baby dragon sidekick

by Bill Tiepelman

Squeaky Clean Scales

The Bath Time Rebellion Dragons, as you may know, are not typically creatures of hygiene. They’re more “roll in ashes and singe your eyebrows” than “minty fresh and sparkling clean.” But then there was Crispin, the hatchling with scales the color of caramelized sugar and an expression permanently stuck between “evil mastermind” and “gleeful toddler on a sugar rush.” Today, Crispin had declared war… on dirt. Or maybe it was soap. The jury was still out. It all began when his keeper, a half-asleep wizard named Marvin, tried to dunk Crispin in a copper basin full of bubbles. “You’ll enjoy it!” Marvin promised, stirring the frothy water like he was mixing a witch’s brew. Crispin, however, was unconvinced. Bath time had always been a source of great drama in the lair—tantrums, tail-thrashing, and one incident where the curtains had to be replaced because the hatchling had tried to flee mid-suds and accidentally set them ablaze. But then Crispin spotted something—bubbles. Shiny, rainbow-glass globes floating upward, popping with tiny kisses of sound. His pupils widened. His wings twitched. And before Marvin could lecture him about soap-to-scale ratios, Crispin lunged straight into the tub with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for bacon-wrapped griffin wings. He erupted out of the foam like a champagne cork, sending suds flying in every direction. Marvin sputtered, soaked, and muttered something about “regretting his life choices.” Crispin, meanwhile, was in ecstasy. He discovered the joy of clapping his tiny claws together and making bubbles leap like startled pixies. He practiced blowing on them, which resulted in singed froth and one very offended rubber ducky. His reflection warped and shimmered across each bubble’s surface, turning his grin into monstrous, goofy caricatures of himself—something he found absolutely hilarious. For once, the little terror wasn’t interested in setting things on fire, hoarding shiny objects, or gnawing on Marvin’s spellbooks. He was just… celebrating the sheer miracle of soap. And in that moment, Marvin, dripping and annoyed, realized something profound. Life wasn’t always about conquering towers or memorizing spells or repairing scorch marks on the ceiling. Sometimes, life was about watching a dragon discover joy in a bubble bath. Crispin wasn’t just squeaky clean—he was teaching Marvin that delight can be found in the simplest, sudsiest corners of existence. Still, Marvin prayed fervently that Crispin wouldn’t sneeze while submerged in foam. Nothing says “spiritual life lesson ruined” quite like igniting an entire bath’s worth of bubbles in a single fiery hiccup. The Suds Uprising By the time Marvin had mopped up the first tidal wave of foam, Crispin had gone full renegade. The dragonling discovered that when he slapped his tail just right, he could send geysers of suds rocketing into the air like celebratory fireworks. He shrieked with laughter, spraying the walls with wet streaks of soap and bubbles that clung to the ceiling like glistening cobwebs. It was less “bath time” and more “foam-fueled riot.” Marvin, towel draped around his shoulders like a defeated gladiator, sighed. “You’re supposed to be a fearsome beast one day, Crispin. You’ll terrorize villages, scorch kingdoms, demand tribute.” He waved a soggy hand at the dragonling. “Not… this.” Crispin, of course, ignored him. He was busy building a bubble crown. Each sphere balanced precariously on his spiky horns, creating an absurd, regal headpiece that would’ve made any monarch jealous. He puffed out his tiny chest, narrowed his eyes in mock seriousness, and gave Marvin a look that clearly translated to: Bow before your Squeaky Majesty. “Oh no,” Marvin muttered, massaging his temples. “He’s invented monarchy.” The rebellion escalated quickly. Crispin discovered that he could bite the bubbles without consequence. POP. POP. POP. He snapped at them like a cat in a sunbeam chasing dust motes, wings flapping wildly. Soon, he’d cleared a small patch of airspace, then leapt out of the tub—suds still dripping from his belly—declaring himself Champion of All Things That Burst. He roared (more of a squeaky hiccup, but the sentiment was there) and promptly slipped on the tile, landing in a splat that sent Marvin into uncontrollable laughter. For once, the old wizard wasn’t annoyed—he was cackling like a drunk at a comedy tavern, because seeing a dragon crown himself with soap bubbles only to skid across the bathroom like a greased piglet was just… priceless. And then came the philosophy, as bath-time chaos often inspires. Marvin realized that Crispin wasn’t just rebelling against dirt—he was rebelling against the expectation of being serious. Society told dragons to be terrifying, wizards to be wise, and bubbles to pop silently without purpose. But Crispin was rewriting the script. He was bratty, yes—he dunked his head into the suds and blew out his nostrils like a fire-breathing walrus—but he was also showing that joy was an act of defiance. To laugh at the absurdity of it all was to thumb your nose (or snout) at the very weight of existence. “Lesson of the day,” Marvin announced to no one, raising a dripping finger like a lecturer. “If life hands you soap, crown yourself King of Bubbles.” Crispin rewarded him by spitting foam directly into his beard. Marvin sputtered, but even he had to admit—it was well-deserved. The bubbles had become something greater: not just toys, not just soap, but symbols. Crispin wasn’t merely playing—he was staging a revolution of simplicity. Each bubble was a tiny manifesto, iridescent declarations that screamed: we are fleeting but fabulous! And though Marvin knew this was probably just his sleep-deprived brain overanalyzing, he couldn’t help but feel moved. The bratty little beast was teaching him to celebrate things that lasted mere seconds before popping. That maybe the point wasn’t permanence—it was the sparkle before the end. Crispin, meanwhile, had decided to test the boundaries of physics. He flapped his wings furiously, scattering soapy droplets like rain across the room, and tried to take flight. The effort launched him a glorious six inches into the air before gravity yanked him back into the tub with a KER-SPLASH that flooded half the floor. The dragonling poked his head out of the foam, eyes gleaming, grin wide, and let out a satisfied burble. Marvin just stared at the flooded chaos around him and whispered: “This… is my life now.” And yet, he wasn’t angry. He was weirdly grateful. Grateful for the mess, the noise, the bratty energy of a creature too young to care about dignity. Crispin was chaos, yes—but he was also a reminder that even wizards needed to loosen their robes once in a while and laugh at the suds sticking to their noses. Life, Marvin realized, is basically one long bubble bath: foamy, ridiculous, and gone too soon. The Gospel of the Bubble Dragon By now the bathroom looked less like a place of hygiene and more like a battlefield where the gods of Foam and Chaos had fought an epic war. The walls dripped with suds, the ceiling wore a frothy halo, and Marvin’s slippers had vanished somewhere under a swamp of soapy water. Crispin, however, was unfazed. He perched proudly on the rim of the copper tub, suds clinging to his horns, tail flicking like a metronome set to “trouble,” eyes gleaming with bratty triumph. He had conquered bath time, rewritten the rules, and crowned himself emperor of everything bubbly. Marvin sat cross-legged on the wet floor, soaked to his knobby knees, beard sparkling with soap residue. He had officially given up trying to control the situation. Instead, he leaned back against the wall and watched, part of him wondering how his life had come to this, another part weirdly thrilled to witness the spectacle. Somewhere between the suds in his ear and the dragon spit in his beard, the old wizard realized he’d stumbled into something rare: a teaching moment. Not the kind found in dusty grimoires or scrawled on parchment scrolls—no, this was the messy, hilarious gospel according to Crispin. The dragonling cleared his throat (a dramatic little “hrrrk” noise that sounded suspiciously like a toddler about to demand apple juice) and began strutting along the tub’s edge like a king addressing his court. His tiny claws tapped the rim, his wings flicked theatrically, and his bubble crown wobbled but somehow stayed intact. Marvin swore the little beast was giving a speech. “Pop, pop, pop,” Crispin chirped, punctuating each sound by biting at bubbles that drifted too close. Marvin couldn’t translate dragonling chatter exactly, but the meaning felt obvious: Life is short, so chomp it while it’s shiny. The more Marvin watched, the more the philosophy unfolded. Crispin splashed deliberately, soaking himself anew, as if to say: Cleanliness is temporary, but joy is renewable. He piled foam into ridiculous sculptures—mountains, castles, what looked suspiciously like Marvin’s bald head—and then gleefully smashed them, cackling with dragon giggles. Marvin found himself laughing too, realizing Crispin was showing him the joy of impermanence. You didn’t cling to bubbles. You played with them, loved them, and let them go. There was no tragedy in their popping—only the memory of sparkle. Of course, Crispin’s bratty streak wasn’t about to let the evening stay purely philosophical. Once he sensed he had Marvin’s attention, the dragonling doubled down on the mischief. He leapt from the tub with a wild squeal, wings flapping, and landed squarely on Marvin’s chest. The impact knocked the wizard backward into the puddled floor with a splash. Marvin wheezed, “I’m too old for this!” but Crispin just curled up smugly on his robe, leaving streaks of soap and little claw prints all over the fabric like a wet signature. Then came the grand finale: Crispin’s fire sneeze. Marvin saw it coming too late—the dragonling’s nose crinkled, his eyes crossed, his cheeks puffed. “No, no, no!” Marvin shouted, scrambling to grab a towel. But the sneeze erupted with a WHOOSH, igniting a cluster of bubbles into a brief, glorious fireball that shimmered across the bathroom like a dragon’s disco ball. Miraculously, nothing burned. Instead, the flames fizzled into rainbow smoke that smelled faintly of lavender soap. Marvin collapsed into helpless laughter, wheezing, tears streaming down his face. Even Crispin, startled, blinked once before bursting into shrieking giggles. It was official: bath time had become both rave and sermon. Later, when the chaos subsided, Marvin sat with Crispin curled up in a nest of towels. The hatchling, worn out from the suds rebellion, let out a little snore that sounded like a hiccup wrapped in purrs. Marvin stroked the damp scales on his head, reflecting. He’d always thought wisdom came from solemn rituals, from silence, from discipline. But tonight, wisdom had come in the form of bubbles, bratty tantrums, slippery floors, and a dragon that refused to do anything without making it fun. And maybe—just maybe—that was the greater lesson: that joy itself is an act of rebellion against a world too obsessed with being serious all the time. “Squeaky clean scales,” Marvin whispered with a chuckle, glancing at the glistening hatchling in his lap. “You’re not just clean, Crispin. You’re holy. A prophet of play, a tiny philosopher of foam.” He shook his head and smiled. “And you’re also the reason I’ll need to buy a mop.” Somewhere in his sleep, Crispin burbled happily, a bubble popping on his nose. And Marvin, exhausted but oddly renewed, decided that the simple things—the bratty, goofy, messy, fleeting, soapy things—were the ones worth celebrating. After all, no kingdom, no spell, no treasure could rival the miracle of a dragon who found enlightenment in a bubble bath.     Epilogue: The Legend of Squeaky Clean Scales In the weeks that followed, Marvin noticed something strange. Crispin began demanding regular baths. Not because he cared about hygiene—his bratty grin made it clear he just wanted more bubble chaos—but because bath time had become ritual. Every splash, every crown of suds, every fire-sneeze into foam became part of the dragonling’s growing legend. Neighbors whispered that Marvin’s hatchling was not just any dragon, but a mystical beast who glowed brighter than treasure after a bubble scrub. Of course, the truth was far less glamorous. Crispin still slipped on tiles. He still spit soap into Marvin’s beard for fun. He still staged miniature rebellions against bedtime, vegetables, and anything that didn’t involve sparkle or snacks. But in the oddest way, the little creature had changed something fundamental. Marvin, once stoic and grumpy, now found himself chuckling in the market, buying lavender soap in bulk. He even started greeting people with the phrase: “Find your bubble and pop it proudly.” It confused the townsfolk, but Marvin didn’t care—he had bubbles in his beard and joy in his chest. As for Crispin, he wore his title proudly: Squeaky Clean Scales. A dragon who would one day grow massive wings and fiery breath, but who, for now, was perfectly content to be small, goofy, and dripping with foam. His kingdom wasn’t of gold or jewels—it was of laughter, suds, and life lessons disguised as bratty fun. And in some quiet corner of the world, where dragons and wizards and bubbles all existed together, the simple miracle of bath time became a reminder that sometimes the greatest magic isn’t fire or flight—it’s joy. Pure, ridiculous, fleeting joy.     Bring the Bubble Dragon Home If Crispin the hatchling made you smile, why not let his bubbly antics brighten your own space? Squeaky Clean Scales is more than a story—it’s a celebration of joy, silliness, and life’s simplest pleasures. And now you can carry that magic into your everyday world with beautifully crafted products featuring this whimsical artwork. Dress up your walls with a stunning Framed Print or a luminous Acrylic Print—perfect conversation starters that capture every bubble and sparkle in vivid detail. Or make bath time legendary with a playful Shower Curtain that turns any bathroom into Crispin’s kingdom of foam. For cozy nights, wrap yourself in the warmth of a Fleece Blanket, or bring the dragonling’s bratty charm on the go with a versatile Tote Bag. Each piece is crafted to celebrate the joy, play, and laughter that Crispin reminds us to embrace. Because sometimes, the greatest treasures aren’t gold or fire—they’re bubbles, giggles, and the reminder to celebrate life’s little sparks.

by Bill Tiepelman

Dragonling in Gentle Hands

The Morning I Accidentally Adopted a Myth I woke to the sound of something humming on my windowsill, a note so small and bright it could have been a sliver of sunshine practicing scales. It wasn’t the kettle, and it wasn’t the neighbor’s feral wind chimes announcing another victory over the concept of melody. It was, as it turned out, a dragonling—a baby dragon the color of sunrise marmalade—clicking its pebble-like scales together the way contented cats purr. I was wearing an intricate dress I’d fallen asleep hemming—lace like frostwork, embroidery like ivy—and I remember thinking, very calmly: ah, yes, fantasy has finally come for me before coffee. The creature blinked. Two onyx eyes reflected my kitchen in perfect miniature: copper kettle, ceramic mugs, a calendar still turned to last month because deadlines are a myth we whisper to make ourselves feel organized. When I offered my hands, the dragonling tilted its head and scooted forward, claws whispering across the sill. The instant its weight settled in my palm, a warmth bloomed up my wrists, not hot exactly—more like the heat in fresh bread, the kind you break open and steam hugs your face. It smelled faintly of citrus and campfire. If “cozy” had a mascot, it had just climbed into my hands. “Hello,” I said, because when a mythical creature chooses you, manners matter. “Are you lost? Misdelivered? Out of warranty?” The dragonling blinked again, then chirruped. I swear the sound spelled my name. Elara. The syllables trembled in the air, tinged with spark. Tiny horns framed its head like a crown for a very small monarch who could, if pressed, flambé a marshmallow from three paces. It rested its chin where my thumbs met, as if I were a throne it had ordered from an artisan marketplace labeled hands for dragons. Somewhere between the second blink and the third chirrup, my sensible brain returned from its coffee break and filed an objection. We don’t know how to care for a dragon. The objection was overruled by the part of me that collects teacups and stray stories: we learn by doing—and by reading the manual, which surely exists somewhere between fairy-tale and homeowner’s insurance. I set the dragonling gently on a folded tea towel—neutral tones; we respect aesthetics—and inspected it the way you’d examine a priceless antique or a newborn idea. Each scale was a tiny mosaic tile, orange fading to ivory along the belly like a sunrise sliding down a snowy ridge. The texture whispered photorealistic, the way a really good fantasy art print dares your fingers to touch it. The horns looked sharp but not unkind. In the right angle of light, glitter—actual glitter—winked in the creases like stardust too lazy to leave after the party. “Okay,” I said, businesslike now. “Rules. One: no lighting anything on fire without supervision. Two: if you’re going to roast anything, it’s brussels sprouts. Three: we are a shoes-off household.” The dragonling lifted one foot—paw? claw?—and set it back down with grave dignity. Understood. I texted my group chat, Thread of Chaos (three artists, one baker, one librarian with the tactical calm of a medic), and typed: I have acquired a small dragon. Advice? The baker sent a string of heart emojis and suggested I name it Crème Brûlée. The librarian recommended immediate research and possibly a permit: Is there a Dragon Registry? You can’t just have combustible pets unlicensed. The painter wanted pictures. I snapped one—dragonling in my hands, lace sleeves soft as cloud—and the replies exploded: That looks REAL. How did you render the scales like that? Is this for your shop—posters, puzzles, stickers? I stared at the screen and typed the truest thing: It breathed on my palm and warmed my rings. The kettle finally finished its marathon to a boil. Steam curled toward the ceiling as if auditioning for the dragon’s job. When I lifted my mug, the dragonling leaned in, intrigued by the shallow sea of tea. “No,” I said gently, easing the cup away. “Caffeine is for humans and writers on a deadline.” It sneezed a microscopic spark and looked offended. To make amends, I offered a saucer of water. It lapped delicately, each sip producing a sound like a match being struck in the next room. A name arrived the way names sometimes do—inside a pause, as if it had been waiting for me to catch up. “Ember,” I said. “Or Emberly, if we’re formal.” The dragonling straightened, clearly pleased. Then it did something that rearranged the furniture of my heart: it pressed its forehead to my thumb, a tiny, trusting weight, as if stamping a treaty. Mine, it said without words. Yours. I hadn’t planned for a mythical roommate. My apartment was optimized for flat lay photography, fantasy decor, and a rotating collection of thrift-store chairs that squeaked like characters with opinions. And yet, as Ember explored the countertop—tail going flick-flick like punctuation—I could already see where the dragon would belong. The arm of the velvet sofa (sun-warm in the afternoons). The bookshelf ledge between poetry and cookbooks (where, admittedly, the cookbooks serve mostly as platonic aspirations). The ceramic planter that once held a succulent and now holds an enduring lesson about hubris. When Ember discovered my sewing basket, she made a sound so ecstatic it nearly hit whistle register. I intercepted her before she could inventory the pins with her mouth. “Absolutely not,” I said, sweeping the basket shut. “You’re a mythical creature, not a hedgehog with impulse control issues.” She pretended not to hear me, all innocence, the way toddlers pretend not to understand the word bedtime. For science, I laid out a rectangle of foil. Ember approached with ceremonial care, tapped it, and then scampered onto it like someone stepping onto a frozen pond for the first time. The foil crinkled. The sound—oh, that sound—made her eyes go moon-wide. She strutted in a circle, then performed a triumphant hop. If there is an internationally recognized dance of victory, Ember invented it on my counter with the stagecraft of a pop star and the dignity of a sparrow discovering breakdancing. I applauded. She bowed, entirely certain applause had been the plan all along. We negotiated breakfast. I offered scrambled eggs; Ember accepted a single bite and then, with the gravitas of a food critic, declined further participation. She preferred the water, the warmth of my hands, and the sunlight pooling across the table like liquid gold. Now and then, she exhaled a whisper of heat that polished my rings and made the spoon warm enough to smell like metal waking up. By nine, Ember had inventoried the apartment, terrified the vacuum from the safety of my shoulder, and discovered the mirror. She placed one hand—claw—against the glass, then another, then booped her own nose with profound reverence. The dragon in the mirror booped back. She made a sound like a smol kettle agreeing with itself. I realized, with sudden certainty, that I was not going to make it to my nine-thirty Zoom call. I also realized—and here I felt every synapse click into a better alignment—that my life had been a neatly labeled shelf, and Ember was the book that refused to stand upright. I texted my boss (a patient patron saint of freelancers) that my morning had turned “unexpectedly mythological,” and she replied, “Take pictures. We’ll call it research.” I took a dozen. In each photo, Ember looked like a sculpture of wonder someone had polished with awe. Dragon in hands. Baby dragon. Fantasy realism. Whimsical creature. Mythical bond. The keywords slid through my brain like fish through a stream, not as marketing this time, but as praise. After the photos, we napped on the couch in a puddle of light. Ember fit in the curve of my palm as if my hand had been designed for exactly this purpose—a cradle of scales and dreams. I woke to the sound of the mail slot shivering and found a narrow envelope on the mat, addressed to me in an elegant, old-fashioned hand: Elara,Congratulations on your successful hatching.Do not be alarmed by the hearth-syndrome; it passes.A representative will arrive before dusk to conduct the customary orientation.Warm regards,The Registry of Gentle Monsters I read the letter three times, then reread the part where the universe had apparently been waiting to send me stationery from the Registry of Gentle Monsters. Ember peeked over the paper’s edge and sneezed a spark that punctuated the signature with a dot of singe. Orientation. Before dusk. A representative. I thought of my unwashed hair, my less-than-stellar habits, my collection of mugs with literary quotes that made me sound much more well-read than I actually am. I thought of how quickly you can fall in love with something that fits inside your hands. “Right,” I told Ember, smoothing the letter as if it were a patient animal. “We will be excellent. We will be prepared. We will conceal the fact that I once set toast on fire in a toaster labeled ‘foolproof’.” Ember nodded with a seriousness that could have chaired a board meeting. She tucked her tail around my wrist—the living definition of friendship: a small, warm loop closing, promising mischief with consent. We tidied. I vacuumed; Ember judged. I swept; Ember rode the broom like a parade marshal. I lit a candle and then, reconsidering the optics of open flame near a creature that was technically a tiny furnace with opinions, blew it out. The day smoothed itself into quiet, the kind you can set a tea cup on and it won’t rattle. And then, with the deliberation of a curtain rising, someone knocked on my door. Ember and I looked at each other. She climbed my sleeve, settled at the crook of my elbow, and lifted her chin. Ready. I squared my shoulders, smoothed my embroidered dress—lace catching the light like frost—and opened the door to a woman in a long coat the color of thunderclouds. She carried a briefcase that hummed faintly and had the serene face of someone who never loses a pen. “Good morning, Elara,” she said, as if she’d known me all my life. “And good morning, Emberly.” The dragonling chirped, pleased. “I’m Maris, with the Registry. Shall we begin?” Behind her, the hallway rippled, just slightly, as if reality had taken a deep breath and decided to hold it. The smell of rain pressed against the threshold, bright and metallic. Maris’s eyes sparked with a kindness I wanted to trust. Ember’s tail tapped my forearm: Let’s. I stepped aside, heart beating a tidy allegro. A representative. An orientation. A whole registry of gentle monsters. Somewhere in the air between us, the future crackled like kindling. The Orientation, or: How to Fail Gracefully at Myth Management Maris swept into the apartment like she owned the air itself. Her thundercloud coat whispered secrets every time it shifted, and her briefcase hummed with a noise suspiciously like an electric kettle deciding whether to gossip. She sat at my wobbly dining table (bless the thrift shop), opened the briefcase with a click that sounded final, and produced a stack of forms bound in silver thread. Each page smelled faintly of lavender, old libraries, and the way parchment feels in dreams. Ember leaned forward, sniffing them with reverence, then sneezed another spark that singed a tidy hole through section C, question 12. “Don’t worry,” Maris said smoothly, producing a fountain pen the size of a wand. “That happens often. We encourage young hatchlings to mark their own paperwork. It establishes co-ownership.” She slid the form toward me. At the top, in neat, calligraphic letters, it read: Registry of Gentle Monsters — Orientation & Bonding Contract. Beneath that, in bold: Section 1: Acknowledgement of Fire Hazards and Snuggles. I read aloud. “I, the undersigned, agree to provide shelter, affection, and regular enrichment to the dragonling, hereafter referred to as Emberly, while acknowledging that accidental flambéing of curtains, documents, and eyebrows is statistically probable?” Ember gave a self-satisfied trill and licked her tiny lips. I signed. Ember patted the page, leaving a small scorch in place of a signature. Bureaucracy has never looked so whimsical. Next came dietary guidelines: “Feed Emberly two tablespoons of hearth fuel daily.” I asked, “What exactly is hearth fuel?” Maris produced a velvet pouch, opened it, and spilled out a handful of what looked like glittering coal mixed with cinnamon sugar. Ember practically levitated, eyes huge, and scarfed one pebble with the enthusiasm of a child meeting cotton candy for the first time. The afterburp was a delicate puff of smoke shaped suspiciously like a heart. “Note,” Maris added, scribbling on her clipboard, “Emberly may also attempt to eat tinfoil, shiny buttons, or the concept of jealousy. Please discourage the last one—it causes indigestion.” She looked at me over her spectacles, and I nodded gravely, as though jealousy snacking was something I dealt with regularly. The orientation continued with a section titled Socialization. Apparently, Ember must attend weekly “Play & Spark” sessions with other hatchlings to prevent what the manual called antisocial hoarding behavior. I pictured a support group of tiny dragons fighting over glitter and squeaky toys. Ember, still crunching on hearth fuel, wagged her tail like a dog at the word “play.” She was in. Then came the Friendship Clause. Maris tapped the page meaningfully. “This is the most important part,” she said. “It ensures your relationship remains reciprocal. Emberly will not simply be a pet. She will be your equal, your companion, and, in many ways, your very small yet very opinionated roommate.” Ember chirped as if to underline roommate. I imagined her leaving passive-aggressive notes on the fridge: Dear Elara, stop hogging the good sunlight spot. Love, Ember. “You will,” Maris continued, “share secrets, share burdens, and share laughter. It is the Registry’s belief that the bond between a human and their gentle monster is not a leash but a handshake.” I looked at Ember, who had curled into my elbow like a molten bracelet, her scales glittering against the lace embroidery of my sleeve. She blinked up at me, slow and trusting. A handshake, indeed. Paperwork finished, Maris reached into her briefcase once more and produced a small, polished object: a key shaped like a dragon’s claw holding a pearl. “This,” she said, “opens Emberly’s hearth box. You’ll receive it in the post within the week. Inside, you’ll find her lineage papers, a map to your nearest safe flying field, and a complimentary starter toy.” She paused, then leaned closer. “Between us, the toy will look ridiculous—rubber squeaker, flame-proof. Do not laugh. Dragons are sensitive about enrichment.” I made the mistake of asking how many other humans were bonded with dragonlings in the city. Maris smiled, the kind of smile that could power a lighthouse. “Enough to fill a pub,” she said. “Not enough to win a rugby match. You’ll know them when you meet them. You’ll smell the faintest trace of campfire, or notice the pockets with suspicious scorch marks. There’s a community.” She looked at Ember. “And now you’re part of it.” The idea thrilled me—a secret society of gentle monsters and their oddball humans, like a support group where the snacks occasionally catch fire. Ember yawned, showing teeth so tiny and sharp they looked like a row of pearls with a vendetta, and then promptly curled against my wrist, asleep mid-orientation. The warmth of her breath seeped through my skin until I felt branded with comfort. “Any questions?” Maris asked, already stacking papers into her humming briefcase. “Yes,” I said, unable to stop myself. “What happens if I mess this up?” Maris’s thundercloud eyes softened. “Oh, Elara. You will mess this up. Everyone does. Curtains will burn, biscuits will vanish, neighbors will file noise complaints about mysterious chirrups at dawn. But if you love her, and if you let her love you back, it won’t matter. Friendship is not about being flawless. It’s about being singed, occasionally, and laughing anyway.” She stood, coat shifting like weather. “You’re doing fine already.” And then she was gone, leaving only the faint smell of ozone and a half-empty pouch of hearth fuel. The latch on the door clicked, reality exhaled, and Ember blinked awake in my arms as if to say: Did I miss anything? I kissed the top of her tiny horned head. “Only the part where we became officially inseparable.” Ember sneezed, this time producing a smoke ring that drifted toward the ceiling before popping into glitter. I laughed until I nearly fell out of the chair. Bureaucracy had never looked so charming. The Friendship Clause in Action The next morning, Ember decided she was ready to explore the outside world. She demonstrated this by staging a protest in the living room: tiny claws on hips, tail whipping back and forth like a metronome set to defiance. When I tried to distract her with a rubber squeaker toy Maris had couriered overnight (shaped like a flame-retardant duck, heaven help us), Ember gave it one sniff, sneezed a spark that made it squeal involuntarily, and then turned her entire back on it. Message received. We were going out. I dressed with care: my prettiest embroidered dress, boots sturdy enough to survive both puddles and potential dragon-related detours, and a shawl to shield Ember from nosy neighbors. Ember clambered onto my shoulder, her scales glittering like sequins that had decided to unionize. She puffed a determined plume of smoke that smelled faintly of toasted marshmallow. “Alright,” I whispered, tucking her close. “Let’s show the world how whimsical bureaucracy looks in action.” The streets were ordinary that morning—coffee shops buzzing, pigeons plotting their usual bread crimes, joggers pretending running is fun—but Ember transformed them. She gasped at everything: lampposts, puddles, the smell of bagels. She tried to chase a leaf, then remembered she couldn’t fly yet and sulked until I let her ride in the crook of my arm like royalty in exile. Every time someone passed too close, she puffed a polite warning smoke ring. Most people ignored it, because apparently the universe is kind enough to let dragons pass as “quirky pets” in broad daylight. Bless urban denial. At the park, Ember discovered grass. I didn’t know it was possible for a dragonling to experience rapture, but there it was—rolling, chirruping, tail-thrashing joy. She tried to collect blades in her mouth like confetti and then spat them out dramatically, offended that they didn’t taste like hearth fuel. A small child pointed and shouted, “Look, Mommy, a lizard princess!” Ember froze, then puffed herself up to twice her size and performed a very undignified ta-da. The child applauded. Ember preened, basking in the world’s first recognition of her stage career. That’s when another dragonling arrived—sleek and blue as twilight, perched on the shoulder of a woman juggling two coffee cups and a tote bag that said World’s Okayest Witch. The blue dragonling chirped. Ember chirped louder. Suddenly I was in the middle of what can only be described as a competitive friendship-off, complete with synchronized tail-whipping and elaborate smoke rings. The other woman and I exchanged weary-but-amused smiles. “Registry?” I asked. She nodded. “Orientation yesterday?” She held up her singed sleeve like a badge of honor. Instant kinship. The dragonlings tumbled together on the grass, rolling like overcaffeinated puppies with wings. Ember paused long enough to look at me, her onyx eyes sparkling with unmistakable joy. I felt it then, deep in the lace-trimmed bones of my life: this wasn’t just whimsy, or chaos, or an elaborate form of spontaneous combustion disguised as pet ownership. This was friendship—messy, charming, ridiculous friendship. The kind that singes your sleeves but warms your soul. When we finally returned home, Ember curled into her hearth box (which had indeed arrived in the post, complete with a squeaky rubber phoenix that I pretended to take seriously). She hummed herself to sleep, scales glinting like pocket-sized constellations. I sat beside her, sipping tea, feeling the house glow with more life than it had ever held before. There would be mishaps. Curtains would burn. Neighbors would gossip. Someday, Ember would grow larger than my sofa and we’d have to renegotiate space and snacks. But none of that mattered. Because I had signed the Friendship Clause, not with ink, but with laughter and care—and Ember had countersigned with sparks, warmth, and the occasional unsolicited flambé. I leaned closer, whispering into her dreams: “Dragonling in gentle hands, forever.” Ember stirred, exhaled a tiny smoke heart, and settled again. And just like that, I knew: this was the beginning of every good story worth telling.     If Ember’s charm has warmed your heart as much as it singed my curtains, you can carry a piece of her whimsical spirit home. Our “Dragonling in Gentle Hands” artwork is now available as enchanting keepsakes and décor—perfect for anyone who believes friendship should always come with a spark. Framed Print — A timeless presentation, capturing every shimmering scale and delicate detail of Ember in a gallery-ready frame. Canvas Print — Bring the warmth of Ember’s gaze into your home with a bold, textured wall display. Tote Bag — Carry Ember with you everywhere, a perfect blend of art and everyday utility. Spiral Notebook — Let Ember guard your ideas, doodles, or secret plans with a notebook that feels part journal, part spellbook. Sticker — Add a touch of magic to your laptop, water bottle, or journal with Ember’s miniature likeness. From framed art for your walls to whimsical accessories for your daily adventures, every product carries the laughter, mischief, and friendship Ember represents. Bring home a spark of magic today.

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

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

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

Tongues and Talons

Of Eggs, Egos, and Explosions Burlap Tinklestump never planned to be a father. He could barely manage adult gnomehood, what with the ale debts, magical gardening fines, and one unresolved beef with the local frog choir. But destiny—or more precisely, a slightly intoxicated hedgehog named Fergus—had other ideas. It began, as these things often do, with a dare. “Lick it,” Fergus slurred, pointing at a cracked, iridescent egg nestled in the roots of a fireberry tree. “Betcha won’t.” “Bet I will,” Burlap shot back, without even asking what species it belonged to. He’d just finished chugging a fermented root beer so strong it could strip bark. His judgment was, generously, compromised. And so, with a tongue that had already survived three chili-eating contests and one unfortunate bee spell, Burlap gave the egg a full, slobbery swipe. It cracked. It hissed. It combusted. Out hatched a baby dragon—tiny, green, and already pissed off. The newborn let out a screech like a kettle having an existential crisis, flared its wings, and promptly bit Burlap on the nose. Sparks flew. Burlap screamed. Fergus passed out in a daffodil patch. “Well,” Burlap wheezed, prying the tiny jaws off his face, “guess that’s parenting now.” He named the dragon Singe, partly for the way it charred everything it sneezed on, and partly because it had already reduced his favorite pants to ashes. Singe, for his part, adopted Burlap in that aloof, vaguely threatening way that only dragons and cats truly master. He rode around on the gnome’s shoulder, hissed at authority figures, and developed a taste for roasted insects and sarcasm. Within weeks, the two became inseparable—and entirely insufferable. Together they perfected the art of mischief in the Dinglethorn Wilds: lacing faerie tea with fireball elixirs, redirecting squirrel migration routes with enchanted nut decoys, and once swapping the Wishing Pond’s coins with shiny goblin poker chips. The forest folk tried to reason with them. That failed. They tried to bribe them with mushroom pies. That almost worked. But it wasn’t until Burlap used Singe to light a ceremonial elvish tapestry—during a wedding, no less—that real consequences came knocking. The Elvish Postal Authority, a guild feared even by trolls, issued a notice of severe misconduct, public disruption, and ‘unauthorized flame-based object alteration’. It arrived via flaming pigeon. “We have to go underground,” Burlap declared. “Or up. Higher ground. Strategic advantage. Less paperwork.” And that’s when he discovered the Mushroom. It was colossal—an ancient, towering toadstool rumored to be sentient and mildly perverted. Burlap moved in immediately. He carved a spiral staircase up the stalk, installed a hammock made of recycled spider silk, and nailed a crooked sign to the cap: The High Fungus Consulate – Diplomatic Immunity & Spores for All. “We live here now,” he told Singe, who replied by incinerating a squirrel who’d asked for rent. The gnome nodded in approval. “Good. They’ll respect us.” Respect, as it turned out, was not the first reaction. The Forest Council called an emergency tribunal. Queen Glimmer sent an ambassador. The owlfolk drafted sanctions. And the elvish inspector returned—this time with a flamethrower of his own and a 67-count indictment scroll. Burlap, wearing a ceremonial robe made of moss and buttons, greeted him with a manic grin. “Tell your queen I demand recognition. Also, I licked the tax form. It’s legally mine now.” The inspector opened his mouth to reply—just as Singe sneezed a fireball the size of a cantaloupe into his boots. Chaos had only just begun. Fire, Fungi, and the Fall of Forest Law Three days after the incident with the flaming boots, Burlap and Singe stood trial in the Grand Glade Tribunal—an ancient patch of sacred forest converted into a courthouse by some very judgmental birches. The crowd was massive. Pixies with protest signs, dryads holding petitions, a group of anarchist hedgehogs chanting “NO SHROOM WITHOUT REPRESENTATION!” and at least one confused centaur who thought this was an herbalist expo. Burlap, in a robe made from stitched-together leaves and sandwich wrappers, sat perched atop a velvet mushroom throne he'd smuggled in from his “consulate.” Singe, now the size of a medium turkey and infinitely more combustible, sat curled on the gnome’s lap with a smug expression that only a creature born of fire and entitlement could maintain. Queen Glimmer presided. Her silver wings fluttered with restrained fury as she read the charges: “Unlawful dragon domestication. Unauthorized toadstool expansion. Misuse of enchanted flatulence. And one count of insulting a tree priest with interpretive dance.” “That last one was art,” Burlap muttered. “You can’t charge for expression.” “You danced on his altar while yelling ‘SPORE THIS!’” “He started it.” As the trial went on, things unraveled fast. The badger militia presented charred evidence, including half a mailbox and a wedding veil. Burlap called a raccoon named Dave as a character witness, who mostly tried to steal the bailiff’s pocket watch. Singe testified in the form of smoke puffs and mild arson. And then, as tensions peaked, Burlap unveiled his trump card: a magically binding diplomatic document written in ancient fungal script. “Behold!” he shouted, slapping the scroll onto the stump of testimony. “The Spores of Sanctuary Accord! Signed by the Fungus King himself—may his gills ever flourish.” Everyone gasped. Mostly because it smelled awful. Queen Glimmer read it carefully. “This... this is a menu from a questionable mushroom bar in the Marshes of Meh.” “Still binding,” Burlap replied. “It’s laminated.” In the chaos that followed—wherein a squirrel delegate threw a nut bomb, a pixie went rogue with glitter-based spells, and Singe decided the time was ripe for his first true roar—the trial collapsed into something more closely resembling a music festival run by toddlers with matches. And Burlap, never one to miss a dramatic exit, whistled for his getaway plan: a flying wheelbarrow powered by fermented gnome gas and old firework enchantments. He climbed aboard with Singe, gave a two-finger salute to the crowd, and shouted, “The High Fungus Consulate shall rise again! Preferably on Tuesdays!” They vanished in a trail of smoke, fire, and what smelled suspiciously like roasted garlic and regret. Weeks later, the Mushroom Embassy was declared a public hazard and burned down—though some claim it grew back overnight, taller, weirder, and faintly humming jazz. Burlap and Singe were never captured. They became legends. Myths. The kind whispered by tavern bards who smirk when the lute chords go slightly off tune. Some say they live in the Outer Bramble now, where law fears to tread and gnomes make their own constitutions. Others claim they opened a food truck specializing in spicy mushroom tacos and dragon-brewed cider. But one thing’s clear: Wherever there’s laughter, smoke, and a mushroom slightly out of place… Burlap Tinklestump and Singe are probably nearby, plotting their next ridiculous rebellion against authority, order, and pants. The forest forgives many things—but it never forgets a well-cooked elvish tax scroll.     EPILOGUE – The Gnome, the Dragon, and the Whispering Spores Years passed in the Dinglethorn Wilds, though “years” is a fuzzy term in a forest where time bends politely around mushroom rings and the moon occasionally takes Tuesdays off. The tale of Burlap Tinklestump and Singe grew roots and wings, mutating with every retelling. Some said they overthrew a goblin mayor. Others swore they built a fortress made entirely of stolen doorbells. One rumor claimed Singe fathered an entire generation of spicy-tempered wyvernlings, all with a flair for interpretive fire dancing. The truth was, as usual, far stranger. Burlap and Singe lived free, nomadic, and joyfully unaccountable. They wandered from glade to glade, stirring trouble like a spoon in a bubbling pot. They crashed fae garden parties, rewrote troll toll policies with sock puppets, and opened a short-lived consulting firm called Gnomebody’s Business, which specialized in diplomatic sabotage and mushroom real estate. They were kicked out of seventeen realms. Burlap framed each eviction notice and hung them with pride in whatever hollow log or enchanted gazebo they currently squatted in. Singe grew stronger, wiser, and no less chaotic. By adulthood, he could torch a beanstalk mid-air while spelling out rude words in smoke. He’d developed an affinity for jazz flute, enchanted bacon, and sneezing contests. And through it all, he remained perched—either on Burlap’s shoulder, his head, or on the nearest flammable object. Burlap aged only in theory. His beard got longer. His pranks got crueler. But his laugh—oh, that full-bodied, giddy cackle—echoed through the forest like a mischievous anthem. Even the trees began to lean in when he passed, eager to hear what idiocy he’d utter next. Eventually, they disappeared entirely. No sightings. No fire trails. Just silence… and mushrooms. Glowing, tall, gnarled mushrooms appeared wherever they’d once been—often with singe marks, bite impressions, and, occasionally, indecent graffiti. The High Fungus Consulate, it seems, had simply gone... airborne. To this day, if you enter the Dinglethorn at twilight and tell a lie with a grin, you might hear a chuckle on the wind. And if you leave behind a pie, a bad poem, or a political pamphlet soaked in brandy—well, let’s just say that pie might come back flaming, annotated, and demanding a seat at the council table. Because Burlap and Singe weren’t just legends. They were a warning wrapped in laughter, tied with fire, and sealed with a mushroom stamp.     Bring the Mischief Home – Shop "Tongues and Talons" Collectibles Feeling the itch to cause some magical mayhem of your own? Invite Burlap and Singe into your world with our exclusive Tongues and Talons collection — crafted for rebels, dreamers, and mushroom-loving firestarters. 🔥 Metal Print: Bold, gleaming, and built to withstand even a dragon sneeze — this metal print captures every detail of the gnome-dragon duo’s chaotic charm in razor-sharp resolution. 🖼️ Canvas Print: Add a splash of whimsy and fire to your walls with this stunning canvas print. It’s storytelling, texture, and toadstool glory all in one frame-worthy piece. 🛋️ Throw Pillow: Need a cozy companion for your next mischief-filled nap? Our Tongues and Talons throw pillow is the softest way to keep dragon energy on your couch — no scorch marks included. 👜 Tote Bag: Whether you're hauling forbidden scrolls, enchanted snacks, or questionable diplomatic documents, this tote bag has your back with sturdy style and spellbinding flair. Shop now and carry a little bit of chaos, laughter, and legendary fungus with you — wherever your next adventure leads.