baby dragon

by Bill Tiepelman

Sunlit Shenanigans

There are fae who tend gardens. There are fae who weave dreams. And then there’s Fennella Bramblebite—whose main contributions to the Seelie realm are chaotic giggling fits, midair moonings, and an alarming number of forest-wide “misunderstandings” that always, mysteriously, involve flaming fruit and nudity. Fennella, with her wild braid-forest of red hair and a nose as freckled as a speckled toadstool, was not your average sylvan enchantress. While most fae flitted about with dewdrop tiaras and flowery poetry, Fennella spent her mornings teaching mushrooms to curse and her afternoons impersonating royalty in stolen acorn hats. Which is exactly how she came to adopt a dragon. “Adopt” may be too generous a word. Technically, she’d accidentally lured him out of his egg with a sausage roll, mistaken him for a very aggressive garden lizard, and then named him Sizzlethump before he even had the chance to incinerate her left eyebrow. He was small—about the size of a corgi with wings—and always smelled faintly of smoke and cinnamon. His scales shimmered with flickers of ember and sunset, and his favorite pastimes included torching laundry lines and pretending to be a neck scarf. But today… today was special. Fennella had planned a picnic. Not just any picnic, mind you, but a nude sunbathing-and-honeycake extravaganza in the Grove of Slightly Disreputable Nymphs. She had even invited the squirrel militia—though they still hadn’t forgiven her for the “cursed nuts incident of spring.” “Now behave,” she hissed at Sizzlethump as she unrolled the enchanted gingham cloth that hissed when touched by ants. “No flaming the butter. No eating the spoons. And for the love of moonbeams, do not pretend the elderberry wine is bathwater again.” The dragon, in response, licked her ear, snorted a smoke ring in the shape of a rude gesture, and settled across her shoulder like a smug, fire-breathing mink. They were five bites into the honeycakes (and three questionable licks into something that might have been a toad pie) when Fennella felt it—a presence. Something looming. Watching. Judging. It was Ainsleif. “Oh gnatballs,” she muttered, eyes narrowing. Ainsleif of the Mosscloaks. The Most Uptight of the Forest Stewards. His hair was combed. His wings were folded correctly. He looked like the inside of a rulebook. And worst of all, he had paperwork. Rolled parchment. In triplicate. “Fennella Bramblebite,” he intoned, as if invoking an ancient curse. “You are hereby summoned to appear before the Council of Leaf and Spore on charges of spontaneous combustion, suspicious pastry distribution, and inappropriate use of glimmerweed in public spaces.” Fennella stood, arms akimbo, wearing only a necklace made of candy thorns and a questionable grin. Sizzlethump burped something that made a nearby fern catch fire. “Is that today?” she asked innocently. “Oopsie blossom.” And thus, with a flap of wings and the smell of smoldering scones, the fairy and her dragon friend were off to stand trial… for crimes they almost definitely committed, possibly while tipsy, and absolutely without regrets. Fennella arrived at the Council of Leaf and Spore the same way she did everything in life: fashionably late, dubiously clothed, and covered in confectioner’s sugar. The great mushroom hall—a sacred, ancient seat of forest governance—stood in utter silence as she crash-landed through the upper window, having been flung by a catapult built entirely from discarded spiderwebs, cattail reeds, and the shattered dreams of serious people. “NAILED IT!” she hollered, still upside down, legs tangled in a vine chandelier. “Do I get extra points for entrance flair or just the concussion?” The crowd of fae elders and woodland officials didn’t even blink. They’d seen worse. Once, a brownie attorney combusted just from sitting in the same seat Fennella now wiggled into. But today… today they were bracing themselves for a verbal hurricane with dragon side-effects. Sizzlethump waddled in behind her, dragging a suitcase that had burst open somewhere in flight, leaving a breadcrumb trail of burnt marshmallows, dragon socks, two left shoes, and something that might have been an enchanted fart in a jar (still bubbling ominously). High Elder Thistledown—a weepy-eyed creature shaped vaguely like a sentient celery stalk—sighed deeply, his leafy robes rustling with despair. “Fennella,” he said gravely, “this is your seventeenth appearance before the council in three moon cycles.” “Eighteen,” she corrected brightly. “You forgot the time I was sleep-haunting a bakery. That one hardly counts—I was unconscious and horny for strudel.” “Your crimes,” continued Thistledown, ignoring her, “include, but are not limited to: weaponizing bee song, unlicensed dream vending, impersonating a tree for sexual gain, and summoning a phantasmal raccoon in the shape of your ex-boyfriend.” “He started it,” she muttered. “Said my feet smelled like goblin tears.” Sizzlethump, now perched on the ceremonial scroll pedestal, belched a flame that turned the parchment to crisps, then sneezed on a nearby gavel, melting it into a very decorative puddle. “AND,” Thistledown said, voice rising, “allowing your dragon to exhale a message across the sky that said, quote: ‘LICK MY GLITTERS, COUNCIL NERDS.’” Fennella snorted. “That was supposed to say ‘LOVE AND LOLLIPOPS.’ He’s still learning calligraphy.”     Enter: The Prosecutor. To the surprise of everyone (and the dismay of some), the prosecutor was Gnimbel Fungusfist, a gnome so small he needed a soapbox to be seen above the podium—and so bitter he’d once banned music in a five-mile radius after hearing a harp he didn’t like. “The defendant,” Gnimbel rasped, eyes narrowed beneath tiny spectacles, “has repeatedly violated Article 27 of the Mischief Ordinance. She has no respect for magical regulation, personal space, or basic hygiene. I present as evidence... this underwear.” He held up a suspiciously scorched pair of bloomers with a daisy stitched on the butt. Fennella clapped. “My missing Tuesday pair! You glorious little fungus! I’ve missed you!” The courtroom gasped. One dryad fainted. An owl barrister choked on his gavel. But Fennella wasn’t done. “I move to countersue the entire council,” she declared, climbing on the table, “for crimes against fashion, joy, and possessing the tightest fairy holes known to civilization.” “You mean loopholes?” Thistledown asked, eyes wide with horror. “I do not,” she replied solemnly. At that moment, Sizzlethump unleashed a sneezing fit so powerful he scorched the banners, singed the warden’s beard, and accidentally set loose the captive whispers held in the Evidence Urn. Dozens of scandalous secrets began fluttering through the air like invisible bats, shrieking things like “Thistledown fakes his leaf shine!” and “Gnimbel uses toe extensions!” The courtroom dissolved into chaos. Fairies shrieked. Gremlins brawled. Someone summoned a squid. It was not clear why. And in the midst of it all, Fennella and her dragon grinned at each other like two pyromaniacs who’d just discovered a fresh box of matches. They bolted for the exit, laughter trailing behind them like smoke. But before leaving, Fennella turned, dramatically flinging a pouch of cinnamon glitter over her shoulder. “See you next equinox, nerdlings!” she cackled. “Don’t forget to moisturize your roots!” With that, the pair shot into the sky, Sizzlethump belching little heart-shaped fireballs while Fennella shrieked with delight and a lack of underpants. They didn’t know where they were going. But chaos, snacks, and probably another misdemeanor awaited. Three hours after being chased from the Council in a cloud of weaponized gossip and molted scroll ash, Fennella and Sizzlethump found themselves in a cave made entirely of jellybeans and regret. “This,” she said, peering around with hands on hips and nose twitching, “was not the portal I was aiming for.” The jellybean cave groaned ominously. From the ceiling dripped slow, thick droplets of butterscotch sap. A mushroom nearby whistled the theme to a soap opera. Something in the corner burped in iambic pentameter. “Ten out of ten. Would trespass again,” she whispered, and gave Sizzlethump a piece of peppermint bark she’d smuggled in her bra. They wandered for what felt like hours through the sticky surrealist sugar hellscape, dodging licorice spiders and sentient mints, before finally emerging into the moonstruck valley of Glimmerloch—a place so magical that unicorns came there to get high and forget their responsibilities. “You know,” Fennella murmured as she flopped onto a grassy knoll, Sizzlethump curling up beside her, “I think they’ll be after us for a while this time.” The dragon gave a tiny snort, eyes half-closed, and let out a rumble that vibrated the moss beneath them. It sounded like “worth it.”     The Council, however, was not so easily done. Three days later, Fennella’s hiding place was discovered—not by a battalion of armored pixies or an elite tracker warg, but by Bartholomew. Bartholomew was a faerie rat. And not a noble rat or a rat of legend. No, this was the type of rat who sold his mother for a half-stale biscuit and who wore a monocle made from a bent bottlecap. “Council wants ya,” he wheezed, waddling through a carpet of forget-me-nots like a walrus through whipped cream. “Big deal. They’re talkin’ banishment. Like, full-fling outta the Queendom.” Fennella blinked. “They wouldn’t. I’m a cornerstone of the cultural ecosystem. I once singlehandedly rebooted winter solstice fashion with edible earmuffs.” Bartholomew scratched himself with a twig and said, “Yeah, but yer dragon melted the Moon Buns’ fertility altar. You kinda toasted a sacred womb rock.” “Okay, in our defense,” she said slowly, “Sizzlethump thought it was a spicy egg.” Sizzlethump, overhearing, offered a hiccup of remorse that smelled strongly of roasted thyme and mild guilt. His wings drooped. Fennella ruffled his horn. “Don’t let them guilt you, nugget. You’re the best mistake I’ve ever kidnapped.” Bartholomew wheezed. “There’s a loophole. But it’s dumb. Really dumb.” Fennella lit up like a torchbug on espresso. “My favorite kind of plan. Hit me.” “You do the Trial of Shenanigan’s Bluff,” he muttered. “It’s... sort of a performance thing? Public trial by satire. If you can entertain the spirits of the Elder Mischief, they’ll pardon you. If you fail, they trap your soul in a punch bowl.” “Been there,” she said brightly. “I survived it and came out with a new eyebrow and a boyfriend.” “The punch bowl?” “No, the trial.”     And so it was set. The Trial of Shenanigan’s Bluff took place at midnight under a sky so full of stars it looked like a bejeweled bedsheet shaken by a drunk deity. The audience consisted of dryads, disgruntled town gnomes, one spectral hedgehog, three flamingos in drag, and the entire squirrel militia—still wearing tiny helmets and carrying grudge nuts. The Elders of Mischief appeared, rising from mists made of giggles and fermented tea. They were ancient prankster spirits, their bodies swirled from smoke and old rumors, their eyes glinting like jack-o’-lanterns full of dirty jokes. “We are here to judge,” they thundered in unison. “Amuse us, or perish in the bowl of eternal mediocrity.” Fennella stepped forward, wings flared, dress covered in potion-stained ribbons and gumdrop armor. “Oh beloved prankpappies,” she began, “you want a show? I’ll give you a bloody cabaret.” And she did. She reenacted the Great Glimmerpants Explosion of ’86 using only interpretive dance and marmots. She recited scandalous haikus about High Elder Thistledown’s love life. She got a nymph to fake faint, a squirrel to fake propose, and Sizzlethump to perform a fire-breathing tap dance on stilts while wearing tiny lederhosen. By the time it ended, the audience was weeping from laughter, the Elders were floating upside down from glee, and the punch bowl was full of wine instead of souls. “You,” the lead spirit gasped, trying not to laugh-snort, “are absolutely unfit for banishment.” “Thank you,” Fennella said, curtsying so deeply her skirt revealed a birthmark shaped like a rude fairy. “Instead,” the spirit continued, “we appoint you as our new Emissary of Wild Mischief. You will spread absurdity, ignite joy, and keep the Realm weird.” Fennella gasped. “You want me... to make everything worse... professionally?” “Yes.” “AND I GET TO KEEP THE DRAGON?” “Yes!” She screamed. Sizzlethump belched glitter flames. The squirrel militia passed out from overstimulation.     Epilogue Fennella Bramblebite is now a semi-official agent of gleeful chaos. Her crimes are now considered “cultural enrichment.” Her dragon has his own fan club. And her name is whispered in reverent awe by pranksters, tricksters, and midnight troublemakers in every corner of the Fae Queendom. Sometimes, when the moon is right and the air smells faintly of burnt toast and sarcasm, you can see her fly by—hair streaming behind her, dragon clinging to her shoulder, both of them laughing like fools who know that mischief is sacred and friendship is the weirdest kind of magic.     Want to bring a little wild mischief into your world? You can own a piece of “Sunlit Shenanigans” and keep the chaos close at hand—or at least on your wall, your tote, or even your cozy nap blanket. Whether you’re a fae of impeccable taste or a dragon hoarder of fine things, this whimsical artwork is now available in a variety of forms: Wood Print – Rustic charm for your mischief sanctuary Framed Print – For those who prefer their chaos elegantly contained Tote Bag – Carry your dragon snacks and questionable potions in style Fleece Blanket – For warm snuggles after a long day of magical misdemeanors Spiral Notebook – Jot down your best pranks and potion recipes Click, claim, and channel your inner Bramblebite—no Council approval required.

by Bill Tiepelman

Sassy Shroom Shenanigans

Tongue Wars and the Forest Code of Sass In the deepest thicket of the Glibbergrove, where mushrooms grew big enough to get parking tickets and squirrels wore monocles unironically, there perched a gnome with absolutely no chill. His name? Grimbold Butterbuttons. His vibe? Absolute chaos in wool socks. Grimbold wasn't your average gnome. While the others busied themselves polishing snail shells or whittling toothbrushes from elder twigs, Grimbold had an entire *reputation* for being the forest’s number one instigator. He made faces at butterflies. He photobombed the Council of Owls. Once, he’d even replaced the Queen Badger’s royal tea with flat root beer just to watch her snort. So naturally, it made perfect sense that Grimbold had a pet dragon. A tiny pet dragon. One that barely came up to his belt buckle but acted like she ruled the canopy. Her name was Zilch, short for Zilcharia Flameyfangs the Third, but no one called her that unless they wanted to get singed eyebrows. That morning, the two of them were doing what they did best—being complete little shits. "Bet you can't hold that face for longer than me," Grimbold snorted, sticking out his tongue like a drunken goose and widening his eyes so far they looked like boiled turnips. Zilch, wings flaring, narrowed her gold-slitted eyes. "I INVENTED this face," she rasped, then mimicked him with such perfect deranged accuracy that even the birds stopped mid-tweet. The two locked in a battle of absurdity atop a giant red-capped mushroom—their usual morning perch-slash-stage. Tongues out. Eyes bugged. Nostrils flaring like melodramatic llamas. It was a face-off of epic immaturity, and they were both thriving. "You’re creasing your eyebrows wrong!" Zilch barked. "You’re blinking too much, cheater!" Grimbold fired back. A fat beetle waddled by with a judgmental glance, muttering, "Honestly, I preferred the mime duel last week." But they didn’t care. These two lived for this kind of nonsense. Where others saw an ancient, mysterious forest full of magic and mystery, they saw a playground. A sass-ground, if you will. And so began their day of shenanigans, with their sacred forest motto etched in mushroom spores and glitter glue: “Mock first. Ask questions never.” Only they didn’t realize that today’s game of tongue wars would unlock an accidental spell, open an interdimensional portal, and quite possibly awaken a mushroom warlord who’d once been banned for excessive pettiness. But hey—that’s a problem for later. The Portal of Pfft and the Rise of Lord Sporesnort Grimbold Butterbuttons’ tongue was still proudly extended when it happened. A *wet* sound split the air, somewhere between a cosmic zipper and a squirrel flatulating through a didgeridoo. Zilch’s pupils dilated to the size of acorns. “Grim,” she croaked, “did you just... open a thing?” The gnome didn’t answer. Mostly because his face was frozen mid-snarl, one eye twitching and tongue still glued to his chin like a sweaty stamp. Behind them, the mushroom shivered. Not metaphorically. Like, the actual mushroom. It quivered with a noise that sounded like giggling algae. And from its spore-speckled surface, a jagged tear opened in the air, like reality had been cut with blunt safety scissors. From within, a purple light pulsed like an angry disco ball. "...Oh," said Grimbold finally, blinking. "Oopsie-tootsie." Zilch smacked her forehead with a tiny claw. "You broke space again! That’s the third time this week! Do you even read the warnings in the moss tomes?" "No one reads the moss tomes," Grimbold said, shrugging. "They smell like foot soup." With a moist belch of spores and questionable glitter, something began to emerge from the portal. First came a cloud of lavender steam, then a large floppy hat. Then—very slowly—a pair of glowing green eyes, slitted like a grumpy cat that hadn’t had its brunch pâté. “I AM THE MIGHTY LORD SPORESNORT,” boomed a voice that somehow smelled like truffle oil and unwashed gym socks. “HE WHO WAS BANISHED FOR EXCESSIVE PETTINESS. HE WHO ONCE CURSED AN ENTIRE KINGDOM WITH ITCHY NIPPLES OVER A GRAMMAR MISTAKE.” Zilch gave Grimbold the longest side-eye in the history of side-eyes. "Did you just summon the ancient fungal sass-demon of legend?" "To be fair," Grimbold muttered, "I was aiming for a fart with echo." Out stepped Lord Sporesnort in full regalia—moss robes, mycelium boots, and a walking staff shaped like a passive-aggressive spatula. His beard was made entirely of mold. And not the cool, forest-sorcerer kind. The fuzzy fridge kind. He radiated judgment and lingering disappointment. "BEHOLD MY REVENGE!" Sporesnort roared. "I SHALL COVER THIS FOREST IN SPORE-MODED MISCHIEF. ALL SHALL BE IRRITATED BY THE SLIGHTEST INCONVENIENCES!" With a dramatic swirl, he cast his first spell: “Itchicus Everlasting!” Suddenly, a thousand woodland creatures began scratching themselves uncontrollably. Squirrels tumbled from branches in mid-itch. A badger ran by shrieking about chafing. Even the bees looked uncomfortable. "Okay, no. This won’t do," said Zilch, cracking her knuckles with tiny thunderclaps. "This is our forest. We annoy the locals. You don’t get to roll in with your ancient mushroom face and out-sass us." "Hear hear!" shouted Grimbold, standing proudly with one foot on a suspicious mushroom that squelched like an angry pudding. "We may be chaotic, bratty, and tragically underqualified for any real leadership, but this is our turf, you decomposing jockstrap." Lord Sporesnort laughed—an echoing wheeze that smelled of old salad. “Very well, tiny fools. Then I challenge you... to the TRIAL OF THE TRIPLE-TIERED TONGUE!” A hush fell across the glade. Somewhere, a duck dropped its sandwich. "Uh, is that a real thing?" Zilch whispered. "It is now," Sporesnort grinned, raising three slimy mushroom caps into the air. "You must perform the ultimate display of synchronized facial sass—a three-round tongue duel. Lose, and I take over Glibbergrove. Win, and I shall return to the Sporeshade Realms to wallow in my own tragic flamboyance." "You're on," said Grimbold, his face twitching with a growing smirk. "But if we win, you also have to admit that your cloak makes your butt look wide." "I—FINE," Sporesnort spat, turning slightly to cover his rear fungus flare. And thus the stage was set. Creatures gathered. Leaves rustled with gossip. A beetle vendor set up a stand selling roasted aphids on sticks and “I ♥ Sporesnort” foam fingers. Even the wind paused to see what the hell was about to happen. Grimbold and Zilch, side by side on their mushroom stage, cracked their necks, stretched their cheeks, and waggled their tongues. A hush fell. Sporesnort’s fungal beard trembled in anticipation. "Let the tongue games begin!" shouted a squirrel with a referee whistle. The Final Tongue-Off and the Scandal of the Sassy Underwear The crowd leaned in. A snail fell off its mushroom seat in suspense. Somewhere in the distance, a fungus chime rang out one somber, reverberating note. The *Trial of the Triple-Tiered Tongue* had officially begun. Round One was a classic: The Eyeball Stretch & Tongue Combo. Lord Sporesnort made the first move, his eyes bugging out like a pair of grapefruit on springs as he whipped out his tongue with such velocity it created a mild sonic pop. The crowd gasped. A field mouse fainted. “BEHOLD!” he roared, his voice echoing through the mushroom caps. “THIS IS THE ANCIENT FORM KNOWN AS ‘GORGON’S SURPRISE’!” Zilch narrowed her eyes. “That’s just ‘Monday Morning Face’ in dragon preschool.” She casually blew a tiny flame to toast a passing marshmallow on a stick, then locked eyes with Grimbold. They nodded. The duo launched into their countermove: synchronized bug-eyes, nostril flares, and tongues waggling side to side like possessed metronomes. It was elegant. It was chaotic. A raccoon dropped its pipe and screamed, “SWEET GRUBS, I’VE SEEN THE TRUTH!” “ROUND ONE: TIED,” announced the squirrel referee, his whistle now glowing from sheer stress.     Round Two: The Sass Spiral For this, the goal was to layer expressions with insult-level flair. Bonus points for eyebrow choreography. Lord Sporesnort twisted his fungal lips into a smug, upturned frown and performed what could only be described as a sassy interpretive dance using only his eyebrows. He finished by flipping his cloak, revealing fungus-embroidered briefs with the words “BITTER BUT CUTE” stitched across the rear in glowing mycelium thread. The crowd lost their collective minds. The beetle vendor passed out. A hedgehog screamed and launched into a bush. “I call that,” Sporesnort said smugly, “the Sporeshake 9000.” Grimbold stepped forward slowly. Too slowly. Suspense dripped off him like condensation off a cold goblet of forest grog. Then he struck. He wiggled his ears. He furrowed one brow. His tongue spiraled into a perfect helix, and he puffed out his cheeks until he looked like an emotionally unstable turnip. Then, with a slow, dramatic flourish, he turned around and revealed a patch sewn into the seat of his corduroy trousers. It read, in shimmering gold thread: “YOU JUST GOT GNOMED.” The forest exploded. Not literally, but close enough. Owls fainted. Mushrooms combusted from joy. A badger couple started a slow chant. “Gnome’d! Gnome’d! Gnome’d!” Zilch, not to be outdone, reared back and made the universal hand-and-claw gesture for *“Your fungus ain’t funky, babe.”* Her tail flicked with weaponized sass. The moment was perfect. "ROUND TWO: ADVANTAGE — GNOME & DRAGON!" the referee squeaked, tears running down his cheeks as he blew the whistle like it was possessed.     Final Round: Wildcard Mayhem Sporesnort snarled, spores puffing from his ears. “Fine. No more cute. No more coy. I invoke... the SACRED MUSHUNDERWEAR TECHNIQUE!” He ripped open his robes to reveal undergarments enchanted with wriggling fungal runes and vines that wove his sass into the very fabric of the universe. “This,” he bellowed, “is FUNGIFLEX™ — powered by enchanted stretch and interdimensional attitude.” The forest fell into a hush of pure, horrified admiration. Grimbold simply looked at Zilch and smirked. “We break reality now?” “Break it so hard it apologizes,” she growled. The gnome clambered atop the dragon’s back. Zilch flared her wings, eyes burning gold. Together they launched into the air with a mighty WHEEEEEEE and a burst of glitter confetti summoned from a leftover prank spell. As they twirled through the sky, they performed their final move: a dual loop-de-loop followed by simultaneous tongue-wagging, face-contorting, and butt-shaking. From Grimbold’s trousers, a secret pocket opened, revealing a banner that read, in flashing enchanted letters: “GNOME SWEAT DON’T QUIT.” They landed with a thump, Zilch belching sparkles. The crowd was in chaos. Tears. Screaming. An impromptu interpretive dance broke out. The forest was on the brink of a vibe collapse. “FINE!” Sporesnort yelled, voice cracking. “YOU WIN! I’LL GO! BUT YOU... YOU SHALL RUE THIS DAY. I’LL BE BACK. WITH MORE UNDERWEAR.” He swirled into his own portal of shame and unresolved mushroom trauma, leaving behind only the faint scent of garlic and regret. Zilch and Grimbold collapsed atop their favorite mushroom. The glade shimmered under the setting sun. Birds chirped again. The badger couple kissed. Someone started roasting victory marshmallows. "Well," said Grimbold, licking his thumb and smearing moss off his cheek. "That was... probably the third weirdest Tuesday we’ve had." "Easily," Zilch agreed, biting into a celebratory beetle snack. "Next time we prank a warlord, can we avoid the fungal lingerie?" "No promises." And so, with tongues dry and reputations elevated to mythical status, the gnome and the dragon resumed their sacred morning ritual: laughing at absolutely everything and being gloriously, unapologetically weird together. The end. Probably.     Want to bring the sass home? Whether you're a certified mischief-maker or just deeply appreciate the sacred art of tongue-based warfare, you can now take a piece of Grimbold and Zilch’s legendary moment into your own lair. Frame the chaos with a gallery-quality print, wrap yourself in their ridiculousness with this fleece blanket, or go full forest-chic with a wood print that'll make even Lord Sporesnort jealous. Send cheeky greetings with a whimsical card, or slap some mushroom-powered attitude onto your stuff with this top-tier Sassy Shroom Shenanigans sticker. Because let’s be honest—your life could use more dragons and fewer boring walls.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Fiery Pout

The Temper of Twigsnap Hollow It was the first crisp day of autumn in Twigsnap Hollow, and that meant three things: the leaves were aflame with color, the squirrels were drunk on fermented acorns, and Fizzlewick the Tiny Brat Dragon was in a full-blown sulk. Perched on his usual spot—the fifth knotted limb of the great Maplebeard tree—Fizzlewick glared at the world with a righteous fury only a baby dragon with a mild superiority complex and short legs could possess. His wings were twitching. His tail, coiled like a sassy pretzel, flicked aggressively every third second. And most notably, his arms were folded so tight that his little talons squeaked against his own scales. This, dear reader, was a *statement pose*. “I said cinnamon bark muffins, not ginger root scones,” he muttered to absolutely no one except a leaf that had the audacity to fall in his direction. He scorched it with a tiny puff of smoke and grinned. That would teach nature to be insolent. You see, Fizzlewick had what the woodland creatures called “Main Character Energy,” though he firmly believed he was simply “the only one here with taste.” Ever since he’d hatched in the hollow two years ago during a thunderstorm (on purpose, according to him), he'd carved out a reputation as both the littlest dragon and the biggest handful east of the Glowroot Ridge. He ran a tight emotional schedule: tantrum at dawn, sulk at midday, petty vengeance by sundown. It was exhausting being a misunderstood genius with adorable rage issues. Today, however, his drama had a very specific catalyst. Mapleberry the chipmunk—who he had allowed into his inner circle of trusted snack couriers—had dared to bring him a honeycrust tart with the wrong kind of drizzle. Fizzlewick had exploded, not with fire (he was saving that for the pinecone uprising), but with loud, sputtering, bratty declarations of betrayal that had sent poor Mapleberry scrambling back to the bake burrow in tears. “She knows I have standards,” Fizzlewick huffed. “I’m a legend, not a lunchbox.” And so he remained in brooding solitude, radiating autumnal menace and cuteness like some angry seasonal candle. The trees rustled. The squirrels avoided eye contact. Even the wind detoured politely around him. But from the forest floor below, someone was watching—someone who had neither fear of dragons nor respect for his pout. Someone who walked on two paws and wore socks with sandals. Yes, trouble was coming. The kind with snacks, opinions, and absolutely no sense of personal boundaries. Sock-Sandaled Chaos and the Pact of Leaf & Flame The interloper arrived with all the subtlety of a moose in a tambourine shop. She was human—probably—a squat, smirking woman with wild silver hair tied up in what could only be described as a bun held together by twigs, buttons, and vibes. She wore a cardigan that appeared to have been hand-knitted from the tears of disappointed grandmothers, and socks pulled halfway up her shins, tucked neatly into Birkenstocks so offensively functional they could have ended wars. Across her back was slung a lumpy satchel that jingled with an untrustworthy rhythm. She exuded the kind of unbothered energy that made forest gods nervous. Fizzlewick squinted down at her from his branch. “Nope,” he whispered. “No thank you. Not today, forest cryptid.” But the woman waved cheerfully and started climbing the base of Maplebeard like a sentient barnacle. “Helloooooo, little spicy meatball!” she called out, voice sing-song and dangerously whimsical. “Heard there was a temper tantrum brewing in the upper limbs!” “It’s a tactical emotional stance,” Fizzlewick hissed. “Not a tantrum.” “Aww, look at you, puffed up like a hot toddy with feelings.” She grinned, finally reaching the branch just below his. “Name’s Aunt Gloam. I’m what the enchanted folks call an ‘Interventionist Crone.’ Retired. Mostly.” Fizzlewick blinked. “I don’t allow people in my sulking sector. Did you not see the sign?” She gestured vaguely toward a nailed-up twig that read “NO.” in smudged ash. “Oh, I saw it. I assumed it was metaphorical.” “It was CHARCOAL. That makes it *art*.” Unbothered, Aunt Gloam settled on the branch like it was a beanbag chair and began unpacking her satchel. Out came a tin of candied spider legs, a tattered zine titled “So You Think You’re a Familiar?”, a mysterious jawbone, and a tiny, hand-woven hammock. Then finally, a squat jar of what looked like homemade fudge. Fizzlewick’s nostrils flared involuntarily. “Ohhhh no. That’s trap fudge. You can’t bribe me.” “Darlin’, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She unscrewed the lid. The aroma hit him like a poetic slap: cinnamon, nutmeg, brown butter, a hint of mischief. “It’s simply here. Unattended. Vulnerable to dragon decisions.” He inched closer. Then stopped. “...Is it the chewy kind?” “Only a monster makes crumbly fudge.” He eyed her suspiciously. “You’re crafty.” “I’m *crone-aged*. We transcend craft.” They sat in silence for a long moment, only the sound of falling leaves and one distant woodland creature doing karaoke in a fern patch. Fizzlewick unfurled one wing slightly—barely. He reached out a talon and nudged the fudge. It jiggled. He jiggled back. There was a brief, silent duel of wills... and then he took a bite. “...Ugh. It’s stupid how good this is.” “Mmm-hmm.” Aunt Gloam grinned, leaning back like she’d won a card game against fate. Fizzlewick chewed thoughtfully, then wiped a crumb from his chin with great drama. “Fine. You can stay. Temporarily. But I have some conditions.” “Naturally.” She conjured a notepad out of a leaf and what might’ve been pure sarcasm. “List away.” “No talking during my dramatic poses.” “No suggesting herbal remedies for my ‘mood spirals.’” “Absolutely no calling me ‘cutie’ unless you want third-degree singe.” “You will refer to me as either Your Crispness or Sir Emberpants.” “You must honor the sacred Ritual of the Snuggle Nest when I get sleepy.” “Deal,” she said without hesitation. “Wait, really?” “Kid, I’ve dealt with warlocks who burst into tears over improperly steeped tea. You’re adorable with teeth. I’ll manage.” For the first time all day, Fizzlewick’s pout softened. Just a smidge. He kicked one foot idly. “I guess you’re not the worst cryptid I’ve met.” “High praise from a grumble-lizard.” They sat together until the sky turned a dusky violet and the fireflies came out, blinking like gossiping stars. Fizzlewick rested his chin on his claws and let out a soft puff of smoke. “Still mad about the drizzle, though.” “We’ll burn their recipe book together,” Aunt Gloam said, patting his head gently. “After a nap.” “It’s a vengeance nap.” “The best kind.” The leaves above them rustled in approval. Somewhere in the forest, a squirrel dropped its nuts in horror and ran. The brat dragon had made an ally. Which meant, of course, the chaos was just beginning. The Marshmallow Accord & The Rise of Emberpants It began, as many woodland uprisings do, with a pastry scandal. Word had spread—faster than Aunt Gloam could finish weaving her mood-cozy—that Fizzlewick had taken a “mortal ally” into his inner branch. The squirrels were alarmed. The chipmunks were insulted. The badger ambassador, who hadn’t been consulted in over a decade, declared it a “reckless alliance with unpredictable cardigan-based consequences.” The acorn council convened. And in true rodent fashion, their resolution was unanimous: Fizzlewick had become soft. He, of course, did not take this well. “SOFT?!” he bellowed from the treetop, fire curling from his nostrils in dramatic little wisps. “I am fire incarnate! I literally toasted a pinecone into ash this morning because it looked smug!” “It did look smug,” Aunt Gloam confirmed, sipping her blackberry tea from a mug shaped like a cauldron. “But perception is nine-tenths of squirrel law.” “Then it’s time,” he said, flexing his tiny claws with purpose, “for a display of brat force diplomacy.” He flew in a series of tight loops (okay, he wobbled twice, but pulled it off with a spin) and landed in the center of the Hollow’s clearing, arms crossed, tail coiled like a cobra with sass. Surrounding him were dozens of woodland creatures, mostly armed with snacks, pamphlets, or biting side-eye. “You have forgotten,” he began, pacing with high drama, “who rules these crispy-leaved lands.” “No one rules anything,” said a chipmunk. “It’s a forest.” “SILENCE, NUT MINION.” He turned in place, letting the orange light catch his scales just so. “I am Sir Emberpants the Bratflamed, Guardian of the Fifth Limb, Keeper of the Morning Sulk, and Defender of Snack Standards. You dare accuse me of softness?” “You accepted fudge from a biped,” a squirrel jeered. “That’s basically treason.” “It was emotionally complex fudge and I stand by my choices.” “You made her a friendship nest!” someone yelled. “It was a strategic cuddle fort and don’t pretend you wouldn’t nap in it!” The crowd was growing restless. The badger rolled out a scroll titled The Grievance of the Leaves. A group of outraged blue jays began chanting something that sounded suspiciously like “Down with brat-boy.” Tensions rose. Tails twitched. Somewhere in the trees, a war ferret played ominous panpipe music. And then— “ENOUGH!” Aunt Gloam bellowed, tossing a handful of glowing pink orbs into the air. They exploded in slow-motion sparkles that rained down with the smell of toasted sugar. The crowd froze. Literally. Mid-blink, mid-scowl, mid-grumble. Stuck in a glamour field woven from magic and old-lady spite. She walked to Fizzlewick’s side, arms folded in perfect synchronicity with his. “Let’s be clear,” she said, her voice now echoing slightly as if through a very judgmental cave. “This dragon is a menace, a diva, a tactical napper, and occasionally insufferable. But he’s also yours. And he has never let this forest down—except that one time with the hot cider incident, which we do not discuss.” “That cauldron betrayed me,” Fizzlewick muttered. “So you will not cast him out over fudge and companionship. You’ll do what all dramatic enchanted ecosystems do: you’ll throw a festival and pretend none of this ever happened.” “With marshmallows,” Fizzlewick added, perking up. “Roasted on my snout.” “And s’mores.” “And you all have to say sorry with snacks.” “And the chipmunks have to do the apology dance,” he added, eyes gleaming. There was a long silence as the glamour lifted and time resumed. A breeze blew dramatically through the clearing. The squirrels conferred. The badger sighed. The war ferret put his panpipes away. “Fine,” the chipmunk said through gritted teeth. “But we get to bring cider.” “Deal,” Fizzlewick said. “But if it’s the wrong kind of drizzle again, I will incinerate every pie crust within a ten-tree radius.” And so, under the glowing leaves of a forest just ridiculous enough to function, the first ever **Festival of Emberpants** was declared. Creatures danced. Cider flowed. Fizzlewick roasted marshmallows with suspicious delight, occasionally charring one just enough to assert dominance. The chipmunks did their apology dance, and Aunt Gloam taught a class on “Emotional Boundaries and Other Delusions.” Later, curled in his nest beside the crone, Fizzlewick let out a long, satisfied sigh. “You know,” he said, licking a sticky paw, “being emotionally compromised tastes like marshmallows.” “That’s growth, sweetheart,” Gloam said, tucking him in with a wing-sized nap shawl. “It’s still vengeance nap time tomorrow though.” “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” And thus, balance was restored. Snacks were respected. Brats were celebrated. And somewhere far beyond the Hollow, a new tale was already stirring... probably about a baby basilisk with commitment issues. But that’s another story entirely.     Love Fizzlewick as much as he loves properly drizzled snacks? Bring a bit of his fiery charm home with you! Whether you're looking to warm up your space with an enchanted forest tapestry, sip tea beside his smolder on a sleek acrylic print, or strut your brat energy with a tote bag worthy of a dragon tantrum, we’ve got you covered. Take Fizzlewick on the go with a spiral notebook for plotting snack-based vengeance, or decorate your favorite things with a high-quality vinyl sticker featuring everyone’s favorite moody flame nugget. Add a little pout to your life—he insists.

by Bill Tiepelman

Don't Make Me Puff

In the deepest corner of the Mistwillow Woods — somewhere between the Glade of Passive-Aggressive Mushrooms and the Barking Fern Grove — sat a dragon. Not just any dragon. He was small, like... "fits-in-your-knapsack-but-will-burn-your-hair-off-if-you-zip-it" small. His name? Snortles the Indignant. Perched with great ceremony on a tree branch that had survived five tantrums and at least one accidental flamethrower moment, Snortles squinted at the forest floor below. His wings, no bigger than a pair of angry toast slices, twitched in irritation. A dandelion seed had floated into his line of sight — and worse — into his personal airspace. "Rude," he grumbled, swiping at it with one stubby claw like a diva brushing off a paparazzi fly. "I did not approve your flight path." The dandelion puff bobbed innocently, completely unaware of the fiery fury it had just flirted with. Snortles glared harder, puffing out his cheeks like a kettle about to go full Wagner. But instead of smoke or flame, he let out an itty-bitty sneeze that sent the puff sailing away in dramatic, slow-motion style. His tail thudded against the branch. "Ugh. Weak sneeze. That was supposed to be my villain origin story." From below, a squirrel cackled. “Nice puff, scale-butt.” Snortles froze. Slowly, dangerously, his snout turned to the offending rodent, eyes narrowed like a toddler denied a snack. “Say that again, nut hoarder. I dare you.” But the squirrel was already gone, leaving only the sound of bouncing acorns and smugness in its wake. “You mock me now,” Snortles muttered, hopping down from the branch with all the grace of a disgruntled potato, “but soon, the skies shall tremble beneath my wings! The forest shall whisper my name in reverent fear! The chipmunks will write ballads about my rage!” He tripped over a moss tuft mid-monologue. “Ow.” He glared at the ground like it owed him money. “I’m fine. I meant to do that. It was a dominance roll.” And thus began the terribly important, poorly planned rise of Snortles the Indignant, Bringer of Mild Inconvenience and Unapologetic Pouting. Snortles the Indignant stomped through the moss-laden underbrush with the tenacity of a toddler who had just been told “no” for the first time. He kicked a pinecone. It didn’t go far. The pinecone bounced once, rolled into a spiderweb, and was instantly wrapped in silken judgment. Even the arachnids had more presence than him today. “This forest,” he declared to no one in particular, “is a conspiracy of allergens and underestimation.” Somewhere in the canopy above, a blue jay chuckled — a throaty, smug little cackle. Snortles glanced upward and hissed. The bird immediately dropped a poop on a toadstool nearby, purely out of spiteful amusement. “I see,” Snortles muttered. “A hostile ecosystem. You’ll all regret this when I’m Supreme Wing Commander of Charred Woodland Affairs.” He marched on. That is, until he accidentally walked head-first into the backside of a badger named Truffle. Truffle was not just any badger — he was the unofficial therapist of the forest, self-appointed and almost entirely unqualified. “Snortles!” Truffle exclaimed, turning with a gentle smile and a slightly burnt nose. “Still trying to declare war on nature?” “I’m not declaring war,” Snortles said dramatically. “I’m issuing a series of unreciprocated ultimatums.” Truffle patted the small dragon’s head. “That’s adorable, dear. Want a hug?” Snortles recoiled as if he’d been offered a bath. “Absolutely not. My fury does not accept cuddles.” “Oh no,” Truffle sighed. “You’re at Stage Three.” “Stage Three of what?” Snortles asked suspiciously. “The Five Stages of Miniature Dragon Angst,” Truffle explained. “Stage One is huffing. Stage Two is pouting. Stage Three is wandering the forest making monologues to small animals who honestly just want to poop in peace.” “I am NOT angsting,” Snortles snapped, though his tail was curled in the universal symbol of Petulant Rebellion. “I am building a legacy.” Just then, a very old toad wearing spectacles and a monocle (yes, both) slurped out from under a fern. He gazed at Snortles with all the benevolent patience of a wizard who has seen too many prophecies ruined by tiny protagonists. “Young Snortles,” the toad croaked, “the Council of the Slightly Magical Beasts has convened and decided to offer you guidance.” Snortles brightened instantly. “Finally! A council! Excellent. How many legions do I get?” “None,” said the toad. “We’re giving you an internship.” Snortles blinked. “An... intern-ship?” “Yes. You’ll assist Madame Thistle in the Dandelion Archives. She’s looking for a seasonal flame source to warm her tea kettle. You’ll also be sweeping spores off scrolls and gently threatening beetles that chew on ancient paper.” “That is NOT conquest!” Snortles shouted, wings flapping wildly in betrayal. “No,” the toad said serenely. “It’s character development.” Truffle handed Snortles a tiny broom. “It’s a magical learning opportunity!” Snortles glared. He turned to the toad. “Fine. But I’m only doing this to infiltrate the system and incite revolution from within.” The toad nodded. “Very good, young incendiary. Be sure to file your timesheet weekly.” And that’s how Snortles, Devourer of Dreams (self-titled), became the part-time intern of an elderly dryad who alphabetized wind-sent whispers and drank a suspicious amount of chamomile tea. The job was boring. The kettle only needed a puff or two of flame a day. The scrolls, while ancient, were mostly filled with passive-aggressive notes about gnome drama and one rather explicit ballad about mushroom courtship. Snortles read all of it. He also practiced glaring at teacups and lighting only the correct corners of letters on fire. It wasn’t war. It wasn’t glory. It was... tolerable. Kind of. In a “this is beneath me and yet I’m very good at it” sort of way. And while no one admitted it aloud, Snortles was... dare we say... thriving. One afternoon, Madame Thistle looked over her glasses at him and said, “You’ve improved. You almost look responsible.” Snortles looked horrified. “Take it back.” “Oh, absolutely not,” she said. “You’re a brat, but you’re a useful one. I might even recommend you to the Council for field work.” “Field work?” he echoed, suspicious. “Yes,” she said. “We’ve had reports of... disturbances. Something’s moving in the northern grove. Something bigger. Perhaps you’re ready.” Snortles’s wings twitched. His nostrils flared. His spines bristled like a porcupine with ambition. “Finally,” he whispered. “An actual chance to be important.” He left that night, tail high, confidence higher. The dandelion puffs bobbed along in the moonlight as he passed through the forest once more. This time, they did not mock. This time, they looked... worried. Something was coming. And it might actually be worse than Snortles. Snortles the Indignant stomped through the dew-drenched northern grove, heart ablaze with purpose, claws flexing like he’d rehearsed this moment for months — which, in fairness, he had. Mostly in front of a puddle he insisted was a scrying pool. He imagined the forest would dim around him. He expected ominous rustling. He was ready for a showdown. Instead, he tripped on a toad. “Excuse me,” the toad croaked, completely unfazed. “You stepped on my existential crisis.” Snortles gave him a withering glance. “I’m here to investigate a terrible threat to the forest. I do not have time for philosophical amphibians.” “Suit yourself,” the toad muttered, sliding back into the moss. “But you’re headed right into it.” “Good,” Snortles growled. “It’s time someone witnessed my glory.” And then... he saw it. Rising between the trees was a shape — bulbous, furry, and massive. It pulsed with some kind of unnatural static, like a thousand socks rubbed on a thousand carpets. Snortles narrowed his eyes, brain desperately flipping through his mental field guide. It was... a rabbit. No, not just a rabbit. This was Brog the Boundless, a magical hare of enormous size and questionable hygiene, cursed decades ago by a bored wizard with a thing for overcompensating familiars. Brog’s long ears twitched like antennae scanning for sass, and his eyes sparkled with a kind of feral boredom that spelled danger. Snortles stepped forward. “I am Snortles the Indignant, Forest Intern of the Archives and Unofficial Bringer of Minor Chaos. I’ve come to—” “BROG HUNGRY,” bellowed the hare, lurching forward and devouring an entire tree stump like a carrot stick. Snortles took an involuntary step back. “Oh,” he said. “You’re... that kind of threat.” Brog bounded forward, slobber trailing, eyes locked on Snortles with unhinged snack-seeking focus. Somewhere in the distance, a group of dryads screamed and fled into the underbrush. The ferns curled in terror. A mushroom spontaneously combusted. It was go time. Snortles flared his wings, lifted his chin, and bellowed, “I HAVE ONE VERY SPECIFIC SKILL!” He puffed. A burst of flame roared from his nostrils — well, a polite gout really, more flambé than inferno — but it was enough. Brog reared back, stunned, his whiskers singed just so. The big rabbit blinked. Then hiccuped. Then sat down, very abruptly, like someone had unplugged him. “Was it... the spice?” Brog mumbled. Snortles stood in silence, chest heaving, wings twitching. He’d done it. He’d brattled the beast. He hadn’t burned down the forest (only two shrubs). He hadn’t fainted. He had... puffed. The next morning, the Council of Slightly Magical Beasts convened on a mossy log, grumpy and half-caffeinated. The toad in spectacles nodded solemnly. “Snortles,” he said, “you have successfully completed your probationary field assignment. You are hereby promoted to... Assistant Junior Forest Custodian Third Class.” Snortles frowned. “That sounds made up.” “Oh, it is,” said the toad. “But it comes with a badge.” Snortles looked at the tiny golden acorn pin and grinned. “Do I get to assign tasks to others?” “No.” “Can I file a complaint about that?” “Also no.” “Can I puff at anyone who disagrees with me?” The toad paused. “We... strongly discourage that.” “So that’s a ‘maybe,’” Snortles said smugly, pinning the badge to his chest scale. And so the legend of Snortles grew — slowly, unevenly, full of accidental victories and overly dramatic tantrums. But the forest changed that day. Because somewhere out there was a dragon so small he could fit in your hat, but so full of fire, sass, and wildly mismanaged ambition... that even Brog the Boundless had learned to walk the long way around his mossy log. The dandelions still danced in the breeze. But none of them dared puff in Snortles’s direction anymore. He had puffed once — and that was enough.     Love this bratty little firecracker? You can bring Snortles the Indignant home (with minimal singeing) as a framed art print for your lair, a bold wood print that screams “tiny dragon, big attitude,” or a gloriously sassy tapestry perfect for walls in need of whimsical menace. Want to warn your friends you’re one puff away from chaos? Send them a greeting card that says it all — with wings, scales, and a side-eye that won’t quit. Each piece captures the hyper-realistic textures, rich fantasy tones, and cheeky charm of our favorite pocket-sized pyro. Perfect for lovers of bratty dragons, whimsical fantasy creatures, and magical mischief-makers.

by Bill Tiepelman

Flame-Bird and Fang-Face

The Fire-Bird and the Fang-Fool Deep in the Whisperwood, where trees mutter rumors about squirrels and moss throws shade like a drag queen at brunch, lived a dragon named Fang-Face — though that wasn't his real name. His birth name was Terrexalonious the Third, but it didn’t exactly roll off the tongue mid-scream, so “Fang-Face” stuck. He was enormous, scaly, and charming in a "forgot-to-brush-his-fangs-for-five-centuries" kind of way. His eyes bulged with the constant manic energy of someone who’d consumed way too many enchanted espresso beans — which he absolutely had. Fang-Face had one obsession: jokes. Practical, mystical, elemental, existential — the type that’d make a philosopher cry into their goblet of fermented thought. The problem? The forest folk didn’t get him. His punchlines landed like soggy mushrooms on a wedding cake. No one laughed, not even the trees — and those things loved low-hanging fruit. Then came the phoenix. She burst into Fang-Face’s glade in a fiery swoop of sass and song, burning a rude shape into the moss as she landed. Her name was Blazette. Full name? Blazette Featherflame the Incorrigible. And incorrigible she was. She had talons sharp enough to slice through passive aggression and a beak that never shut up. Her feathers shimmered like molten sarcasm, and her laugh could peel bark off a pine at twenty paces. She was, as she put it, “too hot for these basic birch bitches.” Their first meeting went exactly as you'd expect two egos with no brakes to go. “Nice teeth,” Blazette smirked, hopping up onto a log. “Did your orthodontist have a vendetta against symmetry?” “Nice wings,” Fang-Face grinned. “You always this flammable, or is it just when you're talking?” They stared at each other. Tension crackled in the air like overcooked bacon. And then — chaos. Matching cackles erupted across the glade, echoing through the trees and terrifying a nearby deer into spontaneous leg yoga. It was love at first insult. From that day forward, the dragon and the phoenix became inseparable — mostly because nobody else could stand them. They filled the forest with mischief, misquotes, and midair roasting sessions (both literal and figurative). But something was coming. Something even more chaotic. Something with feathers, scales… and a grudge. And it all started with a stolen acorn. Or was it an enchanted egg? Honestly, both were shaped suspiciously alike, and Fang-Face had stopped labeling his snack stash centuries ago. Talons, Teeth, and a Terrible Idea Let’s rewind to the incident that flapped this whole mess into motion. It was a Tuesday. Not that weekdays mattered in Whisperwood — time was more of a loose suggestion there — but Tuesday had a vibe. A “let’s do something stupid and blame it on the cosmic alignment” kind of vibe. Fang-Face had just finished etching a caricature of a squirrel into a boulder using nothing but heat vision and mild resentment, when Blazette crash-landed through a vine-draped canopy carrying what appeared to be a large, glowing nut. “I stole an acorn,” she declared triumphantly, wings slightly smoking. “That’s... a Fabergé egg,” Fang-Face said, peering at it through the smoke. “I’m 90% sure it’s humming in Morse code.” “It was guarded by three talking mushrooms, a raccoon in a kimono, and something that kept chanting ‘do not disturb the egg of Moltkar.’ What do you think that means?” Fang-Face shrugged. “Probably nothing important. Forest’s always having an identity crisis.” He poked it with a claw. The egg hiccuped and glowed brighter. A faint whisper curled into the air: “Return me or perish.” “Ooooh,” Blazette grinned, “it talks! I call dibs!” They tucked the egg behind a boulder next to Fang-Face’s lava lamp collection and immediately forgot about it. That is, until night fell. That’s when the sky turned pink. Not a gentle cotton-candy pink. We’re talking retina-singeing, gum-chewed-by-a-unicorn pink. Trees began to sway rhythmically, like they were at a rave no one had been invited to. Somewhere in the distance, a kazoo played a single ominous note. “Did you hear that?” Blazette whispered, feathers twitching. “Yup,” Fang-Face nodded. “Either the egg’s waking up, or the forest’s been possessed by sentient interpretive dance.” They returned to the egg. Except it wasn’t an egg anymore. It had hatched. Kind of. Because what now sat in its place wasn’t a chick or a dragonling or even a mildly cursed puffball. It was… a goose. An extremely angry, six-foot-tall, glowing, telepathic goose wearing a tiara made of stars. “I AM MOLTINA, QUEEN OF THE REALM-BRINGER, DESTROYER OF PEACE, MOTHER OF MIGRATION!” the goose thundered, telepathically of course, because her beak never moved — it was too regal for articulation. Fang-Face blinked. “You’re adorable.” Blazette whispered, “I think we made a celestial oopsie.” “You dare call me adorable?!” Moltina flared, and the ground under them cracked like a cookie in a tantrum. “Ma’am,” Blazette said, stepping forward with her most diplomatic head tilt, “I’d like to formally apologize for stealing your… cosmic nesting space. I assumed it was a snack. You know. Because acorn-sized. And glowing. And snarky.” Moltina narrowed her eyes. “Your apology has been logged. For future mockery.” Now, Fang-Face was many things: dangerous, flamboyant, emotionally unavailable — but he was also clever in the way only someone with access to ancient scrolls and an unnecessary amount of free time could be. He started plotting. “Okay, Blazey,” he whispered later that night, as Moltina constructed a throne of enchanted pinecones, “what if we… adopted her?” “What?” “Hear me out. We raise her. Mold her. Channel that cosmic rage into interpretive dance or amateur pottery. She’ll never destroy the world if she’s emotionally codependent on us!” Blazette rubbed her temple. “That is the single most irresponsible idea I’ve ever heard, and I once tried to light a marshmallow with a spell from the Forbidden Tome of Flammable Regret.” “So that’s a yes?” She paused. “I mean... she is kind of fluffy.” And so it began. The rearing of Moltina. Queen of Cosmic Judgment. Now self-appointed “baby goose of mild chaos.” They taught her everything a young omnipotent avian needed to know: how to toast mushrooms without igniting their social anxiety, how to sass a unicorn into therapy, how to sing folk ballads about moss in three languages (one of them being interpretive sneezing). At first, things were actually... kind of adorable. Whisperwood warmed up to the trio. Mice threw them festivals. Badgers knit them passive-aggressive scarves. A dryad opened a juice bar in their honor. But of course, it didn’t last. Because you can't raise a storm without getting a little wet. And Moltina? She was a monsoon with opinions. And when a celestial goose decides it's time for a coronation... well, darling, you'd better have confetti. Or at least body armor. Coronation, Catastrophe, and Cosmic Clarity The forest had seen many strange things. A weeping willow that gossiped about everyone’s love life. A hedgehog cult that worshipped a vending machine. Even that one time a thundercloud got drunk on fermented pollen and ranted for three days about its divorce. But nothing — nothing — had prepared it for Moltina’s coronation. It began at dawn, as most dramatic events do, because golden lighting flatters everyone. The invitation had gone out in dreams, sung directly into the subconscious minds of all sentient life within a five-mile radius. The message? Simple: “Attend, or regret your vibe for eternity.” Fang-Face and Blazette had tried — tried — to keep it low-key. Some bunting, a reasonable amount of glitter explosions, just a few enchanted butterflies with tiaras. But Moltina had “a vision,” and unfortunately, that vision involved seven hundred floating crystal orbs, a choir of operatic possums, and a light show so intense it gave a willow tree anxiety-induced vertigo. “Why are the badgers spinning in synchronized circles?” Blazette whispered from her perch on the ceremonial perch-perch (don’t ask). “Did they rehearse this?” “I think they’re possessed,” Fang-Face muttered. “But politely.” Then the drums began. No one had brought drums. No one owned drums. And yet, somewhere in the heavens, rhythm had taken root. A path of glowing mushrooms unfurled across the clearing, forming a runway. And strutting down that runway, wings flared and tiara ablaze, came Moltina — her feathered form radiant, her eyes filled with unknowable power and the smugness of a goose that knew she was a main character. “Citizens of the Rooted Realms,” she projected directly into their minds, “today we gather to honor me. For I have grown beyond chickhood. I have eaten enlightenment and pooped stardust. I am ready to rule.” There was a beat of stunned silence. Then, someone sneezed confetti. Fang-Face, who had prepared a speech (against everyone’s better judgment), stepped forward. “We are honored, Your Quackiness,” he began. “Your radiant fluff has brought joy, confusion, and occasional structural damage to us all. May your reign be long, chaotic, and mildly threatening.” “Amen,” said Blazette, already sipping from a mug labeled “This is Fire Whiskey, Fight Me.” But, just as Moltina was about to ascend her throne — which was a floating platform made entirely out of recycled soap operas and gold leaf — something crackled in the distance. A ripple tore across the sky. The pink turned to violet. Time stuttered, like a hiccup in reality’s matrix. And into the glade stepped... another goose. This one was taller. Sleeker. Wearing a scarf that somehow screamed “I'm with HR.” “Oh hell,” Blazette groaned. “It’s the Bureau.” “The what-now?” Fang-Face asked, already flexing in case violence was needed. “The Celestial Avian Bureau of Order and Oopsies,” the new goose intoned, her voice a cold breeze across their minds. “I am Regulatory Agent Plumbella. I am here to investigate the unlawful hatching of Moltina, unauthorized coronation proceedings, and disturbance of multi-planar harmony.” “Unlawful hatching?!” Moltina squawked. “I AM THE FLAME OF ASCENSION! THE DESTINY-GOOSE OF LEGENDS!” “You were supposed to remain in cosmic stasis until the next galactic solstice,” Plumbella replied flatly. “Instead, you were poached out of your egg by a manic phoenix and a drama-lizard with caffeine issues.” Fang-Face raised a claw. “Objection. I’m more of a flamboyant chaos reptile, thank you.” “Doesn’t matter. The egg was sacred. The prophecy was clear: you were to bring balance to the celestial grid, not bedazzle the trees and start a jazz cult.” “It’s not a cult,” Moltina hissed. “It’s an enthusiasm-based goose movement!” “You summoned a cloud shaped like your own face that cries glitter,” Plumbella deadpanned. “That cloud has feelings!” Things escalated quickly. There was a dance-off. A very intense magical trivia round. At one point, Moltina and Plumbella battled in interpretive combat, using choreographed honks and feather-daggers woven from sarcastic wind. The forest held its breath. The frogs took bets. And then, right in the middle of a particularly dramatic goose pirouette, Fang-Face stomped a claw. “ENOUGH!” he bellowed. “Look, she may be premature, overpowered, and a bit of a tyrannical sparklebomb, but she’s ours. She chose us. We raised her. We taught her to swear in ten elemental dialects. Isn’t that what parenting’s about?” Blazette stepped up. “She’s part of this forest now. Whether she rules or throws cosmic tantrums in a tutu, she belongs here. Among her weird-ass family.” Plumbella paused. She looked around at the expectant faces — the badgers, the frogs, the possum choir now weeping softly into their velvet hoods — and she sighed. “Fine. One probationary cycle,” she said. “But if she summons another sky-llama, we’re having a very formal chat.” “Deal!” Moltina shouted, before hugging everyone at once in a burst of radiance and feathers. And so, the forest was saved. Or doomed. Or — more likely — somewhere deliciously in between. Fang-Face, Blazette, and Moltina went on to become the most infamous trio in Whisperwood. They hosted interdimensional comedy festivals. They co-authored a bestselling book on goose-based diplomacy. And once, they even got arrested for impersonating a prophecy. But that, dear reader, is another story.     Take the Mischief Home: If you’ve fallen in love with the feathered sass of Blazette, the fangy charm of Terrexalonious (a.k.a. Fang-Face), or the celestial chaos of Moltina, you can bring their legendary nonsense into your world — no forest residency required. Adorn your realm with the epic tale frozen in vivid detail, whether as a magical tapestry for your wall of wonders, a framed print that even Plumbella might approve of, or a canvas masterpiece worthy of its own coronation. And for the mischief-minded puzzle lover, dare to piece together the cosmic hilarity with this premium jigsaw puzzle — because even chaos can come in 500 tiny pieces. Available now at shop.unfocussed.com

by Bill Tiepelman

A Glimmer in the Grove

The World’s Most Inconvenient Miracle The dragon was not supposed to exist. At least, that’s what they told Elira back in the Overgrown Library, between musty sips of mildew-scented tea and “you wouldn’t understand, dear” looks from mages with more beard than bones. Dragons were extinct, extinct, extinct. Full stop. Period. End of majestic epoch. It had been centuries since a flame-blooded egg so much as twitched, much less hatched. Which is why Elira was fully unprepared to discover one sitting in her breakfast bowl. Yes, the egg had looked odd—like a glittering gob of moonlight dipped in raspberry jam—but she’d been hungover and ravenous and assumed the innkeeper was just very into poultry aesthetics. It wasn’t until her spoon clinked against the shell and the entire thing wobbled, chirped, and hatched with a dramatic “ta-da” puff of flower-scented smoke that Elira finally dropped her spoon and screamed like someone who had found a lizard in their latte. The creature that emerged was absurd. A sassy marshmallow with legs. Its body was covered in soft, iridescent scales that shimmered from cream to plum to fuchsia depending on how dramatically it tilted its head. Which it did often, and always with the bored grace of a woodland diva who knows you’re not paying enough attention to its tragic cuteness. “Oh, no. Nope. Absolutely not,” Elira said, backing away from the table. “Whatever this is, I didn’t sign up for it.” The dragon blinked its disproportionately large eyes—glittering oceans with lashes so thick they could swat away existential crises—and made a pitiful squeak. Then it flopped dramatically into her toast and made a show of dying from neglect. “You manipulative little mushroom,” Elira muttered, scooping it off her plate before it soaked up all the jam. “You’re lucky I’m emotionally starved and weirdly susceptible to cute things.” That was Day One. By Day Two, it had claimed her satchel, named itself “Pip,” and emotionally blackmailed half the village into feeding it strawberries dipped in honey and affection. On Day Three, it started glowing. Literally. “You can’t just glimmer like that!” she hissed, trying to shove Pip under her cloak as they passed through the Moonpetal Market. “This is supposed to be low-profile. Incognito.” Pip, nestled in her hood, blinked up with the deadpan stare of a creature who had already filed a complaint with the universe about how loud her boots were. Then he glimmered harder, brighter, practically sending sunbeams out of his nose. “You little spotlight, I swear—” “Oh my gods!” cried a woman at a jewelry stall. “Is that a dracling?” Pip chirped smugly. Elira ran. The next time they hid out, it was in an overgrown grove so thick with pink foliage and lazily swirling pollen, it looked like a perfume ad for woodland nymphs. It was there—deep in the heart of that glimmering bower—that Pip curled up beside a mushroom, sighed like a toddler who’d just manipulated their parent into a pony, and gave her the look. “What?” she asked, arms crossed. “I’m not adopting you. You’re just tagging along because the alternative is being dissected by weird scholars.” Pip pressed a paw to his heart and fake-wept. A nearby butterfly passed out from emotional exposure. Elira groaned. “Fine. But no peeing on my boots, no catching fire indoors, and absolutely no singing.” He winked. And thus began the most gloriously inconvenient relationship of her life. Puberty and Pyromancy Are Basically the Same Thing Life with Pip was an exercise in boundaries, all of which he ignored with the reckless abandon of a toddler on espresso. By the second week, Elira had learned several painful truths: dragons molt (disgustingly), they hoard shiny things (including, unfortunately, live bees), and they cry in a pitch so high it makes your brain do origami. He also bit things when startled—including her left butt cheek once, which was not how she envisioned her noble destiny unfolding. But she couldn’t deny it: there was something kind of... magical about him. Not in the expected “oh wow he breathes fire” way, but in the “he knows when I’m crying even if I’m three trees away and hiding it like a champ” way. In the “he brings me moss hearts on bad days” way. In the “I woke up from a nightmare and he was already glaring at the darkness like he could bite it into submission” way. Which made it really hard to be rational about what came next. Puberty. Or, as she came to know it: the Fourteen Days of Magical Hellscapes. It started with a sneeze. A tiny one. Adorable, really. Pip had been napping in her cloak, curled like a cinnamon roll with wings, when he woke up, sniffled, and sneezed—unleashing a full-blown shockwave that incinerated her bedroll, two nearby bushes, and one perfectly innocent songbird that had been mid-aria. It reappeared ten minutes later, singed but melodically committed, and flipped him the feather. “We’re going to die,” Elira said calmly, ash in her eyebrows. Over the next week, Pip did the following: Set fire to their soup. From inside his mouth. While trying to taste it. Flew for the first time. Into a tree. Which he then tried to sue for assault. Discovered that tail flicks could be weaponized emotionally and physically. Shrieked for four hours straight after she called him “my spark nugget” in front of a handsome potion courier. But worst of all—the horror—was when he started talking. Not in words at first. Just humming noises and emotional squeaks. Then came gestures. Dramatic head flops. Pointed sighs. And then... words. “Elri. Elriya. You... you... potato queen,” he said on day twelve, puffing his chest with pride. “Excuse me?” “You smell like... thunder cheese. But heart good.” “Well, thank you for that emotionally confusing statement.” “I bite people who look at you too long. Is love?” “Oh gods.” “I love Elriya. But also love sticks. And cheese. And murder.” “You are a confusing little gremlin,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-crying as he curled into her lap. That night, she couldn't sleep. Not from fear or Pip-induced anxiety (for once), but because something had shifted. There was a connection between them now—more than instinct, more than survival. Pip had tangled his little dragon soul into hers, and the damn thing fit. It terrified her. She’d spent years alone on purpose. Being needed, being wanted—those were foreign currencies, expensive and risky. But this pink, glowing, emotionally manipulative salamander with opinions about soup was cracking her open like a fire-blossom seed in summer. So she ran. At dawn, with Pip asleep under her scarf, Elira scribbled a note on a leaf with a coal nub and snuck off. She didn’t go far—just to the edge of the grove, just enough to breathe without feeling the soft weight of his trust on her ribs. By noon, she’d cried twice, punched a tree, and eaten half a loaf of resentment bread. She missed him like she’d grown an extra limb that screamed when he wasn’t nearby. She returned just after sunset. Pip was gone. Her scarf lay in the grass like a surrendered flag. Next to it, three moss hearts and a single, tiny note scrawled in charcoal on a flat stone. Elriya go. Pip not chase. Pip wait. If love... come back. She sat down so fast her knees cracked. The stone burned in her palm. It was the most mature thing he’d ever done. She found him the next morning. He’d nested in the crook of a willow tree, surrounded by shiny twigs, abandoned buttons, and the broken dreams of seventeen butterflies who couldn’t emotionally handle his brooding energy. “You’re such a little drama beast,” she whispered, scooping him up. He just snuggled under her chin and whispered, “Thunder cheese,” with tearful sincerity. “Yeah,” she sighed, stroking his wing. “I missed you too.” Later that night, as they curled in the soft glow of the grove’s pulsing flowers, Elira realized something. She didn’t care that he was a dragon. Or a magical miracle. Or a flammable cryptid toddler with abandonment issues and a superiority complex. He was hers. And she was his. And that was enough to start a legend. Of Forest Gods and Flaming Feelings The thing no one tells you about raising a magical creature is that eventually… someone comes to collect. They arrived with cloaks of starlight and egos the size of royal dining halls. The Conclave of Eldritch Preservation—an aggressively titled group of magic academics with too many vowels in their names—descended upon the grove with scrolls, sigils, and smugness. “We sensed a breach,” intoned a particularly sparkly wizard who smelled like patchouli and judgment. “A draconic resurgence. It is our sworn duty to protect and contain such phenomena.” Elira folded her arms. “Funny. Because Pip doesn’t seem like a phenomenon to me. More like a sassy, stubborn, pants-biting family member with an overdeveloped sense of justice and an underdeveloped understanding of doors.” Pip, hiding behind her legs, peeked out and burped up a fire-spark shaped like a middle finger. It hovered, wobbled, and winked out with a defiant pop. “He is dangerous,” the wizard snarled. “So is heartbreak,” Elira replied. “And you don’t see me locking that in a tower.” They weren’t interested in nuance. They brought binding chains, glowing cages, and a spell orb shaped like a smug pearl. Pip hissed when they approached, his wings flaring into delicate arcs of light. Elira stood between them, sword out, magic crackling up her arms like static betrayal. “I will not give him up,” she growled. “You will not survive this,” the lead wizard said. “You clearly haven’t seen me before coffee.” Then Pip exploded. Not literally. More like... metaphysically. One second, he was a slightly-too-round sparkle-lizard with a tendency to knock over soup pots. The next, he became light. Not glowing. Not shimmering. Full-on, celestial, punch-you-in-the-eyes light. The grove pulsed. Leaves lifted in slow-motion spirals. The trees bent in reverence. Even the smug wizards backed the hell up as Pip—now floating three feet off the ground with his wings made of starlight fractals and his eyes aglow with a thousand firefly dawns—spoke. “I am not yours to collect,” he said. “I was born of flame and choice. She chose me.” “She is unqualified,” a mage blurted, clutching his scroll like a security blanket. “She fed me when I was too small to bite. She loved me when I was inconvenient. She stayed. That makes her everything.” Elira, for once in her entire life, was speechless. Pip landed softly beside her and nudged her shin with his now-radiantly adorable snout. “Elriya mine. I bite those who try to change that.” “Damn right,” she whispered, eyes wet. “You brilliant, flaming little emotional grenade.” The Conclave left. Whether by fear, awe, or simple exhaustion from being out-sassed by a dragon the size of a decorative pillow, they retreated with a promise to “monitor from afar” and “file an incident report.” Pip peed on their sigil stone for good measure. In the weeks that followed, something inside Elira changed. Not in the sparkly, Disney-montage way. She still cursed too much, had zero patience, and over-salted her stew. But she was... open. Softer in strange places. Sometimes she caught herself humming when Pip slept on her chest. Sometimes she didn’t flinch when people got too close. And Pip grew. Slowly, but surely. Wings stronger. Spines sharper. Vocabulary increasingly weird. “You are best friend,” he told her one night under a sky littered with moons. “And noodle mind. But heart-massive.” “Thanks?” He licked her nose. “I stay. Always. Even when old. Even when fire big. Even when you scream at soup for not being soup enough.” She buried her face in his side and laughed until she sobbed. Because he meant it. Because somehow, in a world that tried so hard to be cold, she’d found something incandescent. Not perfect. Not polished. Just... pure. And in the heart of the grove, surrounded by blossoms and moonbeams and an emotionally unstable dragon who would maul anyone who disrespected her boots, Elira finally allowed herself to believe: Love, real love—the bratty, explosive, thunder-cheese kind—might just be the oldest kind of magic.     Bring Pip Home: If this spark-scaled mischief-maker stole your heart too, you're not alone. You can keep a piece of "A Glimmer in the Grove" close—whether it’s by adding a touch of magic to your walls or sending someone a dragon-blessed greeting. Explore the acrylic print for a brilliant, glass-like display of our sassy hatchling, or choose a framed print to elevate your space with fantasy and warmth. For a touch of whimsy in everyday life, there's a greeting card perfect for dragon-loving friends—or even a bath towel that makes post-shower snuggles feel a little more legendary. Pip insists he looks best in high-resolution.

by Bill Tiepelman

Tiny Roars & Rising Embers

Of Smoke Rings and Sass-Fueled Friendships Once upon a high-ass noon in the middle of a nowhere-meadow that smelled suspiciously of toasted daisies and regret, a baby phoenix crash-landed face-first into a clump of thistle. She sizzled like a marshmallow on the Fourth of July and let out a squeal that could de-feather a vulture. "Bloody ash biscuits!" she screeched, flapping her half-baked wings and shaking off what looked like scorched pollen. She was not having a glamorous rebirth moment. She was having a full-on existential molt in public. From behind a bush that had clearly seen better landscaping choices, came a snorting giggle. A baby dragon—stubby, soot-covered, and already reeking of questionable decision-making—rolled out, clutching his scaly belly. "Did the fire goddess forget the landing instructions again, Hot Stuff?" he burped, releasing a small puff of smoke in the shape of a middle finger. His name was Gorp. Short for Gorpelthrax the Devourer, which was hilarious considering he had the intimidation level of a fart in church. "Oh, good. A heckle-lizard with acne and no wings. Tell me, Gorp, do all the dragonettes in your nest smell like burnt meat and shame?" snapped the phoenix, whose name, for reasons she refused to explain, was Charlene. Just Charlene. She claimed it was exotic. Like citrus. Or cologne sold in gas stations. Charlene stood up, did a dramatic shake that flung embers everywhere (and mildly threatened a butterfly), and strutted over with the wobbly arrogance of a half-baked diva. "If I wanted unsolicited roasting, I’d visit my Aunt Salmora. She's a salamander with two exes and a grudge." Gorp grinned. "You’re feisty. I like that in a flammable friend." The two stared at each other with mutual disgust and budding affection—the kind of confused, 'I’m not sure if I want to fight you or braid your hair' energy that only magical misfits can muster. And as the warm summer breeze blew across the meadow, carrying the scent of charred grass and destiny, the first cracks of a weird, wild friendship began to take hold. “So,” Charlene said, fluffing her tail feathers, “you just hang around in flower fields puffing smoke rings and judging firebirds?” “Nah,” Gorp replied, picking a ladybug off his tongue. “Usually I hunt squirrels and emotionally damage frogs. This is just my brunch spot.” Charlene smirked. “Fabulous. Let’s make it our war room.” And with that, the phoenix and the dragon plopped down among the blooms, already planning whatever nonsense would come next—completely unaware they’d just signed up for a week of stolen cheese, pant-stealing raccoons, and that one centaur orgy they’d rather not talk about. Yet. The Cheese Heist, The Centaur Cult, and the Pants That Weren’t The following morning arrived with all the grace of a hungover satyr trying to do yoga. The sun bled into the sky like overripe marmalade, and Charlene’s feathers were extra frizzy—possibly from the dew, but more likely from dreams involving a singing cauldron and a flirtatious gnome with a beard that wouldn't quit. “We need a quest,” she declared, stretching her wings and accidentally setting a passing grasshopper on fire. Gorp, chewing on a half-melted pinecone, squinted up from his supine position in a patch of mint. “What we need is brunch. Preferably with cheese. Maybe pants.” Charlene blinked. “What in the name of Merlin’s flaming foot fungus does cheese have to do with pants?” “Everything,” Gorp said, entirely too seriously. “Everything.” And that’s how it began: a mission forged in nonsense, fueled by lactose-based cravings and a mutual inability to say no to chaos. According to the local buzzard—Steve, who freelanced as a gossip columnist—they’d find the best cheese stash this side of the fire mountains in the abandoned cellars of a former centaur monastery turned nudist spa retreat. Obviously. “It’s called Saddlehorn,” Steve had hissed, eyes gleaming. “But don’t ask questions. Just bring me a wheel of the triple-aged smoulder-gouda and we’ll call it even.” “You want us to rob a cult of centaur cheese monks?” Charlene asked, mildly offended that she hadn’t thought of it first. “They’re not monks anymore,” Steve clarified. “Now they just chant affirmations and oil each other’s thighs. It’s evolved.” Their journey to Saddlehorn took approximately four fart breaks, two detours caused by Charlene’s crippling fear of hedgehogs (“They’re just pinecones with eyes, Gorp!”), and one awkward moment involving a cursed toadstool that whispered tax advice. By the time they reached the spa, the meadow behind them looked like it had been trampled by a caffeine-fueled behemoth with commitment issues. Charlene was ready for blood. Gorp was ready for cheese. Neither was ready for what awaited beyond the hedgerow. Saddlehorn was...not what they expected. Picture a sprawling estate made of polished wood, gentle waterfalls, and lavender-scented steam. Picture also: thirty-seven shirtless centaurs doing synchronized yoga while whispering “I am enough” in haunting unison. Gorp immediately tried to inhale his own head in embarrassment. “Oh gods, they’re hot,” he whispered, voice cracking like a bad omelet. Charlene, on the other hand, had never been hornier—or more confused. “Focus,” she hissed. “We’re here for the gouda, not the glutes.” They snuck in through a laundry basket of loincloths—Charlene lighting one accidentally on fire and blaming “ambient heat energy”—and slithered (well, waddled) down to the cellar. The smell hit them first: pungent, aged, slightly sexy. Rows upon rows of enchanted cheese wheels glowed softly in the dim light, radiating buttery power. “Sweet mother of melty miracles,” Gorp breathed. “We could build a life here.” But fate, as always, is a smirking bastard. Just as Charlene jammed a gouda wheel into her tailfeathers, a loud neigh erupted behind them. There stood Brother Chadwick of the Inner Thigh Circle—head oilist, chief cheese guardian, and possibly a Sagittarius. “Who dares desecrate the holy dairy sanctum?” he thundered, flexing in slow motion for dramatic effect. “Hi, yes, hello,” Charlene said, smiling with the confidence of someone who’d set fire to every escape route already. “I’m Brenda and this is my emotional support lizard. We’re on a cheese pilgrimage.” Brother Chadwick blinked. “Brenda?” “Yes. Brenda the Eternal. Holder of the Feta Flame.” There was a tense silence. Then—bless the idiot universe—Gorp burped smoke in the shape of a cheese wedge. That was enough. “They are the Chosen!” someone yelled. In the next 48 minutes, Charlene and Gorp were crowned honorary lactose priests, treated to an awkward massage ceremony, and allowed to leave with a ceremonial cheese wheel of destiny (triple-aged, smoked with elderberry ash, and cursed to scream the word “BUTTERFACE” once a week). As they waddled back to their meadow—Charlene with a tail full of smuggled curd, Gorp licking what may or may not have been goat sweat from his claws—they agreed it had been their best brunch yet. “We make a damn good team,” Charlene murmured. “Yeah,” Gorp said, snuggling the cheese. “You’re the best fire hazard I’ve ever met.” And somewhere in the distance, Steve the buzzard wept tears of joy... and cholesterol. Of Raccoon Politics, Firestorms, and the Feral Thing Called Friendship Back in the meadow, things had gotten... complicated. Charlene and Gorp’s return from their cheesy spiritual journey had not gone unnoticed. Word had spread, as it tends to in magical circles, and within days their meadow had turned into a pilgrimage site for every half-baked forest nutjob with a bone to bless or a toe fungus to cure. There were druids meditating in Gorp’s favorite fart puddle. Fauns composing lute ballads about “The Gouda and the Glory.” At least one unicorn attempted to huff Charlene’s tail for “sacred combustion vibes.” “We need to leave,” Charlene said, eye twitching, as she kicked a bard out of her nest for the third time that morning. “We need to RULE,” Gorp replied, now fully reclined in a hammock made from elf-hair and dreams, wearing a crown made of daisy chains and cheese rinds. “We’re legends now. Like Bigfoot, but hotter.” Charlene narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even wear pants, Gorp.” “Legends don’t need pants.” But before Charlene could light him on fire for the twelfth time that week, a rustle in the underbrush interrupted their bickering. Out popped a delegation of raccoons—six strong, each wearing tiny monocles, and the one in front wielding a scroll made of birch bark and passive-aggression. “Greetings, Firebird and Flatulent One,” the lead raccoon said, voice like wet gravel. “We represent the local Council of Dumpster Sovereignty. You’ve disrupted the ecological and political balance of the meadow, and we’re here to file a formal grievance.” Charlene blinked. Gorp farted nervously. “Your reckless cheese heist,” the raccoon continued, “has created a black market for dairy. Ferrets are rioting. Hedgehogs are hoarding gouda. And the goblin economy has completely collapsed. We demand reparations.” Charlene slowly turned to Gorp. “Did you—did you sell cheese on the black market?” “Define sell,” Gorp said, sweating. “Define black. Define market.” What followed was a montage of chaos, possibly set to banjo music and moonlight screams. The raccoons declared martial law. Charlene incinerated a wheel of brie in protest. Gorp accidentally summoned a cheese elemental named Craig who would only speak in puns and had violent opinions about cheddar purity. The climax hit when Charlene, cornered by raccoon enforcers, let out a scream so powerful it ignited half the sky. Feathers blazing, she soared into the air—her first real flight since the meadow crash—and dove like a comet into the horde, scattering rodents and flaming scrolls in all directions. Gorp, seeing her explode with rage and beauty and possibly hormones, did the only logical thing. He roared. A real roar. Not a sneeze-fart combo. A deep, ancient, dragon-born, bowel-rattling roar that split a tree, scared a skunk into therapy, and echoed through the hills like a declaration of sass-fueled war. The battle was short, smelly, and slightly erotic. When the dust cleared, the meadow was a wreck, Craig the Cheese Elemental had exploded into fondue, and the raccoons were holding a silent vigil for their fallen monocles. Charlene and Gorp collapsed in the wreckage, covered in soot, feathers, and at least three kinds of gouda. “That,” Gorp wheezed, “was the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” Charlene laughed so hard she snorted fire. “You finally roared.” “Yeah. For you.” There was a long pause. Somewhere in the distance, a confused squirrel tried to hump a pinecone. Life was returning to normal. “You’re the worst friend I’ve ever had,” Charlene said. “Same,” Gorp replied, grinning. They lay in silence, watching the stars bleed into the sky. No cheese. No cults. Just fire and friendship. And maybe—just maybe—the beginning of something even dumber. “So…” Charlene said at last, “what’s next?” Gorp shrugged. “Wanna go steal a wizard’s bathtub?” Charlene smiled. “Hell yes.”     Bring a little chaos, charm, and cheese-fueled myth into your world! Immortalize the legendary saga of Charlene and Gorp with stunning art collectibles like this metal print that gleams with phoenix-level shine, or an acrylic print that brings out every sass-drenched feather and fart-lit flame. Feeling bold? Try puzzling together their epic cheese heist in this jigsaw puzzle—a perfect gift for people who enjoy mythical disasters and raccoon uprisings. Or set the mood for your own magical meadow with an art tapestry worthy of a centaur cult spa. Gorp-approved. Charlene-blessed. Possibly enchanted. Probably flammable.

by Bill Tiepelman

Tiny But Ticked Off

The Stump Situation In the middle of the Bellowing Pinewood, just past the grumpy willow who swore at birds and before the mossy rock that looked suspiciously like your ex, sat a tree stump. Not just any stump — this one smoldered with attitude. Burnt at the edges from a spell gone wrong (or right, depending on which witch you asked), and surrounded by crisp, curled autumn leaves, it had become something of a local attraction. Not for the stump itself, mind you. No one really cared about a stump, even a slightly singed one. What drew the gawkers, the gaspers, and the not-so-subtle sketch artists was the baby dragon squatting right atop it. About the size of a corgi, but far more judgmental, he was a glimmering puff of sapphire scale, spiked tail, and chronic side-eye. His name — and don’t you dare laugh — was Crispin T. Blort. The "T" stood for "Terror," though some claimed it stood for "Tiramisu" after a naming mishap involving dessert and ale. Either way, the point is: Crispin was, without question, over it. He was over the elves who kept stopping by to “boop his snoot.” Over the halfling bards who wrote odes about his “cutie-wittle fireballs.” And he was especially over the traveling influencers who draped him in flower crowns for their “Forest Core” TikToks. He was a DRAGON, not some enchanted handbag! “Touch me again and I will flambé your kneecaps,” he warned one morning, his voice somehow managing to sound both adorable and deeply menacing. A chipmunk froze mid-acorn heist and passed out from sheer intimidation. Or possibly from the fumes — Crispin had roasted a mushroom omelet earlier and, well, let’s just say eggs plus sulfur equals atmosphere. Despite his size, Crispin knew he was destined for greatness. He had dreams. Ambitions. A five-year plan that involved treasure, domination, and a personal assistant who wasn’t afraid of talons. But for now, he was stuck defending a tree stump in the middle of nowhere from well-meaning tourists and enchanted squirrels. One particularly brisk morning, as the leaves performed synchronized dives off their branches, Crispin awoke to the sound of giggling. Not the innocent kind. No, this was the unmistakable snicker of someone about to do something profoundly stupid. Slowly, eyes still half-lidded with disdain, he turned his head toward the noise. Two gnomes. One holding a cup of glitter. The other holding... was that a tutu? Crispin’s eyes glowed a little brighter. His tail twitched. His smirk spread like a gossiping gremlin across his face. “Oh,” he purred, cracking his knuckles (claws? knucklaws?), “You really want to do this today.” And that, dear reader, was the last moment of peace the Pinewood would know for a long, long time. Gnomes, Glitter, and Gratuitous Gloating “Wait, is he smiling?” whispered the smaller gnome, Fizzlestump, who held the glitter. His friend, Thimblewhack, clutched the pink tutu like it was the Holy Grail of humiliation. They had come prepared. They had rehearsed their lines. They had even brought enchanted oat bars as peace offerings. What they had not anticipated was that the tiny dragon on the stump — despite his adorable widdle size — would smirk like a Vegas blackjack dealer about to wreck your rent money. “Go on,” Crispin said, stretching languidly, wings flaring open just enough to send a flurry of dry leaves cascading into the gnomes’ faces. “Put the tutu on me. Do it. I double dare you, Fizzle-whatever.” Fizzlestump blinked. “H-how did he know my name?” “I know everything,” Crispin purred. “Like the fact you still sleep with a teddy bear named ‘Colonel Snugglenuts’ and that your cousin tried to marry a turnip last Midsummer.” Thimblewhack dropped the tutu. “Let me be clear,” Crispin continued, rising slowly, smoke curling from his nostrils like the world's sassiest incense. “You don’t glitter a dragon. Not unless you want to fart sparkles for the rest of your life and smell like regret mixed with elderflower shampoo.” “But it’s for charity,” Fizzlestump squeaked. “I am a charity,” Crispin snapped. “I’m charitable enough not to incinerate your shoe collection, which I assume consists entirely of orthopedic clogs and one suspiciously sexy leather boot.” With a single flap of his wings — more for dramatic effect than necessity — Crispin vaulted off the stump and landed between the two gnomes. They shrieked in harmony, clutching each other like protagonists in a poorly rated romantic comedy. “Let me show you something,” Crispin said, dragging a claw through the dirt like he was about to explain battle strategy to a pair of sentient beets. “This is my domain. This stump? Mine. That patch of moss that smells weird when it rains? Also mine. And that tree over there — the one shaped like a middle finger? Yeah. Named it after my mood.” Fizzlestump and Thimblewhack, both shaking like leaf salad in a wind tunnel, nodded rapidly. “Now. I have a very simple philosophy,” Crispin continued, walking slow circles around them like a furry blue shark with questionable ethics. “You glitter me, I gaslight you. You tutu me, I torch your topiary garden. You call me ‘snuggles,’ and I send a strongly worded letter to the Department of Hex Enforcement listing all your browser history.” Fizzlestump collapsed. Thimblewhack soiled himself just a little — barely noticeable, really. “BUT,” Crispin said, now lounging dramatically on his own tail like an actor awaiting applause, “I’m willing to forgive. I believe in second chances. I believe in redemption. And I believe — deeply, truly — in community service.” “Oh, thank the stars,” Thimblewhack gasped. “So here’s what’s going to happen,” Crispin said, claws tapping like the world's sassiest metronome. “You two are going to go into the village square. You’re going to gather a crowd. And you’re going to perform an interpretive dance titled 'The Audacity of Gnome'. There will be props. There will be glitter. And there will be musical accompaniment provided by my new friend, Gary the Screaming Possum.” Gary, who had wandered up during the drama, let out a blood-curdling shriek that sounded like a banshee trying to sing disco. The gnomes whimpered. “And if you refuse,” Crispin added with a grin wide enough to scare thunder, “I will sneeze directly into your facial hair. Which, as we all know, is magically bound to your reputation.” Fizzlestump started crying softly. “Good talk,” Crispin said, patting each of them lightly with the kind of sarcastic affection normally reserved for passive-aggressive HR meetings. “Now run along. You’ve got jazz hands to prepare.” As the gnomes scurried off in a blur of shame and glitter, Crispin flopped back on his stump, tail curling contentedly around his claws. The forest quieted again — even the wind paused, unsure whether to laugh or bow. From the branches above, a wise old owl shook its head. “You’re going to start a war, you know.” Crispin didn't even look up. “Good. I’ll bring the marshmallows.” And somewhere, deep in the enchanted foliage, the ancient magic of Pinewood stirred... sensing that a storm — or at least a really dramatic talent show — was on its way. Smoke, Sparkles, and the Smug Awakening The gnome performance hit Pinewood like a glam-rock meteor. Villagers gathered in the square expecting a harvest festival, only to be greeted by two quivering gnomes in sequined lederhosen performing what could only be described as a fever dream choreographed by a glitter-obsessed banshee with ADHD. Gary the Screaming Possum provided an audio experience that defied mortal language and possibly several sound ordinances. The highlight of the show — apart from the moment Fizzlestump was catapulted out of a papier-mâché mushroom cannon — was Thimblewhack’s solo interpretive wriggle entitled "We Should Not Have Mocked the Dragon." The villagers were too baffled to interrupt. Several fainted. One old centaur declared it a religious experience and renounced pants forever. Crispin, watching from atop a magical scrying puddle in his stump lair, dabbed the corner of his eye with a leaf. “Art,” he whispered. “This is what happens when petty vengeance meets interpretive jazz.” And while most thought the affair would be forgotten within a fortnight, Pinewood had other plans. The performance awakened something. Not a literal ancient evil — that was still sealed under the tavern, snoring softly — but a cultural ripple. The villagers were inspired. Inter-species dance competitions were scheduled. Glitter sales skyrocketed. The mayor declared every Thursday henceforth as “Dramatic Justice Day.” The town slogan was updated to: “We Don’t Tutu Dragons, We Embrace Them.” For the first time in generations, Pinewood wasn’t just a sleepy nook on the edge of the realm. It was the place. Trendy. Infused with chaotic joy. The kind of town where gnomes, goblins, and gremlins could coexist in collective weirdness. Crispin didn’t just start a movement — he incinerated the rulebook and replaced it with glitter, sass, and bite-sized revolution. Of course, not all were thrilled. The Woodland Purity League (founded by a cranky dryad who thought moss was a personality trait) tried to stage a protest. It ended poorly when Crispin challenged their leader to a rap battle and dropped bars so fiery a pinecone caught fire mid-rhyme. Meanwhile, Crispin found his fame had perks. Offers rolled in. Royalty requested fire lessons. Artists asked to paint his “angriest pose.” Someone sent him a golden chaise lounge. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he burned it. For ambiance. But even with rising notoriety, Crispin stayed true to his stump. “I’m not leaving,” he told a journalist from the Enchanted Times, sipping a marshmallow-laced cappuccino from a goblet. “This is ground zero for the snarkquake. Also, my tail looks amazing in this light.” He’d built a following. Cultivated a vibe. Influenced a town and possibly a small demigod who now insisted on wearing bedazzled capes. His legend — like his wings — kept growing. One dusk, as dragonkind began whispering of him in hushed tones (mostly “How is that smug lizard getting more fan mail than the Great Wyrm of Nork?”), Crispin lay curled on his stump, tail swishing, eyes glinting in the molten sunset. “I did good,” he murmured. A hedgehog rolled by with a bouquet and a letter of admiration from a fan club called “Scalies for Sass.” He accepted it with a nod and immediately set it on fire. For branding. And just as he began to drift into sleep, a breeze carried distant words through the forest: “...is that the dragon who made the gnomes dance and punched a unicorn in the feelings?” Crispin smiled. Not just any smile. The smile. That smug, bratty, glimmering grin that had launched a thousand awkward dance routines and at least three poetry slams. “Yes,” he whispered to the wind, glowing faintly in the evening haze. “I am.” And somewhere in the swirling gold of twilight, a new legend was born — of the tiny dragon on the stump who conquered an entire village, one sarcastic smirk at a time.     Bring Crispin Home (Without Getting Singed) If you’ve fallen in love with Crispin’s bratty brilliance and scaly sarcasm, you don’t have to journey into the Pinewood to see him again. Whether you want a daily dose of sass on your wall, your couch, or even in your stationery stack, we’ve captured his most iconic pose — tail curled, eyes glowing, attitude at 110% — in a collection of “Tiny But Ticked Off” gifts and prints. Canvas Print: Let Crispin’s glorious scaly mug take center stage on your wall. Perfect for spaces that need a little fire — or a lot of personality. Own the canvas here. Framed Print: Make it official. Put a frame on that smirk and let the world know your décor has bite. Frame your fire here. Greeting Card: Know someone who needs a little dragon energy? Send them sass in a stampable format. Send the smirk here. Spiral Notebook: Plot your revenge, doodle snarky dragons, or just write your grocery list like a boss. Get yours here. Fleece Blanket: Wrap yourself in mischief and fluff with this ridiculously soft throw featuring everyone’s favorite infernal gremlin. Snuggle the sass here. Crispin doesn’t bite — much. But his products? They slap. 🔥

by Bill Tiepelman

My Dragon Bestie

How to Accidentally Befriend a Fire Hazard Everyone knows toddlers have a knack for chaos. Sticky fingers, permanent marker tattoos on the dog, mysterious stains that science has yet to classify — it’s all part of their magic. But no one warned Ellie and Mark that their son Max, age two and a half and already proficient in diplomacy by fruit snack barter, would bring home a dragon. “It’s probably a lizard,” Mark had muttered when Max toddled in from the backyard cradling something green and suspiciously scaly. “A big, weird-eyed lizard. Like, emotionally unstable gecko weird.” But lizards, as a rule, do not belch smoke rings the size of frisbees when they burp. Nor do they respond to the name “Snuggleflame,” which Max insisted upon with the determined fury of a child who’s missed his nap. And certainly no lizard has ever attempted to toast a grilled cheese with its nostrils. The dragon — because that’s what it undeniably was — stood about knee-high with chunky feet, chubby cheeks, and the sort of wings that looked decorative until they weren’t. Its expression was equal parts devilish and delighted, like it knew a thousand secrets and none of them involved nap time. Max and Snuggleflame became inseparable within hours. They shared snacks (Max’s), secrets (mostly babbled gibberish), and bath time (a questionable decision). At night, the dragon curled around Max’s toddler bed like a living plush toy, radiating warmth and purring like a chainsaw on Xanax. Of course, Ellie and Mark tried to be rational about it. “It’s probably a metaphor,” Ellie suggested, sipping wine and watching their child cuddle a creature capable of combustion. “Like an emotional support hallucination. Freud would have loved this.” “Freud didn’t live in a ranch house with flammable drapes,” Mark replied, ducking as Snuggleflame sneezed a puff of glittery soot toward the ceiling fan. They called Animal Control. Animal Control politely suggested Animal Exorcism. They called the pediatrician. The pediatrician offered a therapist. The therapist asked if the dragon was billing under Max’s name or as a dependent. So they gave up. Because the dragon wasn’t going anywhere. And to be honest, after Snuggleflame roasted the neighbor’s leaf pile into the most efficient compost bin the HOA had ever seen, things got easier. Even the dog had stopped hiding in the washing machine. Mostly. But then, just as life started to feel bizarrely normal — Max drawing crayon murals of "Dragonopolis", Ellie fireproofing the furniture, Mark learning to say “Don't flame that” like it was a regular household rule — something changed. Snuggleflame’s eyes got wider. His wings got stretchier. And one morning, with a sound somewhere between a kazoo and a wind tunnel, he looked at Max, belched out a compass, and said — in perfect toddler-accented English — “We has to go home now.” Max blinked. “You mean my room?” The dragon grinned, fanged and wild. “Nope. Dragonland.” Ellie dropped her coffee mug. Mark cursed so hard the baby monitor censored him. Max? He simply smiled, eyes shining with the unshakable faith of a child whose best friend just turned into a mythical Uber. And that, dear reader, is how a suburban family accidentally agreed to a magical relocation clause… led by a dragon and a preschooler in Velcro shoes. To be continued in Part Two: “The TSA Does Not Approve of Dragons” The TSA Does Not Approve of Dragons Ellie hadn’t flown since Max was born. She remembered airports as stressful, overpriced food courts with occasional opportunities to be strip-searched by someone named Doug. But nothing — and I mean nothing — prepares you for trying to check a fire-breathing emotional support lizard through security. “Is that… an animal?” the TSA agent asked, in the same tone one might use for discovering a ferret operating a forklift. Her badge read “Karen B.” and her emotional aura screamed “no nonsense, no dragons, not today.” “He’s more of a plus-one,” Ellie said. “He breathes fire, but he doesn’t vape, if that helps.” Snuggleflame, for his part, was wearing Max’s old hoodie and a pair of aviator sunglasses. It did not help. He also carried a satchel with snacks, three crayons, a plastic tiara, and a glowing orb that had started whispering in Latin sometime around the baggage check. “He’s house-trained,” Max chimed in, proudly. “He only toasts things on purpose now.” Mark, who had been silently calculating how many times they could be banned from federal airspace before it counted as a felony, handed over the dragon’s ‘passport.’ It was a laminated construction paper booklet titled OFFISHUL DRAGON ID with a crayon drawing of Snuggleflame smiling next to a stick figure family and the helpful note: I AINT MEAN. Somehow, whether by charm, chaos, or sheer clerical burnout, they got through. There were compromises. Snuggleflame had to ride in cargo. The orb was confiscated by a guy who swore it tried to "reveal his destiny." Max cried for ten minutes until Snuggleflame sent smoke signals through the air vents spelling “I OK.” They landed in Iceland. “Why Iceland?” Mark asked for the fifth time, rubbing his temples with the slow desperation of a man whose toddler had commandeered an ancient being and a boarding gate. “Because it’s the place where the veil between worlds is thinnest,” Ellie replied, reading from a brochure she found in the airport titled Dragons, Gnomes, and You: A Practical Guide to Fae-Proofing Your Backyard. “Also,” Max piped up, “Snuggleflame said the portal smells like marshmallows here.” That, apparently, was that. They checked into a small hostel in a village so picturesque it made Hallmark movies feel insecure. The townspeople were polite in the way that implied they’d seen weirder. No one even blinked when Snuggleflame roasted a whole salmon with a hiccup or when Max used a stick to draw magical glyphs in the frost. The dragon led them into the wilderness at dawn. The terrain was a rugged postcard of mossy hills, icy streams, and a sky that looked like a Nordic mood ring. They hiked for hours — Max carried by turns on Mark’s shoulders or floating slightly above ground courtesy of Snuggleflame’s "hover hugs." Finally, they reached it: a clearing with a stone arch carved with symbols that pulsed faintly. A ring of mushrooms marked the threshold. The air buzzed with a scent that was part cinnamon toast, part ozone, and part “you’re about to make a decision that rewires your life forever.” Snuggleflame turned solemn. “Once we go through… you might never come back. Not the same way. You sure, little buddy?” Max, without hesitation, said, “Only if Mommy and Daddy come too.” Ellie and Mark looked at each other. She shrugged. “You know what? Normal was overrated.” “My office just assigned me to a committee about optimizing spreadsheet color-coding. Let’s roll,” Mark said. With a deep, echoing whoosh, Snuggleflame reared up and breathed a ribbon of blue fire into the arch. The stones glowed. The mushrooms danced. The veil between worlds sighed like an overworked barista and opened. The family stepped through together, hand in claw in hand. They landed in Dragonland. Not a metaphor. Not a theme park. A place where the skies shimmered like soap bubbles on steroids and the trees had opinions. Everything sparkled — aggressively so. It was like Lisa Frank had binge-watched Game of Thrones while microdosing peyote and then built a kingdom. The inhabitants greeted Max as though he were royalty. Turns out, he kind of was. Through a series of absolutely legitimate dream-based contracts, prophecy pancakes, and interpretive dance rituals, Max had been appointed "The Snuggle-Chosen." A hero foretold to bring emotional maturity and sticker-based communication to an otherwise flame-obsessed society. Snuggleflame became a full-sized dragon within days. He was magnificent — sleek, winged, capable of lifting minivans, and still perfectly willing to let Max ride on his back wearing nothing but dinosaur pajamas and a bike helmet. Ellie opened a fireproof preschool. Mark started a podcast called "Corporate Survival for the Newly Magical." They built a cottage next to a talking creek that offered life advice in the form of passive-aggressive haikus. Things were weird. They were also perfect. And no one — not a single soul — ever said, “You’re being childish,” because in Dragonland, the childish ran the place. To be continued in Part Three: “Civic Responsibility and the Ethical Use of Dragon Farts” Civic Responsibility and the Ethical Use of Dragon Farts Life in Dragonland was never boring. In fact, it was never even quiet. Between Snuggleflame’s daily aerial dance routines (featuring synchronized spark sneezes) and the enchanted jellybean geyser behind the house, “peaceful” was something they left behind at the airport. Still, the family had settled into something resembling a routine. Max, now the de facto ambassador of Human-Toddler Relations, spent his mornings finger-painting treaties and leading compassion exercises for the dragon hatchlings. His leadership style could best be described as “chaotic benevolence with juice breaks.” Ellie ran a successful daycare for magical creatures with behavioral issues. The tagline: “We Hug First, Ask Questions Later.” She had mastered the art of calming down a tantruming gnome with a glow stick and learned exactly how many glitter-bombs it took to distract a tantrum-prone unicorn with boundary issues (three and a half). Mark, meanwhile, had been elected to the Dragonland Council under the “reluctantly competent human” clause. His campaign platform included phrases like “Let’s stop setting fire to the mail” and “Fiscal responsibility: it’s not just for wizards.” Against all odds, it worked. He now chaired the Committee on Ethical Flame Use, where he spent most of his time writing policy to prevent dragons from using their farts as tactical weather devices. “We had a drought last month,” Mark muttered at the kitchen table one morning, scribbling on a parchment. “And instead of summoning rain, Glork farted a cloud the size of Cleveland into existence. It snowed pickles, Ellie. For twelve hours.” “They were delicious, though,” Max chirped, chewing one casually like it was a normal Tuesday. Then came The Incident. One sunny morning, Max and Snuggleflame were doing their usual stunt flights over the Glitter Dunes when Max accidentally dropped his lunch — a peanut butter sandwich enchanted with a happiness charm. The sandwich fell directly onto the ceremonial altar of the Grumblebeards, a cranky race of lava goblins with sensitive noses and no sense of humor. They declared war. On whom, exactly, was unclear — the child, the sandwich, the very concept of joy — but war was declared nonetheless. The Dragonland Council convened an emergency summit. Mark put on his “serious” robe (which featured fewer bedazzled stars than the casual one), Ellie brought her crisis glitter, and Max… brought Snuggleflame. “We’ll negotiate,” said Mark. “We’ll dazzle them,” said Ellie. “We’ll weaponize cuteness,” said Max, his eyes practically sparkling with tactical whimsy. And so they did. After three hours of increasingly confusing diplomacy, several emotional monologues about peanut allergies, and a full toddler-led puppet show reenacting “How Sandwiches Are Made With Love,” the Grumblebeards agreed to a ceasefire… if Snuggleflame could fart a cloud shaped like their ancestral totem: a slightly melting lava cat named Shlorp. Snuggleflame, after three helpings of spicy moonberries and a dramatic tail stretch, delivered. The resulting cloud was magnificent. It purred. It glowed. It made fart sounds in four-part harmony. The Grumblebeards wept openly and handed over a peace contract written in crayon. Dragonland was saved. Max was promoted to Supreme Hugmaster of the Inter-Mythical Council. Ellie received the Glitterheart Medal for Emotional Conflict Resolution. Mark was finally allowed to install smoke detectors without being called a “buzzkill.” Years passed. Max grew. So did Snuggleflame — who now sported a monocle, a saddle, and an unshakeable fondness for dad jokes. They became living legends, flying between dimensions, solving magical disputes, spreading laughter, and occasionally dropping enchanted sandwiches onto unsuspecting picnic-goers. But every year, on the anniversary of The Incident, they returned home to that very same stone arch in Iceland. They’d share stories, toast marshmallows on Snuggleflame’s backdraft, and watch the skies together, wondering who else might need a little more magic… or a cuddle-powered ceasefire. And for anyone who asks if it really happened — the dragons, the portals, the diplomacy powered by hugs — Max has just one answer: “You ever seen a toddler lie about a dragon bestie with that much confidence? Didn’t think so.” The End. (Or maybe just the beginning.)     Take a Piece of Dragonland Home 🐉 If “My Dragon Bestie” made your inner child do a little happy dance (or snort-laugh into your coffee), you can bring that magical mischief into your real world! Whether you want to cozy up with a fleece blanket that’s as warm as Snuggleflame’s belly, or add some whimsical fire-breathing flair to your space with a metal print or framed wall art, we’ve got you covered. Send a smile (and maybe a giggle-snort) with a greeting card, or go big and bold with a storytelling centerpiece like our vibrant tapestry. Every item features the high-detail, whimsical world of “My Dragon Bestie” — a perfect way to bring fantasy, fun, and fireproof friendship into your home or to share with the dragon-lover in your life.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Petal's Little Protector

It was a night so muggy you could drink the air. Somewhere between midnight and whatever hour is reserved for bad decisions, the garden vibrated with the kind of life that most respectable creatures avoided. Crickets shouted unsolicited opinions. Moths made questionable life choices involving open flames. A possum waddled by with the kind of unbothered confidence that only comes from making peace with one’s own trashy destiny. And there, amid the chaos, reigning supreme on a lotus bud not even fully awake yet, was Pip. Pip: a creature of approximately eight ounces, three ounces of which were ego. A micro-dragon, a salamander dream gone technicolor — turquoise and gold and candy-apple red, shimmering like a toddler’s glitter accident. His frills fluttered dramatically in the nonexistent breeze. His tail, striped and twitchy, thumped the bud with the rhythmic impatience of a CEO stuck on hold. “Listen up, you soggy peasants,” Pip squeaked to absolutely no one. His voice carried the world-weary scorn of someone who had once been forced to attend a meeting that could’ve been an email. “This bloom is sacred. Saaaacred. I will destroy anyone who so much as breathes on her wrong.” He turned his head, slowly, menacingly, to glare at a confused beetle trundling by. The beetle paused, sensing the general vibe, and awkwardly reverse-walked into the nearest thicket. The lotus bud said nothing. If it had a face, it would have been wearing the strained smile of someone stuck next to a very drunk relative at a wedding reception. Pip didn’t care. He pressed his scaly cheek against her soft petals and sighed with the kind of tragic romance usually reserved for operatic heroines on their fourth glass of wine. “You’re perfect,” he whispered fiercely. “And this world is full of sweaty-fingered monsters who want to touch you. I won’t let them. Not even a little. Not even ironically.” Overhead, a disillusioned owl, bearing witness to this performance for the third night in a row, considered seeking therapy. Still, Pip remained vigilant. He flared his head fins every time a wayward breeze threatened to flutter the petals. He growled (adorably) at a toad who looked at the lotus with mild interest. When a moth had the audacity to land within a six-inch radius, Pip executed a flying tackle so dramatic it ended with him sprawled belly-up in the damp grass, legs kicking indignantly at the stars. He was back on the bud within seconds, polishing the flower with the inside of his elbow and muttering, “No one saw that. No one saw that.” Truth was, Pip had no official title. No magic spells. No real strength. But what he lacked in credentials, he made up for with boundless, unrelenting devotion. The kind that could only be born from believing, deep down, that even the most ridiculous, most mismatched protectors were still the right ones for the things they loved. And the lotus — she stayed silent and serene, trusting him completely, maybe even loving him back in her own slow, green way. Because sometimes, the universe didn’t choose champions based on size or power or grandeur. Sometimes, it chose the loudest, smallest brat with the biggest heart. The night dragged onward, a wet symphony of croaks, chirps, and far-off shrieks that no respectable citizen should ever investigate. Pip stayed rooted on the lotus, a hyper-vigilant blot of color in an otherwise sleepy world. His tiny heart thudded like a war drum against his ribs. His frills sagged slightly, damp with dew and exhaustion. And yet — he remained. Because evil never sleeps. And neither, apparently, did Pip. Just when he dared to blink, just when he permitted himself a victorious thought (“No one would dare challenge me now”), it happened — the catastrophe he’d been dreading. From the gloom emerged a hulking threat: a bullfrog. Fat. Warty. Oozing malevolence, or at least gas. It fixed its milky gaze on the lotus with the lazy hunger of a man contemplating a third slice of pie. Pip’s pupils narrowed to slits. This was it. The Boss Battle. He drew himself up to his full, mighty three inches of height. He arched his back, flared every fin he possessed (and one he may have invented out of sheer spite), and let loose the fiercest battle cry his little lungs could manage: “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” The frog blinked slowly, unimpressed. Pip threw himself bodily off the bud, all claws and noise, landing squarely between the lotus and the amphibious threat. He puffed, he hissed, he slapped the ground with his tail in a display so wildly unnecessary that the frog actually reconsidered its life choices. After a long, tense moment, the frog croaked once — a low, begrudging sound — and turned away. Pip remained frozen until the sounds of its retreat faded into the misty dark. Then, and only then, did Pip allow himself to collapse theatrically against the stem of the flower, panting like a marathoner who hadn’t trained. “You’re welcome, world,” he muttered, slapping one tiny hand dramatically against his forehead. The lotus said nothing, of course. Flowers are not known for effusive gratitude. But Pip could feel her appreciation, warm and slow and deep, wrapping around him like a hug no one else could see. He dragged himself back up onto the bud with great ceremony. He needed the world to know he was battered, bruised, and therefore desperately heroic. Once settled, he wrapped his limbs tight around the petals and buried his snout against her soft surface. In the distance, the owl — now lying prone on a branch from sheer secondhand exhaustion — offered a slow, sarcastic clap with one wing against the other. And the garden? It kept on living its messy, ridiculous life. Crickets hollered. Beetles clattered. Somewhere, something squelched ominously. But none of it could touch the lotus. Not while Pip stood (well, laid) guard. Because no matter how small, no matter how silly, the bond between protector and protected was unbreakable. No monster, no weather, no cruel accident of fate could tear apart what Pip had vowed to defend — not with teeth, or tail, or most importantly, obnoxious determination. Under the dappled moonlight, the Petal’s Little Protector snored softly, frills twitching in some dream of endless battles won and blooms forever safe. And the lotus — safe, whole, and untouched — cradled him gently until morning.     Epilogue: The Legend of Pip They say if you wander far enough into the garden — past the muttering lilies, beyond the judgmental daisies, through the part where even the weeds seem suspicious — you might just find a lotus blooming alone under the open sky. If you’re lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you feel about being yelled at by something the size of your thumb), you’ll catch a glimpse of him: a shimmer of impossible colors, a flash of fin and frill, a guardian curled protectively around a single sacred flower. Approach too quickly, and he’ll scold you with the full, furious force of someone who once fought off a frog three times his size. Approach too carefully, and he might just approve of you. Maybe. If you’re very lucky, and your vibe is sufficiently non-threatening, Pip might even allow you to sit nearby — under the strict understanding that you are absolutely, categorically, not to touch the flower. Or him. Or breathe too loudly. Or exist too flamboyantly in his general direction. And if you sit there long enough, if you let the night fall around you and the stars stitch themselves into the black velvet above, you might start to feel it too — that fierce, funny, aching kind of love that demands nothing but promises everything. That stubborn, ridiculous, beautiful kind of protection only the bravest little hearts know how to give. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll realize that the world is still full of tiny, glittering miracles — guarding the best parts of it with tooth, tail, and absolute, glorious defiance.     Take Pip Home (Carefully!) If your heart’s been thoroughly stolen by Pip (don’t worry, he does that a lot), you can invite a little bit of his fiercely protective magic into your own world. Choose your favorite way to keep the legend alive: Wrap yourself in wonder with a stunning tapestry featuring Pip in all his colorful, chaotic glory. Bring his fierce little spirit into your space with a sleek, vibrant metal print. Tote his sass and loyalty everywhere you go with a whimsical, sturdy tote bag. Start your mornings with a grumpy guardian by your side — Pip looks particularly judgmental on a coffee mug (in the best way). Whichever you choose, just remember Pip’s golden rule: Look, but don’t touch the flower. Ever.

by Bill Tiepelman

Born of Ash and Whisper

In Which the Dragon Crashes Brunch Maggie had three rules when it came to dating: no musicians, no cultists, and absolutely no summoning spells before coffee. So imagine her mood when her Sunday hangover was interrupted by a loud pop, a puff of sulfur, and a tiny, winged demon landing face-first into her half-eaten croissant. “Excuse you,” she muttered, flicking powdered sugar off her robe. The creature sneezed, coughed up a coal, and blinked at her with large, ember-flecked eyes. It looked like a lizard mated with a nightmare and gave birth to a goth chicken nugget. It hissed. Maggie hissed back. “Listen, Hot Topic,” she grumbled, cradling her forehead, “whatever infernal womb spat you out clearly didn’t finish the instructions.” The dragon squeaked indignantly and flapped its wings in what Maggie could only interpret as attitude. Its claws were tiny. Its ego? Not so much. As she tried to pick it up using a potholder and a cereal bowl, the creature inhaled deeply and burped out a perfect smoke ring in the shape of a middle finger. “Oh, sass. You came with sass.” Thirty minutes and one minor kitchen fire later, Maggie had managed to corral the dragon into an old cat bed she’d been meaning to donate to Goodwill. It curled up like a smug little inferno and immediately fell asleep. She could swear it purred. “This is fine,” she said to no one. “This is how people become warlocks, isn’t it?” Outside, the world continued being normal. Inside her rent-controlled apartment, a dragon that smelled like burnt marshmallows and sarcasm had adopted her. She poured herself more wine. It was 10:42 a.m. In Which Maggie Joins a Cult (But Just for the Snacks) The next morning Maggie woke up to find the dragon perched on her chest like a judgmental paperweight. It smelled faintly of espresso and something illegal in three states. Its name, according to the faintly glowing rune now tattooed across her forearm, was “Cindervex.” “Well, that’s not ominous at all,” she grumbled, poking the little beast in the snout. “Do you do tricks? Pay rent? Breathe less?” Cindervex snorted a puff of ash and promptly coughed up a tiny, slightly smoking coin. Maggie inspected it. Gold. Real gold. She turned to the dragon, who looked far too pleased with himself. “Okay, you live here now.” By noon, Maggie had a dragon in a baby Björn, aviators on, and a grocery list that included ‘kale’ and ‘dragon-safe firewood.’ She did not have answers, dignity, or any real understanding of the arcane arts, but she did have a glowing wrist tattoo that now vibrated when she passed the corner of 6th and Pine. “No,” she muttered. “Not today, Satan. Or Tuesday.” But the tug of magical curiosity and the faint scent of garlic knots drew her in like a moth to a pizza oven. Down an alley, through a brick archway, and past a sentient fern that tried to unionize her hair, Maggie found herself standing before a rustic wooden door with a sign that read: “THE ORDER OF FLAME & FOCACCIA — Visitors Welcome, Opinions Optional.” “Oh great,” she said. “It’s a hipster cult.” She was greeted by a woman in a caftan made of velvet and poor decisions, who immediately clasped her hands. “You’ve brought the Emberchild! The Scaled One! The Prophet of Reheated Destiny!” “I call him Vex. And he bites people who say ‘prophet’ with a straight face.” The woman—Sunblossom, of course—led Maggie through what could only be described as Restoration Hardware meets Hellboy fanfiction. Long wooden tables. Floating candles. A small wyvern in the corner wearing a beret and reading *The Economist.* “You’re among friends here,” Sunblossom purred. “We are bound by flame. By ritual. By the brunch buffet.” “Is that a waffle fountain?” Maggie asked, stunned. “Yes. And mimosa golems. They keep your glass full until you surrender or die.” Somewhere in the distance, a man screamed, “No more prosecco, you devil sponge!” Cindervex hissed happily. Apparently, this was home now. Over goat cheese frittata and a surprisingly insightful conversation about dragon soul-bonding laws, Maggie learned that Cindervex had chosen her. Not just as a caretaker, but as a Conduit—a human being tapped to bridge the magical and mundane, possibly lead a rebellion, and definitely help design seasonal merch for the cult’s online shop. “There’s a hoodie?” she asked. “Three. And a tumbler. BPA-free.” She paused. “Okay. I'm in. But just for the hoodie. And the snacks.” The room erupted in joyous fireballs. The mimosa golem did a cartwheel. Someone summoned a kazoo-playing imp. Maggie blinked. It was chaos. It was ridiculous. It was hers. Back at her apartment that evening, Maggie collapsed on the couch, Cindervex curled at her feet. Her wrist glowed faintly with new runes: Initiate. Brunch-Approved. Caution: May Ignite Sass. She laughed. Then she poured another glass of wine and toasted the ceiling. “To destiny. To waffles. To accidentally joining a cult.” Cindervex purred, burped out a fireheart-shaped smoke ring, and stole her throw pillow. Somehow, this was the most stable relationship she’d had in years.     Epilogue: In Which Everything Burns, But Like... In a Good Way Six months later, Maggie had adjusted to life as a brunch sorceress, part-time chaos gremlin, and reluctant cult celebrity. Cindervex now had a dedicated fire-proof bean bag, his own corner of the apartment (lined with gold coins and stolen socks), and an Instagram following of 78,000 under the handle @LilSmokeyLord. They still fought—mostly over bath time and how many fireballs were considered “too many” in a laundromat—but they were a unit now. Partners. A girl and her dragon, trying to navigate a world that didn’t list “arcane brunch queen” on its tax forms. The Order of Flame & Focaccia was thriving. They opened a second chapter in Portland. The hoodie waitlist was a nightmare. Maggie had accidentally become a motivational speaker for magical burnout recovery, which she delivered with the energy of someone who once summoned a thunderstorm because her latte had too much foam. She had friends now. A talking cauldron named Gary. A banshee who did her taxes. Even a date or two, though most were scared off by the part where her pet tried to set their shoelaces on fire “as a vibe check.” But she was happy. Not the fake kind of happy you post on social media, but the weird, loud, chaotic kind that makes your neighbors suspicious and your therapist very intrigued. On the night of the Vernal Equinox, she stood on her balcony with Cindervex on her shoulder. The city glittered below. Somewhere, distant drums thudded from a magical rave she wasn’t drunk enough to attend. Yet. “We good?” she asked the dragon. He flared his wings, let out a gentle burp of violet flame, and settled in. That was dragon-speak for ‘yes, and also I’m about to pee in your houseplant.’ “You little hell nugget,” she said, smiling. “Don’t ever change.” And he didn’t. Not really. He just got weirder. Louder. More chaotic. Like her. Which, when you think about it, was kind of the point. Everything burns eventually. Might as well light it up with someone who brings their own matches and snacks. The End... probably.     Bring the Flame Home 🔥 If you fell in love with the story of Maggie and her attitude-packed dragon, you're not alone. Now you can bring their world into yours with exclusive merch inspired by Born of Ash and Whisper, available now from Unfocussed. 🔥 Metal Print – Make a statement. Fireproof-ish. Beautifully bold. 🔥 Tapestry – Turn your wall into a magical gateway (or dragon lair). 🔥 Throw Pillow – For when your emotional support dragon needs emotional support. 🔥 Greeting Card – Say it with sass and smoke rings. Perfect for dragon-worthy messages. 🔥 Spiral Notebook – Chronicle your own accidental cult adventures in style. Because honestly, who doesn’t need more dragons in their life?

by Bill Tiepelman

The Faerie and Her Dragonette

Wings, Whispers, and Way Too Much Sparkle “If you set one more fern on fire, I swear by the Moonroot Blossoms I will ground you until the next equinox.” “I didn't mean to, Poppy!” the dragonette squeaked, smoke curling from his nostrils. “It looked flammable. It was practically asking for it.” Poppy Leafwhistle, faerie of the Deepwood Glade and part-time chaos manager, pinched the bridge of her nose — a move she’d adopted from mortals because rubbing your temples is apparently not enough when you're bonded to a fire-prone winged gremlin with scale polish and an attitude. She’d rescued the dragonette — now called Fizzletuft — from a rogue spell circle in the north fen. Why? Because he had eyes like sunrise, a whimper like a teacup, and the emotional stability of a wet squirrel. Obviously. “Fizz,” she sighed, “we talked about the sparkle restraint protocols. You can’t go around flaring your tail every time a leaf rustles. This isn’t drama class. This is the forest.” Fizzletuft huffed, his wings fluttering with a rainbow shimmer that could blind a bard. “Well maybe the forest shouldn’t be so flammable. That’s not my fault.” The Trouble with Moonberries They were on a mission. A *simple* one, Poppy had thought. Find the Moonberry Grove. Harvest two berries. Don’t let Fizz eat them, explode them, or name them “Sir Wiggleberry” and try to teach them interpretive dance. So far, they had located zero berries, three suspiciously enchanted mushrooms (one of which proposed to Poppy), and a vine that had tried to spank Fizzletuft into next Tuesday. “I hate this place,” Fizz whined, perching dramatically on a mossy rock like a sad opera singer with abandonment issues. “You hate everything that isn’t about you,” Poppy replied, ducking under a willow branch. “You hated breakfast because the jam wasn’t ‘emotionally tart’ enough.” “I have a delicate palate!” “You ate a rock yesterday!” “It looked seasoned!” Poppy paused, exhaled, and counted to ten in three different elemental languages. The Mist Came Suddenly Just as the sun speared through the canopy in a shaft of perfect golden light, the forest changed. The air thickened. The birds stopped chirping. Even the leaves held their breath. “Fizz…” Poppy whispered, her voice dipping into seriousness — a rare tone in their partnership. “Yup. I feel it. Very mysterious. Definitely spooky. Possibly cursed. A hundred percent into it.” From the mist rose a shape — tall, robed, shimmering with the same light Poppy’s wings cast. It wasn’t malevolent. Just… ancient. Familiar, somehow. And oddly floral. “You seek the Grove,” it said, voice like wind through old chimes. “Yes,” Poppy replied, stepping forward. “We need the berries. For the ritual.” “Then you must prove your bond.” Fizzletuft perked up. “Oooh! Like a trust fall? Or interpretive dance? I have wings, I can pirouette!” The figure paused. “...No. You must enter the Trial of Two.” Poppy groaned. “Please tell me it’s not the one with the mushroom maze and the accidental emotional telepathy.” Fizz squealed. “We’re gonna get in each other’s heads? FINALLY. I’ve always wondered what it’s like inside your brain. Is it full of sarcasm and leaf facts?” She turned to him slowly. “Fizz. You have five seconds to run before I turn your tail into a windchime.” He didn’t run. He launched straight upward, cackling, sparkles trailing behind him like a magical sneeze. The Trial of Two (And the Sparkle Apocalypse) The moment they crossed the veil into the Trial Grove, the world blinked. One second, Poppy was side-eyeing Fizzletuft’s attempt to rebrand himself as “Lord Wingpop the Dazzling,” and the next — She was floating. Or... falling? Hard to tell. There was mist, and colors, and an unsettling number of tiny whispering voices saying things like “oof, this one’s emotionally constipated” and “he hides his trauma under glitter.” When her feet hit the ground again — mossy, fragrant, humming slightly — she was alone. “Fizz?” No answer. “This isn’t funny!” Still nothing, until— “I CAN HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS!” Fizzletuft’s voice echoed in her skull like an overexcited squirrel with a megaphone. “This is amazing! You think in leaf metaphors! Also, you’re low-key afraid of centipedes! WE HAVE TO UNPACK THAT!” “Fizz. Focus. Trial. Sacred place. Prove our bond. Stop narrating my anxieties.” “Okay okay okay. But wait — wait. Is that... is that a DRAGON SIZED VERSION OF ME?!” The Mirrorbeast Poppy turned, heart thudding. Standing before her — impossibly elegant, coiled in winged menace and sass — was a full-grown dragonette. Rainbow-scaled. Eyes glowing. And smirking in the exact same smug way Fizzletuft did when he was about to destroy a teacup on purpose. The Mirrorbeast. “To pass,” it boomed, “you must face your fears. Each other’s. Together.” Poppy didn’t like the way it said “together.” “Oh boy,” Fizz whispered in her brain. “I just remembered something. From before we met.” “What is it?” “I don’t... I don’t know if I hatched. I mean, I did. But not... normally. There was fire. A big explosion. Screaming. Possibly a sorcerer with a toupee. And I’ve always wondered if I was... created. Not born.” She paused. “Fizz.” “I know, I know. I act like I don’t care. But I do. What if I’m not real?” She stepped closer to the Mirrorbeast. “You’re as real as it gets, you over-glittered fire noodle.” The beast growled. “And your fear, faerie?” Poppy swallowed. “That I’m too much. Too sharp. That no one will ever choose to stay.” Silence fell. Then, out of nowhere, Fizzletuft crashed through a shrub, covered in vines, eyes wide. “I CHOSE YOU.” “Fizz—” “NOPE. I CHOSE YOU. You rescued me when I was all panic and fire and tail fluff. You scolded me like a mom and cheered for me like a friend. I may be made of magic and chaos, but I’d still choose you. Every day. Even if your cooking tastes like compost pudding.” The Mirrorbeast stared. And then... chuckled. It shimmered, cracked, and burst into stardust. The Trial was over. “You have passed,” said the grove, now gently glowing. “Bond: true. Chaos: accepted. Love: weird, but real.” The Grove’s Gift They found the Moonberries — soft-glowing, silver-veined, blooming from a tree that seemed to sigh when touched. Fizzletuft only licked one. Once. Regretted it immediately. Called it “spicy sadness with a minty afterburn.” On the way home, they were quiet. Not awkward quiet. The good kind. The “we’ve seen each other’s soul clutter and still want to hang out” kind. Back in the glade, Poppy lit a lantern and leaned back against the mossy stump they both called home base. Fizzletuft curled around her shoulders like a warm, glittering scarf. “I still think we should’ve performed that interpretive dance.” “We did, Fizz.” She smiled, eyes twinkling. “We just used feelings instead of jazz hands.” He let out a contented puff of smoke. “Gross.” “I know.”     Adopt the Sass. Sparkle Your Space. If you’ve fallen for the leafy sass of Poppy and the firecracker mischief of Fizzletuft, you can now bring their story home (without setting anything on fire... probably). “The Faerie and Her Dragonette” is now available in a collection of magical merchandise that’s as vivid, cheeky, and sparkly as the duo themselves: Tapestry – Hang this vibrant fae-and-flame duo in your space and let the adventure begin with every glance. Puzzle – Piece together the magic, the mystery, and maybe some glitter tantrums. It's the perfect dragon-approved challenge. Greeting Card – Send a message as bold and sparkly as your favorite faerie fire duo. For magical birthdays, sassy thank-yous, or just saying “hey, you're fabulous.” Sticker – Slap a bit of Poppy & Fizz on your journal, laptop, or cauldron. Mischief included. Glitter optional (but encouraged). Cross-Stitch Pattern – Stitch your own enchanted moment. Perfect for crafters, faerie fans, and anyone needing an excuse to hoard sparkly thread. Claim your piece of Deepwood Glade — because some stories deserve to live on your wall, your shelf, and definitely your heart. 🧚‍♀️🐉

by Bill Tiepelman

Pastel Awakening

Yolanda Hatches with Attitude It all began on an unnaturally sunny morning in the enchanted meadow of Wickerwhim, where flowers bloomed with suspicious cheerfulness and butterflies giggled too loudly for anyone’s comfort. At the center of this excessive joy sat a single, oversized egg. Not just any egg—this one was hand-painted by fairies who got into the glitter again. Swirls of gold vines, pastel polka dots, and blooming sugarflowers wrapped around the shell like an Instagrammable Fabergé fantasy. And inside this egg? Trouble. With wings. The shell cracked. A tiny claw poked through, then another. A faint voice echoed from within: “If I don't get a mimosa in the next five minutes, I’m staying in here until next spring.” The final crack split the egg in half, revealing a rather unimpressed baby dragon. Her scales were the color of champagne and strawberry macarons, shimmering in the sunlight like she'd been incubated in a spa. She blinked once. Then twice. Then threw a perfectly skeptical side-eye at a daffodil. “Don’t look at me like that, flower. You try waking up in a decorative egg without central heating.” This was Yolanda. Not exactly the Chosen One, unless the prophecy was about attitude problems. She stretched one wing, sniffed a tulip, and muttered, “Ugh, allergies. Of course I’m born in a field of airborne pollen.” Nearby, the local bunnies—wearing waistcoats and monocles, because of course they did—gathered in a panic. “The egg has hatched! The prophecy has begun!” one of them squeaked. “The Flower Dragon awakens!” Yolanda looked them up and down. “I better not be in some sort of seasonal prophecy. I just got here, I haven’t even exfoliated yet.” From across the field, the pastel council of Spring Spirits approached. They shimmered like soap bubbles and smelled faintly of marshmallow fluff and judgment. “Welcome, O Eggborn. You are the Herald of Bloom, the Bringer of Renewal, the—” “—The girl who hasn’t had breakfast yet,” Yolanda cut in. “Unless y’all got a caramel-filled peep or something, I’m not saving squat.” The spirits paused. One of them, possibly the leader, floated closer. “You are sassier than expected.” Yolanda yawned. “I’m also cold. I demand a blanket, a brunch buffet, and a name that doesn’t sound like a seasonal candle.” And just like that, the prophesied dragon of spring rose from her glitter egg, blinking into the sunshine and ready to sass her way through destiny—or nap through it, depending on the snack situation. She was Yolanda. She was awake. And heaven help anyone who stood between her and the Easter chocolate. Chocolate Thrones & Marshmallow Rebellions By the afternoon, Yolanda had commandeered a sunhat made of woven daffodil petals, two jellybean necklaces, and a throne constructed entirely from half-melted chocolate bunnies. It was sticky. It was unstable. It was fabulous. “Bring me the soft-centered truffles!” she commanded, draped across the makeshift throne like a decadent lounge singer who'd missed her career calling. “And I swear if I get one more hollow rabbit, someone’s going in the compost pile.” The bunny council tried to keep up with her demands. Harold, a twitchy but well-meaning rabbit with pince-nez glasses and anxiety issues, scurried over with a basket of foil-wrapped goodies. “O Eggborn, perhaps you’d care to review the Festival of Blooming this evening? There will be fireworks and... organic seed cookies?” Yolanda gave him a look so flat it could’ve been served as a crêpe. “Fireworks? In a flower field? Are you trying to start an inferno? And did you say seed cookies? Harold. Babe. I’m a dragon. I don’t do chia.” “But… the prophecies!” Harold whimpered. “Prophecies are just old stories written by people who wanted an excuse to light things on fire,” she replied. “I read half of one this morning. Fell asleep during the ‘Song of Seasonal Restoration’—sounded like a dehydrated elf trying to rhyme ‘photosynthesis.’” Meanwhile, whispers rustled through the meadows. The Marshmallow Folk were stirring. Now, let’s get one thing straight: the Marshmallow Folk were not sweet. Not anymore. They had been sugar-toasted and forgotten by the Seasonal Spirits centuries ago, cursed to bounce eternally between over-sweetness and underappreciation. They wore robes of cellophane and rode PEEPS™ into battle. And Yolanda? She was about to become their Queen. Or their lunch. Possibly both. The first sign came as a ripple across the grass—tiny, spongy feet thudding like aggressive fluff balls. Yolanda sat up on her throne, one claw dipped lazily into a jar of hazelnut spread. “Do you hear that?” “The prophecy says this is the Hour of Saccharine Reckoning!” cried Harold, holding up a parchment so old it crumbled in his paws. “Sounds like a mood swing with branding,” Yolanda muttered. She stood, wings fluttering dramatically for effect. “Let me guess: angry sentient marshmallows, right? Wearing cute hats?” The horde crested the hill like a menacing cloud of dessert-themed vengeance. At the front was a particularly large marshmallow with licorice boots and a jawline that could slice fondant. He pointed a candy cane staff at Yolanda and shouted, “TREMBLE, SHE-WHELP OF SPRING! THE SUGAR SHALL RISE!” Yolanda blinked. “Oh no. They monologue.” He continued, unfazed. “We demand tribute! One seasonal dragon, lightly toasted and dipped in ganache!” “You try to roast me and I swear, I’ll turn this field into crème brûlée,” Yolanda growled. “I just figured out how to breathe warm mist and you want to start a cookout?” Battle nearly broke out right there in the tulips—until Yolanda, with one raised claw, paused the moment like a director at tech rehearsal. “Alright. Everyone stop. Time out. What if—and I’m just brainstorming here—we did a peace treaty. With snacks. And wine.” The Marshmallow general tilted his head. “Wine?” “You ever had rosé and carrot cake? Transcendent,” she smirked. “Let’s vibe instead of barbecue.” It worked. Because of course it did. Yolanda was a dragon of unreasonable charm and unreasonable demands. That night, under garlanded moonlight and glowworms strung like fairy lights, the first ever Festival of Fizzing Treaties took place. Marshmallows and bunnies danced. Spirits got tipsy on honeysuckle mead. Yolanda DJ’d using her wings as cymbals and declared herself ‘Supreme Seasonal Sassmaster.’ By sunrise, a new prophecy had been scribbled into existence, mostly by a drunk faun using syrup and hope. It read: “She came from the egg of pastel bloom,Brought sass and threats of fiery doom.She calmed the fluff, the sweet, the sticky—With brunch and jokes that bordered icky.Hail Yolanda, Queen of Spring—Who’d rather nap than do a thing.” Yolanda approved. She curled up beside a basket of espresso truffles, tail flicking lazily, and muttered, “Now that’s a legacy I can nap to.” And with that, the first dragon of Easter snoozed off into legend—her belly full, her crown askew, and her meadow safe (if slightly caramelized).     Can’t get enough of Yolanda’s pastel sass and egg-born elegance? Bring her magic into your own world with a little help from our enchanted archive! Canvas prints bring her fire-breathing flair to your walls, while the tote bags let you carry attitude and artistry wherever you go. Feeling cozy? Snuggle up in the most extra way possible with a plush fleece blanket. Want a little sass in your space? Try a wall tapestry worthy of any dragon queen’s den. And for those who need their daily dose of pastel power on the go, we’ve got iPhone cases that pack attitude in every tap. Claim your piece of dragon legend now—Yolanda wouldn’t settle for less, and neither should you.

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

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

Lost in a World Too Big

The first thing Fizzlebop noticed upon hatching was that the world was entirely too loud, too bright, and too full of things that did not immediately cater to his needs. A terrible injustice, really. He blinked his enormous blue eyes, stretching his stubby wings with an exasperated sigh. The nest was empty. His siblings had hatched before him, leaving behind only cracked eggshells and a lingering warmth. How typical. They never waited for him. "Ugh," he muttered, dragging his tiny tail across the soft moss. "Abandoned at birth. Tragic." Fizzlebop attempted to stand, only to topple forward, his little claws scrabbling against the ground. "Oh yes, very majestic. Future ruler of the skies, right here," he grumbled, rolling onto his back. "Might as well leave me here to perish." The sky above him was a swirl of pastels, stars twinkling like they had something to be smug about. "Don't just sit there looking all mysterious," he huffed at them. "Help me!" The stars, as expected, did not assist. With a great effort, he managed to sit upright, his wings flaring dramatically for balance. He squinted into the distance, where flickering firelight suggested the rest of his nestmates were already feasting with their mother. "Of course they started without me," he muttered. "Because why wouldn't they?" Then, just to test if life was truly out to get him, Fizzlebop attempted to take a single confident step forward. His foot met a particularly devious rock, and he promptly face-planted. "Oh, I see how it is," he growled, flopping onto his side. "Fine. I'll just stay here. Alone. Forever. Probably get eaten by something big and toothy." Something rustled nearby. Fizzlebop froze. Slowly, carefully, he turned his head—only to come face to face with a fox. A very hungry-looking fox. The fox tilted its head, clearly confused by the sight of a baby dragon glaring up at it with an expression of profound irritation. Fizzlebop narrowed his eyes. "Listen here, overgrown rodent," he said, voice full of bratty confidence. "I am a dragon. A creature of legend. A force of nature." He puffed up his chest. "I will breathe fire upon you." Silence. The fox remained unimpressed. Fizzlebop inhaled deeply, ready to unleash his terrifying flame… and promptly sneezed. A pathetic little spark fizzled into the air. The fox blinked. Fizzlebop blinked. Then, with a sigh, he flopped onto his back and groaned. "Fine. Just eat me and get it over with." Instead of attacking, the fox sniffed him once, let out an unimpressed huff, and trotted away. "Yeah, that's right," Fizzlebop called after it. "Run, coward!" He lay there for a moment longer before muttering, "I didn't want to be eaten anyway." Then, grumbling to himself, he got back onto his feet and stomped toward the firelight, ready to make a dramatic entrance and demand his rightful place at the feast. Because if he was going to suffer in this unfair world, the least he could do was make everyone else suffer with him.     Fizzlebop marched—well, wobbled—toward the glow of the firelight, muttering under his breath about betrayal, neglect, and the sheer injustice of being the last to hatch. His tiny claws crunched against the frost-covered ground, his tail flicking dramatically with each exaggerated step. “Oh yes, just leave the baby behind,” he grumbled. “Forget about poor, defenseless Fizzlebop. Not like I could have been eaten or anything.” He paused and shuddered. “By a fox. A fox, of all things.” The campfire flickered ahead, surrounded by his siblings, who were rolling around in a pile of meat scraps like the uncultured beasts they were. Their mother, a great silver dragon with molten gold eyes, lay nearby, preening her wings, looking—for lack of a better word—smug. Fizzlebop narrowed his eyes. They had noticed his absence. They just hadn’t cared. Well. That would not stand. He inhaled deeply, summoning every ounce of injustice and rage within his tiny frame, and let out a battle cry: “HOW DARE YOU.” The entire nest froze. His siblings blinked at him, meat dangling from their stupid little jaws. His mother arched an elegant brow. Fizzlebop stomped forward. “Do you have ANY idea what I have been through?” he demanded, wings flaring. “Do you know the STRUGGLES I have faced?” Silence. Fizzlebop did not care. He was going to tell them anyway. “First of all, I was abandoned,” he declared. “Cast out, left to suffer, forced to hatch in solitude like some tragic hero in a forgotten legend.” He placed a claw against his chest, looking to the heavens. “And then! As if that weren’t bad enough—” His mother exhaled loudly through her nose. “Fizzlebop, you hatched twenty minutes late.” Fizzlebop gasped. “Twenty minutes? Oh, I see. So I should just be grateful that my own family left me to perish in the cruel, unfeeling wilds?!” His mother stared at him. His siblings stared at him. One of them, a chubby dragon named Soot, licked his eyeball. Fizzlebop groaned. “You absolute buffoons.” He marched straight to the pile of meat, sat his tiny, frostbitten rear down, and grabbed the largest scrap he could find. “You’re all terrible, and I hate you,” he declared before stuffing his face. His mother sighed and stretched her wings. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” Fizzlebop waved a dismissive claw. “Yes, yes, I’m adorable, I’m a delight, I’m a gift to this family.” He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “But also, you should all suffer for your crimes.” His mother huffed a plume of smoke, which he chose to interpret as deep shame and regret. His belly now full, Fizzlebop curled into the warm pile of his siblings, who accepted his presence with the kind of easygoing obliviousness only dragons (and very stupid people) could manage. And as he drifted off to sleep, his mother’s tail curling around them for warmth, Fizzlebop allowed himself a tiny, satisfied smirk. For all his righteous suffering… being part of a family wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Probably.     Take Fizzlebop Home! Love Fizzlebop’s adorable mischief? Bring this tiny dragon into your life with stunning prints and merchandise! Whether you want to add some whimsical charm to your home or carry a piece of dragon-sized attitude with you, we’ve got you covered: 🖼️ Acrylic Prints – For a sleek, high-gloss way to showcase Fizzlebop’s expressive pout. 🎭 Tapestries – Transform any space into a fantasy realm with a larger-than-life baby dragon. 👜 Tote Bags – Carry your essentials in style, and let everyone know you're as dramatic as Fizzlebop. 💌 Greeting Cards – Send a message with maximum sarcasm and cuteness. Get yours now and let Fizzlebop bring his bratty charm into your world! 🔥🐉

by Bill Tiepelman

The Guardian and the Kitten: Housebound Adventures

It all started when Elara, self-proclaimed queen of the household and a 17-pound Maine Coon with the ego of a warlord, discovered something rather unacceptable in her territory. There, perched atop her sacred sunspot on the wooden floor, was an intruder. And not just any intruder—a scaly, winged, fire-breathing menace about the size of an overgrown hamster. "What the actual fluff is this?" Elara muttered, tail flicking. The dragon, barely the size of a teapot, looked up from where it was chewing on the corner of a leather-bound book. It cocked its tiny, spiky head and let out a small, smoke-filled hiccup. "Oh. A cat. How original." Enter Smauglet, the Tiny Terror Smauglet—yes, that was what he called himself, as if the name wasn’t a little too ambitious for something that could be drop-kicked into a laundry basket—stretched his wings, knocking over an expensive-looking vase in the process. The crash was immediate, the effect devastating. Elara's ears twitched. "Oh. You're one of those." Smauglet grinned, all sharp teeth and no remorse. "One of what?" "One of those 'small but chaotic' types. Like the human's Roomba. Or the squirrel I tried to eat last summer." Smauglet flicked his tail, knocking over a candle. "Listen, Furball Supreme, I may be small, but I am a dragon. I bring fire. I bring destruction. I bring—" Elara swatted him mid-monologue, sending him tumbling across the floor like a scaly dust bunny. The Human Intervenes (Uselessly, As Expected) Just as Smauglet was trying to recover what little dignity he had left, their mutual overlord—the Human—stumbled in, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. She blinked at the scene: fur, scales, and what looked suspiciously like a singed couch cushion. "Elara, what did you do?" Elara, insulted beyond reason, fluffed up. "Excuse me? You're blaming me?" Smauglet, the opportunistic little gremlin that he was, immediately switched gears. He flopped onto his back, wings splayed dramatically. "She attacked me! I was just sitting here, minding my own business, contemplating the fragility of human existence!" "Oh, screw you," Elara snapped. The Human groaned, rubbing her temple. "Look, I don’t know what fresh level of fantasy nonsense I just walked into, but can we please try not to burn the house down?" She pointed at Smauglet. "You, no fire. You," she turned to Elara, "no homicide." Both culprits stared at her. Elara sighed. "Fine." Smauglet smirked. "Fine." The Truce (Which Lasts a Whole Five Minutes) For about an hour, things were peaceful. Elara reclaimed her sunspot, and Smauglet curled up on a bookshelf, gnawing on the spine of The Art of War, which was honestly on-brand. The Human relaxed, wrongly assuming she had restored order. Then Smauglet made the mistake of flicking his tail into Elara’s face. What followed was a blur of claws, fire, and a level of screaming that probably put the neighbors on high alert. The Human sprinted back into the room, holding a fire extinguisher in one hand and a spray bottle in the other. "That’s it! New rule—no more medieval warfare in my living room!" Elara and Smauglet glared at each other, then at the Human. Elara sighed dramatically. "You ruin all my fun." Smauglet rolled onto his back. "I'm hungry." The Human groaned. "I am moving out." And thus, an uneasy alliance was formed. The dragon would keep his fire to himself (mostly), and Elara would tolerate his existence (barely). And the Human? She stocked up on fireproof furniture and accepted her fate. After all, when you live with a cat and a dragon, peace is just a myth.     Bring the Chaos Home Love the antics of Elara and Smauglet? Now you can bring their mischievous charm into your own space! Whether you're a fan of feisty felines, fiery dragons, or just enjoy a bit of magical mayhem, we've got something for you. 🔥 Wall Tapestry – Turn your room into a whimsical battleground of fur and flame. 🎨 Canvas Print – A high-quality masterpiece to showcase your love for mischief and magic. 🧩 Jigsaw Puzzle – Test your patience just like The Human does with these two chaos-makers. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry your essentials with the same confidence Elara carries her grudges. Click the links to grab your favorite, and let the legendary battle of cat vs. dragon live on in your home!

by Bill Tiepelman

Neon Hatchling of the Deepwoods

The Deepwoods wasn’t the kind of place you wandered into by accident. Thick fog clung to ancient trees, the air hummed with the whispers of unseen creatures, and anyone foolish enough to enter often stumbled back out with missing socks or memories—or both. Yet, here stood Gary, socks firmly intact but entirely unsure how he got there. “Right,” Gary muttered, adjusting his satchel. He wasn’t an adventurer, despite the suspiciously adventurous trench coat he wore. He was an accountant. A mediocre one at that. Yet for reasons he couldn’t explain, Gary had woken up that morning with a very specific goal in mind: find the Neon Hatchling. He didn’t know what a Neon Hatchling was, why he needed one, or why his coffee had tasted like regret earlier that day, but the urge was undeniable. So here he was, trudging through mossy undergrowth, fending off the occasional glowing moth the size of a dinner plate, and questioning his life choices. The First Clue Gary’s first breakthrough came when he tripped over a gnome. “Watch it!” the gnome barked, rubbing its pointy hat, which now bore a dent in the shape of Gary’s shoe. The gnome was no taller than a fire hydrant, but its scowl could curdle milk. “Sorry!” Gary stammered. “I didn’t see you there. Uh... any chance you’ve seen a Neon Hatchling?” The gnome squinted at him. “What’s it worth to ya?” Gary rifled through his satchel. “I’ve got... a slightly melted granola bar?” The gnome snatched it greedily. “Fine. Follow the glowing ferns until you hear the sound of giggling. If you survive that, you might find your precious Hatchling.” “Giggling?” Gary asked, but the gnome was already halfway up a tree, cackling like a maniac. The Giggling Problem The glowing ferns were easy enough to find—they looked like someone had spilled neon paint across the forest floor. The giggling, however, was less charming. It wasn’t the warm, bubbly kind of giggling you’d hear at a comedy club. No, this was the “I know your browser history” kind of giggling, and it was coming from everywhere at once. “This is fine,” Gary said to no one in particular, clutching his satchel like a lifeline. He inched forward, trying to ignore the giggles, which now sounded suspiciously like they were mocking his haircut. “You’re just hearing things. That’s all. Deepwoods acoustics. Totally normal.” Then a voice, sharp and sweet, cut through the giggles. “Oh, relax. You’re not going to die... probably.” Gary froze. “Who’s there?” From the shadows stepped a woman dressed in iridescent robes that shimmered like oil on water. Her eyes gleamed with mischief, and she carried a staff topped with what appeared to be a glowing marshmallow. “Name’s Zyla. You’re here for the Neon Hatchling, aren’t you?” Gary nodded, mostly because words had failed him. He wasn’t sure if it was her aura of power or the fact that she smelled faintly of freshly baked cookies. Either way, he wasn’t about to argue. Meeting the Hatchling Zyla led him deeper into the forest, past bioluminescent ponds and a tree that tried to sell Gary a timeshare. Finally, they reached a clearing bathed in soft, glowing light. At its center sat the Neon Hatchling. It was... adorable. About the size of a small dog, the dragonet’s scales shimmered with every color of the rainbow, its wings glowed faintly, and its wide eyes sparkled with curiosity. It let out a tiny chirp, which Gary’s brain immediately translated as, “Hi! Will you be my best friend forever?” Gary’s heart melted. “This is it? This is the Neon Hatchling?” Zyla smirked. “What were you expecting, a fire-breathing monster?” “Honestly? Yes.” Gary crouched down to get a better look at the creature. The Hatchling tilted its head, then pounced on his satchel, rummaging through it with surprising dexterity. “Hey!” Gary protested as the Hatchling triumphantly pulled out a bag of cheese puffs. “That’s my lunch!” The dragonet ignored him, tearing into the bag with gusto. Zyla laughed. “Congratulations. You’ve been chosen by the Neon Hatchling.” “Chosen for what?” Gary asked warily, watching as the dragonet began juggling cheese puffs with its tail. Zyla’s expression turned serious. “The Hatchling is a creature of immense power. It will bring you great fortune... or great chaos. Possibly both. It depends on how much caffeine you’ve had.” The Catch Before Gary could process this, a deafening roar shook the clearing. From the shadows emerged a massive dragon, its scales dark as midnight and its eyes glowing like twin suns. “Ah,” Zyla said, taking a step back. “I forgot to mention the mother.” “What do you mean, the mother?!” Gary yelped as the larger dragon fixed its gaze on him. The Neon Hatchling chirped innocently, clutching its stolen cheese puffs. The mother dragon roared again, and Gary did the only sensible thing: he ran. The End...? Somehow, against all odds, Gary survived. He wasn’t sure how he managed it—there had been a lot of screaming, some questionable tree climbing, and a brief stint where he pretended to be a rock. But when he finally stumbled out of the Deepwoods, the Neon Hatchling was perched on his shoulder, snacking on the last of his cheese puffs. “This is fine,” Gary muttered, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. As he trudged back toward civilization, the Hatchling chirped happily, its tail flicking in time with his steps. Gary sighed. He still didn’t know why he’d been compelled to find the Hatchling, but one thing was clear: life was about to get a lot more interesting.     Bring the Magic Home! The adventure doesn’t have to end here. Add a touch of Deepwoods whimsy to your space with products featuring the Neon Hatchling: Tapestry: Neon Hatchling of the Deepwoods Canvas Print: Neon Hatchling of the Deepwoods Puzzle: Neon Hatchling of the Deepwoods Fleece Blanket: Neon Hatchling of the Deepwoods Bring this magical moment to life and keep the charm of the Deepwoods alive in your home!

by Bill Tiepelman

Baby Scales in a Fur-Trimmed Coat

The Frosty Misadventures of Scalesworth the Cozy Winter had arrived in the magical forest of Frostwhisk, and with it, an unbearable chill that seeped into every crevice, nook, and claw. At least, that’s how Scalesworth, the tiniest dragon hatchling to ever grace the frosted woods, felt about it. He was bundled up in his puffy red coat, complete with fur-trimmed hood, looking less like a fearsome mythical creature and more like a walking marshmallow with claws. “This is ridiculous,” Scalesworth muttered, adjusting the zipper of his coat with his stubby talons. “Dragons are supposed to be majestic, fiery beasts, not... whatever this is.” He gestured dramatically to his tiny, frost-covered toes. “I have talons, for crying out loud! I should be soaring through the skies, terrorizing peasants, not sitting here shivering like a wet sock.” His grumbling was interrupted by a gust of icy wind that sent snow flurries cascading around him like nature’s own sarcastic applause. “Oh, wonderful. Snow. My favorite thing,” he said, his voice dripping with so much sarcasm it could have melted the frost. “Why can’t I just hibernate like normal creatures? Bears get to sleep through this nonsense. But no, I have to be awake to ‘learn important life lessons’ or whatever my mom said before flying off to somewhere warmer.” The Great Snowball Fiasco Determined to make the best of his situation, Scalesworth decided to explore the nearby woods. It wasn’t long before he stumbled upon a gang of woodland critters engaged in an intense snowball fight. Squirrels, rabbits, and even a badger were hurling snowballs at each other with the precision of seasoned warriors. “Hey, can I play?” Scalesworth asked, waddling up to them. His oversized coat made a faint whoosh-whoosh sound as he walked, which wasn’t exactly intimidating. The badger, a grizzled veteran of snow-based combat, sized him up. “You? A dragon? In that coat? You’d be about as useful as a snowball in a bonfire.” Scalesworth bristled—or at least, he tried to. The puffiness of his jacket made it hard to look anything other than adorable. “I’ll have you know that I’m a fearsome dragon!” he declared, puffing out his chest. “I could melt this entire battlefield with a single breath.” The badger raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Go on then. Melt something.” Scalesworth paused. “Well... I mean... I could if I wanted to. I just don’t feel like it right now. It’s too cold for fire, you know? Science and stuff.” The badger snorted. “Sure, kid. Whatever you say. Just stay out of the way, alright?” Scalesworth narrowed his eyes. “Oh, it’s on,” he whispered to himself. He waddled over to a pile of snow and began crafting a snowball of truly epic proportions. It was lopsided, slightly yellowish (he wasn’t sure why and didn’t want to think about it), and barely held together, but it was his masterpiece. “They’ll rue the day they underestimated Scalesworth the Cozy,” he muttered, clutching the snowball like it was a magical artifact. The Not-So-Epic Attack With a mighty roar—or at least, a squeaky chirp that he hoped sounded like a roar—Scalesworth launched his snowball at the badger. Unfortunately, his tiny arms and the sheer bulk of his coat made the throw less than aerodynamic. The snowball traveled approximately three inches before disintegrating in mid-air. The badger blinked. “Wow. Terrifying,” he deadpanned. The squirrels burst into laughter, one of them actually falling over into the snow from how hard he was wheezing. Scalesworth felt his cheeks heat up—not from fire, but from embarrassment. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t need this. I’m a dragon. I have better things to do.” He turned to waddle away, muttering under his breath about ungrateful mammals and how he’d totally win a snowball fight if he wasn’t wearing such a stupid coat. Redemption in the Snow As Scalesworth stomped off, he noticed a faint glimmer in the snow. Curious, he bent down and unearthed what appeared to be a tiny crystal orb. It sparkled in the winter sunlight, casting rainbows onto the snow. “Huh. What’s this?” he wondered aloud. Before he could examine it further, the orb began to hum softly. Suddenly, it exploded in a burst of light, and Scalesworth found himself standing in front of a towering ice golem. The creature loomed over him, its frosty eyes glowing with menace. “INTRUDER,” the golem boomed. “PREPARE TO BE DESTROYED.” Scalesworth blinked up at the hulking figure. “Oh, great. Of course. Because my day wasn’t bad enough already.” Thinking quickly, Scalesworth did the only thing he could: he zipped up his coat all the way, puffed himself up as much as possible, and yelled, “HEY! I’M A DRAGON! YOU WANNA FIGHT ME? BRING IT ON!” To his surprise, the golem paused. “DRAGON? OH, UH, SORRY. I DIDN’T REALIZE. YOU’RE VERY SMALL FOR A DRAGON.” “I’M SMALL BUT MIGHTY!” Scalesworth snapped. “NOW LEAVE ME ALONE BEFORE I TURN YOU INTO A PUDDLE.” The golem hesitated, then slowly backed away. “MY APOLOGIES, O GREAT AND POWERFUL DRAGON.” With that, it disappeared into the woods, leaving Scalesworth standing there, victorious. The Hero Returns When Scalesworth returned to the snowball battlefield, the other animals stared at him in awe. “Did you just scare off an ice golem?” the badger asked, his jaw practically on the ground. Scalesworth shrugged nonchalantly. “Eh, it was nothing. Just another day in the life of a dragon.” The squirrels immediately declared him their leader, and the badger grudgingly admitted that maybe, just maybe, Scalesworth wasn’t so useless after all. As the sun set over the snowy woods, Scalesworth couldn’t help but smile. He might be small, he might be a bit clumsy, and his coat might make him look like a tomato, but he was a dragon—and that was enough. “Scalesworth the Cozy,” he said to himself, “has a nice ring to it.”     Bring Scalesworth Home If you’ve fallen in love with the adorable, snarky charm of Scalesworth the Cozy, why not bring a piece of his frosty misadventure into your home? Check out these delightful products featuring the baby dragon in his iconic fur-trimmed coat: Tapestry – Perfect for adding a magical touch to your walls. Canvas Print – A stunning piece of art to bring warmth to any room. Tote Bag – Carry a bit of winter magic with you wherever you go. Fleece Blanket – Snuggle up with Scalesworth during the cold months. Shop now and let Scalesworth’s charm warm your heart and home!

by Bill Tiepelman

Azure Eyes of the Celestial Dragon

In a galaxy not too far away, on a planet called Luminaris—a place that looked like an interstellar disco ball on acid—there hatched a peculiar baby dragon. His name? Glitterwing the Fourth. Not because there were three dragons before him (there weren’t), but because his mother, Queen Frostmaw the Shimmering, had a flair for drama and thought numbers made things sound royal. Glitterwing, however, had other opinions. He liked his nickname better: Steve. Steve's Grand Entrance Steve’s birth wasn’t exactly a serene, mystical moment. He cracked out of his egg with all the grace of a squirrel on caffeine, flailing his tiny limbs, his metallic scales catching the light like a disco ball having an existential crisis. His first words weren’t poetic, either. They were something along the lines of, “Ugh, this light is awful, and what is that smell?!” From the moment he hatched, Steve had one glaringly unique feature: his impossibly large, strikingly blue eyes. While most dragon hatchlings looked like a mix between a kitten and a medieval weapon, Steve looked like a giant plush toy with an attitude problem. He immediately became the center of attention in the dragon kingdom, which, as you can imagine, annoyed him to no end. “Can we all stop gawking like I’m the last pastry at the buffet? I’m just a dragon, not a fireworks display.” Destined for Greatness? Nah, Just Hungry. The elders of the dragon council, a group of ancient reptiles who spent most of their time arguing about whose hoard was shinier, declared that Steve was destined for greatness. “His scales glitter like the stars, and his eyes pierce the soul!” they proclaimed. Steve, however, had other plans. “Cool story, Grandpa, but does greatness come with snacks? Because I’m starving.” Steve quickly developed a reputation for his biting wit and his insatiable appetite. While most dragons his age were practicing fire breathing, Steve was perfecting the art of sarcastic commentary. “Oh, look, another fire-breathing competition. How original. Why don’t we try something new, like, I don’t know, competitive napping?” The Misadventures Begin Steve’s snarky attitude didn’t exactly make him popular with his peers. One particularly jealous dragonling, Blaze, challenged him to a duel. “Prepare to meet your doom, Glitterwing!” Blaze roared. Steve didn’t even flinch. “Okay, but can we schedule this after lunch? I have priorities.” When the duel finally happened, Steve won—not with strength, but by making Blaze laugh so hard he fell over and rolled into a pile of mud. “See? Humor is the real weapon,” Steve said, polishing his claws nonchalantly. Despite his reluctance, Steve’s fame grew. Adventurers from distant lands came to see the "Celestial Dragon" with the sapphire eyes. Steve found this both flattering and exhausting. “Great, another group of humans pointing sticks at me and calling them ‘weapons.’ Can someone at least bring me a sandwich this time?” The Day Steve Saved the Kingdom (Accidentally) Steve’s most famous misadventure occurred when a rival kingdom sent a group of knights to steal the dragons' treasures. While the other dragons were busy preparing for battle, Steve was busy eating his weight in moonberries. The knights stormed into the dragon cave, only to find Steve lounging on a pile of gold. “Oh, look, more tin cans. What do you guys want? Directions to the nearest McDragon’s?” The knights, thinking Steve’s enormous eyes and shimmering scales were some sort of godly warning, panicked. One knight screamed, “It’s the divine dragon of doom!” and fled. The others followed, tripping over each other in their haste. Steve blinked, confused. “Wait, that worked? Huh. Maybe I am destined for greatness. Or maybe they just didn’t want to deal with a dragon who looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.” The Legend Lives On These days, Steve spends his time napping on his hoard (which mostly consists of shiny rocks and discarded armor) and coming up with increasingly sarcastic remarks for nosy adventurers. He’s still the talk of the kingdom, much to his annoyance. “I’m not a hero,” he insists. “I’m just a dragon who happens to look fabulous.” But deep down, Steve enjoys the attention—just a little. After all, who wouldn’t want to be a glittering icon with piercing azure eyes and a knack for making knights wet their pants?     Bring Steve Home: Celestial Dragon-Inspired Products Can't get enough of Steve's snarky charm and shimmering brilliance? Now, you can bring a piece of his celestial magic into your own home with these exclusive products: Dragon Tapestry: Adorn your walls with Steve’s radiant glory, perfect for transforming any room into a mystical lair. Canvas Print: A high-quality art piece showcasing Steve’s celestial aura, ideal for dragon lovers and fantasy enthusiasts. Throw Pillow: Cozy up with Steve’s enchanting presence, a whimsical addition to your living space. Dragon Puzzle: Piece together Steve’s mesmerizing features with this fun and challenging puzzle, perfect for quiet evenings or dragon-loving gatherings. Embrace the magic of the celestial dragon and let Steve’s legacy light up your life—one sparkling scale at a time.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Little Dragon of Heartfire

In a lush jungle where the air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers and the gossip of chatty parrots, there existed a dragon named Ember. Now, Ember wasn’t your average dragon. For starters, she was barely the size of a house cat, and her flames wouldn’t scorch a marshmallow. But what Ember lacked in size and firepower, she more than made up for in personality. She was feisty, fabulous, and, let’s just say, a little too invested in everyone else’s love life. Ember was no ordinary jungle inhabitant—she was Cupid’s subcontractor. Yes, that Cupid. The chubby baby with the bow? Turns out he had been phoning it in for centuries, and Ember, with her glittery wings and neon-red heart necklace, was the one actually keeping the romance industry afloat. "Love doesn’t just happen," Ember would say, usually while eavesdropping on someone’s awkward first date. "It needs a little… zhuzh." One year, as Valentine’s Day approached, Ember was busier than ever. The jungle was in chaos. Toucans were squabbling over whose turn it was to bring home the heart-shaped berries, a pair of jaguars were in a cold war over some misplaced grooming duties, and the sloths were taking “slow burn” romance far too literally. It was, in a word, exhausting. But Ember, with her unparalleled work ethic and a sparkling sense of humor, was ready to work her magic. First stop: the toucans. Perched on a vine, Ember listened to their melodramatic exchange. “You never appreciate me!” squawked the female. “I literally built you a nest!” screeched the male. Rolling her enormous dragon eyes, Ember muttered, “This is why I drink… nectar.” With a snap of her tail, she conjured a cascade of glowing heart-shaped flowers to rain down over their nest. The toucans froze, stunned into silence. “There. Romance. Now shut up and enjoy it,” Ember barked before zipping off, leaving a trail of glitter in her wake. Her next project involved a pair of sloths who were locked in a decade-long “will they/won’t they” situation. “Honestly, you two are the Ross and Rachel of this jungle,” Ember groaned, her claws clicking against her scales as she watched them exchange their usual slow-motion glances. “This calls for drastic measures.” She puffed a stream of glittery smoke that swirled around the two. Suddenly, the male sloth blinked, stretched out a claw, and plucked a hibiscus flower for his lady love. The female gasped—a slow, dramatic gasp, of course—and accepted it. Ember wiped a tear from her eye. “Finally. I was about to file for early retirement,” she quipped. But the pièce de résistance of Ember’s Valentine’s escapades came when she stumbled upon Greg, the most hopeless romantic she had ever met. Greg was a botanist with a terrible habit of writing poems so cringe-worthy that even the jungle vines recoiled. His latest masterpiece was dedicated to Melissa, the woman of his dreams, who had no idea he existed. “Greg,” Ember said, landing on his desk with a flourish. “We need to talk.” Startled, Greg blinked at the tiny dragon, unsure whether he’d been working too hard or if the jungle fumes were finally getting to him. Ember, never one to waste time, grabbed his notebook and began editing his latest poem. “This? This sounds like you’re auditioning for a role as a stalker. We’re aiming for charming, not terrifying.” With a flick of her tail, she added just the right touch of romance—some metaphors about moonlight, a hint of vulnerability, and, of course, a playful line about Melissa’s laugh. When Melissa received the newly polished note, her cheeks flushed pinker than the orchids Greg had sent along with it. Within hours, Greg had a date, and Ember had a smug look on her face. “Another day, another heart saved from mediocrity,” she declared as she flew off, leaving Greg to marvel at his sudden luck. Of course, not everything went smoothly. Ember had a knack for being a little too honest. Like the time she told a pair of flamingos their synchronized courting dance was “less romantic and more ‘awkward middle school talent show.’” Or when she interrupted a tree frog’s mating call to suggest he “try a lower pitch unless he wanted to sound like a squeaky door hinge.” But despite her sass, Ember had a 100% success rate. After all, her motto was simple: "Love is messy, ridiculous, and absolutely worth it—kind of like me." As the sun set on Valentine’s Day, Ember perched on a mossy rock, watching the jungle hum with newfound romance. The toucans were cuddling, the sloths were holding hands (slowly), and Greg was nervously planning his second date. Ember stretched her glittery wings and sighed, content. “Cupid can take all the credit,” she said with a sly smile. “But let’s be honest—without me, love would be doomed.” And so, the legend of the Little Dragon of Heartfire lived on. Some say if you ever feel a sudden burst of warmth and catch the faint scent of glittery smoke, it’s Ember, making sure love remains a little wild, a little wonderful, and just the right amount of chaotic.     Bring "The Little Dragon of Heartfire" into Your Home If Ember’s fiery charm and sassy antics have captured your heart, you can bring her magic into your home! Celebrate the whimsy and wonder of this Valentine's Day legend with stunning, high-quality merchandise: Tapestry: Transform your space with this enchanting piece of wall art, featuring the radiant hues and intricate details of Ember in her magical jungle. Canvas Print: A perfect centerpiece for any room, this canvas captures every shimmering scale and heart-shaped glow of Ember’s world. Throw Pillow: Add a touch of sass and comfort to your decor with Ember’s vibrant image printed on a soft, cozy pillow. Pouch: Keep your essentials organized with this portable and practical pouch adorned with Ember’s playful spirit. Explore the full collection and let Ember light up your home, one spark at a time! Click here to shop now and celebrate the season of love with a little dragon magic.

by Bill Tiepelman

Baby Dragon’s Dazzling New Year Bash

Baby Dragon’s Wild New Year Bash It started as a classy affair. The table was set with fine champagne, golden candles flickering gently, and an obnoxious amount of glitter covering every surface. Guests in tuxedos and shimmering dresses mingled under strings of fairy lights, chatting politely, toasting the year ahead. But then, waddling in from God-knows-where, came the baby dragon. Small but radiant, its scales shimmered in every imaginable color, as though it had rolled around in a pile of crushed disco balls. It stumbled up to the table, knocked over a champagne flute with its tail, and squawked loudly enough to silence the room. The little beast then made eye contact with the host, picked up a sparkler, and chirped as if to say, “This is my party now.” The dragon wasn’t exactly invited, but no one was brave enough to kick it out. Instead, they watched in stunned amusement as it commandeered the nearest champagne bottle, popped the cork with its tiny claws, and guzzled it like a frat boy at happy hour. Bubbles streamed down its chin as it belched a small puff of smoke, promptly singeing a nearby garland. “Who gave it booze?” someone hissed, but it was too late. The dragon had spotted the cheese plate. With alarming speed for such a small creature, it clambered onto the table, knocking over candles and scattering glitter into the air. It sniffed the brie, poked the gouda, and then chomped directly into the host’s expensive wheel of imported camembert. The room collectively gasped, but the dragon didn’t care—it had cheese, and it was going to town. By now, the baby dragon was a full-blown spectacle. It stood on the table, holding a sparkler in one claw and an uneaten cracker in the other, as if it were some kind of drunken medieval mascot. Someone turned up the music, and the dragon started swaying its hips, tail smacking indiscriminately into decorations, chairs, and one poor soul’s champagne tower. “This thing is a menace!” the host cried, attempting to shoo the dragon off the table with a serving tray. The dragon, feeling challenged, let out a tiny roar—more of a squeak, really—but it was enough to make the host rethink their life choices and sit quietly in a corner with a fresh drink. As midnight approached, the baby dragon was unstoppable. Its claws were sticky with champagne and mystery dip, and its wings were dusted with crushed party crackers. It had somehow acquired a party hat, perched lopsided on its head, and was holding court in the middle of the dance floor. Guests had given up on dignity and joined the little beast in what could only be described as a drunken conga line. Glitter rained from the ceiling as the countdown began. “TEN! NINE! EIGHT!” the crowd roared. The dragon, perched on someone’s shoulders, flapped its tiny wings in excitement, nearly toppling them over. “SEVEN! SIX! FIVE!” It tossed the sparkler into the air, where it landed in a punch bowl, fizzing out dramatically. “FOUR! THREE! TWO!” The dragon let out a triumphant screech, blowing a small puff of fire that set an unattended napkin aflame. No one cared. “ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!” The room erupted into cheers, hugs, and a cacophony of drunken celebration. The baby dragon, now thoroughly trashed, curled up in a pile of confetti and empty champagne bottles, snoring softly. Its party hat had slipped down over one eye, and its tiny claws clutched an uneaten piece of brie as if it were the most precious treasure in the world. As the night wound down and guests stumbled home, the host surveyed the wreckage of their once-pristine party. “Who the hell brought the dragon?” they muttered, picking up a singed party favor. The dragon snorted in its sleep, letting out one last puff of smoke. No one answered. After all, it didn’t matter. That little glittering monster had thrown the best damn party anyone could remember.     Explore More: Tiny Scales & Tails Collection If you loved the whimsical chaos of our New Year's baby dragon, don't miss your chance to bring this magical moment into your space! This enchanting image is available for prints, downloads, and licensing. Adorn your walls, spark conversations, or gift it to a fellow fantasy lover—this piece is perfect for celebrating magic and mischief in every season.

by Bill Tiepelman

Nestled in a Rainbow's Embrace

The storm had passed hours ago, but the forest still trembled in its wake. Thick mist curled around the ancient oaks, and the air carried the earthy scent of rain-soaked moss. Elara pulled her hood tighter, the crimson fabric a vivid slash against the muted greens and browns. The map in her hand was nearly illegible now, its ink smeared by relentless rain. Yet, she pressed on. She had no choice. “A heart of fire sleeps beneath the rainbow,” the old woman had whispered, her voice crackling like dry leaves. It wasn’t a metaphor, Elara knew. Not in this land of whispered myths and forbidden paths. What lay ahead could save her brother—or doom them both. She stepped cautiously over gnarled roots, her boots sinking into the damp earth. The forest was unnaturally quiet. No bird calls, no rustling leaves, only the faint trickle of water dripping from branches. And then she saw it—a faint shimmer in the distance, colors swirling like oil on water. Her pulse quickened. “The rainbow’s cradle,” she murmured, her breath fogging in the cool air. The map was forgotten, crumpled in her fist as she pressed forward. The light grew stronger, pulsating with an almost hypnotic rhythm. It wasn’t just a rainbow. It was alive. The Dragon’s Nest Elara emerged into a clearing, and her breath caught. The rainbow wasn’t in the sky. It lay pooled on the ground, its iridescent light casting an ethereal glow. At its center was a woven nest, intricate and impossibly delicate. And in the nest, nestled among the swirling hues, was a creature she had only read about in legends. The dragonling was no larger than a housecat, its scales a luminous pink that shimmered with every rise and fall of its tiny chest. Wings, translucent and veined like a butterfly’s, were folded neatly against its sides. It slept, oblivious to her presence, its tail curled around itself in a perfect spiral. Elara’s heart raced. This was it—the Heart of Fire. But it wasn’t a gemstone or a treasure. It was a living, breathing creature. She felt a pang of guilt as she reached for the small glass vial tucked into her belt. The tincture inside would sedate the dragonling long enough for her to carry it out of the forest. Long enough to barter it for the cure her brother so desperately needed. As she uncorked the vial, a low growl rumbled through the clearing. Elara froze. The air grew heavy, charged with an unseen energy. Slowly, she turned. The Guardian Awakens It emerged from the shadows like a nightmare made flesh. The mother dragon was massive, her scales a darker, fiercer pink that bordered on crimson. Her eyes, molten gold, locked onto Elara with a terrifying intensity. Smoke curled from her nostrils, and her claws sank into the earth as she advanced. “Easy,” Elara whispered, her voice trembling. She dropped the vial and raised her hands, the universal gesture of surrender. “I don’t want to hurt it. I just—” The dragon roared, a sound that shook the trees and sent birds fleeing from their hidden perches. Elara staggered back, her ears ringing. The mother’s wings unfurled, blotting out the shimmering light of the rainbow. She was trapped. Elara’s mind raced. She couldn’t fight a dragon, and running was pointless. Her hand brushed against the small pouch at her waist. Inside was a single vial of dragonbane extract, potent enough to fell even a creature of this size. But to use it would mean killing the mother. And without her, the baby wouldn’t survive. A Desperate Gamble “Please,” Elara said, her voice cracking. She dropped to her knees, forcing herself to meet the dragon’s gaze. “I don’t want to harm you or your child. But my brother is dying. He needs the Heart of Fire. I need it.” The dragon’s golden eyes flickered, her growl softening into a low rumble. For a moment, Elara thought she saw something—understanding, perhaps? Or was it her imagination? Before she could react, the dragon moved. In one swift motion, she reached into the nest with her massive claws and plucked a single scale from the sleeping dragonling. The baby stirred but didn’t wake, its tiny snout twitching as it curled deeper into the rainbow’s warmth. The mother dragon extended the scale toward Elara, her gaze unwavering. Elara hesitated, then reached out with trembling hands. The scale was warm, pulsing faintly with an inner light. It was enough. It had to be. The Price of Mercy As she stood, clutching the scale to her chest, the dragon huffed, a sound almost like approval. The rainbow’s light began to fade, the clearing growing dim. Elara backed away slowly, her eyes never leaving the mother dragon until the forest swallowed her once more. She ran. Through the trees, over roots and rocks, until her lungs burned and her legs threatened to give out. When she finally reached the edge of the forest, the first rays of dawn were breaking over the horizon. In her hand, the scale glowed faintly, a beacon of hope. Her brother would live. But as she glanced back at the dark, silent forest, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had left a part of herself behind, nestled in a rainbow’s embrace.    Bring the Magic Home Inspired by the enchanting tale of “Nestled in a Rainbow’s Embrace”? Now, you can bring this magical moment into your everyday life with stunning products featuring this artwork: Tapestry - Adorn your walls with the vibrant hues of the rainbow and the gentle serenity of the sleeping dragon. Canvas Print - A timeless piece for any space, bringing the magic of the rainbow’s cradle to life. Puzzle - Immerse yourself in the intricate details as you piece together this mythical scene. Tote Bag - Carry a touch of fantasy with you wherever you go. Let the magic of this story and artwork inspire you every day. Explore the full collection here.

by Bill Tiepelman

Twinkle Scales and Holiday Tales

Snow had blanketed the forest in a thick, sparkling cover, the kind of snow that made you question every life decision leading up to a trek through it. In the middle of this wintry scene stood Marla, bundled in layers of wool and bad choices, staring at the most unexpected sight she had encountered all year: a tiny dragon, glittering like a Pinterest project gone wrong, sitting under a Christmas tree. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Marla muttered, tugging her scarf tighter against the biting wind. She had signed up for a peaceful winter hike, not whatever this magical nonsense was. The dragon, no larger than a house cat, looked up from its task of adorning the tree with ornaments. Its scales shimmered in hues of emerald, sapphire, and gold, reflecting the candlelight like an overachieving disco ball. With a dramatic flick of its tail, it placed a final ornament—a suspiciously gaudy one that looked like it belonged in the clearance bin—on a frosted branch and gave Marla a slow blink. That was when she noticed the tiny antlers on its head, as if someone had tried to cross a dragon with a reindeer. “Oh great, a magical creature with holiday cheer,” Marla said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just what I needed to make this hike even weirder.” The dragon tilted its head and chirped—a sound somewhere between a kitten's meow and a squeaky door hinge. Then it picked up a crimson ornament, waddled toward her on its tiny clawed feet, and dropped the bauble at her boots. It looked up expectantly, wings fluttering slightly, as if to say, “Well? Are you going to help or just stand there being all grumpy?” Marla sighed. She wasn’t exactly known for her love of the holidays. Every December, she battled through the chaos of last-minute gift shopping, office parties that could only be endured with copious amounts of spiked eggnog, and her family’s annual “passive-aggressive charades” night. But this… this was something else entirely. And as much as she wanted to turn around and head back to the safety of her Netflix queue, the dragon’s big, watery eyes made her hesitate. “Fine,” she said, bending down to pick up the ornament. “But if this turns into some kind of weird Hallmark movie moment, I’m out.” The dragon chirped again, clearly pleased, and scampered back to the tree. Marla followed, grumbling under her breath about how her therapist was going to have a field day with this story. As she hung the ornament on an empty branch, she noticed the tree wasn’t just decorated with the usual tinsel and baubles. Among the branches were tiny golden scrolls, clusters of mistletoe that shimmered as if dusted with real stardust, and candles that burned without melting. It was, frankly, absurd. “You’ve really committed to this theme, huh?” Marla said, glancing at the dragon. “What’s next, a tiny Santa suit?” The dragon huffed, a puff of glittering smoke escaping its nostrils, and went back to rummaging through a pile of ornaments that had mysteriously appeared out of nowhere. It pulled out a miniature star, which Marla suspected was made of actual gold, and handed it to her. She placed it on the tree’s highest branch, earning a delighted trill from her new festive companion. “So, what’s the deal?” she asked, crossing her arms. “Are you some kind of Christmas mascot? An elf’s side hustle? Or am I hallucinating because I skipped breakfast?” The dragon didn’t answer, obviously, but it did do a little twirl that sent a flurry of snowflakes into the air. Marla couldn’t help but chuckle. “Alright, fine. I guess you’re kind of cute, in a ‘magical chaos’ sort of way.” As they continued decorating, Marla felt her initial irritation melting away. There was something oddly therapeutic about hanging ornaments with a glittery dragon who had no concept of personal space but an undeniable enthusiasm for holiday aesthetics. By the time they finished, the tree looked like it belonged in a fantasy novel—or at least on the cover of a very expensive holiday card. “Okay,” Marla said, stepping back to admire their work. “Not bad for an impromptu partnership. But don’t expect me to—” Her words were cut off by the sound of jingling bells. She turned to see the dragon holding a string of tiny sleigh bells in its mouth, looking entirely too pleased with itself. Before she could protest, it launched into a clumsy but enthusiastic dance, shaking the bells and twirling around the tree. Marla laughed, a genuine, belly-deep laugh that she hadn’t experienced in months. “Alright, alright, you win,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “I’ll admit it—this is kind of fun.” As the sun dipped below the horizon, the tree began to glow softly, its ornaments casting a warm, magical light across the snowy clearing. Marla sat down next to the dragon, who curled up at her side with a contented chirp. For the first time in a long time, she felt a sense of peace—and maybe even a little holiday spirit. “You know,” she said, stroking the dragon’s shimmering scales, “I might actually survive Christmas this year. But if you tell anyone I got all sentimental over a magical dragon, I’ll deny it. Got it?” The dragon snorted, sending another puff of glittering smoke into the air, and closed its eyes. Marla leaned back, watching the stars emerge one by one in the winter sky, and let herself smile. Maybe, just maybe, this holiday season wouldn’t be so bad after all.     Bring the Magic Home If you fell in love with this whimsical tale, why not bring a touch of the magic into your own home? "Twinkle Scales and Holiday Tales" is now available as a variety of stunning products to suit any space or occasion. Choose from the following options: Tapestries – Perfect for transforming any wall into a festive winter wonderland. Canvas Prints – Add an elegant touch to your décor with this magical scene. Puzzles – Bring some holiday cheer to family game night with this enchanting dragon design. Greeting Cards – Send a touch of whimsy and warmth to your loved ones this season. Explore these and more at our shop and celebrate the magic of the season in style!