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How to Lose a Dragon in 10 Hugs

by Bill Tiepelman

How to Lose a Dragon in 10 Hugs

The Hug Heard 'Round the Forest There once lived a gnome named Brambletug who had two core beliefs: that all creatures secretly longed for his affection, and that personal space was a myth perpetuated by introverts and elves. He wore a hat the color of fermented cherries, a smile that bordered on litigation, and had the emotional intelligence of a wet rock. One fine morning — the kind where the sun peeks through the trees just enough to blind you and a squirrel poops on your head for luck — Brambletug set out to do something noble. “Today,” he declared to absolutely no one, “I shall befriend a dragon.” He even brought a friendship starter pack: a pinecone (gift-wrapped in moss), a cinnamon-scented hug, and three wildly outdated knock-knock jokes. Meanwhile, not far from where Brambletug was rehearsing his icebreakers, lurked a dragon. Not a fire-breathing, village-burning sort of dragon. No, this one was more... emotionally scorched. His name was Krivven, and he had the perpetual expression of someone who just discovered oat milk in their coffee after asking for cream. He had scales the color of swamp envy, horns that curved like a passive-aggressive eyebrow, and the aura of a grumpy librarian who was denied tenure. Krivven wasn’t *technically* evil — just very, very tired. He’d moved to the quiet forest glade after centuries of babysitting unstable sorcerers and being summoned by teenagers with bad Latin and worse tattoos. All he wanted now was to sulk in peace and maybe binge-watch the sun setting through the trees. Alone. Unhugged. So when Brambletug crept into his clearing, arms wide and teeth bared in what was legally considered a smile, Krivven knew — with a deep, resigned exhale — that his day had just gone to hell. “GREETINGS!” Brambletug hollered, as if the dragon were hard of hearing or hard of tolerating nonsense. “My name is Brambletug Bartholomew Bramblewhack the Third, and you, sir, are my destined bestie.” Krivven blinked. Once. Slowly. In a tone that could curdle sap, he responded, “No.” “A classic!” Brambletug giggled. “You're funny! That’s good. Friendships should be built on humor. Also: hugging. Prepare yourself.” Before Krivven could retract into his sulky little safe space (read: three perfectly arranged rocks and a Do Not Disturb sign carved into a tree), Brambletug lunged like a caffeinated chipmunk on a sugar bender and latched onto his scaly midsection. And there it was — the first hug. Krivven’s soul sighed. Birds scattered. Somewhere, a butterfly died out of secondhand embarrassment. “You smell like toasted anxiety,” Brambletug whispered, delighted. “We’re going to be *so* good for each other.” Krivven began counting backward from ten. And then forward. And then in Elvish. None of it helped. Of Singed Moss and Questionable Boundaries Krivven, to his credit, didn’t immediately immolate Brambletug. It was a close call — his nostrils flared, a single puff of smoke leaked out, and he did momentarily imagine the gnome roasting like a festive meatball — but ultimately, he decided against it. Not out of mercy, mind you. He simply didn’t want to get gnome stench in his nostril vents. Again. “You are... still here,” the dragon said, half observation, half prayer for this to be a hallucination caused by expired toadstools. “Of course I’m still here! Hugging is not a one-time event. It’s a lifestyle,” Brambletug chirped, still firmly attached to Krivven’s side like a burr with daddy issues. Krivven sighed and attempted to peel the gnome off. Unfortunately, Brambletug had the cling strength of a raccoon on Adderall. “We are not friends,” Krivven growled. “Oh Krivvy,” the gnome said with a wink so aggressive it should’ve come with a warning label, “that’s just your trauma talking.” The dragon’s left eye twitched. “My what?” “Don’t worry,” Brambletug said, patting Krivven’s chest like he was a wounded house cat, “I read a scroll once about emotional baggage. I’m basically your life coach now.” It was around this time Krivven made a mental list of potential witnesses, legal consequences, and whether gnome meat counted as poultry. The math didn’t add up in his favor. Yet. Over the next three days, Brambletug launched a full-scale, unsolicited friendship offensive. He moved into Krivven’s territory with all the subtlety of a bard in heat. First came the *"snack bonding."* Brambletug brought marshmallows, mushrooms, and something he called “squirrel crack”—a suspiciously crunchy trail mix that made Krivven mildly paranoid. The gnome insisted they roast things together “like real adventuring bros.” “I do not eat marshmallows,” Krivven said, as Brambletug jammed one onto the tip of his horn like a skewered confection of shame. “Not yet you don’t!” the gnome chirped. “But give it time. You’ll be licking caramel off your claws and asking for seconds, Krivvy-doodle.” “Never call me that again.” “Okay, Krivster.” Krivven's eye twitched again. Harder. The marshmallow did, against his better instincts, catch fire — spectacularly. Brambletug squealed with glee and shouted, “YES! CHARRED OUTSIDE, GOOEY SOUL. Just like you!” Krivven, too stunned to reply, simply watched as Brambletug proceeded to eat the flaming lump directly from his claw, singing his tongue and squealing, “PAIN IS JUST SPICY FRIENDSHIP.” Then came the *"trust-building games,"* which included: falling backward off a log while expecting Krivven to catch him (“It builds vulnerability!”), shadow puppets in the firelight (“Look, it’s you... being sad!”), and a roleplaying exercise where Brambletug played a “sad forest orphan” and Krivven was expected to “adopt him emotionally.” Krivven, staring blankly, responded, “I am this close to developing a new hobby that involves gnome launch velocity and trebuchets.” “Awwwwww! You’re thinking of crafts! That’s progress!” One night, Brambletug declared they needed a **Friendship Manifesto**, and tried to tattoo it on a tree using Krivven’s claw while the dragon was asleep. Krivven woke to find the word “CUDDLEPACT” etched into bark and Brambletug humming what suspiciously sounded like a duet. From both parts. “Are you... singing with yourself?” “No, I’m harmonizing with your inner child,” Brambletug said, deadpan. Krivven reconsidered his moral stance on gnome-flicking. Hard. Despite all this, something bizarre began to happen. A shift. A crack — not in Krivven’s emotional carapace (that thing was still fortified like a dwarven panic room), but in his routine. He was... less bored. More annoyed, yes. But that was technically a form of engagement. And every now and then — between the monologues, the unsolicited riddles, and the horrifying “hug sneak attacks” — Brambletug would say something... almost profound. Like the time they watched a snail cross the path for 45 minutes and Brambletug said, “You know, we’re all just goo-filled meat tubes pretending we have direction.” Or when he sat on Krivven’s tail and whispered, “Everyone wants to be a dragon, but no one wants to be misunderstood.” It was annoying. It was invasive. It was kind of true. And now, Krivven couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just *maybe*, this annoying, clingy, wildly codependent fuzzball... wasn’t trying to change him. Just... annoy him into healing. Which was worse, really. And then, on the fourth day, Brambletug said the most horrifying thing yet: “I’ve planned a group picnic. For your social skills.” Krivven froze. “A what.” “I invited some unicorns, a banshee, two dryads, and a sentient puddle named Dave. It’s going to be adorable.” The dragon began to quake. “There will be snacks,” Brambletug added, “and a group activity called ‘Affirmation Volleyball.’” Krivven’s left eye twitched so hard it dislocated a horn ridge. Somewhere in the forest, birds paused in terror. Somewhere else, Dave the puddle prepared emotionally for volleyball. The Picnic of the Damned (and Slightly Moist) Krivven tried to flee. Not metaphorically. Literally. He spread his wings, launched six feet into the air, and was immediately tackled mid-lift-off by a gnome clutching a wicker basket full of “snack bonding opportunities.” “WE HAVE TO MAKE AN ENTRANCE TOGETHER,” Brambletug yelled, riding him like a therapy gremlin. “LIKE A POWER COUPLE. YOU'RE THE GRUMPY ONE, I’M THE CHAOTIC OPTIMIST. IT’S OUR BRAND!” “This is a hostage situation,” Krivven muttered as they crash-landed beside a checkered blanket and a crowd of creatures who looked like they deeply regretted RSVPing ‘yes’ to the tiny scroll that had been left under their respective mossy doorsteps. The picnic was a fever dream. A banshee in a sunhat handed out herbal tea and screamed compliments at everyone. The dryads brought “root-based tapas” and spent twenty minutes arguing about whether hummus had ethical implications. Dave the sentient puddle kept trying to infiltrate the fruit bowl and flirted openly with Krivven’s tail. Unicorns — plural — stood off to the side, quietly judging everything with the passive-aggressive elegance of wine moms at a PTA meeting. One wore horn glitter. Another smoked something suspicious and kept muttering about “manifesting stable energy.” “This,” Krivven hissed, “is social terrorism.” “This,” Brambletug corrected, “is growth.” The nightmare crescendoed with **Affirmation Volleyball**, a team sport in which you could only spike the ball after shouting a compliment at someone across the field. If the compliment was “lazy,” the ball turned to custard. (That was Dave’s rule. Don’t ask.) Krivven was cornered, emotionally and literally, as Brambletug served him a volleyball and screamed, “YOUR EMOTIONAL WALLS ARE JUST A SIGN OF VULNERABILITY MASKED AS STRENGTH!” The ball hit Krivven in the snout. No custard. Which meant the compliment was, by this game’s logic, valid. He stared down at it, then at Brambletug, who beamed like the world’s most self-satisfied anxiety demon. And for one fleeting moment — just a flicker — Krivven... almost smiled. Not a full smile, of course. It was more of a muscle spasm. But it terrified the unicorns and made Dave do a sexy ripple. Progress! The picnic eventually dissolved into chaos. The banshee got wine drunk and started singing breakup ballads from the cliffside. One of the dryads turned into a shrub and refused to leave. The unicorns gentrified the nearest field. Dave split into three smaller puddles and declared himself a commune. Amidst it all, Brambletug sat next to Krivven, gnawing contentedly on a cookie shaped like a dragon butt. “So... what did we learn today?” he asked, crumbs flaking down his tunic like snow from a cursed bakery. Krivven exhaled — not a sigh, not smoke, just... air. “I learned that hugs are a form of magical assault,” he said flatly. “And?” “...That sometimes being annoyed is better than being alone.” “BOOM!” Brambletug shouted, launching himself into Krivven’s lap. “THAT, MY SCALY DUDE, IS CHARACTER ARC.” Krivven did not incinerate him. Instead, with a noise that was not a growl but could pass for one at parties, he muttered, “You may continue... existing. In my vicinity.” Brambletug gasped. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me! Quick! Someone write it on a mug!” And from that day on — against every law of nature and common sense — the gnome and the dragon became companions. Not friends. Not exactly. But... tolerable cohabitants with joint custody of a cursed picnic blanket and a banshee who now slept on their porch. Every few days, Brambletug would initiate a new hug, call it “installment number whatever,” and Krivven would groan and accept it with all the grace of a barbed-wire hug vest. He’d never admit it, but by the tenth hug — the one with the extra sparkles and a sarcastic unicorn DJ playing Enya — Krivven actually leaned in for half a second. Not long. Just enough. And Brambletug, bless his deranged heart, whispered, “See? Told you I’d wear you down.” Krivven rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.” “And yet... hugged.” The moral of the story? If you ever find yourself emotionally constipated in a forest, just wait. A gnome will show up eventually. Probably uninvited. Definitely holding marshmallows. And absolutely ready to violate your boundaries into emotional progress.     Need a daily reminder that unsolicited gnome affection is the purest form of emotional growth? Bring Brambletug and Krivven’s chaotic friendship to your own world with beautifully crafted collectibles from the Unfocussed shop. Whether you're decorating your lair, scribbling questionable poetry, or just want to send a passive-aggressive greeting to your favorite introvert, we've got you covered: Metal Print: Give your walls the grumpy, glossy dragon energy they never knew they needed. Framed Print: Because every magical forest disaster deserves a place of honor in your home gallery. Greeting Card: Perfect for birthdays, breakups, and emotionally unavailable cryptids. Spiral Notebook: Jot down your trauma, sketch your inner gnome, or track your personal hug quota. Shop the full lineup now and carry a little enchanted chaos wherever you go. Brambletug approved. Krivven… tolerated.

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The Fiery Pout

by Bill Tiepelman

The Fiery Pout

The Temper of Twigsnap Hollow It was the first crisp day of autumn in Twigsnap Hollow, and that meant three things: the leaves were aflame with color, the squirrels were drunk on fermented acorns, and Fizzlewick the Tiny Brat Dragon was in a full-blown sulk. Perched on his usual spot—the fifth knotted limb of the great Maplebeard tree—Fizzlewick glared at the world with a righteous fury only a baby dragon with a mild superiority complex and short legs could possess. His wings were twitching. His tail, coiled like a sassy pretzel, flicked aggressively every third second. And most notably, his arms were folded so tight that his little talons squeaked against his own scales. This, dear reader, was a *statement pose*. “I said cinnamon bark muffins, not ginger root scones,” he muttered to absolutely no one except a leaf that had the audacity to fall in his direction. He scorched it with a tiny puff of smoke and grinned. That would teach nature to be insolent. You see, Fizzlewick had what the woodland creatures called “Main Character Energy,” though he firmly believed he was simply “the only one here with taste.” Ever since he’d hatched in the hollow two years ago during a thunderstorm (on purpose, according to him), he'd carved out a reputation as both the littlest dragon and the biggest handful east of the Glowroot Ridge. He ran a tight emotional schedule: tantrum at dawn, sulk at midday, petty vengeance by sundown. It was exhausting being a misunderstood genius with adorable rage issues. Today, however, his drama had a very specific catalyst. Mapleberry the chipmunk—who he had allowed into his inner circle of trusted snack couriers—had dared to bring him a honeycrust tart with the wrong kind of drizzle. Fizzlewick had exploded, not with fire (he was saving that for the pinecone uprising), but with loud, sputtering, bratty declarations of betrayal that had sent poor Mapleberry scrambling back to the bake burrow in tears. “She knows I have standards,” Fizzlewick huffed. “I’m a legend, not a lunchbox.” And so he remained in brooding solitude, radiating autumnal menace and cuteness like some angry seasonal candle. The trees rustled. The squirrels avoided eye contact. Even the wind detoured politely around him. But from the forest floor below, someone was watching—someone who had neither fear of dragons nor respect for his pout. Someone who walked on two paws and wore socks with sandals. Yes, trouble was coming. The kind with snacks, opinions, and absolutely no sense of personal boundaries. Sock-Sandaled Chaos and the Pact of Leaf & Flame The interloper arrived with all the subtlety of a moose in a tambourine shop. She was human—probably—a squat, smirking woman with wild silver hair tied up in what could only be described as a bun held together by twigs, buttons, and vibes. She wore a cardigan that appeared to have been hand-knitted from the tears of disappointed grandmothers, and socks pulled halfway up her shins, tucked neatly into Birkenstocks so offensively functional they could have ended wars. Across her back was slung a lumpy satchel that jingled with an untrustworthy rhythm. She exuded the kind of unbothered energy that made forest gods nervous. Fizzlewick squinted down at her from his branch. “Nope,” he whispered. “No thank you. Not today, forest cryptid.” But the woman waved cheerfully and started climbing the base of Maplebeard like a sentient barnacle. “Helloooooo, little spicy meatball!” she called out, voice sing-song and dangerously whimsical. “Heard there was a temper tantrum brewing in the upper limbs!” “It’s a tactical emotional stance,” Fizzlewick hissed. “Not a tantrum.” “Aww, look at you, puffed up like a hot toddy with feelings.” She grinned, finally reaching the branch just below his. “Name’s Aunt Gloam. I’m what the enchanted folks call an ‘Interventionist Crone.’ Retired. Mostly.” Fizzlewick blinked. “I don’t allow people in my sulking sector. Did you not see the sign?” She gestured vaguely toward a nailed-up twig that read “NO.” in smudged ash. “Oh, I saw it. I assumed it was metaphorical.” “It was CHARCOAL. That makes it *art*.” Unbothered, Aunt Gloam settled on the branch like it was a beanbag chair and began unpacking her satchel. Out came a tin of candied spider legs, a tattered zine titled “So You Think You’re a Familiar?”, a mysterious jawbone, and a tiny, hand-woven hammock. Then finally, a squat jar of what looked like homemade fudge. Fizzlewick’s nostrils flared involuntarily. “Ohhhh no. That’s trap fudge. You can’t bribe me.” “Darlin’, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She unscrewed the lid. The aroma hit him like a poetic slap: cinnamon, nutmeg, brown butter, a hint of mischief. “It’s simply here. Unattended. Vulnerable to dragon decisions.” He inched closer. Then stopped. “...Is it the chewy kind?” “Only a monster makes crumbly fudge.” He eyed her suspiciously. “You’re crafty.” “I’m *crone-aged*. We transcend craft.” They sat in silence for a long moment, only the sound of falling leaves and one distant woodland creature doing karaoke in a fern patch. Fizzlewick unfurled one wing slightly—barely. He reached out a talon and nudged the fudge. It jiggled. He jiggled back. There was a brief, silent duel of wills... and then he took a bite. “...Ugh. It’s stupid how good this is.” “Mmm-hmm.” Aunt Gloam grinned, leaning back like she’d won a card game against fate. Fizzlewick chewed thoughtfully, then wiped a crumb from his chin with great drama. “Fine. You can stay. Temporarily. But I have some conditions.” “Naturally.” She conjured a notepad out of a leaf and what might’ve been pure sarcasm. “List away.” “No talking during my dramatic poses.” “No suggesting herbal remedies for my ‘mood spirals.’” “Absolutely no calling me ‘cutie’ unless you want third-degree singe.” “You will refer to me as either Your Crispness or Sir Emberpants.” “You must honor the sacred Ritual of the Snuggle Nest when I get sleepy.” “Deal,” she said without hesitation. “Wait, really?” “Kid, I’ve dealt with warlocks who burst into tears over improperly steeped tea. You’re adorable with teeth. I’ll manage.” For the first time all day, Fizzlewick’s pout softened. Just a smidge. He kicked one foot idly. “I guess you’re not the worst cryptid I’ve met.” “High praise from a grumble-lizard.” They sat together until the sky turned a dusky violet and the fireflies came out, blinking like gossiping stars. Fizzlewick rested his chin on his claws and let out a soft puff of smoke. “Still mad about the drizzle, though.” “We’ll burn their recipe book together,” Aunt Gloam said, patting his head gently. “After a nap.” “It’s a vengeance nap.” “The best kind.” The leaves above them rustled in approval. Somewhere in the forest, a squirrel dropped its nuts in horror and ran. The brat dragon had made an ally. Which meant, of course, the chaos was just beginning. The Marshmallow Accord & The Rise of Emberpants It began, as many woodland uprisings do, with a pastry scandal. Word had spread—faster than Aunt Gloam could finish weaving her mood-cozy—that Fizzlewick had taken a “mortal ally” into his inner branch. The squirrels were alarmed. The chipmunks were insulted. The badger ambassador, who hadn’t been consulted in over a decade, declared it a “reckless alliance with unpredictable cardigan-based consequences.” The acorn council convened. And in true rodent fashion, their resolution was unanimous: Fizzlewick had become soft. He, of course, did not take this well. “SOFT?!” he bellowed from the treetop, fire curling from his nostrils in dramatic little wisps. “I am fire incarnate! I literally toasted a pinecone into ash this morning because it looked smug!” “It did look smug,” Aunt Gloam confirmed, sipping her blackberry tea from a mug shaped like a cauldron. “But perception is nine-tenths of squirrel law.” “Then it’s time,” he said, flexing his tiny claws with purpose, “for a display of brat force diplomacy.” He flew in a series of tight loops (okay, he wobbled twice, but pulled it off with a spin) and landed in the center of the Hollow’s clearing, arms crossed, tail coiled like a cobra with sass. Surrounding him were dozens of woodland creatures, mostly armed with snacks, pamphlets, or biting side-eye. “You have forgotten,” he began, pacing with high drama, “who rules these crispy-leaved lands.” “No one rules anything,” said a chipmunk. “It’s a forest.” “SILENCE, NUT MINION.” He turned in place, letting the orange light catch his scales just so. “I am Sir Emberpants the Bratflamed, Guardian of the Fifth Limb, Keeper of the Morning Sulk, and Defender of Snack Standards. You dare accuse me of softness?” “You accepted fudge from a biped,” a squirrel jeered. “That’s basically treason.” “It was emotionally complex fudge and I stand by my choices.” “You made her a friendship nest!” someone yelled. “It was a strategic cuddle fort and don’t pretend you wouldn’t nap in it!” The crowd was growing restless. The badger rolled out a scroll titled The Grievance of the Leaves. A group of outraged blue jays began chanting something that sounded suspiciously like “Down with brat-boy.” Tensions rose. Tails twitched. Somewhere in the trees, a war ferret played ominous panpipe music. And then— “ENOUGH!” Aunt Gloam bellowed, tossing a handful of glowing pink orbs into the air. They exploded in slow-motion sparkles that rained down with the smell of toasted sugar. The crowd froze. Literally. Mid-blink, mid-scowl, mid-grumble. Stuck in a glamour field woven from magic and old-lady spite. She walked to Fizzlewick’s side, arms folded in perfect synchronicity with his. “Let’s be clear,” she said, her voice now echoing slightly as if through a very judgmental cave. “This dragon is a menace, a diva, a tactical napper, and occasionally insufferable. But he’s also yours. And he has never let this forest down—except that one time with the hot cider incident, which we do not discuss.” “That cauldron betrayed me,” Fizzlewick muttered. “So you will not cast him out over fudge and companionship. You’ll do what all dramatic enchanted ecosystems do: you’ll throw a festival and pretend none of this ever happened.” “With marshmallows,” Fizzlewick added, perking up. “Roasted on my snout.” “And s’mores.” “And you all have to say sorry with snacks.” “And the chipmunks have to do the apology dance,” he added, eyes gleaming. There was a long silence as the glamour lifted and time resumed. A breeze blew dramatically through the clearing. The squirrels conferred. The badger sighed. The war ferret put his panpipes away. “Fine,” the chipmunk said through gritted teeth. “But we get to bring cider.” “Deal,” Fizzlewick said. “But if it’s the wrong kind of drizzle again, I will incinerate every pie crust within a ten-tree radius.” And so, under the glowing leaves of a forest just ridiculous enough to function, the first ever **Festival of Emberpants** was declared. Creatures danced. Cider flowed. Fizzlewick roasted marshmallows with suspicious delight, occasionally charring one just enough to assert dominance. The chipmunks did their apology dance, and Aunt Gloam taught a class on “Emotional Boundaries and Other Delusions.” Later, curled in his nest beside the crone, Fizzlewick let out a long, satisfied sigh. “You know,” he said, licking a sticky paw, “being emotionally compromised tastes like marshmallows.” “That’s growth, sweetheart,” Gloam said, tucking him in with a wing-sized nap shawl. “It’s still vengeance nap time tomorrow though.” “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” And thus, balance was restored. Snacks were respected. Brats were celebrated. And somewhere far beyond the Hollow, a new tale was already stirring... probably about a baby basilisk with commitment issues. But that’s another story entirely.     Love Fizzlewick as much as he loves properly drizzled snacks? Bring a bit of his fiery charm home with you! Whether you're looking to warm up your space with an enchanted forest tapestry, sip tea beside his smolder on a sleek acrylic print, or strut your brat energy with a tote bag worthy of a dragon tantrum, we’ve got you covered. Take Fizzlewick on the go with a spiral notebook for plotting snack-based vengeance, or decorate your favorite things with a high-quality vinyl sticker featuring everyone’s favorite moody flame nugget. Add a little pout to your life—he insists.

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