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