Chaotic baby dragon

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

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. 😉