dragon adventure

by Bill Tiepelman

Pastel Awakening

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

by Bill Tiepelman

The Chromatic Dragonling: A Tale of Mischief & Mayhem

The Most Unreasonable Egg Roderic was many things—an adventurer, a scholar, a man who could drink his own weight in mead without embarrassing himself (too much). But he was not, under any circumstances, a babysitter. Yet here he was, staring down at the newly hatched creature sprawled across his desk—a tiny dragon with scandalously bright scales and enormous golden eyes that screamed trouble. It had hatched from what he thought was a priceless gemstone he’d “borrowed” from the hoard of an elderly dragon named Morgath. Turns out, Morgath hadn’t been hoarding treasure. He’d been hoarding offspring. “Alright, listen,” Roderic said, rubbing his temples as the dragonling stretched its wings and yawned, completely unbothered. “I don’t know how to raise a baby dragon. I have very little patience. Also, I’m fairly sure your father would like to murder me.” The dragonling let out an exaggerated sigh—as if it were the one suffering—and then flopped onto its back, kicking its stubby little legs. Roderic narrowed his eyes. “Oh, fantastic. You’re dramatic.” In response, the dragonling blew a puff of smoke in his face. Roderic coughed, waving it away. “Rude.” The dragonling grinned. The Problem With Tiny Dragons Over the next few days, Roderic discovered something important: baby dragons were insufferable. First, the dragonling refused to eat anything normal. Fresh meat? No. Roasted chicken? A scoff. Expensive smoked salmon? Spat out onto the rug. The only thing it wanted to eat was a chunk of enchanted obsidian from Roderic’s alchemy stash. “You’re a spoiled little beast, you know that?” he muttered, watching as the dragonling gleefully crunched the magical rock like a snack. Second, it was dramatic. Everything was a performance. The dragonling would flop onto its back if ignored for too long. It would make tragic whimpering sounds when it wasn’t the center of attention. When Roderic dared to leave the room without it? Oh, the betrayal. The screams were enough to make a banshee jealous. Third, and perhaps worst of all, it was an escape artist. Roderic awoke on the third morning to find the dragonling missing. His stomach dropped. His mind immediately conjured images of it accidentally setting his cottage on fire, or worse—running into an angry mob that didn’t appreciate flying fire hazards. Throwing on his cloak, he burst through the front door… only to find the dragonling perched smugly atop his neighbor’s roof, nibbling on what appeared to be a stolen silver necklace. Lady Haversham stood below, hands on her hips. She did not look pleased. “Roderic,” she called sweetly. “Why is there a dragonling on my house?” Roderic sighed. “He’s a menace.” The dragonling chomped the necklace in half and burped. Lady Haversham stared. “I see.” Roderic pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll get him down.” Which was easier said than done. The dragonling was thrilled with its newfound height advantage and had no intention of coming down without a game of chase. Roderic had to climb onto the roof, where the little beast made a show of dodging him—skipping, fluttering just out of reach, and chirping happily as if this were the greatest entertainment of its life. Roderic, panting, finally lunged and caught the dragonling mid-air. “Got you, you little gremlin,” he grunted. The dragonling gave him an unrepentant grin and licked his nose. And that’s when Roderic realized three things: This dragonling had absolutely no respect for him. He was completely and utterly outmatched. He was going to have to raise it, whether he liked it or not. He groaned. This was going to be a long adventure.     A Very Illegal Dragon Three weeks later, Roderic had learned two valuable things about raising a dragonling: Nothing in his home was safe. Not his books, not his furniture, certainly not his dignity. Baby dragons grew fast. The once-tiny menace was now twice its original size, still small enough to perch on his shoulder but big enough to knock over shelves when it got excited (which was often). The dramatics hadn’t stopped, either. If anything, they had gotten worse. If Roderic didn’t immediately acknowledge the dragonling’s existence upon waking up, he was met with a series of high-pitched wails that could wake the dead. And the appetite? Impossible. Roderic was now regularly bribing the blacksmith for bits of enchanted metal, all while dodging questions from the local magistrate about why there were occasional flashes of dragonfire coming from his cottage. Which, technically speaking, was a felony. Baby dragons weren’t exactly legal in town. So when a loud BOOM echoed through the streets one evening, Roderic knew—instantly—it was his problem. The Jailbreak Incident He sprinted outside to find that his neighbor’s barn had been blown apart. Standing in the smoldering wreckage was his dragonling, tail flicking, eyes wide with what could only be described as giddy chaos. Next to it stood a very unimpressed city guard. “Roderic,” the guard said, folding his arms. Roderic doubled over, panting. “Hey, Captain. Fancy meeting you here.” “Do you want to explain why your dragon just exploded a barn?” The dragonling puffed up indignantly. It chirped. Roderic straightened, pushing sweat-damp hair out of his face. “I feel like ‘exploded’ is a strong word.” The captain pointed to the burning rubble. “Is it?” Roderic sighed. “Okay, fine. I’ll pay for it.” “You will,” the captain agreed, then lowered his voice. “You need to get that thing out of town. If the magistrate finds out—” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Roderic turned to the dragonling. “Well, congratulations, you tiny disaster. We’re fugitives now.” On the Run Fleeing town in the dead of night with a smug baby dragon was not how Roderic had planned his life, and yet here he was—leading his horse through the forest, cursing under his breath as the dragonling perched on the saddle like a royal prince. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he muttered. The dragonling yawned, utterly unrepentant. “Oh, don’t act innocent. You blew up a barn.” It flicked its tail. Chirp. Roderic groaned. “I should’ve left you on that roof.” But they both knew that was a lie. He was stuck with this dragonling. And, worse, a part of him didn’t mind. The wind rustled through the trees. In the distance, he heard the faint sound of riders—probably guards searching for them. He exhaled. “Well, little terror, looks like we’re going on an adventure.” The dragonling blinked, then nuzzled against his cheek. Roderic grumbled. “Ugh. You can’t bribe me with cuteness.” It licked his ear. He sighed. “Fine. Maybe a little.” And so, with no destination in mind and a very illegal dragonling in tow, Roderic took his first step into the unknown. To Be Continued…?     Bring The Chromatic Dragonling Home! Fallen in love with this mischievous little dragon? Now you can keep a piece of its playful magic with you! Whether you want to add a touch of whimsy to your walls, cozy up with its fiery charm, or carry its adventurous spirit wherever you go, we’ve got just the thing: ✨ Tapestries – Transform any space with a touch of dragon magic. 🖼️ Canvas Prints – A stunning centerpiece for any fantasy lover. 🛋️ Throw Pillows – Because every couch deserves a bit of dragon mischief. 👜 Tote Bags – Take the adventure with you wherever you go. 🔥 Stickers – Add a little dragon attitude to your world. Don’t just read about The Chromatic Dragonling—bring it into your realm!

by Bill Tiepelman

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

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

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.

by Bill Tiepelman

Gotham's Firebreathing Hero

Gotham's Firebreathing Hero: A Bat-Dragon with Issues Everyone thinks being a hero is all about dramatic rooftop poses, cool gadgets, and maybe a bit of saving the city. Sure, I do all that. But try doing it as a dragon, with wings that don’t fit in phone booths (do they even have those anymore?) and claws that rip through your own costume like it’s made of tissue paper. Oh, and breathing fire? Not as cool as it sounds. The Day It All Went to Hell Let’s rewind to my latest "mission." A gang of thieves decided to knock over a Gotham jewelry store. Pretty standard Tuesday night. I perched on a building opposite, overlooking the whole thing, preparing for my big entrance. “Time to look cool,” I muttered to myself, puffing out my chest and making sure my bat emblem was perfectly visible. You’d think being part dragon means naturally intimidating. Yeah, no. Gotta strike a pose. Look menacing. But with wings? It’s hard not to look like a flying squirrel having a bad day. I swooped down from the rooftop—wings spread, cape flapping—and landed on the sidewalk with a thud. My claws left scratches all over the pavement, which, by the way, the city is so going to charge me for. Gotham’s insurance rates suck. I marched into the store like the badass dragon I am, only to step on a "WET FLOOR" sign. “Seriously?” I grumbled as my talons skidded. The employees stared, jaws dropped, and one of the robbers? He straight-up dropped his gun and burst out laughing. “This dragon guy's gotta be kidding.” “Yeah, laugh it up, smartass,” I said, baring my teeth, though it came out more like a hissy cough because, you know, fire-breathing doesn’t always work on command. “You’re about to have a very bad day.” One of the robbers raised a gun, and out of sheer habit, I puffed out my chest to blow a stream of fire—except I accidentally aimed at a rack of expensive jewelry. The store instantly became a bonfire, and I had to hear the jewelry store owner screeching about how “THE SAPPHIRES! YOU BURNED THE SAPPHIRES!!” “Well, maybe don’t leave your flammable gemstones out for dragons to torch.” Fire-Breathing... Issues Look, no one tells you how awkward it is to manage fire when you're trying to be a hero. Think it’s easy? Try managing some villain while also mentally calculating how much damage your last fire blast caused. By the time I grabbed the thieves and tied them up with some wire—ignoring the fact that I knocked over three display cases and set off five smoke alarms—the place looked like someone hosted a barbecue in the middle of a Tiffany’s. As I dragged the gang of idiots out the door, I couldn’t help but smirk at my “work.” “Another successful rescue by Gotham’s Firebreathing Hero.” The cops showed up just in time to look at the carnage and scowl at me. Again. “You’re paying for the damages, Bat-Dragon.” “Sure thing, Officer. Just send the bill to my offshore dragon hoard.” No sense of humor. Seriously. A Hero Complex? Maybe. Yeah, I have what people call a “hero complex.” But it’s Gotham. Someone’s gotta stop the thieves and muggers, right? Even if I do occasionally fry the merchandise... or melt a sidewalk. Or two. Okay, maybe three. But heroes aren’t perfect, especially when they have to deal with wings and flames coming out of their nostrils. The problem with wings? Every time I land, I destroy something. Concrete, cars, the occasional trash can that happens to be in my way—oops. Try dealing with a cape that gets tangled in your tail or trying to squeeze into tight alleyways while making sure you don't knock over a building. So yes, I occasionally set the wrong thing on fire. It happens. But let me ask you—how do you expect me to concentrate on capturing villains and making sure I don't roast your precious storefronts? Honestly, isn’t it better to have a bat-themed dragon hero who's a little rough around the edges than none at all? You’re welcome, Gotham. And let’s talk about the villains. I’m telling you, these guys are ridiculous. Last week, I had to deal with a guy calling himself the "Jewel Jaguar." I mean, come on—what is it with these Gotham criminals and their obsession with cat-themed monikers? The worst part? I ended up torching his getaway car by accident and set off the sprinkler system in three different buildings trying to "correct" it. I swear, half of Gotham's property damage is on me. Hero Hotline: Unfiltered You think being a hero is all about glory? Let me enlighten you. Crime-fighting: It’s 80% waiting for something to happen and 20% accidentally destroying public property. Utility belt: Do you know how hard it is to fit my wings into a costume that comes with a utility belt? There’s a reason why most dragons don’t wear pants. Public image: Every time I land to "save the day," it’s a 50/50 chance whether the citizens are going to thank me or sue me. Mostly sue me. So yes, I have some fire-breathing "issues." But hey, if Gotham needs someone to scare the crap out of criminals (and, occasionally, bystanders), I’m your dragon. A bit of collateral damage here and there? All part of the job. But don’t worry—I always leave a good impression. Well, mostly in the form of claw marks and scorch marks, but still. Always a Hero At the end of the day, I get the job done—sometimes with extra smoke, occasionally with singed capes, and yeah, okay, a burnt storefront or two. But when you see a fire-breathing bat-dragon flying above Gotham, you know the city's under *some* kind of protection. Just ignore the smoldering bits. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find some fireproof replacement tights. Again. Want more dragon-fueled chaos? Let us know in the comments below. Just try not to trip over any "Wet Floor" signs.    Get Your Own Piece of Gotham's Firebreathing Hero While I might be busy saving Gotham (and occasionally burning it), you can take a little piece of this fiery dragon-hero home with you. Whether you’re into puzzles, tapestries, or just need something to dry off with after a heroic day, we’ve got you covered! Gotham’s Firebreathing Hero Puzzle – Piece together this epic dragon in all his fiery glory. Perfect for when you need a break from fighting crime (or setting things on fire). Gotham’s Firebreathing Hero Tapestry – Transform your walls with the ultimate heroic decor. It’s like having me guard your living room. Just don’t hang it near the candles. Gotham’s Firebreathing Hero Bath Towel – Dry off in style with a towel featuring your favorite bat-dragon. No promises it’s flame-resistant. Gotham’s Firebreathing Hero Poster – Hang this bad boy up and feel the power of the dragon. Warning: may inspire spontaneous rooftop posing. Get yours today, and remember—if you can't fight crime like a dragon, at least you can decorate like one!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Flame-Furred Dragonling

In the quiet, maple-scented corner of the Everamber Woods, something far from quiet was about to happen. It all began when a certain someone—let’s call him Boris the Nearly Brave—decided that dragons were nothing more than oversized chickens with fire breath. "I’ll make my fortune selling flame-proof armor," he’d declare, waving his sword around in the village tavern, entirely forgetting he’d spent the last three years cowering from squirrels. But fate, as it tends to do, had other plans. Plans that involved tiny claws, fiery pink fur, and an ego-deflating encounter in the heart of autumn’s most beautiful, and least predictable, forest. The Trouble with Eggs Boris, fueled by one too many tankards of mead and even more bad decisions, set out on an epic quest—well, a quest anyway—to find dragon eggs. The village rumor mill had been in overdrive: someone had spotted a strange glow in Everamber Woods. And since Boris was running out of excuses to avoid his debts, he figured, "Why not? Maybe I’ll find an egg, maybe I’ll die. Either way, it's less embarrassing than borrowing more coin from Granny Norgle." So off he trudged, swinging his sword at nothing in particular, and muttering about becoming the most famous dragonslayer this side of the River of Regret (a fitting name, considering his future). The deeper he ventured into the woods, the more brilliant the autumn colors became—reds, oranges, and yellows swirling in the wind, as if the trees themselves were on fire. And at the heart of it all, nestled between two particularly ancient-looking oaks, was an egg. Now, you’d think Boris would be suspicious about an unguarded, glowing egg just lying in a bed of autumn leaves. You’d think he’d stop to ask, "Where’s the giant, fire-breathing mother that laid this thing?" But no, Boris—drunk on mead and ego—picked up the egg and stuffed it in his satchel like it was a stolen loaf of bread. The Hatchling Awakens For a good five minutes, Boris was convinced he’d won. He could already picture himself strutting through the village, selling dragon omelets for a fortune. But then the egg began to crack. A faint glow seeped through the fissures, followed by a high-pitched chirp. This, of course, was the part where Boris panicked. "Stay in there, you overgrown lizard!" he shouted, as if that would stop nature from taking its course. And then—pop!—out came the strangest creature Boris had ever seen. It wasn’t quite the fearsome dragon of legends. No, this little beast had fluffy, vibrant pink fur, big soulful eyes, and wings that looked like they belonged more on a bat that had partied too hard than a dragon of terror. Its scales glittered, but in an oddly adorable way, and its tiny horns curled like it was still deciding whether to be cute or dangerous. The baby dragon blinked at Boris, then promptly sneezed. A puff of smoke curled out of its nostrils and, as luck would have it, ignited the nearest pile of leaves. Boris jumped back, flailing as if he’d been shot at by a crossbow. The dragonling, however, just sat there, wagging its tail like a puppy who’d discovered fire for the first time. "Great," Boris muttered. "Not only did I find a dragon, but it’s defective." The Unlikely Partnership Now, most people would’ve left the pink, fluffy ball of destruction right there in the forest. But Boris, ever the opportunist, figured there might still be a way to profit from this. Maybe he could train it to breathe fire on command, torch a few bandits, or at least keep his feet warm at night. He named the dragonling Fizzle, because that’s all it seemed capable of—small bursts of smoke, little pops of fire, and an uncontrollable knack for setting things ablaze that shouldn't be ablaze, like Boris’s beard. It turned out that Fizzle wasn’t just a dragon. He was a flame-furred, overly affectionate, extremely curious dragonling who thought everything was food, including Boris’s sword. "Stop chewing that, you oversized squirrel!" Boris would yell, yanking the blade away before Fizzle reduced it to scrap metal. But Fizzle would only blink those big, innocent eyes, as if to say, "What? Me? I’m just a baby." And that, dear reader, is how Boris the Nearly Brave became the babysitter to the least threatening, most destructive dragonling in history. The Quest for the Great Dragon Mother As the days turned into weeks, Boris and Fizzle became an odd pair. The dragonling grew—not in size (because let’s face it, Boris’s luck wouldn’t allow him to raise a proper dragon)—but in curiosity and chaos. Every day was a new adventure in avoiding complete disaster. One time, Fizzle ignited a cart of hay in the middle of town, sending Boris scrambling to explain why the "big, scary dragon" looked more like a stuffed toy gone wrong. "It’s not dangerous! I swear!" he shouted to the mob with pitchforks. "It’s... uh... just playing!" The villagers were, understandably, not convince    Bring Home the Chaos and Cuteness If raising a dragonling like Fizzle seems a bit too much, don’t worry—you can still bring a piece of his fiery charm into your life without the singed eyebrows. Check out these delightful items featuring the legendary Flame-Furred Dragonling: Throw Pillow – Cozy up with this vibrant and whimsical throw pillow, featuring Fizzle in all his pink-furred glory. A perfect touch of magical mayhem for your living room. Tapestry – Transform any space with the warm, autumn vibes of this stunning tapestry, featuring the adorable and mischievous dragonling. It’s like bringing a piece of Everamber Woods into your home—minus the accidental fires. Fleece Blanket – Stay warm (just like Boris tried to!) with this ultra-soft fleece blanket. Curl up under its magical design and let Fizzle keep you cozy without the risk of unexpected flame bursts. Tote Bag – Take a bit of dragon mischief on the go with this enchanting tote bag, perfect for your adventures—whether you’re braving the woods or just heading to the market. Whether you’re an aspiring dragonslayer or just a fan of fiery cuteness, these items will let you carry the spirit of Fizzle with you, without the need for flameproof armor. Shop now and add a little dragonling charm to your life!

by Bill Tiepelman

A Dragon’s Gentle Awakening

The meadow had seen better days. Between the relentless winter and whatever those drunken wizards did last spring, the flowers hadn’t exactly bounced back. Patches of scorched earth still dotted the field, as if the land itself had given up and decided, "Screw it, we’re done." And that’s when Ziggy, a newly hatched dragon, decided to make his grand entrance into the world. Ziggy wasn’t your typical dragon. Sure, he had the sharp claws, the fiery breath, and those cute little wings that hadn’t quite figured out how to lift him off the ground yet. But his real power? Timing. Ziggy had the gift of showing up precisely when life hit rock bottom, like a beacon of hope... or at least, a mildly entertaining distraction from the dumpster fire of existence. Emerging from his egg, Ziggy blinked at the world, stretching his tiny pink wings and yawning as if he'd just woken up from a hundred-year nap. The sun kissed his iridescent scales, casting a glow that would’ve been poetic if the damn field wasn’t so dead. His first thought? “Well, this sucks.” Ziggy trotted through the wilted flowers, his feet crunching through dried leaves. The meadow had been described to him by his ancestors as “a lush paradise, perfect for your first flight.” Right now, it looked more like the kind of place where hope goes to die. “Guess I missed the memo on the apocalypse,” he muttered, kicking over a burnt dandelion. “First day out of the shell, and I get... this?” He plopped down, tail twitching in frustration, and looked around for something to do. Ziggy wasn’t exactly big on “destiny” or “greatness” just yet. At the moment, his priorities were food, naps, and figuring out what the hell that weird itch was under his wing. But then, a noise caught his attention. It was faint, but it sounded like someone in the distance was having a really bad day. Or a really good brawl. Curiosity piqued, Ziggy trotted toward the sound. As he crested a small hill, he found the source—two travelers, battered and bruised, sitting next to a dying campfire. One, a burly warrior with more scars than social skills, grumbled as he tried to wrap a bandage around his leg. The other, a roguish figure, held a flask to his lips like it was the last drink on earth. “Of course, we get attacked by ogres,” the rogue said, taking a swig. “Why wouldn’t we? Just our luck.” “At least we didn’t die,” the warrior growled. “Yet.” Ziggy watched them from a distance, intrigued. These two looked like they had been through hell, and judging by their conversation, they weren’t exactly brimming with optimism. In fact, the rogue was muttering about how they’d probably end up as ogre poop in a ditch somewhere. Real uplifting stuff. But there was something in the way they carried on, even in their defeat, that struck a chord with Ziggy. These idiots weren’t giving up. They’d been knocked down—hard—but they were still here, bandaging their wounds and cursing the universe, but not quitting. “Dumbasses,” Ziggy snorted. “Guess someone’s gotta help ‘em out.” With a little dragon-sized puff of determination, Ziggy stepped out into the clearing. “Hey, jackasses!” he called out, his voice cracking adorably. “Need a hand?” The rogue nearly choked on his drink. “What the—” The warrior blinked. “Is that... a dragon?” “Congratulations, you’ve got eyes,” Ziggy retorted. “Look, I’m new here, but even I can tell you two need all the help you can get. What happened, anyway? Ogre? Goblin? Or did you just trip over your own egos?” The rogue smirked despite himself. “A dragon with an attitude. I like this kid.” “Trust me, it’s mutual. Now, what’s the plan? Or are we just gonna sit here and wait for death to take us like a bad date?” The warrior grunted. “No plan. Just... survive. Maybe make it to the next village, if we’re lucky.” Ziggy rolled his eyes. “Wow. Inspiring. Listen, you two look like you’ve had a rough day, so here’s the deal: I’m sticking with you. Consider me your new bodyguard.” “Bodyguard?” The rogue raised an eyebrow. “You? You’re like... two feet tall.” “Yeah, but I breathe fire,” Ziggy shot back, blowing a small flame for emphasis. “And believe me, I’ve got plenty of fuel in the tank. So, are we doing this or not?” The warrior stared at the tiny dragon for a moment, then sighed. “Screw it. Welcome to the team, dragon.” And so, Ziggy—newly hatched, slightly crass, and full of sass—joined the ragtag duo. Together, they limped through the wastelands, fighting off monsters, bad luck, and occasionally each other. But through it all, Ziggy became more than just a source of sarcastic commentary. His small but fiery presence gave the two travelers something they hadn’t had in a long time—hope. Because sometimes, the greatest strength comes from the smallest, most unexpected places. And in a world full of chaos, death, and disaster, a tiny dragon with a big mouth was exactly what they needed. After all, hope doesn’t always come wrapped in a shining knight or a legendary warrior. Sometimes, it looks like a pink-scaled, fire-breathing smartass who refuses to let you give up. And that was how Ziggy, the dragon who thought the world was pretty much garbage, learned that even in the worst of times, there's strength in showing up. Even if you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. The End    Celebrate the Magic of "A Dragon's Gentle Awakening" Feeling inspired by Ziggy’s story of resilience and sass? Take a piece of this magical adventure home with you! Acrylic Prints: Let Ziggy’s strength and charm light up your space with a stunning, vibrant acrylic print that captures the heart of his journey. Tapestry: Cozy up with the whimsical beauty of this story woven into an enchanting tapestry, perfect for bringing a touch of fantasy into your home. Greeting Cards: Share Ziggy’s hope and humor with loved ones by sending them a unique greeting card featuring this unforgettable dragon. Stickers: Keep Ziggy’s energy with you wherever you go! Slap this adorable dragon sticker on your laptop, water bottle, or journal. Bring a little bit of magic—and a lot of attitude—into your life with "A Dragon’s Gentle Awakening" merchandise!