dragon

by Bill Tiepelman

The Rosewing Vanguard

The Fall and the Flame They called her Hessa the Silent, not because she didn’t speak—gods no, she swore like a sky-sailor drunk on phoenix blood—but because when she struck, there was no warning. No clink of armor. No battle cry. No dumb heroic monologue. Just a cold wind, a flick of silver hair, and then someone’s spleen went flying into a lake somewhere. The Vanguard weren’t meant to survive the Purge. The Empire made sure of it. One by one, the dragonriders were hunted down, their mounts burned alive mid-air, their bones fed to wolves, and their legacies erased from every map and bard's ballad. That was a decade ago. And yet, here she was—grizzled, scowling, riding a goddamn rose-colored dragon like a war goddess dipped in glitter and fire. They tried to break her. They bound her wrists in shadowsteel and dumped her body in the Screaming Trenches for the worms to clean. But Hessa doesn’t stay buried. Not when there’s vengeance to serve on a flaming platter. Not when she’s the last rider of Rosewing, the only living dragon born from dusk itself, whose wings turned skies pink and whose breath scorched lies out of men like confession candles. She found the beast again on the 10th night of the Blood Gale, half-starved and chained beneath the ruins of an old observatory. His eyes were dull. His wings clipped. His pride had been flayed from him like bark from a cursed tree. Hessa didn’t speak. She just held up the old saddle—torn, scorched, and still slick with the blood of her sisters—and whispered, “You up for another round?” Rosewing blinked. Then he roared. Now, they fly over the smoking wreck of Fort Cravane, painting the sky in streaks of rage and redemption. The soldiers on the ground barely know where to look—at the impossible dragon with flaming fuchsia wings, or the leather-clad hellcat astride him, sword in one hand, middle finger in the other. She wasn’t here for mercy. She was here to remind the Empire that some fires don’t go out. They just wait for a gale strong enough to spread the damn blaze. And Hessa? She was the gale, the match, and the whole bloody firestorm wrapped in a corset of spikes and broken promises. “Run,” she growled to the battalion commander as Rosewing hovered over the smoking keep. “Tell your emperor I’m bringing every scream back. With interest.” And then? She dropped. Like a meteor. Like judgment with boobs and a blade. And the world caught fire. Again. Ashes and Ascension The crater left by her landing would be visible from orbit, if the empire had gotten their magic spy mirrors working before she fed the engineers to the wolves. The impact wasn’t just physical—it was mythic. Fort Cravane wasn’t some wooden outpost run by bored teenagers. It was a stone beast, a juggernaut carved into the bones of the mountain itself. It had stood unbreached for a hundred years. Emperors were crowned there. War councils forged genocides there. Bastards were legitimized in its brothel-halls by drunk nobles and even drunker scribes. And now? It was rubble. Smoking, blood-soaked rubble with a single pink-scaled dragon coiled atop it like a crown forged in madness and sass. Hessa didn’t just burn the fort. She erased it. Every banner torn, every relic shattered, every smug face either melted or begging for death like it was a warm blanket. She didn’t even get off Rosewing’s back for the first half hour—just strafed the courtyard like a pissed-off comet, cackling and spitting insults while her dragon turned war machines into molten modern art. Then came the real fun. See, Hessa had a list. A long one. Names she carved into the inside of her left gauntlet with a bone stylus dipped in witchblood. Each one was a reason she hadn’t slit her own throat during those ten years in exile. Each one had laughed while her kin burned, each one had signed the warrant, cast the spell, sealed the fate. And each one, like delicious, screaming destiny, had been summoned to Cravane for a war meeting. The gods must have known. Or maybe they just had a sick sense of humor. Because Hessa was coming for every name, and she was coming with style. She dismounted in the courtyard—Rosewing spinning lazily in the air above her like a bored death angel—and stalked across the shattered marble, her boots crunching on bones and brass. Her armor wasn’t polished. It was jagged, blackened, and smeared with enough blood to make the floor slippery. Her left pauldron still had a jawbone stuck to it. She left it there. Statement piece. General Vaeldor was the first. Big man. Voice like thunder. Beard like a brick wall that grew its own testosterone. He raised his axe and gave the dumbest speech of his dumb life: “I do not fear a broken woman on a stolen beast.” “And I don’t fear a sausage with arms,” she replied, kicking him in the groin so hard his ancestors felt it. Then she stabbed him through the mouth while he was still vomiting up vowels. Two minutes later, she’d impaled three more officers on a flagpole and shoved their corpses into a ceremonial brazier to keep her sword warm. Flames danced, blood steamed. It smelled like justice and burnt chicken. Rosewing dropped from the sky to snatch an archer off a tower like a child grabbing a snack. Bones crunched. Screams followed. Then silence. Hessa liked the silence. It gave her time to monologue. Which she did, frequently, and with profanity that could etch glass. “I’m not here to win,” she shouted, addressing the survivors hiding behind what used to be a tower wall. “I’m here to balance the books. You arrogant little piss-stains thought you could kill the Vanguard and stuff the story in a vault? Nah. You made it juicy. You made it a revenge song. And now I’m here to play the chorus—LOUD.” Someone tried to cast a banishment rune. She threw a throwing knife through his eye mid-sentence and didn’t break stride. Another tried to run. Rosewing spat a burst of flame shaped like a screaming banshee and turned the deserter into ash-flavored dust. The sky darkened. Stormclouds rolled in like they were trying to get a better view. By sundown, the fort was gone. Literally. There was nothing left but a field of smoking debris, a few blood-slick stones, and a single saddle sitting upright on a hilltop. Rosewing perched behind her like a goddamn monument, wings half-unfurled, tail wrapped in a spiral that glowed faintly from the still-burning embers in his veins. Hessa stood before the last survivor—a boy, maybe fifteen, holding a broken pike and a face full of piss and tears. She crouched before him, eye to eye. “Go home,” she whispered. “Tell them what you saw. Tell them the Vanguard flies again. And if they ever dare raise another army…” She leaned in, smile razor-sharp. “Tell them pink will be the last color they ever see.” The boy ran. Good. She wanted fear to spread faster than fire. Later, as she and Rosewing flew east toward the mountain strongholds, the wind carving new stories into the air around them, Hessa leaned back in the saddle, breathing deep. Her muscles ached. Her armor reeked. Her soul thrummed like a lute string strung too tight. But it was done. The first name crossed off. Forty-two to go. “That’s right, sweetheart,” she muttered to the stars. “We’re just getting started.” The Screaming Skies They called it The Rift—the tear in the earth that bled skyfire and swallowed armies. Stretching fifty miles across the Wastes like the gods had clawed the planet in half during a drunken brawl, it was said to be impassable. Suicidal. A graveyard of heroes and the last hope of fools. Which, of course, made it perfect for Hessa. She didn’t slow. Didn’t plan. Just gritted her teeth and kicked Rosewing into a dive so steep her eyelashes caught fire. The dragon responded like he’d been waiting for this all his life—wings slicing air, jaws open in a grin made of flame and defiance. Below, the Rift cracked wider, as if the land itself was screaming “OH NO SHE DIDN’T.” Oh, but she did. She’d crossed the Wastes to end this. To burn the root, not the branches. Her goal? The floating citadel of High Thorne—home of the Arken Lords, final architects of the Purge, and smug bastards with magic glass floors and an unearned superiority complex. You couldn’t reach them by land. You couldn’t breach the shield walls. Unless, of course, you were riding a rose-scaled dragon made of ancient war magic and spite with wings strong enough to tear holes in reality. Rosewing pierced the cloud barrier like a needle dipped in vengeance. Thunder rolled behind them. Magic sigils cracked as they passed. Dozens of skyward ballistae fired, but she danced between the bolts like the wind owed her money. One caught her pauldron. She didn’t flinch. Just bit the shaft off with her teeth and spit it at the tower. Then came the Sky Guard—aerial knights on winged drakes, thirty strong, gleaming with enchantments and entitlement. They fanned out like birds of prey, blades glowing, spells primed. One shouted, “By order of the High Council—” “Eat my order,” Hessa barked, slamming Rosewing into a barrel roll that sent three of them tumbling into each other like enchanted bowling pins. She stood in the saddle, sword in one hand, firebomb in the other, screaming a war chant so raw it probably made three ancestors resurrect just to clutch their pearls. “Let’s fucking dance, sky boys!” They fought through the air like demons on holiday. Rosewing twisted, snapped, spun into dives so sudden the horizon screamed. Hessa disarmed a mage mid-incantation, then headbutted him so hard he exploded into feathers. She caught a flaming spear with her bare hand, screamed “THANKS!” and hurled it into the citadel gates like she was mailing back someone’s bad decisions. Drakes shrieked. Blood fell like crimson rain. Magic collided with dragonflame and lit the clouds on fire. You could see it from every village within a hundred miles—an inferno in the sky, with a silhouette of a woman standing atop a god, unkillable and pissed off. The gates of High Thorne cracked. Then split. Then detonated. Hessa stepped into the throne room like she owned the floor. Because now, she did. Ash coated her hair like a crown. Her armor was half-melted. One eyebrow was gone. Her sword hummed with the deaths of men who hadn’t shut up when they should’ve. At the far end sat the three Lords—robed in silks, gaudy with enchanted rings, surrounded by trembling bodyguards and illusions that flickered like bad lies. “We can negotiate,” one started, face twitching. “Negotiate these,” she said, and hurled a blade into his chest so hard it pinned him to the back wall. The others went for spells. Rosewing crashed through the stained-glass ceiling like a pink war deity from someone’s trauma nightmare and screamed fire into the room, melting every protection circle in a heartbeat. Hessa walked through the blaze like a bad memory given form, killing everything that moved and most things that didn’t. When she reached the second Lord, she whispered something so foul into his ear that his soul left his body before the knife did. The last one she saved for last—Lord Vaedric, High Chancellor of the Purge, too cowardly to even stand. “You remember my sister?” she asked, sliding onto the throne. “Red hair, big heart, tried to talk peace while you gut-punched her with shadowsteel?” He nodded. Cried. Snot. Begged. Hessa rolled her eyes. “You know what her final words were?” He shook his head. “They were ‘Tell that bastard I’ll see him in hell.’ So.” She leaned forward. “Get going.” One twist of her wrist. One gurgle. Done. And just like that, the Purge was over. Later, after the fires died and the dust settled, Hessa and Rosewing sat atop the highest spire, watching dawn break over a quieter world. She wasn’t a hero. Heroes get statues. She preferred nightmares. She preferred stories. “You think it sticks?” she asked her dragon. Rosewing growled something deep and thoughtful, then sneezed a puff of glittery embers into the air. She laughed. “Yeah. Me too.” And then they flew. Into legend. Into infamy. Into every campfire tale and drunk bard song from here to the dead coast. Because the Rosewing Vanguard wasn’t a dream. She was the end of one empire—and the birth of something so much louder. The sky still hasn't healed.     Epilogue: Embers Never Sleep In a tavern carved from the ribs of a long-dead titan, a bard plucks strings too old to remember their own tuning. The room hushes. Drinks still. A fire pops. “They say she vanished,” the bard begins, voice raspy with ash and rumors. “Rider and beast. One moment setting skies on fire, the next—gone. Like they’d burned so bright, the world couldn’t hold them anymore.” A drunk near the hearth snorts. “Bullshit. No one survives the Rift.” The bard just smiles. “Then explain the pink scales they found last month in a crater outside Blackwind. Still warm. Still humming.” At a distant table, a woman with platinum hair and a half-melted pauldron sips quietly from a chipped mug. She says nothing. Just watches the flames. Her dragon sleeps in the valley beyond, curled like a storm waiting to remember itself. She doesn’t need the songs. She doesn’t need the statues. She needs only this: wind, silence, and the promise of one last flight, should the world dare ask her again. Because embers? They don’t die. They wait.     Bring the Legend Home If the tale of The Rosewing Vanguard lit something fierce inside you—don’t let it fade. Capture the fire, the fury, and the flight with exclusive merchandise inspired by the story. Let our metal print turn your wall into a battleground of light and legend, or test your wits and your patience with this epic jigsaw puzzle forged from the heat of fantasy skies. Want to send some fire by mail? Our greeting cards carry the saga one envelope at a time, and stickers slap the legend onto any surface that dares. And when the cold creeps in? Wrap yourself in dragon-warmed dreams with a luxuriously soft fleece blanket that feels like Rosewing’s wings wrapped around your soul. Because some stories belong in your hands—not just your head.

by Bill Tiepelman

Sunlit Shenanigans

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

by Bill Tiepelman

How to Tame Your Dragon’s Dental Hygiene

The Gums of War In the majestic realm of Gingivaria—a place tragically overlooked by most fantasy cartographers—dragons weren’t known for their hoards or fiery wrath. No, they were known for their halitosis. The kind that could melt faces faster than their actual flame breath. The kind that left a streak of singed eyebrows in its wake. The kind that made even trolls retch and cry, “Dear gods, is that anchovy?” Enter Fizzwhistle Junebug, a winged dental hygienist with a vengeance. She was petite, sparkly, and meaner than a tax audit. Her wings shimmered in irritated gold whenever someone said, “Fairy dust solves everything.” Her toothbrush? An industrial-grade wand forged in the Molars of Mount Munch. Her mission? To tame the worst dental case in all seven realms: Greg. Greg the dragon had many titles: Scourge of Skincare, Flamey the Flatulent, Baron of the Bicuspid Apocalypse. But most knew him simply as The Breath of Doom. Villagers no longer brought sacrifices—they brought mints. Bards refused to sing of his deeds until they invented rhymes for “decay” and “oral swamp.” Greg didn’t mind. He was perfectly content gnawing on boulders and basking in the solitude of people running in the opposite direction. Until Fizzwhistle flew into his cave one dewy Tuesday morning with a clipboard and a peppermint aura. “Gregory?” she chirped, somehow sounding both chipper and ready to commit murder. “I’m with the Enchanted Oral Order. You’ve been reported… seven hundred and sixty-two times for olfactory assault. It’s time.” Greg blinked. One eye. Then the other. He was halfway through a mouthful of charcoal briquettes. “Time for what?” he rumbled, a cloud of greenish horror seeping from his mouth like a fog of forgotten sins. Fizzwhistle donned aviator goggles, clicked a button on her wand, and extended it into a dual-action, enchanted toothbrush-flossing lance. “Time,” she said, “for your first cleaning.” The scream that followed echoed through five valleys, startled a herd of centaurs into a synchronized can-can, and permanently curled the leaves of the Whimpering Woods. The Plaqueening Greg did not come quietly. He howled. He thrashed. He gnawed the air like a feral toddler teething on thunder. And yet, despite all this prehistoric drama, Fizzwhistle Junebug hovered with the dead-eyed calm of someone who’s flossed the teeth of mountain trolls while they snored. She waited, mid-air, wings buzzing faintly, wand-brush at the ready, sipping from a travel-sized espresso chalice that read: “Don’t Make Me Use The Mint.” “Done?” she asked after the third cave stalactite crumbled from Greg’s banshee roar. “No.” Greg grunted, curling his massive tail protectively around his snout. “You can’t make me. I have rights. I’m a majestic, ancient being. I’m on several tapestries.” “You’re also a public health crisis,” she replied. “Open wide, Sir Fumebreath.” “Why does it smell like burning cucumbers when I burp?” “That’s your tonsils waving a white flag.” Greg sighed, smoke curling out of his nostrils. Somewhere in the back of his prehistoric brain, the tiniest speck of shame flickered. Not that he’d ever admit it. Dragons don’t do shame. They do rage, naps, and existential ennui. But as Fizzwhistle cracked her knuckles and activated the sonic floss attachment, Greg realized that maybe—just maybe—he was not okay. “Okay, ground rules,” he growled. “No touching the uvula. That thing’s sensitive.” Fizzwhistle rolled her eyes. “Please. I’ve flossed krakens. Your uvula’s a powder puff.” And so it began. The Great Cleaning. First came the rinse: a cauldron of enchanted water infused with mint, moonlight, and a hint of cinnamon broom. Greg sputtered and foamed like a broken cappuccino machine. He belched a bubble that floated away, popped midair, and turned a squirrel into a barista. Then came the scaling. Fizzwhistle zipped between his teeth, lance vibrating, scraping decades of fossilized meat goo from his molars. Out came a knight’s helmet, two ox bones, a whole wheel of ghost cheese (still screaming), and what appeared to be the skeletal remains of a bard holding a tiny lute. Greg blinked. “So that’s where Harold went.” Fizzwhistle didn’t stop. She whirred. She buffed. She flossed with the fury of someone who had been left on read one too many times. And all the while, Greg sat there, his tongue dangling out like a defeated dog’s, whimpering. “Do you enjoy this?” he mumbled, half-choking on a minty glob of magical foam. “Immensely,” she grinned, wiping sweat from her brow with a disinfected lavender towel. Midway through quadrant three (left bicuspid zone), Greg coughed up a toothpick the size of a javelin and murmured, “This feels… oddly intimate.” Fizzwhistle paused. Hovered. Cocked her head sideways. “You ever had anyone care enough to scrape out your tartar, Greg?” “…no.” “Well, congrats. This is either love or professional stubbornness. Possibly both.” He blinked slowly. “Do you do tail scales too?” “That’s extra,” she deadpanned. Time slipped sideways. Light filtered in from the edge of the cave mouth in a hazy, post-cleanse glow. Greg’s teeth sparkled like cursed sapphires. His gums—formerly a toxic swamp of regret and regret sandwiches—now shone with the healthy blush of a creature who had finally seen a toothbrush. Fizzwhistle dropped into a seated hover, wand cooling in its holster. “Well. That’s done.” “I feel… light,” Greg said, opening his mouth and exhaling. A flock of nearby birds did not fall dead from the sky. Flowers did not immediately wither. A nearby tree actually perked up. “I feel like I could go to a brunch.” “Don’t push it,” she muttered. Greg sat in stunned silence, sniffing at his own breath like a dog discovering peanut butter. “I’m minty.” “You’re welcome.” Fizzwhistle tucked her gear back into her satchel, now clinking with extracted plaque crystals and some extra treasure she “accidentally” picked up from the hoard. Greg didn’t notice. He was too busy smiling—an act that, for the first time, did not cause a thunderclap or spontaneous nosebleeds in nearby villagers. “Hey, Fizz?” he said, his voice awkward and rumbly. “Would you maybe… come back? Like next week? Just to, you know, check the molars?” Fizzwhistle smirked. “We’ll see. Depends if you floss.” Greg's face fell. “What’s floss?” A Mint Condition Relationship The following week, Greg flossed using a pine tree and a suspiciously bendy wizard. It wasn’t effective, but the effort was there. Fizzwhistle returned, reluctantly impressed. She arrived with a toolbox of enchanted dental gear and the wary eyes of a woman who wasn’t sure whether this was a follow-up cleaning or an accidental date. “I even rinsed,” Greg offered proudly, mistaking a bucket of rainwater for mouthwash. He’d added crushed snowberries for flavor. He gagged. But he did it. Fizzwhistle raised an eyebrow. “You used the berries that scream when picked?” “It seemed festive.” “They’re also mildly hallucinogenic. Don’t eat your own tail for the next hour.” Despite the chaos, something had shifted. Greg didn’t flinch when she hovered near his canines. He even smiled—without weaponizing it. Birds didn’t scatter. Trees didn’t ignite. The world stayed mostly intact, which in Greg’s case was emotional growth. After his third appointment (he was now on a plan), Greg did something unthinkable. He made tea. He boiled water with his breath, steeped herbs from the Whispering Glade, and served it in a tea set he accidentally stole from a gnome wedding two centuries ago. Fizzwhistle, suspicious but curious, accepted. She even sipped. It wasn’t terrible. “I’ve never hosted tea before,” Greg admitted, fidgeting with his tail. “Usually I just incinerate guests.” “This is slightly more charming,” she said. “Also less murdery.” They sipped. They chatted. Topics ranged from dental horror stories to Greg’s brief but dramatic stint as a backup dancer in the Goblin Opera. She laughed. He blushed. Somewhere, a unicorn sneezed glitter and nobody knew why. The visits became routine. Weekly cleanings turned into bi-weekly brunches. Greg started brushing daily with a house-sized bristle brush mounted to a siege tower. Fizzwhistle installed a flossing polearm near the stalactites. She even left behind a magically singing toothbrush named Cheryl who kept yelling, “SCRUB THOSE MOLARS, YOU FILTHY KING!” every morning at sunrise. It was oddly romantic. Not in a “let’s hold hands under moonlight” kind of way, but in the “I scrape barnacles off your gums because I respect you” kind of way. Which, in Gingivaria, was basically a proposal. One day, as they flew together over the Sparkling Ridge (Fizzwhistle clinging to Greg’s neck spike with a picnic basket strapped to her back), he asked, “Do you think it’s weird?” “What? The fact that I clean your teeth with a glowing spear and also bring you croissants?” “That… and maybe the feelings part.” Fizzwhistle looked ahead, past the shimmering clouds and the distant spires of Gingivaria’s Capital of Canker, and said, “Greg, I’ve cleaned between your molars. There is no going back from that level of emotional intimacy.” Greg rumbled a soft laugh that only incinerated a small shrub. Progress. They landed on a cliff edge, laid out their brunch, and watched a pair of thunderbirds dance across the horizon. Greg delicately munched on a charcoal scone (recipe courtesy of Cheryl the toothbrush). Fizzwhistle nibbled a cloudberry tart and sipped a flask of wine that sang Gregorian chants in the key of gingivitis. “So…” Greg said, tail twitching nervously. “I was thinking of adding a second toothbrush tower. For guests. You know. If you ever wanted to… stay?” Fizzwhistle choked slightly on her tart. “Are you asking me to move in?” “Well. Only if you want to. And maybe if we survive your mom’s reaction. And if Cheryl doesn’t object. She’s gotten… territorial.” Fizzwhistle stared at him. This ancient, terrifying, plaque-producing beast with a now-brilliant smile and a secret weakness for honey tea. She wiped tart crumbs from her lip, adjusted her wing cuff, and said: “I’d be delighted, Greg. On one condition.” “Anything.” “You floss. With actual floss. Not wizards.” Greg grumbled but nodded. “Deal. Can we still use gnomes as mouthwash?” “Only if they volunteer.” And so they lived—mintily, sassily, and ever after—in a dragon’s lair turned open-plan dental spa. Word spread. Creatures from all corners of the land flocked to Gingivaria not to battle a beast, but to book an appointment. Fizzwhistle opened a boutique. Greg became the poster child for reformed dragon breath. Their love was weird. Their brunches legendary. Their plaque? Nonexistent. Because in the end, even the most fearsome monsters deserve someone who cares enough to clean their teeth, love their bad habits, and gently whisper, “You missed a spot, babe.”     Want to bring a little mythical mischief into your home? This magical moment between Greg and Fizzwhistle is available as a print, puzzle, tumbler, and more. Explore "How to Tame Your Dragon’s Dental Hygiene" in glorious detail through high-quality merchandise and fine art prints at Unfocussed Archive. Add a touch of enchanted chaos to your walls—or your morning coffee routine.

by Bill Tiepelman

Sassy Shroom Shenanigans

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

by Bill Tiepelman

My Dragon Bestie

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

by Bill Tiepelman

The Petal's Little Protector

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

by Bill Tiepelman

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.

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

Pastel Awakening

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

by Bill Tiepelman

Paws, Claws, and Dragon Flaws

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

by Bill Tiepelman

Lost in a World Too Big

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

by Bill Tiepelman

The Guardian and the Kitten: Housebound Adventures

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

by Bill Tiepelman

The Elf and the Dragon's Meeting

Deep in the Enchanted Forest, where the toadstools were as large as wagon wheels and just as sturdy, an elf named Lila stumbled into a peculiar predicament. At only two hundred years old—a mere adolescent by elven standards—Lila was tasked with gathering herbs for the village apothecary. Of course, she'd immediately gotten distracted by the sight of an enormous glowing mushroom and decided it would make the perfect spot for a nap. Who could blame her? Sunlight filtered through the canopy in golden streams, and the forest smelled like fresh moss and adventure. Naturally, her basket of herbs was still empty. As she climbed the mushroom like a drunk squirrel—there were no stairs, after all—she muttered, “Why doesn’t anyone ever build steps for these oversized fungi? If we can enchant pots to stir themselves, we can install a railing or two!” Huffing and puffing, she finally reached the top and sprawled out across the mushroom's cap, arms spread wide. She closed her eyes, reveling in the forest's hum of life. And then she heard it. A raspy, gravelly voice said, “Excuse me, this is my mushroom.” Lila sat bolt upright, her heart pounding. Standing before her was a small dragon. Well, "small" was relative—it was about the size of a large dog, but with shimmering blue-green scales, wings that looked like they’d been stolen from a stained-glass window, and an expression that could only be described as unimpressed. “Your mushroom?” Lila asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Since when do dragons care about mushrooms?” “Since always,” the dragon said, puffing out its chest. “This mushroom is mine. I’ve been guarding it for weeks. Do you know how many squirrels try to pee on it daily? It’s a full-time job!” Lila stifled a laugh but failed miserably. “A dragon. Guarding a mushroom. What’s next? A goblin knitting scarves?” “Laugh all you want, elf,” the dragon snapped, its sapphire eyes narrowing. “This is no ordinary mushroom. It’s a Toadstool of Luminescence. Extremely rare. Extremely magical. And it doesn’t appreciate your sweaty elf butt all over it.” “Oh, forgive me, your Mushroom Majesty,” Lila said, standing up and mock-bowing. “I had no idea I was sitting on the throne of fungal greatness. Please, go ahead and—what do you even do with it? Eat it? Wear it? Propose marriage to it?” The dragon sighed, pinching the bridge of its snout with its claw, as if trying to ward off an impending headache. “Clearly, you’re too immature to understand the finer points of mycology.” “Clearly,” Lila replied with a smirk. “So, what happens now? Do we duel for the mushroom? I’m warning you—I’ve been in at least two tavern brawls, and I only lost one of them because someone threw a barstool at my face.” The dragon tilted its head, genuinely intrigued. “You’re... quite odd for an elf. Most of your kind would have apologized by now. Or tried to sell me herbal tea.” “I’m not most elves,” Lila said with a grin. “And you’re not most dragons. Most of them would’ve eaten me by now, not given me a lecture on mushroom conservation.” They stared at each other for a moment, the tension hanging in the air like an overripe peach. Then the dragon snorted. Not a fiery snort—more of a laughing one. “You’re funny,” it admitted grudgingly. “Annoying, but funny.” “Thanks,” Lila said. “So, what’s your name, oh mighty fungus protector?” “Torvik,” the dragon said, straightening up. “And yours, oh sweaty elf invader?” “Lila. Nice to meet you, Torvik. So, what does a dragon do for fun around here? Besides yelling at squirrels?” Torvik grinned, showing off a set of teeth that could probably shred steel. “Well, there is one thing. You’re good at climbing mushrooms, yes?” “I’m basically an expert now,” Lila said, gesturing grandly at the mushroom they were perched on. “Excellent. Because the next mushroom over has been taken over by a particularly nasty family of raccoons, and they’ve been stealing my food stash. Think you can help me scare them off?” Lila’s face lit up. “Oh, I thought you’d never ask. But fair warning—I’m terrible at being intimidating. I once tried to shoo a possum out of my garden and ended up giving it my lunch.” “Perfect,” Torvik said, his wings flaring dramatically. “This is going to be hilarious.” And so, the elf and the dragon set off on their first adventure together. There was laughter, chaos, and yes, a raccoon uprising that would go down in forest history as “The Great Mushroom Skirmish.” But that’s a tale for another time. For now, suffice it to say that Lila and Torvik found in each other something they hadn’t expected: a friend who appreciated the absurdity of life as much as they did. And maybe, just maybe, the Toadstool of Luminescence really was magical. Because if a snarky dragon and a sassy elf could share a mushroom without killing each other, anything was possible.     For those captivated by the whimsical charm of “The Elf and the Dragon’s Meeting,” you can bring this enchanting tale to life in your own space. From the radiant glow of the Toadstool of Luminescence to the playful banter of Lila and Torvik, these moments are now available as stunning art products: Tapestries: Transform any wall into a magical forest scene. Canvas Prints: Perfect for showcasing the intricate details of the dragon and the glowing forest. Puzzles: Piece together the magic and relive the story, one detail at a time. Stickers: Add a touch of whimsy to your daily life with these delightful designs. Whether you’re an adventurer at heart or simply a fan of the fantastical, these products allow you to carry a piece of the Enchanted Forest into your world. Explore more at our shop and let the magic inspire you.

by Bill Tiepelman

Azure Eyes of the Celestial Dragon

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

by Bill Tiepelman

Golden Scales and Giggling Tales

The fire crackled in the hearth, its light casting flickering shadows across the cavernous library. Deep within the ancient stone walls of the Elarion Keep, amidst shelves groaning under the weight of countless tomes, sat Lena, a girl of ten summers with eyes too wise for her years. Her golden curls seemed to catch and hold the firelight, framing her face as she stared intently at the tiny creature nestled in her lap. The dragonlet, no larger than a housecat, shimmered with a brilliance that rivaled the finest gold coins in her father’s treasury. Its scales reflected the warm hues of the flames, and its delicate wings, translucent as gossamer, trembled faintly as it breathed. The creature chirped softly, its voice a high, melodic trill that sent shivers of delight through Lena. She stroked the dragon’s back gently, marveling at the warm, smooth texture of its scales. The Beginning of Magic Two weeks earlier, Lena had discovered the egg. Hidden in the hollow of an ancient oak deep in the Forbidden Woods, it had pulsed with an otherworldly light. Despite the tales of dangers lurking in the forest, Lena had been unable to resist its call. The moment her fingers brushed its surface, she felt a connection she couldn’t explain. She had wrapped it in her cloak and carried it home, knowing instinctively that her life was about to change forever. When the egg hatched under the glow of a full moon, Lena had gasped in wonder as the tiny dragon emerged, stretching its damp wings. It had looked at her with eyes of molten gold, and in that moment, an unbreakable bond had been formed. The dragonlet, which she named Auriel, seemed to understand her every thought, and she found she could understand its strange, melodic chirps. A World in Flux Lena’s world had been one of structure and expectation. As the daughter of Lord Vareth, she was destined for a life of political alliances and strategic marriages. Yet with Auriel in her life, the confines of her predetermined path began to crumble. The dragonlet was more than a companion; it was a spark of rebellion, a symbol of a world beyond duty and decorum. But magic, as her mother often reminded her, was a dangerous thing. It drew the curious, the covetous, and the cruel. Already, Lena had noticed changes in the keep. Servants whispered in corners, their eyes darting to her when they thought she wasn’t looking. Her father’s advisors had grown more vigilant, their gazes lingering on her when she passed. She knew it was only a matter of time before someone tried to take Auriel from her. The Storm Breaks The night the soldiers came, Lena was ready. She had hidden Auriel in a satchel lined with soft wool and slung it over her shoulder. The dragonlet’s faint chirps were muffled, but she could feel its fear through their bond. She slipped through the shadows of the keep, her heart pounding as she evaded the guards who scoured the halls. The betrayal had been swift and inevitable; her father, desperate to maintain his fragile alliances, had agreed to hand her over to the Order of Sanctis, a faction that sought to control all magical creatures. As she fled into the woods, the sounds of pursuit echoed behind her. Auriel, sensing her distress, began to hum, a low, resonant melody that seemed to vibrate in her chest. The trees around her shimmered faintly, their leaves catching an unearthly glow. A memory surfaced, one of her nursemaid’s tales about the ancient bond between dragons and the natural world. Perhaps, Lena thought, Auriel’s magic could save them. A Fierce Awakening Stopping in a moonlit clearing, Lena placed the satchel gently on the ground and opened it. Auriel crawled out, its wings stretching wide as it chirped urgently. The dragonlet’s scales began to glow, brighter and brighter, until the clearing was bathed in golden light. Lena felt a surge of power, an overwhelming sense of unity with the world around her. The pursuing soldiers burst into the clearing, but stopped short, their eyes widening in fear and awe. Auriel rose into the air, its wings beating steadily. A deep, resonant roar filled the clearing, and the soldiers fell to their knees, shielding their eyes from the dragon’s radiance. Lena stood tall, her fear melting away as she realized the truth: Auriel wasn’t just a companion; it was her protector, her partner, and her destiny. Together, they were more powerful than she had ever imagined. A New Beginning When the light faded, the soldiers were gone, retreating into the darkness. Lena gathered Auriel in her arms, her heart swelling with gratitude and determination. The path ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: she would never return to the life she had left behind. With Auriel by her side, she would carve a new future, one built not on duty and expectation, but on courage and freedom. As she stepped into the shadows of the Forbidden Woods, the dragonlet chirped softly, its golden eyes gleaming with trust. Lena smiled, her golden curls catching the moonlight, and together they disappeared into the night, their story just beginning.     Explore More: This magical artwork, titled "Golden Scales and Giggling Tales," is now part of our Image Archive. Prints, downloads, and licensing options are available for those captivated by the enchanting bond between child and dragon. Let this piece add a touch of wonder to your collection!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Little Dragon of Heartfire

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

by Bill Tiepelman

Feline Firekeeper

The alley was dimly lit, cobblestones slick from the evening rain. A faint golden glow spilled from the horizon, catching the edges of the shadows that crept along the walls. It was here, in this forgotten corner of the city, that the legend began. They say the Firekeeper comes in many forms. A cloaked figure in some tales, a warrior in others. But no one ever suspected it would take the shape of a tabby cat. Yet, there she was—paws silent, tail swaying like a pendulum of inevitability, carrying a small, squirming dragon in her jaws. The dragon hissed and sputtered, its wings glowing faintly as though smoldering embers were trapped within. Flames flickered from its nostrils, singeing the whiskers of the determined feline predator. Across the city, the tavern buzzed with the usual rowdy laughter. Mead sloshed over wooden tables, and the air reeked of ale, sweat, and questionable choices. In the corner, an old man with a beard long enough to knit a sweater began his tale. “You’ve heard the story of the Firekeeper, aye?” he bellowed, slamming his mug down with dramatic flair. The crowd quieted, intrigued despite themselves. “Well, let me tell ya, it’s not just a story. The Firekeeper walks among us tonight!” “Among us?” a skeptical voice called out. “What, in the alley with the rats? Maybe it’s out there teaching them to juggle fire.” The laughter was swift and merciless. “Mock me if you will!” the old man snapped. “But when the Firekeeper comes, you’ll wish you’d kept your gob shut. That creature is the guardian of balance between realms. It doesn’t just hunt dragons; it chooses them. And if it chooses wrong…” He trailed off, letting the silence thicken like gravy. Meanwhile, the tabby padded through the alley with a quiet confidence that could make a lion jealous. The dragon, now reduced to pitiful squeaks, flailed its tiny claws as if hoping for a miracle. “Oh, stop squirming,” the cat mumbled around the dragon’s neck, her voice dripping with the kind of exasperation reserved for babysitters and reluctant heroes. “You’re not the first spicy lizard I’ve had to deal with, and you won’t be the last.” The dragon hissed defiantly. “You’ll regret this, feline! I am Pyros the Mighty, Scourge of the Skylands! My flames shall—” “Blah, blah, blah. Mighty this, scourge that,” the cat interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Do you all rehearse these lines or something? Honestly, I’ve met alley rats with better self-esteem.” The dragon’s glowing eyes narrowed. “Mock me at your peril! Do you know who you’re messing with?” “Oh, I know exactly who I’m messing with,” she purred. “A dragon so small it could double as a chew toy. Now, unless you want to be the punchline of my next hunting story, I suggest you pipe down.” Back at the tavern, the old man’s voice grew hushed. “Legend says the Firekeeper’s task isn’t just to hunt dragons. No, it’s to keep the balance. Too many dragons, and the world burns. Too few, and the magic fades. The Firekeeper decides who lives and who…” He dragged a finger across his throat for effect, making a dramatic “schick” sound that sent shivers through the room. “You’re saying a cat makes those decisions?” someone scoffed. “What’s next, mice running the treasury?” At that moment, the tavern door creaked open, and the room fell silent. A young woman stepped inside, drenched from the rain. She wore a cloak of dark green, its edges singed as if she’d walked through fire. “The Firekeeper has chosen,” she said simply, her voice soft but commanding. “And the balance will be restored tonight.” The old man grinned triumphantly. “See? Told ya!” In the alley, the tabby had reached her destination—a glowing portal that shimmered like molten gold. She dropped the dragon unceremoniously at the threshold. “Alright, Pyros, here’s the deal,” she said, stretching lazily. “You go through that portal, behave yourself, and maybe I won’t have to chase you down again. Got it?” The dragon hesitated. “And if I don’t?” The tabby’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Then I find a nice cozy pillow, and you become the world’s fanciest neck warmer.” Pyros gulped, his bravado extinguished. “Fine,” he muttered, flapping his wings and disappearing into the portal. The light flickered, then faded, leaving the alley silent once more. The tabby turned, her tail swishing as she disappeared into the shadows. “Another day, another dragon,” she mused. “And they call dogs man’s best friend.” Back at the tavern, the young woman spoke again. “The Firekeeper has fulfilled its duty. Tonight, the balance remains intact. Tomorrow? Who knows.” She pulled her hood up, turned, and left without another word. The old man drained his mug with a satisfied sigh. “So, who’s buying me another round?” he asked. The room erupted in laughter, the tension broken—for now. And so, the legend of the Firekeeper lived on, whispered in alleys, sung in taverns, and feared by dragons everywhere. As for the tabby? She was already on to her next adventure, proving once again that the smallest creatures often have the biggest roles to play.     Discover the Story Behind the Art: This captivating image, titled “Feline Firekeeper”, is available for prints, downloads, and licensing. Explore this and other stunning works in our archive. Click here to view in the Unfocussed Archive.

by Bill Tiepelman

Baby Dragon’s Dazzling New Year Bash

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

by Bill Tiepelman

Nestled in a Rainbow's Embrace

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

by Bill Tiepelman

Inferno Meets Eden

On the final night of the year, when the world holds its breath for the dawn of a new beginning, the ancient forces awaken. Long before the modern countdowns and fireworks, a battle raged on New Year’s Eve between two primordial forces: Inferno and Eden. Their clash is both a warning and a blessing, a story whispered through generations, but rarely understood. The Awakening As the old year limps to its end, a tear forms in the fabric of the world. Hidden beneath the surface of the earth, in a cavern of molten fire and tangled roots, Inferno stirs. His body is forged of cracked black stone, pulsing with glowing veins of magma that flow like blood. His eyes blaze with the hunger of destruction, burning away the remnants of what no longer serves the world. He rises with a thunderous roar, shaking the mountains and cracking the earth. “The time has come,” he growls, his voice echoing with primal power. “The old must burn. What is dead must be forgotten. What is weak must perish.” From the opposite side of the cavern, Eden awakens. Her body is a tapestry of vibrant greens and shimmering blues, her hair a cascading forest of moss and vines. Tiny birds and glowing insects flutter around her, and streams of crystal-clear water trickle from her fingertips. Her eyes are calm but piercing, a reminder that life is as fragile as it is resilient. “You always rush to destroy, brother,” Eden says, stepping forward. Her voice is soft but steady, filled with quiet authority. “But destruction alone is hollow. If all you leave is ash, who will grow from it?” Inferno snarls, his claws scraping against the rocky ground. “And you, sister, would drown the world in your endless growth. Without fire, there is no room for life. Without death, there is no rebirth.” “Then let us see, as we do each year,” Eden replies, her tone unwavering. “Let us test the balance.” The Eternal Dance The two forces step into the vast cavern, which transforms into a boundless battlefield. Above them, the sky splits in two: one half ablaze with fire, the other shimmering with emerald and azure light. The air vibrates with tension as Inferno charges, his claws leaving trails of molten rock in their wake. Eden moves gracefully, her steps sprouting flowers and trees that grow in an instant, only to be scorched by Inferno’s heat. As he lunges at her, she raises a hand, and a wall of vines erupts from the ground, blocking his path. The vines sizzle and burn, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. “Do you feel it, Inferno?” Eden asks, her voice carrying over the crackle of flames. “The seeds buried in your ash? They sprout even now, in the midst of your fury.” Inferno roars, unleashing a wave of fire that scorches the battlefield. “And do you feel this, Eden? Your precious growth cannot withstand my flames forever. Your trees wither, your rivers boil. All must end.” Eden steps forward, unafraid, her gaze locking with his. “Yes, brother, all must end. But you forget—each ending is a beginning. From your destruction, I bring life. Without me, your fire is meaningless.” Inferno pauses, his molten eyes narrowing. For a moment, the cavern falls silent, save for the hiss of steam and the crackle of embers. “And without me,” he growls, “your growth would choke the world. You would smother it in endless roots, drowning it in your suffocating abundance.” “Perhaps,” Eden says, a faint smile playing on her lips. “That is why we need each other. Why the world needs us both.” The Lesson of Balance The battle rages on, each strike and counterstrike painting the battlefield with fire and life. Inferno’s flames consume the forest Eden creates, but from the ash, new life bursts forth. Eden’s rivers extinguish his fiery rage, but the steam rises and condenses into storms that fuel her growth. It is a balance neither can break, though both try every year. As the clock approaches midnight, Inferno lunges forward, releasing a final, devastating wave of fire that consumes the entire battlefield. For a moment, all is silent, the world bathed in an eerie orange glow. Then, from the charred ground, a single green sprout emerges. It grows rapidly, becoming a tree that stretches toward the heavens, its roots entwined with Inferno’s molten core. The two forces pause, their gazes meeting. “And so, it begins again,” Eden says softly, resting her hand on the bark of the tree. “The old makes way for the new.” Inferno chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound. “You always find a way, sister. But one day, perhaps my flames will burn too bright for even you to recover.” “Perhaps,” Eden replies, her voice like the rustle of leaves in the wind. “But until that day, I will keep growing. And so will the world.” The Dawn of a New Year As the clock strikes midnight, the battlefield vanishes, and the world returns to its quiet slumber. Fireworks light up the sky, a tribute to Inferno’s flames. Cheers and laughter echo through the air, a celebration of Eden’s promise of renewal. The legend of Inferno and Eden is forgotten by most, but its lesson lingers in the hearts of all who celebrate the New Year. It is a time to reflect, to release, and to grow. To embrace the fiery passion of change while nurturing the seeds of hope. For without both destruction and renewal, there can be no progress, no life. And so, the cycle continues, year after year, as Inferno and Eden perform their eternal dance, reminding the world of the delicate balance between chaos and creation. Happy New Year, where Inferno meets Eden, and the past makes way for the future.     Bring the Legend to Life Celebrate the eternal balance of destruction and renewal with exclusive products inspired by the legend of Inferno and Eden. Whether you’re looking to adorn your space or carry a piece of this timeless story with you, these items are the perfect way to embody the spirit of transformation and growth. Inferno Meets Eden Tapestry – Transform any wall into a masterpiece with this stunning depiction of the elemental clash. Canvas Print – A bold and durable piece of art that captures the fiery passion and lush serenity of the dragon's tale. Tote Bag – Carry the legend with you wherever you go with this eco-friendly and artistic design. Wood Print – A rustic and unique way to display the power and harmony of Inferno and Eden. Click the links above to explore the collection and find the perfect piece to inspire your journey into the New Year.

by Bill Tiepelman

Twinkle Scales and Holiday Tales

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

by Bill Tiepelman

Dragon Dreams Beneath the Tinsel

Christmas in Bramblebush Hollow was always an affair of great tradition, heartwarming cheer, and the occasional bout of barely-restrained chaos. This year, however, things took an unexpected turn when the town’s holiday spirit was set ablaze—quite literally—thanks to a pint-sized, fire-breathing dragon named Gingersnap. Gingersnap wasn’t supposed to hatch until spring, but apparently, someone forgot to inform the egg. It had been a charming gift from the Wizard Wilfred, who had neglected to mention that "keep it at room temperature" also meant "don’t leave it near the fireplace." Thus, on December 1st, the egg cracked open to reveal a tiny, jewel-toned dragon with wings like stained glass and a temperament as fiery as his breath. The Tinsel Incident It all began innocently enough. Agnes Buttercrumb, the town's unofficial holiday coordinator and resident gossip, had invited Gingersnap to "help" decorate the town square’s Christmas tree. How could she resist? With those wide, adorable eyes and shimmering scales, Gingersnap looked like a Hallmark card brought to life—an asset to any festive tableau. Unfortunately, Gingersnap misunderstood the assignment. Instead of "hanging" the tinsel, he ate it. To be fair, it did look delicious—like shiny spaghetti. When Agnes tried to retrieve the garland from his tiny, razor-sharp jaws, Gingersnap let out a hiccup of fiery disapproval, which promptly set the lower branches of the tree ablaze. “This is fine,” Agnes muttered through gritted teeth as the townsfolk scrambled to extinguish the flames. “Everything’s fine. It’s… rustic.” She patted the smoldering tree with a twitchy smile and hastily draped a few half-melted candy canes over the scorched branches. “Adds character, don’t you think?” Mulled Wine and Mayhem As the days passed, Gingersnap’s antics escalated. During the annual mulled wine tasting, he discovered that cinnamon made his nose tingle in a particularly amusing way. One sneeze later, the tasting pavilion was reduced to ashes, and the mayor was seen chasing the dragon through the town square with a ladle, shouting, “This is not covered in the bylaws!” The town blacksmith, Roger Ironpants, took a more practical approach. “He’s just a wee dragon,” he reasoned while fitting Gingersnap with a tiny iron muzzle. “If we can’t stop the fire, we can at least contain it.” But Gingersnap, ever the escape artist, promptly chewed through the muzzle and used it as a chew toy. Then came the caroling incident. Oh, the caroling incident. Silent Night? Not a Chance On Christmas Eve, the town gathered in the square for their traditional candlelit caroling. The scene was picture-perfect: fresh snow blanketed the ground, lanterns cast a warm glow, and the choir’s harmonies filled the air. Gingersnap, perched atop the charred remains of the Christmas tree, seemed to be behaving for once, his head cocked curiously as he listened to the music. But then, someone hit a high note. A really high note. The kind of note that makes dogs howl and, apparently, dragons lose their tiny little minds. With a shriek of enthusiasm, Gingersnap joined in, his piercing dragon screeches drowning out the choir and shattering half the ornaments in a fifty-foot radius. To make matters worse, he punctuated each screech with a celebratory burst of flame, igniting several songbooks and at least one unfortunate choir member’s scarf. “SILENT NIGHT, YOU LITTLE MONSTER!” bellowed Agnes as she hurled a snowball at Gingersnap, who promptly mistook it for a game and started flinging snowballs back—with his tail. Chaos ensued. By the end of the evening, the town square looked less like a winter wonderland and more like the aftermath of a particularly rowdy medieval siege. The Morning After On Christmas morning, the townsfolk gathered in what was left of the square to assess the damage. The tree was a charred skeleton. The mulled wine was gone. Half the decorations were singed beyond recognition. And yet, as they looked at the tiny dragon curled up beneath the scorched tree, snoring softly with a contented little smile on his face, they couldn’t help but laugh. “Well,” said Roger Ironpants, “at least he’s festive.” “And he didn’t eat the mayor,” Agnes added, her tone grudgingly optimistic. “It’s a Christmas miracle,” someone muttered, and the crowd erupted into laughter. The Legend of Gingersnap From that day forward, Gingersnap became a beloved—if somewhat chaotic—part of Bramblebush Hollow’s Christmas traditions. Each year, the townsfolk hung fireproof ornaments, brewed extra mulled wine, and made sure to stockpile plenty of shiny, dragon-friendly snacks. And every Christmas Eve, as Gingersnap perched atop the town’s fireproofed tree, belting out his dragon version of “Jingle Bells,” the townsfolk would raise their glasses and toast to the most memorable holiday mascot they’d ever had. Because, as Agnes Buttercrumb put it best, “Christmas just wouldn’t be the same without a little fire and brimstone.” And for Gingersnap, nestled beneath the tinsel, it was perfect.     Bring Gingersnap Home for the Holidays! Love the tale of Gingersnap, the mischievous Christmas dragon? Now you can add a touch of whimsical holiday magic to your own home! Explore these delightful products featuring "Dragon Dreams Beneath the Tinsel": Tapestry: Transform your walls with this stunning, vibrant depiction of Gingersnap. Canvas Print: Add a festive centerpiece to your holiday décor with a high-quality canvas print. Jigsaw Puzzle: Piece together the magic with this fun and challenging holiday puzzle. Greeting Card: Share the joy of Gingersnap with friends and family through this charming card. Don’t miss your chance to bring a little fire-breathing cheer to your festivities this season. Shop the collection now!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Dragon of the Christmas Grove

Long before Santa Claus got fat, and elves unionized for better candy-cane breaks, there was another story of Christmas magic—a legend buried deep in the frosted forests and whispered only on the longest, coldest nights. The Beginning of the End… Or Something Like That Once upon a decidedly hungover December morning, the world almost ended. See, humans—being humans—accidentally broke Christmas. Someone tried summoning a "Yuletide Spirit" with one too many Pinterest-y candles, a dash of clove, and a Latin incantation they absolutely mispronounced. Instead of a cozy Hallmark miracle, the spell ripped open a glowing crack in the universe and out popped a dragon. Not a metaphorical dragon. Not a cute, cartoon dragon you’d knit sweaters for. Oh no. This dragon was glorious and also mildly ticked off. Its scales gleamed a vicious green and red—so festive it looked like it should sit on top of a tree. Instead, it perched atop the shattered remnants of its giant ornament-egg and said, in a deep, gravelly voice: “WHO. SUMMONED. ME?” The forest fell silent. Even the squirrels paused mid-nut. Somewhere, a snowman fainted. Unfortunately, the answer was: nobody. Like most human problems, the summoning had been a group effort involving Karen from HR’s holiday party antics and Greg’s terrible idea of making a “pagan bonfire moment.” “Ugh,” the dragon said, looking around with eyes that flickered like Christmas lights on the fritz. “What century is this? Why does everything smell like peppermint and regret?” Enter: A Hero (Sort Of) This is where Marvin comes in. Marvin was not brave. He was not handsome. He was not even particularly sober. He was just a guy who’d wandered into the woods after his cousins roasted his ugly Christmas sweater. Marvin, clutching his half-empty eggnog, stumbled upon the dragon. “Whoa,” Marvin said. “That’s… that’s a big lizard.” “Excuse me?” said the dragon, its wings flaring dramatically. Marvin squinted up at it, swaying a little. “Are you, like, a metaphor for capitalism?” “I AM CALDERYX, DESTROYER OF WORLDS!” the dragon roared, snowflakes swirling wildly around it. “...AND POSSIBLY A HOLIDAY MIRACLE, IF YOU PLAY YOUR CARDS RIGHT.” Marvin frowned, thinking hard. “So… you’re here to ruin Christmas?” “Oh no,” Caldyrex replied. “I’m here to fix it. Humanity has clearly forgotten how to celebrate properly. You’ve turned it into cheap sweaters, lukewarm fruitcake, and terrible carols sung in high-pitched nasal tones.” Marvin blinked. “I mean, yeah. That tracks.” The Dragon’s Christmas Reform Plan What followed was the weirdest Christmas Eve of all time. With Marvin as his reluctant wingman, Caldyrex instituted his Great Christmas Overhaul, or as Marvin called it, “Festivus for the Damned.” Step 1: Ban the song “Feliz Navidad” after its third repeat. Step 2: Melt every fruitcake into a gooey lava pit for good measure. Step 3: Replace fake Christmas cheer with something better. “What’s better?” Marvin asked, confused. Caldyrex exhaled a plume of fire that ignited a nearby pine tree into a blazing spectacle of light and shadow. “Chaos. And also real joy. Have you ever seen someone open an unexpected gift and scream ‘HOW DID YOU KNOW?’ That’s Christmas, Marvin. THAT'S MAGIC.” Marvin couldn’t argue with that. The Surprise Ending At midnight, Caldyrex declared his mission complete. People across the village woke up to find mysterious, personalized gifts on their porches. Karen from HR got noise-cancelling headphones. Greg got a Latin dictionary and a restraining order from all bonfires. And Marvin? Marvin woke up in his living room to a brand-new sweater—one that said “The Dragon’s Favorite Human.” He smiled, despite himself. As for Caldyrex, the dragon slipped back into his ornament-egg with a satisfied sigh. “Until next year, Marvin,” he said, disappearing into a burst of golden light. “Keep the magic alive.” Marvin raised his eggnog in salute. “Merry Christmas, big guy.” The Moral of the Legend Every Christmas since, the legend of Caldyrex has spread in hushed, slightly tipsy tones. If your holiday feels too predictable—if you’ve heard “Jingle Bell Rock” one time too many—keep an eye out for a shimmering ornament that seems to hum with its own warmth. Because sometimes, Christmas magic isn’t soft and twinkly. Sometimes, it’s a dragon that yells at you to do better. And honestly, we probably deserve it.    Bring the Legend Home If you’ve fallen in love with the story of Caldyrex, The Dragon of the Christmas Grove, you can bring a little magic (and snarky holiday cheer) into your home. Explore these featured products inspired by the legendary scene: Tapestry: Transform your walls with the glow and grandeur of the Christmas Dragon. Canvas Print: A stunning masterpiece to capture the magic year-round. Puzzle: Piece together the legend one glowing scale at a time. Greeting Card: Send a little holiday chaos with a dragon-approved message. Celebrate the season with a twist of magic and a dash of fire. Caldyrex would approve.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Enchanted Christmas Cathedral

It wasn’t your typical Christmas Eve. Snow fell in cascading waves, swirling through the night like a celestial ballet. But this wasn’t a night of silent wonder—it was a night of peril. Deep in the frozen reaches of the Northern Realms, the Enchanted Christmas Cathedral stood illuminated, its spires like jagged teeth reaching into a star-laden sky. The scene was set, and at its heart, Santa Claus was no jolly old man with a belly full of laughter. Tonight, he was a legend. A Call to Arms The North Pole had been under siege for weeks. Krampus, the shadowy demon of anti-Christmas, had raised an army of ice trolls and frost wraiths, intent on shattering the spirit of the holiday once and for all. The attack was precise, brutal, and calculated. Toy workshops were frozen solid. The reindeer were captured and confined to icy prisons. Even Mrs. Claus had to fend off frost-spawn with her rolling pin (and she took down more than a few). Santa knew he couldn’t rely on cheer and goodwill to save the day. No, this required a warrior—a general. Digging deep into his past, a past shrouded in myth, Santa unsealed the Vault of Eternity beneath the cathedral. Inside, the Frostblade of Everlight glowed with a cold, radiant power, and beside it lay his armor—a masterpiece of intricate elven craftsmanship, adorned with holly leaf motifs, candy cane etchings, and an intimidating set of pauldrons shaped like roaring snow lions. As Santa donned his battle gear, his booming voice echoed through the sacred hall. “They’ve messed with the wrong holiday spirit.” With a swipe of his Frostblade, he summoned the ancient Frostwyrm, a legendary ice dragon bound to him through an oath made centuries ago. The dragon emerged from the depths of the cathedral’s frozen undercroft, its crystalline scales shimmering like the stars. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with. The Siege of Christmas Eve The battle raged across the cathedral courtyard. Towering Christmas trees became makeshift barricades as Santa's loyal elves fought valiantly, wielding sharpened candy canes and explosive ornaments. Krampus himself emerged from the shadows, his massive horns wreathed in frostfire. “You’ve had this monopoly on joy for centuries, Claus!” he roared. “It’s time for chaos to reign!” Santa grinned, his beard glistening with ice. “Chaos? You’re barking up the wrong pine tree, buddy.” With a war cry that shook the heavens, he leapt onto the Frostwyrm’s back and launched into the fray. The dragon unleashed torrents of freezing blue flames, carving through the ranks of frost wraiths like a torch through tissue paper. Santa dove into the heart of the chaos, his Frostblade slicing through troll armor with ease, each strike leaving trails of shimmering frost in the air. A Comedic Interlude Not everything went according to plan, of course. At one point, Santa found himself momentarily distracted by a particularly ambitious elf named Nibsy, who had invented a “Peppermint Rocket Sled” to outflank the trolls. The sled exploded mid-flight, showering the battlefield in flaming gumdrops. “Nibsy!” Santa bellowed, ducking as a stray gumdrop whizzed past his head. “This is why I vetoed your gingerbread tank idea!” “It’s a work in progress!” Nibsy yelled back, his face covered in soot, before grabbing a sharpened candy cane and charging into the melee. The Final Showdown As the battle reached its crescendo, Santa faced off against Krampus in the shadow of the cathedral’s massive stained-glass window. The demon moved with surprising agility, wielding his twin scythes with deadly precision. The clash of their weapons sent shockwaves rippling through the courtyard, shattering ornaments and toppling Christmas trees. “Give up, Claus!” Krampus snarled. “You’re just a relic of a dying tradition!” Santa smirked, his eyes blazing with determination. “Dying tradition? I AM Christmas!” With a mighty swing of the Frostblade, he channeled the full power of the holiday spirit, unleashing a blinding wave of light and frost. The sheer force sent Krampus flying into a snowdrift, where he lay groaning, defeated. “And that,” Santa said, planting the Frostblade into the ground, “is why you don’t mess with my holiday.” Peace Restored With Krampus vanquished, the frost wraiths dissipated into the night, and the ice trolls retreated to their mountain lairs. The elves cheered, raising their weapons high, and the Frostwyrm let out a triumphant roar that echoed across the tundra. Santa looked around at the battlefield, now littered with broken ornaments, candy cane shards, and half-melted snowmen. He sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Guess I’ve got a lot to explain to the insurance elves.” Mrs. Claus appeared, her rolling pin still in hand, and gave him a knowing smile. “I’ll make cocoa,” she said. “You clean up this mess.” As the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, the Enchanted Christmas Cathedral stood tall and proud, a beacon of hope and resilience. Santa mounted the Frostwyrm one last time, ready to deliver gifts to a world that would never know how close it came to losing Christmas. Because Santa wasn’t just a legend. He was a warrior. And Christmas was his battlefield.    Take Home the Magic of the Enchanted Christmas Cathedral Now, you can bring the awe and wonder of "The Enchanted Christmas Cathedral" into your own home. Whether you're looking for a stunning piece of holiday décor or a heartfelt gift, explore our exclusive collection of products inspired by this legendary tale: Tapestry – Transform any room with the grandeur of the cathedral and its mythical scene, beautifully woven into a stunning wall tapestry. Canvas Print – Elevate your holiday décor with a museum-quality canvas featuring the legendary Santa and his frost dragon. Greeting Card – Share the magic with friends and family this holiday season through our exquisite greeting cards. Wood Print – Bring a rustic, timeless feel to your home with this stunning wood-printed version of the epic scene. Each product captures the spirit of the Enchanted Christmas Cathedral, ensuring that the story’s magic lives on long after the season ends. Visit our shop to find your perfect piece of holiday fantasy: shop.unfocussed.com.