talking dragon

by Bill Tiepelman

A Glimmer in the Grove

The World’s Most Inconvenient Miracle The dragon was not supposed to exist. At least, that’s what they told Elira back in the Overgrown Library, between musty sips of mildew-scented tea and “you wouldn’t understand, dear” looks from mages with more beard than bones. Dragons were extinct, extinct, extinct. Full stop. Period. End of majestic epoch. It had been centuries since a flame-blooded egg so much as twitched, much less hatched. Which is why Elira was fully unprepared to discover one sitting in her breakfast bowl. Yes, the egg had looked odd—like a glittering gob of moonlight dipped in raspberry jam—but she’d been hungover and ravenous and assumed the innkeeper was just very into poultry aesthetics. It wasn’t until her spoon clinked against the shell and the entire thing wobbled, chirped, and hatched with a dramatic “ta-da” puff of flower-scented smoke that Elira finally dropped her spoon and screamed like someone who had found a lizard in their latte. The creature that emerged was absurd. A sassy marshmallow with legs. Its body was covered in soft, iridescent scales that shimmered from cream to plum to fuchsia depending on how dramatically it tilted its head. Which it did often, and always with the bored grace of a woodland diva who knows you’re not paying enough attention to its tragic cuteness. “Oh, no. Nope. Absolutely not,” Elira said, backing away from the table. “Whatever this is, I didn’t sign up for it.” The dragon blinked its disproportionately large eyes—glittering oceans with lashes so thick they could swat away existential crises—and made a pitiful squeak. Then it flopped dramatically into her toast and made a show of dying from neglect. “You manipulative little mushroom,” Elira muttered, scooping it off her plate before it soaked up all the jam. “You’re lucky I’m emotionally starved and weirdly susceptible to cute things.” That was Day One. By Day Two, it had claimed her satchel, named itself “Pip,” and emotionally blackmailed half the village into feeding it strawberries dipped in honey and affection. On Day Three, it started glowing. Literally. “You can’t just glimmer like that!” she hissed, trying to shove Pip under her cloak as they passed through the Moonpetal Market. “This is supposed to be low-profile. Incognito.” Pip, nestled in her hood, blinked up with the deadpan stare of a creature who had already filed a complaint with the universe about how loud her boots were. Then he glimmered harder, brighter, practically sending sunbeams out of his nose. “You little spotlight, I swear—” “Oh my gods!” cried a woman at a jewelry stall. “Is that a dracling?” Pip chirped smugly. Elira ran. The next time they hid out, it was in an overgrown grove so thick with pink foliage and lazily swirling pollen, it looked like a perfume ad for woodland nymphs. It was there—deep in the heart of that glimmering bower—that Pip curled up beside a mushroom, sighed like a toddler who’d just manipulated their parent into a pony, and gave her the look. “What?” she asked, arms crossed. “I’m not adopting you. You’re just tagging along because the alternative is being dissected by weird scholars.” Pip pressed a paw to his heart and fake-wept. A nearby butterfly passed out from emotional exposure. Elira groaned. “Fine. But no peeing on my boots, no catching fire indoors, and absolutely no singing.” He winked. And thus began the most gloriously inconvenient relationship of her life. Puberty and Pyromancy Are Basically the Same Thing Life with Pip was an exercise in boundaries, all of which he ignored with the reckless abandon of a toddler on espresso. By the second week, Elira had learned several painful truths: dragons molt (disgustingly), they hoard shiny things (including, unfortunately, live bees), and they cry in a pitch so high it makes your brain do origami. He also bit things when startled—including her left butt cheek once, which was not how she envisioned her noble destiny unfolding. But she couldn’t deny it: there was something kind of... magical about him. Not in the expected “oh wow he breathes fire” way, but in the “he knows when I’m crying even if I’m three trees away and hiding it like a champ” way. In the “he brings me moss hearts on bad days” way. In the “I woke up from a nightmare and he was already glaring at the darkness like he could bite it into submission” way. Which made it really hard to be rational about what came next. Puberty. Or, as she came to know it: the Fourteen Days of Magical Hellscapes. It started with a sneeze. A tiny one. Adorable, really. Pip had been napping in her cloak, curled like a cinnamon roll with wings, when he woke up, sniffled, and sneezed—unleashing a full-blown shockwave that incinerated her bedroll, two nearby bushes, and one perfectly innocent songbird that had been mid-aria. It reappeared ten minutes later, singed but melodically committed, and flipped him the feather. “We’re going to die,” Elira said calmly, ash in her eyebrows. Over the next week, Pip did the following: Set fire to their soup. From inside his mouth. While trying to taste it. Flew for the first time. Into a tree. Which he then tried to sue for assault. Discovered that tail flicks could be weaponized emotionally and physically. Shrieked for four hours straight after she called him “my spark nugget” in front of a handsome potion courier. But worst of all—the horror—was when he started talking. Not in words at first. Just humming noises and emotional squeaks. Then came gestures. Dramatic head flops. Pointed sighs. And then... words. “Elri. Elriya. You... you... potato queen,” he said on day twelve, puffing his chest with pride. “Excuse me?” “You smell like... thunder cheese. But heart good.” “Well, thank you for that emotionally confusing statement.” “I bite people who look at you too long. Is love?” “Oh gods.” “I love Elriya. But also love sticks. And cheese. And murder.” “You are a confusing little gremlin,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-crying as he curled into her lap. That night, she couldn't sleep. Not from fear or Pip-induced anxiety (for once), but because something had shifted. There was a connection between them now—more than instinct, more than survival. Pip had tangled his little dragon soul into hers, and the damn thing fit. It terrified her. She’d spent years alone on purpose. Being needed, being wanted—those were foreign currencies, expensive and risky. But this pink, glowing, emotionally manipulative salamander with opinions about soup was cracking her open like a fire-blossom seed in summer. So she ran. At dawn, with Pip asleep under her scarf, Elira scribbled a note on a leaf with a coal nub and snuck off. She didn’t go far—just to the edge of the grove, just enough to breathe without feeling the soft weight of his trust on her ribs. By noon, she’d cried twice, punched a tree, and eaten half a loaf of resentment bread. She missed him like she’d grown an extra limb that screamed when he wasn’t nearby. She returned just after sunset. Pip was gone. Her scarf lay in the grass like a surrendered flag. Next to it, three moss hearts and a single, tiny note scrawled in charcoal on a flat stone. Elriya go. Pip not chase. Pip wait. If love... come back. She sat down so fast her knees cracked. The stone burned in her palm. It was the most mature thing he’d ever done. She found him the next morning. He’d nested in the crook of a willow tree, surrounded by shiny twigs, abandoned buttons, and the broken dreams of seventeen butterflies who couldn’t emotionally handle his brooding energy. “You’re such a little drama beast,” she whispered, scooping him up. He just snuggled under her chin and whispered, “Thunder cheese,” with tearful sincerity. “Yeah,” she sighed, stroking his wing. “I missed you too.” Later that night, as they curled in the soft glow of the grove’s pulsing flowers, Elira realized something. She didn’t care that he was a dragon. Or a magical miracle. Or a flammable cryptid toddler with abandonment issues and a superiority complex. He was hers. And she was his. And that was enough to start a legend. Of Forest Gods and Flaming Feelings The thing no one tells you about raising a magical creature is that eventually… someone comes to collect. They arrived with cloaks of starlight and egos the size of royal dining halls. The Conclave of Eldritch Preservation—an aggressively titled group of magic academics with too many vowels in their names—descended upon the grove with scrolls, sigils, and smugness. “We sensed a breach,” intoned a particularly sparkly wizard who smelled like patchouli and judgment. “A draconic resurgence. It is our sworn duty to protect and contain such phenomena.” Elira folded her arms. “Funny. Because Pip doesn’t seem like a phenomenon to me. More like a sassy, stubborn, pants-biting family member with an overdeveloped sense of justice and an underdeveloped understanding of doors.” Pip, hiding behind her legs, peeked out and burped up a fire-spark shaped like a middle finger. It hovered, wobbled, and winked out with a defiant pop. “He is dangerous,” the wizard snarled. “So is heartbreak,” Elira replied. “And you don’t see me locking that in a tower.” They weren’t interested in nuance. They brought binding chains, glowing cages, and a spell orb shaped like a smug pearl. Pip hissed when they approached, his wings flaring into delicate arcs of light. Elira stood between them, sword out, magic crackling up her arms like static betrayal. “I will not give him up,” she growled. “You will not survive this,” the lead wizard said. “You clearly haven’t seen me before coffee.” Then Pip exploded. Not literally. More like... metaphysically. One second, he was a slightly-too-round sparkle-lizard with a tendency to knock over soup pots. The next, he became light. Not glowing. Not shimmering. Full-on, celestial, punch-you-in-the-eyes light. The grove pulsed. Leaves lifted in slow-motion spirals. The trees bent in reverence. Even the smug wizards backed the hell up as Pip—now floating three feet off the ground with his wings made of starlight fractals and his eyes aglow with a thousand firefly dawns—spoke. “I am not yours to collect,” he said. “I was born of flame and choice. She chose me.” “She is unqualified,” a mage blurted, clutching his scroll like a security blanket. “She fed me when I was too small to bite. She loved me when I was inconvenient. She stayed. That makes her everything.” Elira, for once in her entire life, was speechless. Pip landed softly beside her and nudged her shin with his now-radiantly adorable snout. “Elriya mine. I bite those who try to change that.” “Damn right,” she whispered, eyes wet. “You brilliant, flaming little emotional grenade.” The Conclave left. Whether by fear, awe, or simple exhaustion from being out-sassed by a dragon the size of a decorative pillow, they retreated with a promise to “monitor from afar” and “file an incident report.” Pip peed on their sigil stone for good measure. In the weeks that followed, something inside Elira changed. Not in the sparkly, Disney-montage way. She still cursed too much, had zero patience, and over-salted her stew. But she was... open. Softer in strange places. Sometimes she caught herself humming when Pip slept on her chest. Sometimes she didn’t flinch when people got too close. And Pip grew. Slowly, but surely. Wings stronger. Spines sharper. Vocabulary increasingly weird. “You are best friend,” he told her one night under a sky littered with moons. “And noodle mind. But heart-massive.” “Thanks?” He licked her nose. “I stay. Always. Even when old. Even when fire big. Even when you scream at soup for not being soup enough.” She buried her face in his side and laughed until she sobbed. Because he meant it. Because somehow, in a world that tried so hard to be cold, she’d found something incandescent. Not perfect. Not polished. Just... pure. And in the heart of the grove, surrounded by blossoms and moonbeams and an emotionally unstable dragon who would maul anyone who disrespected her boots, Elira finally allowed herself to believe: Love, real love—the bratty, explosive, thunder-cheese kind—might just be the oldest kind of magic.     Bring Pip Home: If this spark-scaled mischief-maker stole your heart too, you're not alone. You can keep a piece of "A Glimmer in the Grove" close—whether it’s by adding a touch of magic to your walls or sending someone a dragon-blessed greeting. Explore the acrylic print for a brilliant, glass-like display of our sassy hatchling, or choose a framed print to elevate your space with fantasy and warmth. For a touch of whimsy in everyday life, there's a greeting card perfect for dragon-loving friends—or even a bath towel that makes post-shower snuggles feel a little more legendary. Pip insists he looks best in high-resolution.