forest gnome

by Bill Tiepelman

The Herbalist of Hollow Glen

Leaf & Let High Deep in the velvet folds of the Wobblewood Forest—past the babbling mushroom brooks and the sentient ferns that whisper unsolicited advice—there lived a peculiar old gnome known only as “Stibbo.” He was not a warrior, nor a wizard, nor particularly organized. But Stibbo was a herbalist, and he was damn good at it. Unlike your average garden-variety gnome, Stibbo’s specialty wasn’t just healing balms and anti-fungal moss poultices. No, no. His true gift was in the recreational application of the forest’s more... enlightening botanicals. On any given morning, you'd find Stibbo perched high on a mossy branch, swaddled in a patchwork robe of live leaves, hand-rolling the day’s inspiration with fingers calloused by centuries of chill. His hair, a wild shock of forest static, framed a face permanently crinkled into a blissed-out grin. His eyes? Perpetually half-closed—as though squinting at reality from a slightly different dimension. Stibbo had a philosophy he liked to call “Photosynthesis of the Soul.” The idea was simple: you sit still in the sunlight, puff something leafy, and allow your thoughts to grow roots and vines and little internal flowers. “Grow inside,” he’d say, “and you won’t need pants out here.” He was the unofficial shaman of the Hollow Glen, offering guidance (or at least amusing ramblings) to travelers who’d taken a wrong turn or were simply high enough to end up there on purpose. His regulars included a raccoon named Steve who only spoke in interpretive dance, a troupe of bisexual frogs who ran a drum circle on Wednesdays, and a dryad going through a messy breakup with an oak tree. One day, a human named Trevor stumbled into the glen, visibly lost and visibly stressed. He wore khakis, which immediately triggered Stibbo’s suspicion. “A pants-wearer,” Stibbo whispered to a nearby snail. “Corporate energy. We must help him.” Trevor was in finance. Or used to be. Burned out from the hustle, he’d set off into the woods hoping for some kind of enlightenment—or at least an excuse not to check his email. That’s when he met the old herbalist, who was mid-sesh and humming an off-key version of Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.” “You look like a man who needs a tea made from questionable flowers,” Stibbo said, waving a smoking bundle of something suspicious in front of Trevor’s face. Trevor, too exhausted to argue, sat. Thus began his initiation into the Hollow Glen way of life—one puff, one rant, and one squirrel philosophy lesson at a time. As the sunset painted the trees in hazy oranges and greens, Stibbo leaned back against the bark and murmured, “Everything’s a leaf if you believe hard enough.” And Trevor, blinking slowly as a snail waved at him, thought... maybe he was onto something. Highdeas and Hollowcore Philosophy The next morning, Trevor awoke to find a squirrel braiding his hair and humming a reggae version of Beethoven's Fifth. He blinked. Was he still dreaming? Possibly. But the aroma of sizzling pine mushroom pancakes lured him fully awake, and when he rolled over, there was Stibbo—grinning, pan already in hand, frying breakfast on a flat stone warmed by psychic energy (or maybe it was just the sun). “Morning, Pants-Man,” Stibbo chirped. “You snored out a haiku last night. Something about spreadsheets and inner peace.” Trevor sat up slowly, leaf-crumbs in his eyebrows, and nodded solemnly. “That sounds right.” Over breakfast—flavored with what Stibbo called “empathy truffles” and “existential cinnamon”—the old herbalist decided it was time for Trevor to begin his spiritual journey. Or, more accurately, a gentle stumble through layers of mild confusion and cosmic nonsense, wrapped in fragrant smoke and metaphors involving bark. “You see, the forest is a mirror,” Stibbo said, licking sap off his thumb. “And also a bong. Depends how you look at it.” Trevor took a bite of pancake. “I think I’m ready to find my truth.” “Ha!” Stibbo cackled. “Good luck with that. But hey, let’s go talk to Gronkle. He’s a toad who used to be a monk. Real good with paradoxes.” The Quest for the Cosmic Chill Their journey took them through trails no map had ever dared chart—paths that looped, swirled, and occasionally spoke Latin backwards. They crossed a bridge made of suspended spiderwebs and optimism, and passed under an archway made entirely of hemp vines and glowing fungus. Along the way, they encountered: A sentient dandelion who claimed to be a tax accountant in a past life and still offered free consultations. An owl named Chad who gave unsolicited advice about polyamory and fire safety. A moss-covered rock with the uncanny ability to play Lo-Fi beats, vibing non-stop for 300 years. When they finally reached Gronkle the Toad-Monk, he was sitting in a puddle of herbal tea, croaking softly while contemplating a mushroom cap. Trevor bowed respectfully. “What is the nature of bliss?” he asked. Gronkle blinked slowly, then replied: “Bliss is the absence of spreadsheets and the presence of snackies.” Trevor cried a little. The Ceremony of Smokelight That night, the Glen held a ritual: the **Ceremony of Smokelight**, where beings of all types—gnomes, sprites, talking vines, and even Chad the Owl—gathered to share a communal smoke and release their worries into the stars. Trevor was handed a ceremonial cone so large it required two dryads to light it. As the Glen buzzed with laughter, drum circles, and a literal fog of good vibes, Stibbo stood before the crowd, arms raised, leafy robe twirling in the wind. “Brothers, sisters, fungi, all! Let us inhale our regrets and exhale our realizations! Let the sacred puff carry your burdens to the forest Wi-Fi!” Trevor took his first deep inhale of the sacred Smokelight blend—part pine, part something that might’ve been mint, and part... stardust? Suddenly, he saw everything. The stock market. The squirrel braid. The spreadsheet cells forming a pattern that resembled ancient runes. He laughed. Loudly. A tree joined in. And in that moment, surrounded by weirdos, wisdom, and really excellent snacks, Trevor realized: this was home now. Stibbo’s Final Lesson Later that night, as fireflies danced and someone played panflute dubstep in the distance, Stibbo sat beside Trevor and passed him one last smoke. “You’ve come a long way, my khaki-clad brother,” Stibbo said. “Remember, life’s just a big wandering. You don’t always need a destination. Sometimes it’s enough to vibe.” Trevor looked up at the stars and whispered, “I think I’m finally chill.” “Damn right,” said Stibbo. “Now help me find my other shoe. I swear I left it inside that tree.” And so, under a sky full of glowing spores and lazy constellations, the Herbalist of Hollow Glen lit another one, and the vibe went on… forever.     Epilogue – The Wind in the Leaves Years passed in Hollow Glen, though no one was really counting. Time, in that part of the forest, had agreed to chill out and stop being so linear. Trevor—now affectionately known as “Reeferend Trev”—became a fixture in the community. He traded his khakis for a robe of woven moss, learned the names of every talking mushroom, and could identify 72 types of mood-enhancing foliage by smell alone. He never went back to finance. Occasionally he’d get a vision of a boardroom or a pie chart, shiver, and then hug a nearby tree until it passed. His former life faded like a dream, replaced by moments of pure present: brewing bark tea at sunrise, debating metaphysics with lizards, or just lying in a hammock woven from vines, vibing to the sounds of forest jazz. As for Stibbo, he never changed. He just grew a bit leafier, a bit wiser, and slightly more forgetful in charming ways. When asked how old he was, he’d usually reply, “Somewhere between 4:20 and eternity.” But one fog-sweet morning, Trevor found a message carved into the bark of their favorite tree, scrawled in Stibbo’s unmistakable wiggly script: "Gone walkabout. Found a talking comet. Be back when the stars forget how to argue. Water the mushrooms and tell Chad to chill." No one panicked. That was just Stibbo being Stibbo. He always came back. Probably. But even if he didn’t, the Glen was in good hands. Trevor kept the tea steeping, the vibes flowing, and every new wanderer welcomed with an open branch and a fresh roll. And if you ever find yourself off-path, a little lost, or completely zooted in a mossy clearing with the sense that the trees are laughing gently at your existence—well, you might just be near Hollow Glen. Take a deep breath. Sit down. Listen for panflute dubstep. And remember what the Herbalist always said: “Reality’s optional. But kindness? That sh*t’s essential.”     🛒 Bring the Vibe Home If you found yourself smiling (or spiritually exhaling) somewhere in this tale, you can keep a little piece of the Hollow Glen with you. Canvas prints and wood-mounted art bring Stibbo’s leafy grin to your wall. Or go mobile with a vinyl sticker that travels with you like a tiny forest guardian. Feeling generous? Send some Hollow Glen wisdom with a greeting card—perfect for birthdays, apologies, or deeply weird thank-you notes.

by Bill Tiepelman

He Who Walks with Wind & She Who Sings to Stones

Of Beards, Boots, and Bad Decisions Long before the forest whispered their names into the moss, He Who Walks with Wind was just a humble (and slightly scruffy) gnome with a spectacularly oversized feathered headdress — the sort of thing that made squirrels pause mid-acorn. His boots were too big, his beard was too wild, and his sense of direction was... well... wind-dependent. His friends in the woods often joked that he had the charm of a river rock — hard to hold onto and prone to vanishing downstream after a bottle of pineberry wine. But everything changed the day he stumbled (quite literally) into She Who Sings to Stones. Now, she was no ordinary forest maiden. No sir. This was a woman who could calm a thunderstorm with a side-eye and convince even the crankiest badger to hand over his last berry tart. She wore a headdress of feathers softer than secrets and robes woven from mountain twilight. And worst of all (for him)... she caught him singing to his own reflection in a puddle. "Nice voice," she said, her words like warm honey but with the sharpness of a pebble in your shoe. "Do you serenade yourself often, or am I just lucky today?" And just like that — he was doomed. In the best, most embarrassing way possible. From that moment on, they became the forest’s worst-kept secret. The loudest whisper. The odd couple that critters gossiped about endlessly. He brought clumsy poems carved into sticks. She responded with mossy hearts on his walking path. He accidentally wooed her with terrible fishing skills. She let him believe he was mysterious (he wasn’t). And thus began their legendary love story — one filled with mishaps, stolen kisses behind pine trees, and enough awkward glances to fill a hollow log. View His Collection | View Her Collection Of Stones, Songs, and Stolen Things It didn’t take long for the forest to realize that He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones were absolutely terrible at keeping things casual. For one, their “chance encounters” were happening so often that even the mushrooms started rolling their eyes. After all, how many times can two gnomes “accidentally” meet at the same mossy log at the exact same twilight hour without the universe winking suspiciously? But there was something about her that unraveled him. Maybe it was the way her voice floated between tree roots like a lullaby only rocks understood. Or the way her smile could disarm even the sharpest thorn bush. Or — and he would never admit this aloud — the way she stole things. Oh yes. She Who Sings to Stones was a notorious thief. Not of valuables — no. Her crimes were far worse. She stole moments. She stole his awkward pauses mid-sentence and replaced them with knowing glances. She stole the roughness from his voice with every quiet laugh. She even stole his lucky acorn — the one he swore protected him from wandering skunks (it didn’t). He found it days later tucked beneath his pillow with a note: "Protection only works if you believe in something bigger than your beard. —S" But he wasn’t innocent either. He Who Walks with Wind was a collector too — of her songs. At night, when the forest hummed low and the stars yawned above the treetops, he would follow the soft echoes of her voice. Never too close. Never letting her see. Just close enough to catch pieces of melody drifting like dandelion seeds — fragile, weightless, impossibly precious. He began carving her words into stones. Not fancy stones. Not polished gemstones. Just regular forest rocks — the kind most gnomes kick absentmindedly. But to him, these were sacred. Each carried one word of her songs: “Patience” “Kindness” “Wild” “Enough” He placed them like breadcrumbs through the forest — a map only she could read. And of course... she found them. One by one. Because she was the sort of woman who always found what was meant for her. One morning, after a night of restless dreams about her laughter echoing in the hills, he woke to find a perfect circle of stones outside his door. His stones. His words. Returned — but now surrounded by tiny wildflowers and mossy hearts. The message was clear: "If you want me — walk the path you’ve started." And so, for the first time in his rambling, wandering life... he walked with purpose. Not with the wind. But toward her. This was no longer a story of solitude. This was a story of two souls circling each other — stubborn, playful, fierce — until the forest itself held its breath. Of Forest Gossip, Awkward Kisses, and the Very Bad Squirrel Incident The thing about forest creatures is — they talk. Not just the whispery, rustle-in-the-leaves kind of talk. No. Full-blown, scandal-hungry, gossip-mongering chatter that would put any village marketplace to shame. And when the subject was He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones... well, let’s just say the squirrels were holding meetings. “Did you see him trip over his own staff yesterday trying to look heroic?” “She smiled at him again. That’s the third time this week. It’s basically a marriage proposal.” “I give it two more days before he tries to build her a house made entirely of sticks and regret.” Even the owls — who usually prided themselves on dignified silence — were side-eyeing from the treetops. But despite the forest-wide commentary, their story kept weaving itself in unexpected ways. Take, for example, the Very Bad Squirrel Incident. It all started when he — in a misguided attempt at romance — decided to gather her favorite forest berries for a surprise breakfast. What he didn’t know was that those particular berries were under the jealous watch of the local squirrel matriarch — a wiry old beast known as Grumbletail. The moment his clumsy hands reached for the berries, the squirrels launched a coordinated attack with the kind of ferocity usually reserved for territorial foxes and bad poetry readings. He arrived at her cottage hours later — scratched, tangled, missing one boot, and carrying exactly one sad little berry in his dirt-covered palm. She blinked at him, standing there like a wind-blown scarecrow of embarrassment. “You absolute fool,” she whispered. But her eyes — stars above, her eyes — were sparkling with something wild and dangerous and impossibly soft. And then — because the forest gods have a twisted sense of humor — it happened. The First Kiss. It wasn’t elegant. There was nothing poetic about it. He leaned in at the exact moment she turned her head to laugh and the whole thing ended with a bumped nose, an awkward tangle of beard, and her muffled giggle against his chest. But when their lips finally met — really met — it was like every stone he’d ever carved, every word he’d ever stolen from her songs, every ridiculous misstep... finally made sense. The wind forgot to blow. The trees leaned in closer. Even Grumbletail — watching from a safe distance — begrudgingly approved. Afterwards, sitting beneath a crooked old pine, they laughed until their sides ached. Not because it was funny (though it absolutely was) — but because that’s what love felt like for them: Messy. Ridiculous. Beautifully imperfect. As the sun melted into the horizon, she poked him gently with her finger. “If you ever steal berries from Grumbletail again, I’m not saving you,” she teased. “Worth it,” he grinned, pulling her close. And just like that — two souls who had spent a lifetime walking alone... began learning how to stay. Of Vows, Feathers, and Forever Things The forest had been waiting for this day for longer than it would ever admit. Word had spread faster than a startled rabbit — He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones were getting married. And let me tell you — no one throws a celebration like woodland creatures with too much time and too many opinions. The Preparations Were... Something The owls insisted on handling the invitations (delivered in tiny scrolls tied with fern ribbons). The badgers argued for three days about what type of moss made the best aisle runner. Grumbletail the Squirrel — yes, that Grumbletail — shockingly volunteered to oversee security, muttering something about "keeping things civilized." The ceremony location? The Heartstone Clearing — a sacred, wildly overgrown circle deep in the woods where stones hummed if you listened close enough... and where countless gnome love stories were rumored to have begun (and ended, often with dramatic flair). The Bride Was Magic She Who Sings to Stones wore a gown stitched from twilight — soft greys, rich earth tones, and wildflowers braided through her long silver hair. Her headdress was adorned not just with feathers, but with tiny carved stones — each one gifted to her by him over their impossible journey together. She looked like a song made visible. The kind of song that quiets storms and stirs ancient roots. The Groom Was... Trying His Best He Who Walks with Wind was absolutely, hopelessly nervous. He’d polished his boots (which promptly got muddy). He’d combed his beard (which immediately tangled in a rogue twig). His headdress was slightly crooked. But his eyes... his eyes never left her. As she stepped into the clearing, every creature — from the smallest beetle to the loftiest owl — felt it: This wasn’t just love. This was home. The Vows (Improvised, Of Course) He cleared his throat (twice). "I never knew the wind could lead me somewhere worth staying. But you... you are my stone. My song. My forever place." She smiled — that maddening, beautiful, secret smile. "And I never knew stones could dance... until you tripped over every single one on your way to me." Laughter echoed through the clearing — loud, wild, utterly perfect. The Forest Rejoiced The celebration that followed was the stuff of legend. The rabbits organized an impromptu berry feast. The foxes provided slightly questionable musical entertainment (there was howling). The squirrels, begrudgingly, allowed dancing beneath their favorite trees. And the stars? Oh, the stars stayed out far later than usual — winking knowingly over two gnomes who had somehow turned awkward missteps and stolen glances into something breathtakingly permanent. And As The Night Faded... They sat together, tangled in each other, surrounded by stones and feathers and laughter that would echo in the woods for generations. "Home," he whispered into her hair. She nodded. "Always." And So Their Story Lives On... In the stones that hum when the wind passes through. In the feathers caught in the branches long after they’ve gone to bed. And in every ridiculous, wonderful, perfectly imperfect love story waiting to happen just beyond the trees.     Bring His Story Home Some stories aren’t just meant to be read — they’re meant to be lived with. He Who Walks with Wind carries with him a spirit of wild adventure, quiet romance, and the kind of humor only found in the heart of the woods. Now, you can bring his legendary presence into your space — a daily reminder that love, laughter, and a little bit of mischief belong in every corner of your life. Metal Print — Sleek, bold, and perfect for a space that echoes with adventure. Canvas Print — Rustic charm meets timeless storytelling for your walls. Tapestry — Let the wind tell his story across fabric flowing with forest magic. Fleece Blanket — Curl up in cozy folklore and daydream of distant woods. Throw Pillow — A soft landing for tired adventurers and dreamers alike. Every Piece Tells a Story Let his quiet strength, mischievous spirit, and legendary heart become part of your everyday world. Whether on your walls, your couch, or wrapped around your shoulders — his journey is ready to continue with you. Explore the Full Collection →     Let Her Quiet Magic Find You She Who Sings to Stones doesn’t shout her wisdom — she leaves it tucked in corners, resting on shelves, and humming softly beside you in moments of stillness. Her story is one of grace, patience, and secret strength — and now her spirit can dwell in your space in beautifully crafted ways. Acrylic Print — Sleek clarity capturing her timeless quiet beauty. Framed Print — A classic heirloom piece for a heart-centered home. Tote Bag — Carry her story with you — to markets, to forests, or wherever you wander. Greeting Card — Send a small, powerful blessing into someone else's world. Sticker — A tiny, mischievous reminder to listen for the quiet songs in life. Her Presence Lingers Long After the Song Whether decorating your favorite reading nook, becoming a cherished gift, or adding a whisper of magic to your day — her story is ready to walk beside yours. Explore the Full Collection →     Epilogue: And the Forest Just Kept Smiling Years later — deep in that same wild forest where it all began — they are still there. He Who Walks with Wind still gets lost on purpose sometimes. (Old habits, old boots.) He still carves her words into stones when he thinks she isn’t looking. And yes — he still sings badly to puddles on quiet mornings... because now she sings along. She Who Sings to Stones still listens for stories the wind forgets to tell. She still leaves him tiny gifts in strange places — feathers braided with wildflower threads tucked into his coat pocket, small heart-shaped stones placed along his wandering paths, notes scrawled with things like: "Don’t forget berries (Grumbletail is watching)." They built a home together — if you can call it that. Part cottage, part moss-covered miracle, part falling-apart-on-purpose. It smells of pine needles, old books, and laughter that never learned how to be quiet. The forest watches them — still — with that old, knowing smile. And the Animals? The squirrels still gossip (they always will). The owls still judge. The rabbits still host awkwardly loud dinners near their porch. But ask anyone — ask even the grumpiest badger — and they’ll tell you: This is how the best stories end. Not with grand adventures. Not with epic quests. But with two foolish souls who chose to stay — tangled together in feathers, stones, and all the wonderfully ordinary magic of forever. And Somewhere... Right Now... She’s humming. He’s tripping over a tree root. And the forest? Still smiling. Shop His Story → | Shop Her Story →