flee, to pass their warning down through generations. The land healed, slowly, reclaiming what was lost. But as the years passed, men forgot. And now Holt stood before it. Judgment His body trembled, his breath shallow. “What do you want from me?” he whispered. The bear took a step forward, and the ground shuddered. “You carry the blood of those who took. Their debt is not yet paid.” Panic rose in Holt’s chest. “I didn’t do anything!” “Your kind never believes they are to blame.” The beast’s voice was neither angry nor cruel—it was simply true. Holt’s mind raced. There had to be a way out, a way to escape. But deep inside, he knew—this was not something he could outrun. He had trespassed into a place that had been waiting for his return. The bear raised its massive head. Fire raged along one half of its body, smoke rising into the air. The other half pulsed with green light, vines curling, flowers blooming. “You have a choice.” Holt’s breath caught in his throat. “What… what choice?” The bear’s burning eye bore into him. “Stay, and you will know the fate of those before you. Or leave, and carry the warning to others.” “Warning?” Holt croaked. The beast’s voice darkened. “Tell them the land remembers.” The Last Sunrise For what felt like hours, Holt sat in that crumbling tower, staring down at the impossible creature below. But when the first light of dawn crept over the mountains, the bear was gone. The ground where it had stood was untouched—no burned earth, no sprouting flowers, just undisturbed soil, as if nothing had ever been there. But Holt knew better. When he finally stumbled out of the woods, exhausted and forever changed, he did not speak of what he had seen—not at first. But when developers came, when new roads were planned, when men in suits talked about cutting deeper into the forest, he spoke. They laughed at him. Called him a fool. An old man clinging to superstition. Then the fires came. Not wildfires, but something else—something precise. The construction sites burned to the ground, leaving no trace of human interference. The roads crumbled before they were ever built. The rivers reclaimed their stolen paths. And finally, as the developers abandoned their plans, something else happened. New trees grew. Holt, now old and weary, stood at the edge of the forest and listened. The land was quiet once more. But he knew the truth. The bear was still there. Waiting. Watching. And should mankind ever forget again… it would rise.     Bring the Legend Home The tale of Earth’s Fury, Earth’s Grace is more than just a story—it’s a powerful reminder of nature’s balance and resilience. Now, you can bring this legend into your own space with stunning artwork inspired by the myth. Explore exclusive products featuring this breathtaking design: 🔥 Mystical Tapestries – Perfect for creating an atmosphere of raw power and natural beauty. 🌿 Elegant Wood Prints – A rustic and timeless way to display this stunning artwork. 🐻 Unique Tote Bags – Carry the legend with you wherever you go. ⚡ Iconic Stickers – Add an electrifying touch to your laptop, notebook, or gear. Embrace the balance of fire and forest. Shop the full collection here.

by Bill Tiepelman

Interstellar Harmony

The universe wasn’t always an empty void speckled with stars. Before time itself was counted, before the first atom trembled into existence, there were the Koi. They swam through the nothingness, carving rivers of stardust in their wake. The first, Hikari, was luminous, her scales painted in nebulae and celestial pinks, her long fins flowing like cosmic silk. The second, Kuro, was the abyss itself, speckled with distant galaxies and glowing constellations, his body curving with the fluid grace of the unseen forces that shaped reality. They weren’t gods, though they had been mistaken for such. No, gods were loud. Gods demanded sacrifice, built temples, whispered into the ears of desperate mortals. The Koi simply were. Silent, eternal, patient. But in their silence, they dictated the currents of time, the balance of creation and destruction, the unseen tides that pulled galaxies into spirals and planets into orbit. The Argument That Created Everything For eons, Hikari and Kuro swam in perfect harmony, circling, shifting, maintaining the great cosmic balance. But then, one day—though "day" is a flimsy word for creatures who existed before the concept of days—they had an argument. “You always turn left first,” Kuro grumbled. Hikari flicked her tail, scattering violet light. “No, I don’t.” “Yes, you do. Every time we complete a cycle, you veer left first. I have to adjust.” “Maybe you're just slow to react.” “Or maybe you’re doing it on purpose to annoy me.” She swam in an elegant loop. “Oh please. If I wanted to annoy you, I’d nudge you into a black hole.” Kuro snorted. “You tried that once. It tickled.” Their banter was harmless at first—just another ripple in the timeless sea of their existence. But then, for the first time in eternity, they did something unprecedented. They swam in opposite directions. The result was catastrophic. The Big Bang Was Just Koi Drama The instant they pulled away from each other, the universe exploded. Light and energy erupted into the void, expanding outward with a force neither of them had ever witnessed. Stars ignited, matter coalesced, and time itself began its relentless march. “See what you did?” Hikari huffed, staring at the chaos. Kuro flicked his fins, watching a nebula swirl into existence. “Me? You pulled away first.” “I did not!” “You absolutely did. Look, now there’s gravity. Gravity, Hikari!” They watched as planets formed, spinning like tiny marbles in the vastness of space. “Ooh, that one’s blue,” Hikari mused, peering at a newborn planet. Kuro eyed it. “Looks squishy.” “Wanna mess with it?” “Obviously.” And thus, their attention turned toward a small, fragile world floating in the new expanse of the cosmos. A world that would come to be known, in some distant future, as Earth. The First (and Last) Time They Got Involved For eons, they observed the planet from a distance, nudging its fate with the subtlest flicks of their tails. They watched single-celled organisms evolve, landmasses shift, and creatures crawl from the depths of the sea. They made bets. “That one with the scales,” Kuro said, pointing to a lumbering beast with tiny arms. “Five cycles before it dies off.” “Nah, ten,” Hikari countered. They watched empires rise and fall, mortals carve stories into stone, and people build temples in the Koi’s honor without ever realizing their celestial patrons had never actually asked for worship. But then humans started making really bad decisions. “Should we do something?” Hikari asked one day as she watched a war unfold. Kuro shrugged. “Mortals are weird.” “They’re blowing each other up over imaginary lines.” “Again, weird.” “We should intervene.” Kuro groaned. “Hikari, the last time we ‘intervened,’ we created the entire universe. Maybe we sit this one out.” But Hikari was stubborn, and Kuro, despite his protests, was curious. So, they did something neither of them had ever attempted before. They descended. And Earth would never be the same again.     The Koi Touch Down Hikari and Kuro didn’t land so much as they materialized. One moment, they were suspended in the vastness of space, gazing down at Earth like bemused aquarium owners. The next, they were swimming through the sky, invisible to the mortals below. It was chaotic. Birds screeched and scattered as Hikari accidentally phased through a flock of geese. “Oops.” Kuro, already regretting this decision, grimaced. “See? This is why we don’t do things.” But Hikari wasn’t listening. She was fixated on the glowing cities sprawled across the continents. Humanity had advanced far beyond sticks and fire. They had electricity. Machines. Sandwiches. “They built lights,” she whispered in awe. “I noticed.” She twirled, trailing shimmering cosmic dust in her wake. “I like it.” Kuro rolled his eyes. “Great. Can we go back now?” Humanity's First Koi Sighting Of course, they didn’t leave. Curiosity had a hold of them, and so they drifted lower, observing the strange creatures below. And that’s when one particular human saw them. He was an old fisherman, out late, his boat bobbing in the darkness of the sea. He had seen many things in his long years, but nothing quite like this—two glowing, massive koi circling in the sky. He dropped his fishing rod. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Hikari and Kuro froze. “...He can see us?” Hikari whispered. “No, he can’t.” The fisherman squinted. “You’re real, ain’t ya?” Kuro sighed. “We should leave.” “You should leave,” Hikari countered, then turned to the fisherman. “Hi!” Kuro muttered something about cosmic disasters waiting to happen. The Legend of the Celestial Fish The fisherman was, to put it mildly, losing his mind. But in the way that old, wise men often do—with a mix of terror, curiosity, and the deep understanding that some things in the universe defy explanation. “You’re gods, ain’t ya?” he asked. “Nope,” Hikari said brightly. “Absolutely not,” Kuro added. “Then what are ya?” Hikari opened her mouth, but Kuro interrupted. “We’re just passing through.” “But you swim in the sky!” “So do birds.” The fisherman blinked. “You got a name?” Hikari, delighted by the conversation, swirled in a loop. “I’m Hikari! That’s Kuro. He’s grumpy.” “Because we shouldn’t be here,” Kuro muttered. “Ah,” the fisherman mused. “Kinda like my ex-wife.” Hikari giggled. Kuro groaned. The First Koi Cult (Oops) The next morning, the fisherman told everyone. At first, no one believed him. But then, others began seeing strange, shimmering fish in the sky—only at night, only near water. Rumors spread. Temples were built. Prayers were whispered. By the time Hikari and Kuro realized what was happening, people had begun offering tributes. “They left us sushi,” Hikari said, blinking at the small shrine. Kuro gave her a flat look. “They’re offering us dead fish. That’s like humans worshipping a cow and leaving it hamburgers.” “I mean… it’s the thought that counts?” The Great Koi Escape The problem with becoming an accidental religion was that people expected miracles. Crops to flourish. Storms to stop. Taxes to lower. The usual. Hikari was enjoying it. Kuro? Not so much. “We need to leave.” “Oh, come on! Look at them! They’re so excited!” “That one’s trying to summon us with a fishbowl and a candle.” Hikari hesitated. “Okay, yeah, maybe it’s getting a little out of hand.” “Ya think?” With one final swirl, they ascended, vanishing into the cosmic currents they had come from. And just like that, they were gone. The Legacy of the Sky Koi The humans, of course, were devastated. Their celestial fish had left them! For years, they searched the heavens, hoping to catch a glimpse of glowing fins in the night sky. But the Koi never returned. Well. Not physically. Their legend lived on. Stories were told. Paintings were made. A little symbol—a simple, swirling depiction of two koi circling each other—became a sign of balance, of duality, of the universe itself. And if, on particularly clear nights, someone near the water thought they saw two great celestial fish swimming among the stars... Well. That was probably just their imagination. Probably.     Bring the Cosmos Home The legend of the celestial koi lives on—not just in the stars, but in art that captures their ethereal beauty. Now, you can bring a piece of this cosmic balance into your own space. Tapestry – Let the swirling dance of the cosmic koi transform your space into a portal to the stars. Canvas Print – A stunning centerpiece for dreamers, stargazers, and lovers of celestial art. Tote Bag – Carry the energy of the universe with you wherever you go. Sticker – A small but powerful symbol of balance and harmony, perfect for laptops, notebooks, or anywhere you need a cosmic touch. Whether you seek inspiration, balance, or just a stunning piece of art, "Interstellar Harmony" is a timeless reminder that even in chaos, beauty emerges. Explore the collection and bring the cosmos into your world.

by Bill Tiepelman

Koi of the Cosmos

The sky had turned to water, or perhaps the water had swallowed the sky. It was impossible to tell. Stars shimmered beneath the surface of the river, and the current twisted like an unbroken stream of time itself. Beneath its glassy depths, two koi circled each other in an eternal dance—one woven from the fabric of the cosmos, its scales glittering with constellations, the other ancient, covered in moss and thick with the weight of the earth’s wisdom. Yara knelt at the river’s edge, watching them move in endless spirals, her breath shallow. The wind carried the scent of damp stone and moss, and the sound of the water lapping against the bank was unnervingly rhythmic, like the heartbeat of something vast and unseen. The elders had warned her against this place. They called it the River of Eternity, a name spoken in hushed tones, as if to utter it too loudly would summon something from the depths. But she had come anyway. The night air pressed against her skin, thick with an eerie stillness. She had expected to hear crickets, the distant howl of some unseen creature in the forest behind her—anything to ground her in the world she understood. Instead, there was only silence, as if the river had swallowed even the night itself. In her trembling fingers, she held the offering—a single pearl, its surface smooth and iridescent in the moonlight. It had been passed down through generations, a relic of a love story nearly forgotten. She had stolen it from the shrine at the village center, convinced that she could end the cycle, that she could return what had been taken and set things right. But now, as the koi moved beneath the water, the celestial one glowing like a fragment of a fallen star, the moss-covered one heavy with the weight of the earth’s sorrow, doubt coiled in her chest. The Tale of the Koi Gods Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her mind, soft and knowing. “They were once gods, you know.” Yara had been just a child when she first heard the story, curled up by the fire, her grandmother’s hands weaving intricate patterns in the air as she spoke. “One ruled the heavens, the other ruled the earth. But they were never meant to love. The sky and the land are eternal opposites, and the gods decreed they should remain apart. Yet they defied fate, meeting in secret beneath the river’s surface, entwining in the currents.” Her grandmother’s eyes had been far away then, lost in the past. “When the other gods discovered them, they were furious. They could not kill them—their power was too great. Instead, they cursed them. The sky pulled one upward, the land held the other down, and the river was made their prison. Now they circle each other, year after year, lifetime after lifetime, always reaching, never touching.” Yara had been too young to understand the weight of the story. She had only thought it tragic. Now, as she knelt by the water, she understood. The Offering She closed her eyes, whispering a prayer she was not sure anyone would hear. Then, with a deep breath, she let the pearl slip from her fingers. It hit the water without a sound. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the river burned with light. The celestial koi rose from the depths, its body shimmering brighter than the moon. The water twisted around it in ribbons of silver and blue, and for the first time, Yara could see the full span of its form—long and elegant, with fins that trailed behind it like fragments of the night sky. The moss-covered koi followed, its heavy form pulling free from the water’s grasp. The vines that clung to its body unraveled, revealing golden scales beneath the green. It looked… lighter, as if shedding its earthly bindings had freed it, if only for a moment. The two koi moved toward each other, the air crackling with unseen energy. Yara held her breath. Then the river shuddered, and the koi were torn apart. The celestial one was dragged upward, the sky reclaiming its own, its glow fading as it rose. The earthly one was pulled downward, sinking into the darkness below. The water stilled. Yara let out a ragged breath, her heart pounding. She had thought the offering would free them. She had thought love could defy the forces that bound it. But time was a cruel architect. Fate had already been written. The Cycle Continues The whisper came from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Not yet.” Darkness pressed in. Yara gasped, reaching for something—anything—but the world was unraveling around her, breaking apart like ripples in the water. The stars spun. The earth trembled. Then she fell. The Awakening She woke to damp earth beneath her palms, the scent of the river thick in the air. The sun was rising, golden light filtering through the trees. For a moment, she lay still, her mind grasping at fragments of something just beyond memory. Then her fingers curled around something smooth. The pearl. She sat up, staring at it in horror. It was the same one. The offering she had cast into the river. The one that should have been lost. The river was calm. There was no sign of the koi. But she knew they were still there. The cycle had not ended. She looked at the pearl, then at the river, then back again. Slowly, realization dawned. Perhaps she had not been the first to try. Perhaps she would not be the last. And perhaps, in another lifetime, in another form, they would meet again. And perhaps then, they would finally be free.     Bring the Magic of the Koi to Your Home Immerse yourself in the celestial beauty and timeless story of the Koi of the Cosmos with stunning artwork available in various forms: Tapestry – Let the mesmerizing scene flow across your walls like an eternal river. Wood Print – A natural, earthy medium that brings out the organic mysticism of the koi’s tale. Throw Pillow – Add a touch of celestial wonder to your home with this beautiful and comfortable accent. Tote Bag – Carry the magic with you, wherever your journey takes you. Every piece is a tribute to the legend of the cosmic koi—a story of love, fate, and the endless dance of the heavens and the earth. Explore the collection and bring a piece of their world into yours.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Grumpy Guardian of the Glade

Deep in the heart of the Eldermoss Forest, where the trees whispered gossip about the birds and the mushrooms glowed suspiciously at night, there existed a tiny, winged creature with the disposition of a tax auditor during finals week. His name was Cragglethump, though most simply called him ‘that pissed-off fairy’ or, if they were particularly unlucky, ‘Agh, my face!’ Cragglethump had been the self-appointed (read: forcibly assigned by a drunken fairy council) Guardian of the Glade for over five centuries. His job? Ensure that no human, beast, or idiot goblin came trampling through, disrupting the delicate magic of the land. He did this mostly through a mixture of terrifying glares, creative insults, and, when necessary, strategic nut-punches. A Rude Awakening On this particularly fine morning, Cragglethump sat hunched on his favorite moss-covered branch, arms crossed, wings twitching in irritation. He had been rudely awoken by something truly horrific—a bard. Not just any bard, but a lute-wielding, hair-too-perfect, teeth-too-white, likely-to-have-chlamydia bard. The kind that sang ballads about love and heroism while knowing full well he had run from the last fight he was in. He was strumming away at his lute like he was trying to seduce a particularly lonely oak tree. Cragglethump narrowed his eyes and let out a low growl. “Oh, for the love of fungus-ridden troll bollocks.” The bard, blissfully unaware of his imminent demise, continued to butcher a song about some lost princess or whatever. Cragglethump sighed, cracked his knuckles, and stood. Fairy Diplomacy (aka Violence) With the grace of an elderly alley cat, Cragglethump launched himself off the branch and dive-bombed straight for the bard’s stupid face. The moment of impact was exquisite—a perfect combination of tiny fairy foot to nasal bridge. The bard shrieked and flailed, his lute slipping from his fingers and landing with a tragic *twang* against a rock. “GODS ABOVE, WHAT THE—” “YOU!” Cragglethump roared, flitting up to hover directly in front of the bard’s very confused and rapidly swelling nose. “Do you have any idea what time it is? What the hell do you think you’re doing polluting my glade with your noise pollution?” “I—I was just—” “No. No, no, no. You were NOT ‘just.’ You were warbling like a dying squirrel and expecting someone to be impressed. Spoiler alert: No one is impressed.” The bard’s lower lip trembled. “That’s a bit harsh.” Cragglethump smirked. “Oh, sweet summer twat, I haven’t even gotten started.” With that, he plucked a small handful of dust from his tattered sleeve, muttered an incantation under his breath, and blew it straight into the bard’s face. Instantly, the young man’s hair turned a spectacular shade of bright green, his teeth lengthened into miniature tusks, and a mysterious but persistent farting noise began emanating from his boots. The bard screamed. “What did you DO?!” “Cursed you.” Cragglethump dusted his hands off and turned away. “Enjoy your new look, dipshit. Now get out before I do something permanent.” As the bard ran wailing from the forest, Cragglethump landed back on his branch with a satisfied sigh. “Another successful morning,” he muttered. But his satisfaction was short-lived. Because that’s when the unicorn arrived.     The Unicorn from Hell Cragglethump had seen some shit in his time—goblins trying to cook with rocks, witches attempting to seduce trees, even an elf trying to smoke an entire beehive (long story). But nothing had prepared him for this. Standing in the middle of his glade was a unicorn. And not the graceful, shimmering, poetic kind. No, this one had the dead-eyed stare of a creature who had seen things. Things that had changed it. Its once-pristine white coat was covered in what looked suspiciously like bloodstains. Its horn, instead of a delicate spiral of magic, was cracked and jagged like it had been used as a prison shiv. It chewed on what appeared to be an old boot, its jaw working methodically as it stared Cragglethump down. “…The fuck?” Cragglethump whispered. Regret in Equine Form The unicorn spat out the boot and took a step forward. “Yo,” it said. Cragglethump’s brain short-circuited. “Unicorns don’t talk.” “Yeah? And fairies don’t look like my grandpa’s angry hemorrhoid, but here we are.” Cragglethump’s eye twitched. “Excuse me?” “Name’s Stabsy,” the unicorn said, rolling its massive shoulders. “Been on the run. Shit went south in the Enchanted Plains.” “Define ‘shit,’” Cragglethump said slowly. “Well.” Stabsy licked his teeth. “Turns out, if you gore a prince, people tend to take offense.” Cragglethump groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “What. The. Actual. Hell.” The Absolute Worst Idea Stabsy clomped forward until he was nose-to-nose with Cragglethump. “Look, you seem like a guy who gets things done. I need a place to lay low. You got a nice setup here.” Cragglethump opened his mouth to say absolutely not, but Stabsy cut him off. “Also, I may have pissed off a warlock, and there’s a small but nonzero chance they’re tracking me.” “Of course there is.” Cragglethump rubbed his temples. “And what, pray tell, did you do to this warlock?” “You ever play blackjack?” Cragglethump stared at him. Stabsy grinned. “Turns out, warlocks really don’t like losing.” Before Cragglethump could start screaming, the first fireball hit.     It is a universally acknowledged truth that if you curse a bard, they will absolutely, without a doubt, try to get revenge in the most dramatic and inconvenient way possible. Cragglethump should have known. He did know. And yet, when the first note of an all-too-familiar lute twanged through the trees, he still nearly choked on the acorn he’d been chewing. “Oh, for the love of—” He spun around, wings twitching furiously. There, standing at the edge of the glade, was the bard he had cursed earlier that morning. His once luscious brown locks were still an aggressive shade of green, his tusked teeth gave him the aesthetic of a failed orc cosplayer, and his eyes burned with the kind of melodramatic vengeance only a bard could summon. He had changed clothes, though. Which was a shame, because his new outfit was worse. “YOU!” the bard bellowed, pointing dramatically at Cragglethump. Cragglethump sighed, rubbing his temples. “What, dipshit?” “I, Alaric the Harmonious, have returned to reclaim my honor!” Stabsy the Unicorn, still lounging nearby and gnawing on a suspiciously human-looking bone, glanced up. “You look like an enchanted swamp farted you out, bud.” Alaric ignored him, instead launching into what was clearly a rehearsed monologue. “You thought you could humiliate me? Curse me?! Reduce me to some… some grotesque green-haired monster?!” “To be fair,” Cragglethump interjected, “you look like that one elf nobody invites to parties because he keeps talking about his beard-care routine.” Alaric’s eye twitched. “I have come to take my revenge.” The Power of Passive-Aggressive Music The bard reached into his bag and pulled out his lute. Cragglethump tensed, preparing for an attack, but instead of a fireball or some nonsense, the bard just started… playing. Badly. It wasn’t just out of tune—it was aggressively, maliciously out of tune. A truly diabolical combination of sour notes and over-exaggerated strumming. And worst of all, he was singing. “Ohhh, in the woods there is a beast, Whose old ass hair has never been greased, He curses bards and smells like mold, And probably has a shriveled-up—” “HEY!” Cragglethump barked. “You little shit.” Alaric smirked, strumming harder. “Ohhh, his wings are weak, his heart is small, And I bet he’s got no balls at all!” Cragglethump’s wings flared in pure rage. “I swear on my ancestors, if you don’t shut up—” But then, something truly horrifying happened. The plants started wilting. Leaves drooped. Mushrooms let out tiny, pitiful sighs before shriveling into dust. A rabbit hopped by, took one whiff of the melody, and immediately keeled over. “Oh, shit,” Cragglethump muttered. Stabsy took a step back. “That’s not normal.” Bardic Black Magic Alaric’s smirk widened. “Oh, did I forget to mention?” He plucked a particularly heinous chord. “I made a deal with a hag.” Cragglethump groaned. “Of course you did.” “Turns out, my curse wasn’t just cosmetic.” Alaric leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “The hag gave me a little bonus. Now, whenever I play, magic dies.” Silence settled over the glade. Then Stabsy burst out laughing. “HA! You made a deal with a hag over a bad haircut? That’s peak bard energy.” “Laugh all you want,” Alaric said. “But if I keep playing? This whole glade is going to be nothing but dirt.” Cragglethump clenched his fists. “You little shitweasel.” “Beg me for mercy,” Alaric said, smug. Cragglethump narrowed his eyes. “I’ll do you one better.” He grabbed a handful of dust from his sleeve and, with a flick of his wrist, blew it straight into Alaric’s face. The bard staggered back, coughing. “What the hell did you—” Then he froze. The Curse Upgrade Alaric’s eyes went wide. His face paled. Then, slowly, his lips began to tremble. Cragglethump grinned. “Enjoy your new curse, dumbass.” Alaric opened his mouth to scream—but no sound came out. His lips moved, but his voice was gone. Gone. The bard let out a silent wail, his hands clutching at his throat. He looked at Cragglethump with pure, unfiltered horror. “Oh, what’s that?” Cragglethump said, all fake concern. “You got something to say? A song, perhaps? A little ballad?” Alaric made a series of frantic, inaudible noises. “Oh, you poor thing.” Cragglethump smirked. “Must be awful. A bard with no voice? Tragic.” Alaric let out another silent scream and took off running. Stabsy shook his head, chuckling. “Damn. Remind me to never piss you off.” Cragglethump sighed, stretching his arms. “Well, that’s enough bullshit for one day.” Unfortunately, fate had other plans. Because that’s when the warlock arrived.     The Absolutely Stupid Final Chapter There was something deeply, cosmically unfair about the fact that Cragglethump couldn’t get through a single godsdamned day without some new brand of magical bullshit showing up to ruin his life. First, the bard. Then, the sociopathic unicorn. And now? A warlock. And not just any warlock. This one looked like he’d crawled straight out of a bad fantasy novel. Robes too long, dramatic staff, glowing eyes, and an aura that screamed, Yes, I have sacrificed something alive today. The warlock stood at the edge of the glade, silhouetted by the eerie blue glow of his own sinister magic. He raised a single hand. “WHO,” he boomed, “HAS HARB—” “Hold that thought,” Cragglethump interrupted. “I need a drink.” The Best Worst Idea Ever The warlock blinked. “What?” “You heard me.” Cragglethump dusted himself off, fluttering to a nearby stump. “Look, I don’t know what this is about, but I already wasted most of my patience dealing with a bard’s revenge arc and a unicorn with murder issues. So before you monologue, I propose an alternative: a drinking contest.” There was a long, stunned silence. Stabsy’s ears perked up. “Oh, hell yes.” The warlock scowled. “I am here to avenge my honor! That thing—” he jabbed a finger at Stabsy “—cheated me out of a fortune, and I—” “Blah, blah, blah,” Cragglethump interrupted, yawning. “Drinking contest or shut the hell up.” The warlock frowned. “That’s not how vengeance works.” “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were a coward.” Stabsy gasped dramatically. “Ohhhhh shit, he called you a bitch.” The warlock’s eye twitched. “I accept,” he growled. Rules Are for Losers Within minutes, a crude wooden table was set up in the middle of the glade, covered in an alarming variety of alcoholic substances. Fairy mead. Dwarven stout. Goblin moonshine (which was technically illegal, but Cragglethump had connections). Cragglethump, Stabsy, and the warlock all took their seats. “Rules are simple,” Cragglethump said, pouring the first round. “We drink until someone passes out, vomits, or admits defeat.” “I should warn you,” the warlock said, gripping his tankard. “I have imbibed the elixirs of the darkest realms.” “Yeah, yeah,” Cragglethump muttered. “Less talking, more drinking.” Round One: Fairy Mead The first round went down smooth. Fairy mead was deceptively strong, but Cragglethump was built different. Stabsy barely reacted. The warlock took his with a slight grimace. “This is... sweet,” he muttered. Cragglethump snorted. “Yeah, well, enjoy it while you can.” Round Two: Dwarven Stout By the second round, things started getting fuzzy. Dwarven stout had the unique property of making everything seem both hilarious and imminently dangerous. Stabsy was now laughing uncontrollably at a nearby rock. The warlock looked oddly thoughtful. “You know,” he slurred, “I came here to incinerate you all, but I’m feeling kinda... warm.” “That’s the stout,” Cragglethump said. “And also the early stages of bad decision-making.” Round Three: Goblin Moonshine This was where things got serious. Goblin moonshine was not meant for civilized consumption. It was technically closer to weaponized alchemy than a drink. Cragglethump took his shot like a champion. Stabsy gagged, then hiccupped so hard he momentarily teleported. The warlock, meanwhile, turned an unsettling shade of green. “This is... ungodly.” Cragglethump grinned. “You tapping out, big guy?” The warlock narrowed his eyes. “Never.” Round Four: ??? At this point, no one knew what they were drinking. Some ancient, unlabeled bottle had appeared, and no one was sober enough to question it. Cragglethump took a swig. So did Stabsy. The warlock followed suit. Then everything went to shit. The Aftermath The next morning, Cragglethump woke up sprawled on his back, wings twitching, head pounding. There were scorch marks in the grass. The table was missing. Stabsy was asleep in a tree. The warlock lay face-down in the dirt, snoring softly. Cragglethump groaned. “What... the fuck happened?” Stabsy rolled over. “I think we bonded.” The warlock stirred, slowly sitting up. His robes were singed, and he was missing a boot. “I... no longer remember why I was angry.” Cragglethump smirked. “See? Drinking contest. Solves everything.” The warlock blinked at him, then sighed. “You know what? Fine. The unicorn lives. But I’m taking a nap first.” Cragglethump stretched. “Good talk.” And with that, he flopped back onto the moss, vowing to never deal with another idiot ever again. (Spoiler: He absolutely would.)     Bring the Grumpy Guardian Home Loved this ridiculous tale of magical misadventures? Why not bring a little of that cranky fairy energy into your own home? The Grumpy Guardian of the Glade is available on a variety of products, so you can enjoy his grumpy little face wherever you go! Wood Print – Perfect for adding a touch of fantasy (and attitude) to your walls. Tote Bag – Carry your essentials with a side of grump. Throw Pillow – Because even the crankiest fairy deserves a soft place to rest. Fleece Blanket – Stay cozy while channeling your inner tiny, winged menace. Check out the full collection at Unfocussed Shop and bring a piece of the Glade to your world!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Alchemy of Fire and Water

The Birth of the Twin Koi In the beginning, before time learned to walk and the stars whispered their first names, there was the Void. It was neither light nor dark, for those were things yet to be. The Void was simply... waiting. And then, from the stillness, the First Pulse came. It was not a sound, nor a movement, but a knowing—a cosmic sigh that rippled through nothingness and split it in two. From this rupture, two beings emerged, born not of flesh but of essence itself. One burned with a fire that needed no fuel, its golden scales rippling like molten dawn. The other flowed with the cold certainty of the deep, its silvery form woven from the breath of glaciers. Their names were Kael and Isun, though neither spoke them aloud, for names had no meaning to the firstborn of the cosmos. Kael was the Infernal Koi, a creature of restless hunger, of movement, of destruction and rebirth. Isun was the Celestial Koi, patient as the tides, slow as the turning of ages, and as inevitable as the silence after the storm. For an eternity, or perhaps a moment, they circled one another, tracing patterns through the Void that had never before been drawn. Their movements shaped reality itself, giving birth to the first laws of existence. Where Kael passed, stars flared to life, burning bright with his insatiable energy. Where Isun swam, the cooling hush of gravity took hold, weaving planets from scattered dust. They were opposite. They were perfect. They were one. The Covenant of the Eternal Dance The first to break the silence was Kael. “What are we?” he asked, his voice like embers carried on the wind. Isun’s answer was slow, drawn from the depths of an ocean that had not yet formed. “We are motion. We are balance. We are the dream that keeps the cosmos from waking.” Kael flared with dissatisfaction. “Then why do I hunger? Why do I burn? If we are balance, why is my fire never still?” Isun did not answer, but heaved a sigh that became the first wave. In that moment, Kael knew what he must do. He would not simply swim through the void, tracing the same loops forever. He would change. He would grow. He turned sharply, breaking from their eternal spiral, diving toward the heart of the newborn stars. His fire raged, and the cosmos quaked. Suns collapsed, their burning hearts torn open. Worlds cracked and bled. The void filled with light and ruin. Isun, bound to him by the law of their existence, felt the disturbance ripple through his being. His tail flicked once, and time itself bent in his wake. He did not chase Kael, for water never chases fire. Instead, he followed in the way that the moon follows the tide—without rush, without force, but inevitable. Where Kael burned, Isun soothed. He let his presence cool the shattered husks of dying worlds, turning their molten cores into solid land. He wove the first oceans from the sighs of dying stars. He was the healer, the slow hand of patience to counter Kael’s furious destruction. And so, the first cycle was born—the dance of creation and ruin, of fire and water, of the endless hunger and the eternal calm. The First Betrayal But the balance was fragile. Kael, weary from his burning, turned to Isun and said, “I am tired of our endless dance. We exist only to undo each other’s work. What is the point?” Isun, unshaken, replied, “The point is that we are. Without me, your fire would consume all. Without you, my waters would freeze the stars themselves. We do not undo each other—we complete one another.” But Kael had already turned away. He did not want completion. He wanted more. And so, for the first time, he did the unthinkable—he struck Isun. It was not a battle of muscle or steel, for such things did not exist. It was a battle of essence, of energy and silence. Kael’s fire tore through Isun’s flowing form, sending cracks through the fabric of the heavens. Isun reeled, his shimmering scales darkened with burning scars. The void trembled at this first betrayal. But Isun did not fight back. Instead, he spoke softly: “If you destroy me, you destroy yourself.” And Kael knew it was true. Without Isun’s waters to temper him, he would rage unchecked until there was nothing left to burn. And so, with a growl of frustration, he fled into the darkness. Isun, left behind, sank into the silent deep. The Fragmenting of the Cosmos Where once there had been unity, now there was division. Fire and water no longer danced as one but warred across the heavens. Stars died and were born anew. Planets withered under Kael’s fury, then drowned beneath Isun’s sorrow. And yet, something new stirred in their wake. From the scattered embers of their struggle, life began to bloom. The cosmos, in its first act of defiance, had found a way to turn war into renewal, suffering into creation. The cycle had begun. But the dance was still unfinished. Kael and Isun had yet to meet again. And when they did, the balance of all things would hang upon a single choice.     The Last Convergence Time does not move forward in the way mortals imagine. It does not march, does not flow like a river. It coils, it loops, it folds upon itself in ways only the oldest of things understand. And so, though eons had passed since Kael and Isun last touched, to them, it was but a breath—one held too long, waiting to be exhaled. Kael, the Infernal Koi, had gone where no fire should—into the void beyond the stars, where nothing could burn. He let himself shrink, let his flames dwindle to embers, let his hunger turn to silence. But silence did not suit him. And so, from the blackness, he watched. He watched as Isun shaped the worlds Kael had once shattered. He watched as rivers carved valleys, as rains kissed barren rock into verdant life. He watched as creatures small and fragile stepped from the waters, standing beneath skies he had once scorched. And he felt something he had never known before. Longing. The Summoning of Fire On the world Isun loved most—one spun from the dust of fallen stars, where water curled through the land like veins—there were beings that lifted their eyes to the heavens. They did not know of Kael and Isun, not as they once were, but they felt their echoes in the world around them. They built temples to the sun, to the tides, to the dance of the elements. One among them, a woman with hair the color of flame and eyes like the ocean’s depths, stood upon the highest peak and whispered a name she did not know she knew. “Kael.” And the embers in the void stirred. She called again, not with her mouth but with her soul, and this time, Kael heard. For the first time since his exile, he moved. He plunged from the heavens like a fallen star, his body still wrapped in the ember-light of his former glory. He struck the earth, and the ground split. The sky wept fire. The sea recoiled, steaming where it met him. And across the cosmos, Isun opened his eyes. The Return of the Celestial Koi Isun had felt Kael’s presence long before the woman had spoken his name. He had known, in the way the tides know when to rise, that this moment would come. And yet, he had not moved to stop it. He had let the call be made. But now, he could not be still. He descended, not in fire but in mist, his body unfurling through the sky like the breath of an ancient storm. He came to where Kael stood, his molten body still smoking from the journey. They faced one another upon the threshold of a world that had not yet been lost. Kael, trembling, spoke first. “Do you still hold to your silence, brother?” Isun did not answer at once. He let his gaze drift over the land, over the people who stood watching, over the woman who had called Kael back from the dark. Then, finally, he spoke. “You came because you were called.” Kael's flames flickered, uncertain. “I came because I remembered.” Isun tilted his head. “And what is it you remember?” Kael hesitated. He could feel the fire beneath his skin, urging him to act, to consume, to remake. And yet, beneath it, there was something else—something colder, steadier, something he had once despised but now yearned for. Balance. The Choice That Was Theirs Alone All things must choose, in the end. Even those who have lived since before time learned its own name. Kael knew he could burn. He could rise, could scorch this world and many others, could undo the work Isun had so carefully mended. It would be easy. It had always been easy. But then he looked upon the woman who had called him. He saw the way her fingers curled into fists, not in fear, but in defiance. He saw the way the people behind her stood, not in worship, but in wonder. And he understood. “You were never my enemy,” he said, his voice quieter than it had ever been. “You were my lesson.” Isun, at last, smiled. And so, for the first time in all of existence, Kael did not burn. He bowed his head. The Alchemy of Fire and Water In that moment, the cosmos changed. Not with the violent rending of worlds, not with the clash of fire and wave, but with something smaller, something gentler. With understanding. Kael stepped forward, his flames flickering with a new light, not of hunger, but of warmth. Isun met him, his waters not as a force of opposition, but of embrace. Their forms twined, not in battle, but in harmony. And where they met, the world flourished. Rivers carved the land not in destruction, but in creation. Volcanic fire did not burn unchecked, but nurtured the soil, making it rich. The seas did not rise to drown the land, but to shape it with care. The people watched, and they knew they were witnessing the birth of something greater than gods, greater than myths. They were witnessing balance. Kael and Isun, the twin koi, the first forces of all things, had become what they were always meant to be—not enemies, not rivals, but two halves of a single whole. And so, the cycle did not end. It simply began again.     Bring the Balance Home The timeless dance of fire and water, of destruction and renewal, is more than just a myth—it is a reminder that opposites do not destroy, but complete one another. Now, you can bring this celestial balance into your own space with "The Alchemy of Fire and Water" collection, featuring stunning artwork inspired by the eternal koi. Tapestries – Transform your walls with the swirling beauty of Kael and Isun, captured in exquisite detail. Puzzles – Piece together the cosmic legend, one intricate detail at a time. Tote Bags – Carry the balance of fire and water with you, wherever your journey takes you. Wood Prints – A natural and timeless way to display this breathtaking fusion of elements. Let the dance of creation and transformation inspire your space and your spirit. Explore the full collection here.

by Bill Tiepelman

Dancing with the Breeze

Dancing with the Breeze: A Fairy’s Guide to Chaos and Confidence In the heart of the Meadow of Improbable Wonders, where wildflowers whispered secrets and dragonflies gossiped like suburban moms, lived a fairy named Calla. And Calla? Well, Calla was a *lot*. Not in a *causing-the-downfall-of-a-kingdom* way—though, let’s be honest, she’d probably be excellent at that, too. No, Calla was simply a walking, flying, glittering embodiment of “extra.” She didn’t just exist. She *thrived.* Loudly. And sometimes at the expense of other people’s patience. “It’s not my fault,” she would say, tossing her golden curls. “I was born fabulous. Some of us are just built different.” Most fairies in the Meadow had sensible jobs—pollinating flowers, controlling the weather, guiding lost travelers. Calla, on the other hand, had a self-assigned role: *Chief Enthusiasm Officer of General Nonsense.* Which is why, on this particularly sunny morning, she was standing on a toadstool, dramatically monologuing to a crowd of deeply uninterested insects. The Art of Waking Up Fabulous Let’s get one thing straight—Calla was *not* a morning person. In fact, she considered mornings to be a personal attack. They arrived uninvited, they were unnecessarily bright, and worst of all—they required her to function. She had perfected a strict wake-up routine: Groan dramatically and refuse to move for at least fifteen minutes. Knock over her jar of stardust (every. single. morning.). Complain loudly that life was unfair and that she needed a personal assistant. Finally drag herself out of bed and look in the mirror. Admire herself. More admiration. Okay, *one more minute* of admiration. Start the day. Today was no different. She stretched luxuriously, let out a satisfied sigh, and blinked blearily at the world. “Another day of being perfect. Exhausting, honestly.” After throwing on her *signature* fairy outfit—a tiny cropped top, shredded green shorts (courtesy of an unfortunate incident with a hedgehog), and a sprinkling of moon-dust highlighter—she fluttered out of her tree-hollow home, ready to cause *just a little* chaos. The Wind Selection Process Calla had one simple mission today: Find the *perfect* breeze and dance with it. Not just *any* wind would do. No, no, no. This was an art form. A science. A spiritual experience. The breeze had to be just right—strong enough to lift her, soft enough to keep her floating, and ideally infused with just a little magic. She tested the Morning Dew Drift—too damp. Nobody likes soggy wings. The Midday Gust of Disappointment—too aggressive. Almost yeeted her into a tree. The Afternoon Swirl of Indecision—too unpredictable. It nearly carried her into an awkward conversation with Harold the socially anxious squirrel. Finally, just as she was about to give up, the Sunset Whisper arrived. Warm, golden, playful. “Oh yes,” she purred. “This is the one.” Flying, Flailing, and Unexpected Lessons With a running start, Calla leapt into the air and let the wind carry her. She twirled, flipped, let herself get lost in the rhythm of the sky. The world blurred in streaks of green and gold, and for a few perfect moments, she was weightless. Then, because life is rude, she lost control. One second she was soaring. The next, she was spiraling, heading directly for the *one* obstacle in an otherwise open field—Finn. Now, Finn was a fellow fairy, known mostly for his ability to sigh like an old man trapped in a young body. He was a realist, a planner, a problem-solver. He was also, unfortunately, standing exactly where Calla was about to crash. “MOVE!” she yelled. Finn looked up, blinked, and said, “Oh, no.” And then she collided with him, sending them both tumbling into a cluster of wildflowers. Debriefing the Disaster “Calla,” Finn wheezed from beneath her. “Why?” She rolled off him dramatically. “Oh, please. That was at least 70% your fault.” Finn sat up, picking daisies out of his hair. “How, exactly?” “Standing. In my way. Not moving. Existing too solidly.” Finn sighed the sigh of someone who had made poor life choices by knowing her. “So,” he said, “what was today’s lesson? Aside from the fact that you need to work on your landings.” Calla stretched her arms, smiling at the setting sun. “Life is like a breeze. Sometimes you fly, sometimes you crash, but the important thing is—you go for it.” Finn considered this. “Huh. Not bad.” “Obviously.” She flipped her hair. “Now, come on. Let’s go throw rocks into the pond dramatically.” Finn groaned, but followed. Because Calla? Calla made life interesting.     Take the Magic Home Want to bring a little fairy mischief and whimsy into your life? Whether you’re looking to add a touch of enchantment to your walls, snuggle up with cozy magic, or carry a piece of the fairy realm with you—these handpicked products are the perfect way to capture the spirit of Calla’s adventures. ✨ Canvas Print: Elevate your space with the stunning "Dancing with the Breeze" Canvas Print. Let Calla’s carefree energy inspire you daily. 🧚 Throw Pillow: Add a sprinkle of fairy dust to your home with this magical Throw Pillow, perfect for daydreaming and dramatic sighing. 🌙 Fleece Blanket: Wrap yourself in cozy fairy magic with the ultra-soft Fleece Blanket. Ideal for chilly nights or plotting your next mischief. 👜 Tote Bag: Carry a little fairy sass wherever you go with this enchanting Tote Bag. Perfect for magical errands and spontaneous adventures. Life is short—surround yourself with things that make you smile. And remember, when the breeze is right, always dance. 🧚✨

by Bill Tiepelman

Froth and Fellowship

The Stranger with No Beard The ale flowed like a mountain spring, golden and rich, with froth thick enough to hide a dagger in. The Stone Tankard tavern was alive with the raucous laughter of dwarves, their beards tangled with the remnants of past feasts and their hands gripping mugs so large they might have been mistaken for war hammers. At the heart of the room sat three seasoned drinkers: Orin Ironjaw, whose beard had seen more battles than most men saw winters; Hargan “Two-Tankard” Frostborn, a title earned through both capacity and catastrophe; and Durnek the Silent, whose words were as rare as an elf in a mineshaft. They had gathered, as they did every fortnight, to drink, boast, and laugh at each other’s misfortunes. But this night was different. The heavy oaken doors swung open with an eerie creak. A hush fell over the tavern. Even the ever-burning lanterns seemed to flicker. The newcomer stepped forward—tall for a dwarf, but still unmistakably one of their kin. And then the true horror struck them all: he had no beard. Not a braid, not a whisker, not even a stubborn patch of stubble struggling to prove its worth. His face was smooth as polished mithril, bare as an elf’s cheek, an abomination in every dwarven eye that turned toward him. The silence deepened. A single peanut, thrown in mid-drink by a drunkard, struck the floor with an ominous clink. Orin leaned in to his comrades. “By the stone, I think I’ve lost my appetite.” “Aye,” said Hargan, gripping his tankard like a weapon. “A beardless dwarf? Either he’s a ghost, or we’re all deep in our cups.” “Hmph,” muttered Durnek, who had seen many things in his long life, but never this. The stranger approached the bar, his boots striking the stone floor with an unnatural lightness. He placed a coin—an old one, from a forgotten mint—on the counter and spoke. “A tankard of your finest,” he said, his voice smooth and unwavering. The barkeep, Gorrim Stonebrew, hesitated. His eyes narrowed. “And what name should I put to this ale?” The stranger smiled. “Call me Varn.” A collective shudder rippled through the room. The name meant nothing—and that was the problem. Every dwarf had a clan, a lineage, a tale to tell with their very presence. But this one? He was as blank as his face. Orin slammed his mug on the table. “Right. I’m not having this. Beardless or no, no dwarf drinks alone in my hall.” Hargan nodded, though his grip on his tankard didn’t loosen. “Aye, and no dwarf leaves without a tale to tell.” Durnek merely took a long, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving Varn. The stranger turned to them, his gaze meeting Orin’s with an intensity that sent a prickle down his spine. “Then let me buy the next round,” Varn said, his smile widening. “And I’ll tell you a tale you won’t forget.” The drinks were poured, the fire crackled, and the night pressed in close. And so the story began.     The Tale of Varn the Beardless The first sip was taken in silence. Orin, Hargan, and Durnek each lifted their tankards, watching Varn closely as he did the same. The beardless dwarf drank like any other—deep, slow, appreciative. He did not flinch. He did not sip hesitantly, like an outsider unaccustomed to dwarven brews. And most importantly, he did not cough, gag, or collapse. That, at least, earned him a measure of respect. "Aye," Orin muttered, lowering his mug. "You drink like a dwarf. But you don’t look like one." Hargan leaned in. "You owe us a tale, beardless one. And it better be worth the ale." Varn wiped the foam from his lip—his bare lip, which still made the other dwarves uneasy—and let out a slow breath. "Very well," he said. "Let me tell you a story of treachery, of forgotten halls, and of a curse that only I have lived to escape." The Mountain of No Return "There was once a kingdom so rich in gold, so heavy with treasures, that even its rats gnawed on silver scraps. A dwarven hold older than memory, carved into the deepest heart of the mountains. Its halls were so grand that even kings of men would have knelt to see them. "This was Khuld Baraz, the Hollow Crown." At the name, Orin’s grip tightened around his mug. Hargan stopped mid-drink. Even Durnek’s eyes—hard as granite—narrowed slightly. Khuld Baraz was a legend. A myth. A ghost tale told to frighten young dwarves. No one in living memory had seen it, nor knew if it ever truly existed. "Aye," Varn continued, as if hearing their thoughts. "You’ve all heard the stories. The lost kingdom, the vanished clans, the gold that sings to itself in the dark. But what none of you know is this: it was not lost to war, nor dragon, nor cave-in. It was stolen. By its own people." He leaned in, his voice lowering. "I know this, because I was there when the gates shut for the last time." The tavern was silent, save for the crackle of the fire and the slow drip of spilled ale from Hargan’s forgotten mug. "A curse was set upon our kind," Varn said. "Not by sorcery, nor by gods, but by greed itself. The deeper we dug, the richer we became. The richer we became, the more we hoarded. And the more we hoarded, the less we could bear to part with it. Gold is a weight upon the soul, heavier than stone. One by one, the dwarves of Khuld Baraz ceased to leave. The gates rusted shut. The forges went cold. No trade, no messengers, no word from the outside. "And then came the sickness." Hargan scoffed. "Bah! What sickness? Dwarves don’t get sick." Varn met his gaze. "This one did." "It started slow. A reluctance to part with even a single coin. Then a hatred of the very idea of trade. We watched our brothers waste away, clutching their gold with gnarled hands, starving before they’d dare buy a scrap of bread. A madness that whispered in our ears, telling us the gold must never leave, that it was ours alone, and that death was preferable to losing even a single coin." "By the time I realized the truth, it was too late. I tried to flee, but the gates were sealed. None could leave. None wanted to leave. And so I did the unthinkable—I begged the mountain for mercy." The Price of Freedom "I do not know if it was the gods or the stone itself that answered me. But when I awoke the next day, I was different. The sickness was gone. The whisper of gold had left my mind." Varn let out a slow breath. "And so had my beard." The three dwarves at the table recoiled. "A curse of shame," Orin whispered. "Aye," Varn said. "The mountain took my beard in exchange for my mind. I am the only one who left Khuld Baraz, but I left as no dwarf at all." The silence stretched long and uneasy. "So," Hargan said, his voice hoarse. "That’s your tale." Varn nodded. Orin exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his beard. "And what now? You wander from hall to hall, drinking with proper folk, carrying a name with no clan?" Varn smirked. "Aye. And warning dwarves like you not to let gold weigh too heavy on your hearts." For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Durnek, who had sat in silence the entire time, reached into his pocket and tossed a single coin onto the table. "Buy another round," he said, his voice like grinding stone. "If you're going to tell such a fine tale, you’ll not drink on your own coin." Orin and Hargan grinned. "Aye," Orin said. "You may not have a beard, but by the stone, you drink like a dwarf. That counts for something." Hargan lifted his tankard high. "To Varn, the Beardless Bastard!" Varn laughed, and for the first time in years, he felt at home. And the ale flowed well into the night.     Looking to own a piece of this tale? The stunning image that inspired "Froth and Fellowship" is available for prints, downloads, and licensing in our Image Archive. Visit our archive to bring this legendary scene to life in your own space.