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Hatchling of the Storm

by Bill Tiepelman

Hatchling of the Storm

A Hatchling’s Complaint The rain had been falling for hours, and if you asked the little dragon about it (which no one did, since no one else was brave—or foolish—enough to talk to a dragon hatchling in the first place), he’d tell you it was the rudest weather he’d ever experienced. His name was Ember, which he felt was both an appropriate and extremely misleading name. Sure, it suggested warmth, fire, and menace. But at this soggy moment, it mostly meant that the universe found it hilarious to drench him whenever he tried to look impressive. His scales were supposed to sparkle like gemstones in firelight, not drip like a wet kitchen sponge. “Storms are disrespectful,” Ember announced to a passing beetle, who wisely skittered away. “No warning, no courtesy, no consideration for my delicate wings. Do you know how long it takes to dry wings properly? You don’t, because you’re a beetle. But I assure you, it takes ages!” The truth was, Ember had been hatched only a few days ago, and while he had already mastered the art of glaring at clouds with theatrical disdain, he had not yet managed actual flight. His wings flapped, yes, but more in the manner of an enthusiastic fan at a medieval rock concert rather than a creature of power and grace. Still, he considered himself a future menace. A fiery terror of the skies. A legend. And legends did not get rained on without complaining very loudly about it. “When I am older,” Ember continued, mostly to himself (though he hoped the beetle was still listening from somewhere safe), “the world will fear me. They will write ballads about my flames and tales of my claws. I shall scorch villages, steal goats, and—oh look, another droplet in my eye. Rude! Rude!” His bratty tirade was interrupted by a particularly fat raindrop that plopped right onto the tip of his nose, hanging there like a crystal bead. Ember crossed his eyes to stare at it, huffed indignantly, and then sneezed. A puff of smoke rose from his tiny nostrils, carrying the faint smell of cinnamon and burnt toast. It wasn’t exactly terrifying, but it was the sort of sneeze that might make a baker question his oven temperature. Ember liked to believe it was progress. Somewhere beyond the trees, thunder grumbled. Ember narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you start with me,” he warned the sky. “I may be small, but I have potential.” And so, perched on his mossy log, dripping like a disgruntled sponge with wings, Ember sulked. He sulked with conviction, with style, and with a kind of bratty grace only a dragon hatchling could manage. If dragons could roll their eyes at the universe, Ember was already a master of the art. The Brat Meets the World The storm dragged on into the late afternoon, and Ember’s sulking reached new levels of dramatic artistry. At one point he attempted to flop belly-first onto his mossy perch like some great martyr of weather injustice. The result was a damp squelch and a very un-dignified squeak. He scowled at the log, as though it had deliberately betrayed him, and then composed himself with a haughty sniff. If anyone were watching, they would understand he was not merely wet—he was the victim of cosmic sabotage. And he would not forget it. But fate, as fate often does, decided to toss Ember a distraction. From the underbrush came a rustle, a clatter, and then the sight of… a rabbit. A perfectly ordinary rabbit, except for the fact that it was nearly twice Ember’s size. It had sleek brown fur, twitchy ears, and an expression of mild curiosity. Ember, of course, saw this as a challenge. He puffed his tiny chest, spread his rain-heavy wings, and tried his most terrifying snarl. Unfortunately, what came out sounded suspiciously like the hiccup of an asthmatic kitten. The rabbit blinked. Then it bent down and began to chew on some nearby clover, utterly unimpressed. Ember’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me!” he barked. “I am threatening you. You are supposed to cower, maybe tremble a little. A squeal of fear wouldn’t hurt. Honestly, this is the least cooperative prey I’ve ever seen.” “You’re not scary,” the rabbit said matter-of-factly between bites, in the casual tone of someone who had seen many strange things in the woods and filed this one under “not worth panicking over.” “Not scary?” Ember’s wings flapped indignantly, spraying droplets everywhere. “Do you not see the smoke? The scales? The eyes brimming with untold chaos?” “I see a wet lizard with delusions of grandeur,” said the rabbit. It chewed another clover, staring pointedly at him. “And maybe a sinus problem.” Ember gasped, affronted. “LIZARD?!” He stomped one tiny claw on the log, which made a dull squish rather than the thunderous boom he had intended. “I am a DRAGON. The future scourge of kingdoms. The nightmare of knights. The—” “The soggiest creature in this clearing?” the rabbit offered. Ember sputtered smoke. He would have roasted the rabbit on the spot, except his fire gland seemed to still be warming up. What emerged was a pathetic puff of smoke and one lonely spark that fizzled in the rain like a birthday candle being spat on. The rabbit tilted its head, unimpressed. “Ferocious. Truly. Should I faint now or after my snack?” Ember flung himself into an even grander tantrum, wings flapping, claws waving, smoke puffing in erratic bursts. He imagined he looked like a terrifying tempest of doom. In reality, he looked like a wet toddler trying to swat away a persistent housefly. The rabbit yawned. Ember paused mid-flap, seething. “Fine,” he snapped. “Clearly, the storm has conspired against me, dampening my flames and sabotaging my menace. But I assure you, when I grow—when these wings dry and these claws sharpen—you’ll rue this day, Rabbit. You’ll rue it with all your fluffy being.” “Mmhmm,” said the rabbit. “I’ll put it on my calendar.” And with that, it hopped lazily into the bushes, vanishing like a magician who couldn’t be bothered with applause. Ember stared after it, his mouth open, chest heaving with outrage. Then, very softly, he muttered, “Stupid rabbit.” Left alone again, Ember slumped onto his log, tail drooping. For a moment, he felt terribly small. Not just in size, but in destiny. Was this what the world thought of dragons? Just damp lizards? A future chicken nugget with wings? He hated the thought. He hated the rain, the moss, the rabbit. Most of all, he hated the sinking suspicion that he wasn’t nearly as scary as he’d imagined. His amber eyes glistened—not with tears, of course, because dragons do not cry, but with raindrops. Or at least that’s what Ember would tell anyone who dared ask. But then, something happened. Somewhere in his tiny, sulky heart, a warmth flickered. Not the damp spark of frustration, but a real warmth, coiling from his belly and up through his chest. Ember blinked, startled. He hiccuped again, but this time the smoke came with a soft whoosh of flame—just enough to curl a leaf into ash. Ember’s eyes widened. His sulk was forgotten in an instant. “Oh,” he whispered. “Oh, yes.” For the first time since the rain began, Ember smiled. It was a bratty little grin, the kind of smirk that promised trouble. Trouble for rabbits, trouble for storms, and definitely trouble for anyone who thought a dragon hatchling was just a lizard with bad sinuses. His wings shivered, his tail flicked, and his eyes gleamed with the sheer audacity of possibility. The storm might not have ended yet, but Ember was no longer sulking. He was plotting. And somewhere, deep in the thunderclouds, the storm seemed to chuckle back. Sparks Against the Storm By the time the storm rolled into evening, Ember’s brat-meter had reached record-breaking levels. He was damp, muddy, and insulted beyond reason. A rabbit had mocked him. The sky had sneezed on him. Even the moss under his claws squished like it was laughing at him. Ember decided the universe itself had joined a conspiracy to ruin his debut as “Most Terrifying Hatchling Ever.” And for a baby dragon, whose entire self-image relied on dramatic overcompensation, this was unacceptable. “Enough,” he muttered, pacing on his log like a tiny general planning the downfall of clouds. “The storm thinks it’s fierce? I’ll show fierce. I will fry the thunder. I will roast the lightning. I will—” He paused, mostly because he wasn’t entirely sure how one roasted lightning. But the sentiment stood. He puffed his chest, and the warmth from his belly coiled upward again, stronger this time. It tickled his throat, daring him to unleash it. Ember grinned, wings twitching. “Watch and learn, world,” he declared, “for I am Ember, Hatchling of the Storm!” What followed was… well, let’s call it “a work in progress.” Ember inhaled deeply, summoned every ounce of his inner fire, and belched forth a heroic gout of flame—except it came out as more of a sputtering flamethrower with hiccups. The flame burst, faltered, popped, and singed a fern so thoroughly that it now smelled like overcooked spinach. Ember blinked. Then he cackled. “Yes! Yes, that’s it!” He leapt up and down on the log, claws skittering, wings smacking droplets everywhere. “Did you see that, Storm? I AM YOUR MATCH!” As if in reply, the sky growled with thunder so deep it shook the branches. Ember froze, his tiny body vibrating from the rumble. He swallowed hard. “…Okay, impressive,” he admitted. “But I can be loud too.” He tried roaring. What came out was not so much a roar as it was a glorified squeak followed by a cough. Still, Ember refused to admit defeat. He tried again, louder this time, until his voice cracked like a teenager’s. The thunder rolled again, mocking him. Ember’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, so you think you’re funny? You think you can drown me, rattle me, soak me until I shrivel like a prune? Well guess what, Storm: I am DRAGON. And dragons are brats with persistence.” He flapped his wings furiously, wobbling but determined, and hurled himself off the log. He landed face-first in a mud puddle. There was a long pause, broken only by the plop of water sliding off his horns. Ember sat up, mud dripping from every scale, and glared at nothing in particular. “This,” he growled, “is fine.” Then, something miraculous happened. The storm shifted. The rain slowed to a drizzle, the clouds thinned, and streaks of gold began to break across the sky. Ember blinked up at the light, eyes wide. The sunset painted the forest in orange fire, glowing off his scales until he looked less like a soggy brat and more like a jewel burning in the twilight. For once, Ember stopped sulking. For once, he was quiet. In that hush, he felt it—power, potential, destiny. Maybe the rabbit was right. Maybe right now he was just a soggy lizard with a sinus issue. But someday—someday—he’d be more. He could see it in the shimmer of his scales, hear it in the low purr of fire coiling inside him. He wasn’t just a hatchling. He was a promise. A tiny ember waiting to ignite. Of course, this heartwarming self-realization lasted exactly three seconds before Ember tripped over his own tail and tumbled back into the mud. He came up sputtering, covered nose to wingtip in filth, and shouted, “UNIVERSE, YOU ARE A TROLL!” He shook himself furiously, splattering mud in every direction, then stomped in a circle with all the dignity of a toddler denied dessert. Finally, he plopped back on his log, huffed dramatically, and declared, “Fine. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I conquer everything. Tonight, I sulk. But tomorrow… beware.” The forest didn’t answer. The storm was fading, the sky glowing with stars. Ember yawned, wings sagging. He curled himself into a little ball, tail wrapping tight, raindrops still clinging like beads. His bratty glare softened into something small, tired, and almost sweet. For all his theatrics, he was still just a hatchling—tiny, messy, and utterly precious in his ridiculousness. As sleep tugged at him, he whispered one last threat to the world: “When I’m big, you’ll all regret this mud.” Then his eyes slipped closed, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils, and the storm’s lullaby carried him into dreams where he was already enormous, terrifying, and very, very dry. And somewhere in the darkness, the universe chuckled fondly. Because even the brattiest little dragons deserve their legend.     Bring Ember Home Ember may be small, bratty, and perpetually soggy, but he’s also impossible not to love. If his stormy sulks and tiny sparks made you smile, you can invite this little troublemaker into your own world. Our Hatchling of the Storm collection captures every raindrop, every pout, and every spark in vivid detail—perfect for anyone who believes even the smallest dragons can leave the biggest impressions. Adorn your walls with Ember’s charm in a Framed Print or shimmering Metal Print, carry his mischief wherever you go with a sturdy Tote Bag, or keep him close with a playful Sticker that’s just as bratty as he is. Whether on your wall, in your hand, or stuck proudly on your favorite surface, Ember is ready to storm into your life—and this time, you’ll be glad he did.

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Rage from the Egg

by Bill Tiepelman

Rage from the Egg

Shards, Smoke, and a Bad Attitude The egg didn’t so much hatch as declare war on complacency. It split with the sound of a wineglass meeting a tiled floor after an “I deserve better” speech—clean, decisive, cathartic. Purple-and-brown scales pressed through the fracture like midnight lightning under varnish, and two molten-amber eyes snapped open with the unmistakable look of someone who woke up already annoyed with the universe. A talon hooked the shell’s rim—black, glossy, and ready to write a strongly worded letter to fate—then another, and then a snout, ridged and ancient, inhaled the world for the very first time. If you’ve never seen a newborn dragon glare, imagine a house cat who paid taxes. There was grievance. There was grievance interest. The hatchling flexed, scattering shards that pinged off the rocks, and the forest went quiet in that respectful way nature gets when it realizes it might have just acquired a new landlord. A coil of warm smoke leaked between needle teeth, smelling faintly of singed cedar and smugness. She—because the energy was absolutely “ma’am, that’s my throne”—tested her jaw like a boxer flexing before round one. The purple in her scales wasn’t cute-lilac; it was bruised twilight, the color of expensive secrets. The brown was weathered oak and old leather—practical, grounded, something you trust to outlive your worst decisions. Every plate of scale caught the dim light with hyper-realistic texture, as if some obsessive artisan had hand-carved each ridge and then whispered, “Yes, but meaner.” “Congratulations,” I said from my respectable distance behind a very humble boulder. “Welcome to the world. We have snacks. Mostly each other.” I’m a freelancer—field notes on mythical creature photography pays in prestige and bruises—so a baby dragon hatching fell half under career goals, half under what if my mom was right. The hatchling swiveled, pupils thinning to predatory slits. Her gaze pinned me the way a magnet finds the only paperclip you actually needed. She hissed, but it wasn’t an animal hiss. It was the sound of a stranger pulling your latte without asking and checking their phone while they do it. The jagged eggshell scraped as she dragged it with her—little queen in a cracked chariot—then froze to sniff the air, nostrils flaring like bellows. Ozone. Sap. My deodorant, which had promised “mountain breeze” but apparently translated to “come eat this nervous photographer.” “You’re okay,” I said, lowering my voice to the register reserved for skittish horses and tax auditors. “You’re safe. I’m just here for… documentation.” I didn’t add and merch, but I’m not made of stone. This was baby dragon art in the wild—dragon hatching meets “look at those dragon scales” meets “I will absolutely buy a mouse pad of this if I survive.” She rumbled—a tiny earthquake with big dreams—and stretched, her spine articulating in a ripple of purple dusk. Claws cinched the shell lip and she levered herself higher, a gymnast mounting a very dramatic pommel horse. The pose was… photogenic. Cinematic. Sellable. The forest floor seemed to lean into her; even the rocks wanted a selfie. That’s when the ravens arrived. Three of them, black as tax law, swirling down as if someone had uncorked a flute of night. They perched in a triangle: two in the branches, one on a snag with the casual menace of a bouncer named Poem. Ravens love a myth in progress. They also love shiny things, and this baby had talons like patent leather and eyes like stolen sunsets. “Shall we not,” I whispered toward the birds, who ignored me the way glitter ignores your attempts to vacuum it. The hatchling noticed them and something ancient lit behind her eyes—coded memory, baked into the DNA of things that once taught fire how to behave. She uncoiled just enough to look bigger. The air changed. My breath decided it had somewhere else to be. The ravens shuffled. The forest held its applause. Then—because destiny enjoys good staging—the wind shifted and brought the scent of boar. Not a delicate hint. A statement. Wild pig: the bar fight of the forest. The boar lumbered into the clearing like a security deposit who’d learned to walk: a wall of bristles, tusks, and unresolved issues. He saw the broken egg. He saw me. He saw the hatchling, who—if we’re being honest—looked like a fancy snack with knives. The baby dragon’s expression sharpened: from “everyone is already on my nerves” to “and now you.” The boar breathed steam and pawed the leaves, etching a rude letter to the season. He had size, sure. He had momentum. What he didn’t have was a working understanding of mythology. “Don’t,” I said, which is exactly the kind of helpful field advice that has kept me alive this long by sheer accident. The boar didn’t speak human, but he was fluent in drama. He charged. The hatchling’s first move wasn’t fire. It wasn’t even teeth. It was attitude. She met the rush by snapping her head forward and slamming her eggshell against the ground with a crack that traveled up my spine. The echo spooked the boar just enough to wreck his line. She followed with a lunge that was part pounce, part angry thesis paper, talons flashing. Sparks leapt where claw met rock—tiny, indignant constellations—and the smell of hot mineral hit like a struck match. The ravens croaked in a single chorus that translated cleanly to: Ooooh, she’s spicy. Boar and hatchling collided in a tumble of fur, scale, and undignified squeals. She was smaller, yes, but she was geometry and leverage and a very personal vendetta against being underestimated. Her tail—thorned, surprisingly articulate—whipped around to hook the boar’s foreleg while her front claws raked shallow lines across his shoulder. Not mortal. Not yet. A warning letter carved into meat. The boar juked, throwing her sideways. The shell shattered further, eggshell confetti fluttering like an invitation to chaos. She rolled, planted, and came up with an expression I’ve seen on three exes and one mirror: try me. The boar’s courage faltered. Not big enough to back out gracefully, not smart enough to bow. He dug in for another charge. This time she inhaled. Not just air—heat. The temperature around us stepped up like someone turned the sun’s settings to “simmer.” The purple in her scales drank the light; the brown went ember-warm. Smoke curled from the corners of her mouth in thin, disciplined threads. It wasn’t a blast. She didn’t have that yet. It was something more surgical: a cough of fire, tight as a secret, that zipped across the boar’s path and licked the ground into a glowing brand. He froze mid-stride, skidding, eyes wide at the orange ribbon of that shouldn’t be there. The forest exhaled at once. Leaves hissed. Sap snapped. My camera—bless her anxious heart—clicked twice before my hands remembered they were attached to a survival plan. The hatchling padded forward, small, slow steps that said I am learning the choreography of fear, and you are my first partner. She stopped so close to the boar that her reflection burned in his eyes. And then she smiled. Not nice. Not theatrical. A smile that promised that the category prey was a temporary misunderstanding. The boar backed up, breath wheezing, dignity looking for an Uber. He turned and fled into the trees, cracking deadfall like fresh bread. The ravens laughed, which should be illegal, and shook the branches until the leaves applauded anyway. The hatchling settled on the ruined cup of her egg and looked at me as if I’d been an extra in her debut. There was soot on her lips like rebellious lipstick, and a chip of shell stuck to her brow ridges like a careless crown. She tasted the air again—my fear, the boar’s retreat, the iron tang of her own new fire—and made a soft, satisfied sound that felt older than memory. “Okay,” I said, voice cracking into a register only dogs and bad decisions can hear. “You’re… perfect.” I meant it the way you mean sunrise and revenge. Purple dragon. Brown dragon. Newborn mythical beast. Fierce hatchling. Fantasy artwork had suddenly become fantasy witness. And something else whispered at the back of my brain: this wasn’t just a good picture. This was a legend learning to walk. A dragon portrait the world would try and fail to tame. She blinked slowly, then lifted one talon and—like every bratty heiress of power—gestured. Not a threat. An invitation. The message was unmistakable: Follow. Or don’t. The river of her story would flow either way, and I could choose to drown in wonder or stay on the shore with the polite people. I chose wonder. I chose rocks in my shoes and scorch marks on my sleeves and a camera that would smell like campfire for a month. I chose to step from behind the boulder, hands open, and trail the hatchling as she padded toward the treeline with her broken egg dragging behind like a royal train. Above us, the ravens spun a lazy orbit, three punctuation marks at the end of a sentence the world hadn’t learned to read yet. That was when the ground hummed. Barely. A teeth-rattling murmur from somewhere deeper in the valley, then a second note, lower, older, like cathedral bells under the dirt. The hatchling’s head snapped toward the sound. The forest went from quiet to church-silent. She looked back at me with those burning eyes and, for the first time since she cut herself free of forever, she didn’t look angry. She looked… interested. Whatever had made that sound wasn’t a boar. It wasn’t afraid of her. It wasn’t impressed with me. And it knew we were listening. The hatchling stepped into the shade, and the purple of her scales deepened to stormwater wine. She flicked her talon again: Come on, slowpoke. Then she vanished into the green, a rumor in motion, while the valley’s subterranean bell tolled once more, long and ominous, promising that the story we’d just begun had teeth much bigger than hers. Bells Beneath the Bones Following a baby dragon into the woods sounds like the sort of activity you’d find on a list of “Top Ten Ways to Test Your Will to Live,” right between “poke a sleeping bear” and “start a conversation about cryptocurrency at a family reunion.” But there I was, trudging after her, my camera bouncing against my chest, my boots swallowing mud with the kind of enthusiasm that makes shoe stores rich. The air had shifted—thicker, damp, scented with moss, old stone, and the coppery tang of rain that hasn’t happened yet. That subterranean bell tone rolled again, slower this time, like the heartbeat of something that had seen empires rise and politely implode. The hatchling glanced over her shoulder, not slowing, her eyes half-lidded with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where they’re going and also that you will follow because you have no other viable life choices. Her tail dragged a shallow trench in the loam, carving an accidental breadcrumb trail for predators with excellent taste in exotic entrées. We moved deeper, under a canopy so thick the daylight fractured into narrow gold blades. Every few steps, she’d pause—not in fear, but in that considering way cats do before they either leap onto your lap or destroy a priceless heirloom. She was cataloging the forest: sniffing a fern, raking talons across a birch, pausing to watch a squirrel who immediately decided it had pressing business in another county. The ground under my boots began to change—less mud, more rock. Roots knuckled up from the earth like gnarled fingers, snagging my toes. The bell toll grew into a layered chorus, faint but insistent, vibrating up my bones and into my teeth. It wasn’t random. It had a rhythm. Five beats, pause, three beats, pause, then a long low note that slid into the marrow of the air. “Okay,” I whispered to no one, “either we’re about to find an ancient temple, or this is how the forest invites you to dinner.” The hatchling slowed, her nostrils flaring. She turned her head slightly, and I caught the gleam of her eyes in a shaft of light—bright, fierce, and oddly curious. She wanted me to see something. She angled her body toward a ridge of dark stone jutting up like the spine of a buried beast. Moss clung to it, but the surface was too regular, too deliberate. Not natural. A staircase. Or rather, what was left of one—broad steps worn into concave arcs by centuries of feet that had no business being human. She climbed without hesitation, claws clicking against the weathered stone. I followed, more careful, because unlike her, I am not equipped with talons or a built-in insurance policy against gravity. At the top, the ridge leveled into a wide ledge, and there it was: a hole in the ground so perfectly round it might have been drilled by a god with a strong opinion about symmetry. From its depths, the bell-song pulsed up in waves, the sound wrapping around my skull like silk dipped in thunder. The hatchling approached the edge, peering down into the darkness. She made a low sound in her throat—half growl, half question—and the bell immediately answered with a shorter, sharper note. My skin prickled. This wasn’t random resonance. This was a conversation. And my brand-new, freshly hatched traveling companion had just dialed a very old number. A warm updraft curled out of the shaft, smelling faintly of iron, ash, and something sweetly rotting, like fruit left too long in the sun. My instincts screamed for me to take two steps back and maybe fake my own death somewhere safer. Instead, I crouched and aimed my camera into the hole, because humans are a species that invented both parachuting and jalapeño tequila shots: caution is optional if there’s a good story in it. My flash cut into the blackness and reflected off something moving. Not fast. Not close. Just… vast. A surface that gleamed in broad plates, shifting slightly as if disturbed by the weight of our gaze. The movement carried a deep rumble that didn’t quite reach my ears—it was more like my spine got a personal notification. I realized, with unpleasant clarity, that the bell-sound wasn’t a bell at all. It was the sound of something alive. Something breathing through stone. The hatchling’s expression changed—still fierce, still bratty, but with an undercurrent I hadn’t seen before. Reverence. She lowered her head, almost a bow, and the thing in the darkness exhaled, sending another hot gust into the air. The bell-song faded into a single low hum that vibrated in my fillings. “Friend of yours?” I asked her, my voice way too high to be considered dignified. She looked back at me, and I swear there was a glint of amusement in those molten eyes, like she was thinking, Oh, sweet summer child, you have no idea who you’re standing next to. A claw scraped stone below, and for the briefest moment, I saw it: a talon the size of my torso, curling slowly into the rock, the tip etched with age and battles long past. It withdrew without haste, the way mountains shift in geological time. Then came the voice—not words, not in any human tongue, but a sound layered with the weight of centuries. It rolled up out of the shaft like smoke, and every nerve in my body translated it the same way: Mine. The hatchling answered in kind—a short, defiant hiss that carried both acknowledgment and refusal. The thing below laughed, if you could call the sudden, seismic shiver of stone a laugh. I took a careful step back because in my experience, when two apex predators start arguing over ownership, the snack in the middle rarely gets a vote. The hum shifted again, this time to something darker, more deliberate. My chest tightened, my ears popped, and the hatchling’s scales rippled as if in response to some invisible wind. She turned from the shaft abruptly and started down the ledge, flicking her tail in that keep up or get left way. I hesitated, but the hum seemed to follow us, a sound that wasn’t really a sound but a reminder—like a stamp pressed into wax: we were marked now. Back under the trees, the forest felt subtly altered. The shadows were deeper, the air heavier. Even the ravens were gone, which was deeply unsettling, because ravens don’t just leave when the plot gets good. The hatchling moved faster, weaving between tree trunks, and I had the sense she wasn’t just wandering anymore. She had a destination, and whatever lived in that shaft had just changed the route. It wasn’t until the ridge dropped away into a broad clearing that I realized where she’d brought me. At first glance, it looked like a ruin—pillars half-swallowed by vines, cracked marble slabs littering the ground like discarded game pieces. But the longer I looked, the more deliberate it felt. The stones weren’t scattered. They’d been placed. Arranged in concentric circles, each one slightly offset from the last, forming a spiral pattern that drew the eye inward to a central pedestal. The hatchling hopped onto the pedestal, curling her tail around her feet. She lifted her head high, looking every inch the monarch she believed herself to be. I stepped closer, brushing moss from the base of the pedestal, and saw the carvings—spiraling scripts of creatures and battles, fire and shadow, and a recurring symbol: the same perfect circle as the shaft we’d just left, etched with radiating lines like a sun or an eye. “This is…” I trailed off, because saying important out loud felt like whispering in church. My camera clicked almost involuntarily, documenting each detail. In the viewfinder, the hatchling looked larger, older somehow, as if the place was lending her a fraction of its authority. The air in the clearing began to hum again, faint but unmistakable. I spun, expecting to see the shaft, but there was nothing—just the trees, standing too still, their leaves trembling without wind. The hum built into a thrum, then a pulse, matching the earlier rhythm: five beats, pause, three beats, pause. The pedestal under the hatchling warmed, a glow spreading up through her talons until her scales caught the light from within. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. She just stood there, absorbing it, until her eyes flared brighter and the glow pulsed outward, racing along the spiral pattern in the stones. The light reached the edges of the clearing and vanished into the earth, leaving behind a silence so sudden it felt like the world had paused to breathe in. Then, faint but sharp, from somewhere beyond the trees, came a sound that didn’t belong to bells or breath: the echoing clatter of armored feet. Many feet. Moving fast. The hatchling’s gaze snapped toward the sound, and for the first time since she’d emerged from the egg, she didn’t look annoyed. She looked ready. Teeth in the Trees The clatter grew louder, rattling the undergrowth in a way that suggested whatever was coming wasn’t built for subtlety. The hatchling hopped down from the pedestal with a precision that was more “performance” than “necessity,” landing in a crouch like a gymnast who knew she’d nailed the dismount. Her head tilted toward the sound, pupils tightening into surgical blades. The glow in her scales hadn’t faded—it pulsed faintly, synced to some rhythm I couldn’t hear, but she could feel. The first figure broke through the treeline in a shower of leaves and a bad attitude. Humanoid, but stretched in the wrong directions—limbs too long, armor plated in matte black that seemed to drink the light. Behind it came five more, moving in perfect formation, their steps so in-sync it was like watching an insect with six legs made of spite. Their helmets were smooth ovals, no eyes, no mouths, just blank faces that reflected me back in distorted fragments. They carried weapons that looked like someone had taken the concept of a halberd, a cattle prod, and a medieval guillotine, then thrown it in a blender with a bad mood. Blue sparks crackled along their edges. The air hissed around them, charged with the static of people who had a mission and an alarming lack of hobbies. The hatchling growled low, the kind of sound that makes your skin think about leaving without you. One of the black-armored figures raised a hand—three fingers, jointed oddly—and made a gesture toward her. I didn’t speak their language, but I’ve been around enough cops and bouncers to know the universal sign for That’s ours now. She answered with a noise so sharp it seemed to split the clearing in two. The blue sparks on their weapons guttered like candles in a gale. The lead figure took a step forward and drove the blade-tip of its weapon into the soil. A ring of blue light surged outward along the ground, racing toward us in a perfect circle. I didn’t think. I just dove sideways. The hatchling didn’t move—she braced. When the light reached her, it broke. Not fizzled, not dissipated—shattered. The glow from her scales flared, swallowing the blue and sending it back in a jagged arc that cracked one of their helmets clean open. Inside was no face, no skull—just a churning mass of smoke and tiny lights, like a swarm of fireflies in a jar made of nightmares. The creature screamed without sound, dropped its weapon, and crumpled into itself until it vanished into a puff of ash. The others didn’t retreat. They surged forward, weapons spinning into offensive arcs. I scrambled behind the nearest fallen pillar, pulling my camera around not to take pictures—though God help me, I still took one—but to use the long lens as a periscope. The hatchling was already in motion, and what I saw through the lens was poetry in petty violence. She darted between them, tail whipping like a spiked chain, claws catching and dragging across armor to carve glowing rents into their matte black plating. She wasn’t trying to kill all of them—not yet. She was provoking. Testing. Every hit she landed drew a response, and she seemed to be building a catalog of exactly how hard she could push before they broke. One swung at her with that halberd-thing, catching the edge of her shell-fragment still dragging from her tail. The fragment exploded into shards under the impact, but instead of retreating, she lunged forward into the opening, jaws snapping shut on the figure’s forearm. The sound was like steel cable snapping underwater—muffled, wet, and final. The arm came off. Blue sparks gushed from the wound before the limb crumbled into the same ash as the helmeted head earlier. The leader, still intact, barked something—a series of harsh clicks that made the leaves tremble. The formation changed instantly. They widened their stance, surrounding her, weapons raised in a tight vertical line. The ground between them began to glow with the same blue light as before, but this time, it didn’t race outward. It formed a dome, shimmering faintly, trapping her inside. I felt my pulse in my throat. She paced inside the dome, hissing, tail lashing, the glow in her scales fighting against the blue shimmer but not breaking it. My gut went cold. They weren’t trying to kill her—they were trying to contain her. Which meant, against all rational thought, it was time for me to do something catastrophically stupid. I crawled from behind my pillar, keeping low, and grabbed one of the fallen halberd-prods from the dirt. It was heavier than it looked, and it hummed in my hands like it was considering whether to electrocute me out of principle. I ran forward, circling the dome until I found a seam—two figures standing just close enough for the base of the dome to look thinner there. I jammed the weapon’s blade into the seam and hit the trigger. White-hot pain shot up my arms, but the dome shivered, then cracked like ice in warm water. The hatchling didn’t waste the opening. She blasted toward it, slipping through just as one of the figures pivoted to intercept. Her claws caught its chest, and the resulting spray of sparks lit her like a festival firework. She landed beside me, gave me one long look that said, Fine, you can stay, and then turned back to the fight. She didn’t bother with testing anymore. Now it was demolition. Her fire—stronger now, hotter—erupted in controlled bursts, each one precise enough to hit joints and seams in their armor. Three more fell in seconds, their bodies unraveling into ash and light. The leader was the last, standing alone, its weapon raised in a defensive angle. They stared at each other for a long, tense moment. The leader took a step forward. The hatchling did the same. The leader raised its weapon high—then froze as the ground beneath it split open. The perfect circle we’d seen earlier, the one in the ridge, bloomed here in miniature, glowing with the same ancient, radiant pattern. From it came that voice again—the subterranean hum, now so loud it rattled the teeth in my head. The leader hesitated just a second too long. The hatchling lunged, clamping her jaws around its helmet, and ripped it free. The inside was the same roiling swarm of lights, but this time, instead of scattering, the swarm shot downward into the glowing circle. The hum deepened to a note of satisfaction, and the circle sealed shut as if it had never been there. The clearing was silent again, except for the hatchling’s breathing—steady, unhurried, like she’d just taken a leisurely stroll instead of fighting for her life. She turned to me, smoke curling from her nostrils, and padded closer until we were eye to eye. Then, in a gesture so abrupt I nearly flinched, she butted her head against my chest. Just once. Hard enough to bruise. Affection, dragon-style. She stepped past me toward the treeline, her tail flicking once in a keep up motion. I looked back at the clearing—the shattered weapons, the ash drifting into the moss, the faint scent of burnt ozone—and realized two things. One: whatever lived beneath the earth had just claimed her in some way I couldn’t yet understand. Two: I was no longer just a photographer documenting a hatchling’s first day. I was now, whether I liked it or not, part of the story. I slung my camera over my shoulder and followed her into the shadows, knowing the next bell we heard might not be a greeting. It might be a summons. And if there was one thing I’d already learned about her, it was this: she had no intention of answering politely.   Bring “Rage from the Egg” Into Your Lair The fierce beauty and unapologetic attitude of Rage from the Egg doesn’t have to stay trapped in the story—you can claim a piece of her legend for yourself. Whether you want to bring the crackle of her first fire into your living room or hang her watchful gaze in your favorite reading nook, these high-quality art products let you keep her close… without the risk of being turned into a crispy snack. Tapestry — Let the power of the hatchling take over your walls with a richly detailed tapestry. Her purple-and-brown scales, molten eyes, and fierce expression turn any space into a gateway to myth and fire. Framed Print — Perfect for collectors and dragon devotees alike. The bold textures and cinematic composition are framed to perfection, ready to become the centerpiece of your decor. Canvas Print — Bring the depth and realism of the scene to life with gallery-quality canvas. Every talon, every shard of eggshell, every flicker of fire rendered in tactile, timeless detail. Wood Print — For a truly unique touch, the hatchling’s debut is printed on natural wood grain, adding warmth and organic character to her already commanding presence. Whether you choose tapestry, framed elegance, canvas artistry, or rustic wood charm, Rage from the Egg will dominate your space with the same fierce energy she brought to her first day in the world. Click the links above to make her part of your story.

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Whispers of the Pearl Dragon

by Bill Tiepelman

Whispers of the Pearl Dragon

Moss, Mirth, and Misinformation “You know it’s rude to drool on royalty.” The voice was lilting and sharp, like laughter carried by a cold stream. The dragon, roughly the size of a large ferret, blinked one opalescent eye open. It did not move its head, because said head was currently being used as a pillow by a pale, pointy-eared girl with morning breath and an aggressive snore. “Pearlinth, did you hear me?” The voice continued. “You’re being used as a sleep accessory. Again. And you promised me after the Leaf Festival that you’d develop boundaries.” “Shhhh,” Pearlinth whispered back—telepathically, of course, because dragons of his stature rarely spoke aloud, especially when their jaws were pinned beneath the cheek of an unconscious elf. “I am nurturing her. This is what we do in the Sacred Order of Subtle Kindness. We are pillows. We are warmth. We are soft dragon-shaped comfort talismans.” “You are enabling her naps,” the voice replied. It belonged to Lendra, a willow wisp with far too much time and not enough daylight. She circled lazily over the mossy clearing, trailing bioluminescent sass like confetti. She had once worked in fae HR, so she took boundaries very seriously. “She’s been through a lot,” Pearlinth added, twitching one pearl-scaled wing slightly. “Last week she tripped into a goblin’s kombucha vat trying to rescue a snail with anxiety. Then the week before, she singlehandedly prevented a forest fire by confiscating a fire-breathing possum’s smoking pipe. That kind of courage requires rest.” Lendra rolled her glow. “Compassion is great. But you’re not a therapeutic mattress. You’re a dragon! You sparkle in seven spectrums. You once gave Queen Elarial a glitter sneeze that caused a mild panic in two villages.” “Yes,” Pearlinth sighed. “It was glorious.” Underneath him, the elf stirred. She had the telltale signs of a Dream Level Six: fluttering fingers, lips pressed into a faint smirk, and one foot slightly twitching as if arguing with a raccoon in REM sleep. Her name was Elza, and she was either a softhearted healer or a well-meaning menace, depending on the day and the proximity of magical livestock. Elza mumbled something that sounded like “Nnnnngh. Stupid cheese wizard. Put the goat back.” Pearlinth grinned. It was a subtle dragon grin, the kind that only showed if you’d known him through three mushroom cycles and at least one emotional molting. He liked Elza. She didn’t try to ride him. She gave excellent ear scritches. And she once taught him how to roll over for moonbeam cookies, which he still did, privately, when no one was looking. “You love her,” Lendra accused. “Of course I do,” Pearlinth said. “She named me after a gem and a musical note. She thinks I’m a baby, even though I’m 184 years old. She once tried to knit me a sweater, which I accidentally incinerated with excitement. She cried, and I wept a little molten sadness on a toadstool.” “You are the squishiest dragon alive,” Lendra huffed, though her glow dimmed with affection. “And proud,” Pearlinth replied, puffing out his glittery pearl chest just enough to lift Elza’s head by half an inch. Elza stirred again, brow furrowed. Her eyes fluttered open. “Pearlie,” she muttered groggily, “was I dreaming, or did the mushrooms invite me to a poetry reading again?” “Definitely dreaming,” Pearlinth lied lovingly. She yawned, stretched, and patted his head. “Good. Their last haiku night ended in sap fire.” And with that, she rolled onto her back and resumed snoring gently into a patch of glowmoss, muttering something about “sassy ferns” and “emotional crumpets.” Pearlinth curled protectively around her again, resting his cheek against hers, listening to her breath as if it were the music of the forest itself. In the trees above, Lendra hovered silently, the ghost of a smile playing through her flickering light. Even she had to admit: there was something sacred about a dragon who knew when to be a sanctuary. The Emotional Support Lint Ball and the Jelly-Faced Oracle By midday, Elza was awake, semi-conscious, and wrestling a piece of dried apricot that had somehow fused itself to her hair. Her movements were not elegant. They were more… interpretive dance performed by someone being chased by bees in their mind. “Ugh, this moss is moister than a gossiping pixie,” she groaned, yanking at the stubborn fruit clump while Pearlinth looked on with a mixture of concern and bemusement. “Technically, I am not allowed to judge your grooming rituals,” Pearlinth said, tail twitching thoughtfully, “but I do believe the apricot has achieved sentience.” Elza stopped mid-tug. “Then it has my condolences. We’re both stuck in this disaster spiral together.” It had been That Kind of Week. The kind that begins with a stolen scrying mirror and ends with a petition from the woodland raccoons demanding universal basic nut income. Elza, being the region’s only registered Emotimancer, was responsible for “diffusing magical tensions,” “restoring psychological balance,” and “not letting magical ferrets unionize again.” “Today,” she declared, standing with the grace of a collapsing beanbag chair, “we’re doing something non-productive. Something selfish. Something that does not involve accidental possession, emotionally confused oaks, or helping warlocks recover from breakups.” “Like brunch?” Pearlinth offered helpfully. “Brunch with wine,” she confirmed. And so the duo made their way toward Glimroot Hollow, a charming village so aggressively wholesome it had annual pie fights to release passive-aggressive energy. Pearlinth disguised himself using the ancient art of ‘hiding under a suspiciously large blanket’ while Elza draped a string of enchanted crystals around her neck to “look like a tourist” and deflect responsibility. They barely made it three feet into town before the whispering started. “Is that the Emotion Witch?” “The one who made my cousin’s spleen stop holding grudges?” “No no, the other one. The one who accidentally gave an entire wedding party the ability to feel shame.” “Oh her. Love her.” Elza smiled through gritted teeth, whispered, “I am a people person,” and kept walking. Inside The Jelly-Faced Oracle—a local tavern that looked like a candle shop collided with a forest rave—they finally found a quiet corner booth behind a curtain of beads that smelled faintly of elderflower and drama. “Isn’t it wild how your body knows when it’s time to crash?” Elza said, slumping into the booth with the dramatics of a bard mid-opera. “Like, my spine knew this moss cushion was my soulmate. Pearlie, tell it to never leave me.” “I believe that moss cushion is also in a committed relationship with a taxidermied owl and a teacup,” Pearlinth replied, having curled around her feet like a sentient foot warmer with pearls and low-level attitude. Before Elza could reply, a small voice interjected: “Ahem.” They looked up to see a gnome waiter with a spiral mustache, wearing a vest embroidered with the words “Freakishly Good Empath”. “Welcome to the Jelly-Faced Oracle. Would you like to order something joyful, something indulgent, or something existential?” “I’d like to feel like I’m making bad choices, but in a charming way,” Elza replied without pause. “Say no more. One ‘Poor Decision Porridge’ and a Flight of Regret Wines.” “Perfect,” Elza sighed, “with a side of Toasted Self-Loathing, lightly buttered.” As their order was conjured into existence via emotional resonance kitchen magic (which, honestly, should be a TED Talk), Pearlinth dozed under the table, his tail periodically knocking into Elza’s boots like a lazy metronome. Elza leaned back and closed her eyes. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she allowed herself stillness. Not the kind forced by collapse, but the kind invited by kindness. She thought of Pearlinth’s quiet loyalty. His willingness to be her anchor without asking for anything in return. The way his pearl scales reflected her own messy heart—shimmering, cracked in places, but whole nonetheless. “You okay down there?” she asked gently, nudging his side with her foot. He answered without opening his eyes. “I will always be where you need me. Even if you need me to remind you that the raccoon uprising wasn’t your fault.” Elza snorted. “They formed a marching band, Pearlie. With tiny hats.” “They were inspired by your leadership,” he mumbled proudly. And just like that, something inside her softened. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a lump of lint she’d been meaning to discard. “You know what this is?” she said with mock seriousness. “This is my Official Emotional Support Lint Ball. I’m naming it… Gary.” Pearlinth opened one eye. “Gary is wise.” “Gary gets me,” she said, balancing it atop her wine glass. “Gary doesn’t expect me to fix the ecosystem or heal emotionally constipated centaurs. Gary just... vibes.” “Gary and I are now in a committed triad,” Pearlinth declared. The waiter returned just in time to witness Elza toasting to lint-based emotional regulation. “To Gary,” she declared. “And to every underpaid magical familiar and overworked woodland therapist who ever just needed a damn nap.” As they clinked glasses, something shimmered quietly in the folds of the moment. Not magic, exactly. Just something sacred and unhurried: a dragon's soft sigh beneath the table, the rustle of moss in a booth built for weirdos, and the glow of ridiculous hope lighting up a small, messy heart. And somewhere outside, the wind carried whispers. Not of destiny. Not of doom. But of two unlikely souls who gave each other permission to fall apart, nap hard, and rise sassier than ever before. The Ceremony of Snacks and the Pearl Pact It was dusk when they returned to the glade, their laughter trailing behind them like fireflies. Elza, emboldened by three glasses of Regret Wine and a surprising number of existential hash browns, had declared that today would not end in a fizzle. No, today would be legendary. Or at least... moderately memorable with decent lighting. “Pearlie,” she slurred with determination, “I’ve been thinking.” “Oh no,” Pearlinth muttered from her shoulder. “That never ends quietly.” She plopped dramatically onto the moss and spread her arms like a stage magician mid-mood swing. “We should have a ceremony. Like a real one. With symbols. And snacks. And... sparkles. Something to mark this… this sacred codependence we have.” Pearlinth blinked. “You want to formalize our emotional entanglement?” “Yes. With carbs and candles.” “I accept.” Thus began the hastily assembled and dubiously spiritual **Ceremony of the Pearl Pact.** Lendra, summoned against her will by the scent of pastry crumbs and the promise of mild chaos, hovered nearby in judgmental participation. “Are there bylaws for this union of sass and mutual emotional damage?” she asked, glowing skeptically. “Nope!” Elza grinned. “But there’s cheese.” They built a sacred circle using mismatched rocks, half a stale baguette, and one of Elza’s boots (the left one, because it had fewer emotional issues). Pearlinth fetched glitterberry leaves from the nearby bramble and arranged them into a shape that was either a heart or a very tired hedgehog. Symbols are open to interpretation in rituals fueled by vibe alone. “I, Elza of the Uncombed Hair and Questionable Judgement,” she intoned, holding a toasted marshmallow aloft like a holy relic, “do solemnly swear to continue dragging you into minor peril, unsolicited therapy sessions, and emotionally-charged bake-offs.” “I, Pearlinth of the Gleaming Chest and Soft Tummy,” he replied, voice echoing in her mind with the gravity of someone who once swallowed a gemstone for attention, “do swear to protect, support, and occasionally insult you into growth.” “With snacks,” she added. “With snacks,” he confirmed. They touched the marshmallow to his snout in what might be the first recorded dragon-to-graham offering, and in that moment, the moss beneath them shimmered faintly. The air pulsed—not with ancient magic, but with the undeniable resonance of two beings saying: I see you. I choose you. You are my safe place, even when everything else burns down around us. And then, of course, came the parade. Because nothing in the glade stays private for long. Word had spread that Elza was “doing some kind of unlicensed ritual with snacks and possibly swearing eternal loyalty to a lizard,” and the forest responded like only enchanted ecosystems can. First came the squirrels with flags. Then the toads in tiny cloaks. The raccoons showed up late with instruments they clearly didn’t know how to play. A gaggle of dryads arrived to provide ambiance, harmonizing over a beatbox mushroom named Ted. Someone set off sparkler spores. Someone else fired a potato cannon out of pure enthusiasm. Lendra, despite herself, glowed so brightly she resembled divine disco. Elza looked around at the utter chaos she’d conjured—not with magic, but with connection—and started to cry. Happy tears, the kind that sneak up behind you and slap you with the weight of being loved exactly as you are. Pearlinth curled around her again, warm and steady. “You’re leaking,” he observed gently. “Shut up and hold me,” she whispered. And he did. As the celebration roared on, something deep in the soil stirred. Not a threat. Not danger. But recognition. The land knew loyalty when it saw it. And somewhere in the glade’s memory—etched not in stone or scroll, but in the pollen and laughter of beings who dared to be weird and wonderful together—this day rooted itself like a seed of legend. They would talk about the Pearl Pact, of course. They’d turn it into songs, poorly drawn scrolls, and probably some kind of pudding-based reenactment. But none of it would match the truth: That the strongest magic isn’t cast. It’s chosen. Repeatedly. In the small, ridiculous, glowing moments that say—you don’t have to carry it alone. I’ve got you. Snacks and all. And thus concludes the tale of a dragon who became a pillow, a girl who turned lint into emotional currency, and a friendship as absurd as it was unshakably real. Long live the Pearl Pact.     If the tale of Elza and Pearlinth stirred something soft and sparkly in your soul, you can carry a piece of their bond with you. Whether you’re decorating your sanctuary with the Whispers of the Pearl Dragon tapestry, sipping tea while pondering existential lint with the framed fine art print, bonding over puzzles in true Pearl Pact fashion with this enchanted jigsaw, or taking Elza’s sass and Pearlie’s snuggly loyalty with you on the go in a sturdy tote bag—you’ll always have a little magic by your side. Celebrate friendship, fantasy, and emotional chaos with art that whispers back. Available now on shop.unfocussed.com.

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Sunlit Shenanigans

by Bill Tiepelman

Sunlit Shenanigans

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

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A Glimmer in the Grove

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.

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Pastel Awakening

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.

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The Chromatic Dragonling: A Tale of Mischief & Mayhem

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!

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Paws, Claws, and Dragon Flaws

by Bill Tiepelman

Paws, Claws, and Dragon Flaws

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

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Lost in a World Too Big

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! 🔥🐉

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Neon Hatchling of the Deepwoods

by Bill Tiepelman

Neon Hatchling of the Deepwoods

The Deepwoods wasn’t the kind of place you wandered into by accident. Thick fog clung to ancient trees, the air hummed with the whispers of unseen creatures, and anyone foolish enough to enter often stumbled back out with missing socks or memories—or both. Yet, here stood Gary, socks firmly intact but entirely unsure how he got there. “Right,” Gary muttered, adjusting his satchel. He wasn’t an adventurer, despite the suspiciously adventurous trench coat he wore. He was an accountant. A mediocre one at that. Yet for reasons he couldn’t explain, Gary had woken up that morning with a very specific goal in mind: find the Neon Hatchling. He didn’t know what a Neon Hatchling was, why he needed one, or why his coffee had tasted like regret earlier that day, but the urge was undeniable. So here he was, trudging through mossy undergrowth, fending off the occasional glowing moth the size of a dinner plate, and questioning his life choices. The First Clue Gary’s first breakthrough came when he tripped over a gnome. “Watch it!” the gnome barked, rubbing its pointy hat, which now bore a dent in the shape of Gary’s shoe. The gnome was no taller than a fire hydrant, but its scowl could curdle milk. “Sorry!” Gary stammered. “I didn’t see you there. Uh... any chance you’ve seen a Neon Hatchling?” The gnome squinted at him. “What’s it worth to ya?” Gary rifled through his satchel. “I’ve got... a slightly melted granola bar?” The gnome snatched it greedily. “Fine. Follow the glowing ferns until you hear the sound of giggling. If you survive that, you might find your precious Hatchling.” “Giggling?” Gary asked, but the gnome was already halfway up a tree, cackling like a maniac. The Giggling Problem The glowing ferns were easy enough to find—they looked like someone had spilled neon paint across the forest floor. The giggling, however, was less charming. It wasn’t the warm, bubbly kind of giggling you’d hear at a comedy club. No, this was the “I know your browser history” kind of giggling, and it was coming from everywhere at once. “This is fine,” Gary said to no one in particular, clutching his satchel like a lifeline. He inched forward, trying to ignore the giggles, which now sounded suspiciously like they were mocking his haircut. “You’re just hearing things. That’s all. Deepwoods acoustics. Totally normal.” Then a voice, sharp and sweet, cut through the giggles. “Oh, relax. You’re not going to die... probably.” Gary froze. “Who’s there?” From the shadows stepped a woman dressed in iridescent robes that shimmered like oil on water. Her eyes gleamed with mischief, and she carried a staff topped with what appeared to be a glowing marshmallow. “Name’s Zyla. You’re here for the Neon Hatchling, aren’t you?” Gary nodded, mostly because words had failed him. He wasn’t sure if it was her aura of power or the fact that she smelled faintly of freshly baked cookies. Either way, he wasn’t about to argue. Meeting the Hatchling Zyla led him deeper into the forest, past bioluminescent ponds and a tree that tried to sell Gary a timeshare. Finally, they reached a clearing bathed in soft, glowing light. At its center sat the Neon Hatchling. It was... adorable. About the size of a small dog, the dragonet’s scales shimmered with every color of the rainbow, its wings glowed faintly, and its wide eyes sparkled with curiosity. It let out a tiny chirp, which Gary’s brain immediately translated as, “Hi! Will you be my best friend forever?” Gary’s heart melted. “This is it? This is the Neon Hatchling?” Zyla smirked. “What were you expecting, a fire-breathing monster?” “Honestly? Yes.” Gary crouched down to get a better look at the creature. The Hatchling tilted its head, then pounced on his satchel, rummaging through it with surprising dexterity. “Hey!” Gary protested as the Hatchling triumphantly pulled out a bag of cheese puffs. “That’s my lunch!” The dragonet ignored him, tearing into the bag with gusto. Zyla laughed. “Congratulations. You’ve been chosen by the Neon Hatchling.” “Chosen for what?” Gary asked warily, watching as the dragonet began juggling cheese puffs with its tail. Zyla’s expression turned serious. “The Hatchling is a creature of immense power. It will bring you great fortune... or great chaos. Possibly both. It depends on how much caffeine you’ve had.” The Catch Before Gary could process this, a deafening roar shook the clearing. From the shadows emerged a massive dragon, its scales dark as midnight and its eyes glowing like twin suns. “Ah,” Zyla said, taking a step back. “I forgot to mention the mother.” “What do you mean, the mother?!” Gary yelped as the larger dragon fixed its gaze on him. The Neon Hatchling chirped innocently, clutching its stolen cheese puffs. The mother dragon roared again, and Gary did the only sensible thing: he ran. The End...? Somehow, against all odds, Gary survived. He wasn’t sure how he managed it—there had been a lot of screaming, some questionable tree climbing, and a brief stint where he pretended to be a rock. But when he finally stumbled out of the Deepwoods, the Neon Hatchling was perched on his shoulder, snacking on the last of his cheese puffs. “This is fine,” Gary muttered, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. As he trudged back toward civilization, the Hatchling chirped happily, its tail flicking in time with his steps. Gary sighed. He still didn’t know why he’d been compelled to find the Hatchling, but one thing was clear: life was about to get a lot more interesting.     Bring the Magic Home! The adventure doesn’t have to end here. Add a touch of Deepwoods whimsy to your space with products featuring the Neon Hatchling: Tapestry: Neon Hatchling of the Deepwoods Canvas Print: Neon Hatchling of the Deepwoods Puzzle: Neon Hatchling of the Deepwoods Fleece Blanket: Neon Hatchling of the Deepwoods Bring this magical moment to life and keep the charm of the Deepwoods alive in your home!

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Baby Scales in a Fur-Trimmed Coat

by Bill Tiepelman

Baby Scales in a Fur-Trimmed Coat

The Frosty Misadventures of Scalesworth the Cozy Winter had arrived in the magical forest of Frostwhisk, and with it, an unbearable chill that seeped into every crevice, nook, and claw. At least, that’s how Scalesworth, the tiniest dragon hatchling to ever grace the frosted woods, felt about it. He was bundled up in his puffy red coat, complete with fur-trimmed hood, looking less like a fearsome mythical creature and more like a walking marshmallow with claws. “This is ridiculous,” Scalesworth muttered, adjusting the zipper of his coat with his stubby talons. “Dragons are supposed to be majestic, fiery beasts, not... whatever this is.” He gestured dramatically to his tiny, frost-covered toes. “I have talons, for crying out loud! I should be soaring through the skies, terrorizing peasants, not sitting here shivering like a wet sock.” His grumbling was interrupted by a gust of icy wind that sent snow flurries cascading around him like nature’s own sarcastic applause. “Oh, wonderful. Snow. My favorite thing,” he said, his voice dripping with so much sarcasm it could have melted the frost. “Why can’t I just hibernate like normal creatures? Bears get to sleep through this nonsense. But no, I have to be awake to ‘learn important life lessons’ or whatever my mom said before flying off to somewhere warmer.” The Great Snowball Fiasco Determined to make the best of his situation, Scalesworth decided to explore the nearby woods. It wasn’t long before he stumbled upon a gang of woodland critters engaged in an intense snowball fight. Squirrels, rabbits, and even a badger were hurling snowballs at each other with the precision of seasoned warriors. “Hey, can I play?” Scalesworth asked, waddling up to them. His oversized coat made a faint whoosh-whoosh sound as he walked, which wasn’t exactly intimidating. The badger, a grizzled veteran of snow-based combat, sized him up. “You? A dragon? In that coat? You’d be about as useful as a snowball in a bonfire.” Scalesworth bristled—or at least, he tried to. The puffiness of his jacket made it hard to look anything other than adorable. “I’ll have you know that I’m a fearsome dragon!” he declared, puffing out his chest. “I could melt this entire battlefield with a single breath.” The badger raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Go on then. Melt something.” Scalesworth paused. “Well... I mean... I could if I wanted to. I just don’t feel like it right now. It’s too cold for fire, you know? Science and stuff.” The badger snorted. “Sure, kid. Whatever you say. Just stay out of the way, alright?” Scalesworth narrowed his eyes. “Oh, it’s on,” he whispered to himself. He waddled over to a pile of snow and began crafting a snowball of truly epic proportions. It was lopsided, slightly yellowish (he wasn’t sure why and didn’t want to think about it), and barely held together, but it was his masterpiece. “They’ll rue the day they underestimated Scalesworth the Cozy,” he muttered, clutching the snowball like it was a magical artifact. The Not-So-Epic Attack With a mighty roar—or at least, a squeaky chirp that he hoped sounded like a roar—Scalesworth launched his snowball at the badger. Unfortunately, his tiny arms and the sheer bulk of his coat made the throw less than aerodynamic. The snowball traveled approximately three inches before disintegrating in mid-air. The badger blinked. “Wow. Terrifying,” he deadpanned. The squirrels burst into laughter, one of them actually falling over into the snow from how hard he was wheezing. Scalesworth felt his cheeks heat up—not from fire, but from embarrassment. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t need this. I’m a dragon. I have better things to do.” He turned to waddle away, muttering under his breath about ungrateful mammals and how he’d totally win a snowball fight if he wasn’t wearing such a stupid coat. Redemption in the Snow As Scalesworth stomped off, he noticed a faint glimmer in the snow. Curious, he bent down and unearthed what appeared to be a tiny crystal orb. It sparkled in the winter sunlight, casting rainbows onto the snow. “Huh. What’s this?” he wondered aloud. Before he could examine it further, the orb began to hum softly. Suddenly, it exploded in a burst of light, and Scalesworth found himself standing in front of a towering ice golem. The creature loomed over him, its frosty eyes glowing with menace. “INTRUDER,” the golem boomed. “PREPARE TO BE DESTROYED.” Scalesworth blinked up at the hulking figure. “Oh, great. Of course. Because my day wasn’t bad enough already.” Thinking quickly, Scalesworth did the only thing he could: he zipped up his coat all the way, puffed himself up as much as possible, and yelled, “HEY! I’M A DRAGON! YOU WANNA FIGHT ME? BRING IT ON!” To his surprise, the golem paused. “DRAGON? OH, UH, SORRY. I DIDN’T REALIZE. YOU’RE VERY SMALL FOR A DRAGON.” “I’M SMALL BUT MIGHTY!” Scalesworth snapped. “NOW LEAVE ME ALONE BEFORE I TURN YOU INTO A PUDDLE.” The golem hesitated, then slowly backed away. “MY APOLOGIES, O GREAT AND POWERFUL DRAGON.” With that, it disappeared into the woods, leaving Scalesworth standing there, victorious. The Hero Returns When Scalesworth returned to the snowball battlefield, the other animals stared at him in awe. “Did you just scare off an ice golem?” the badger asked, his jaw practically on the ground. Scalesworth shrugged nonchalantly. “Eh, it was nothing. Just another day in the life of a dragon.” The squirrels immediately declared him their leader, and the badger grudgingly admitted that maybe, just maybe, Scalesworth wasn’t so useless after all. As the sun set over the snowy woods, Scalesworth couldn’t help but smile. He might be small, he might be a bit clumsy, and his coat might make him look like a tomato, but he was a dragon—and that was enough. “Scalesworth the Cozy,” he said to himself, “has a nice ring to it.”     Bring Scalesworth Home If you’ve fallen in love with the adorable, snarky charm of Scalesworth the Cozy, why not bring a piece of his frosty misadventure into your home? Check out these delightful products featuring the baby dragon in his iconic fur-trimmed coat: Tapestry – Perfect for adding a magical touch to your walls. Canvas Print – A stunning piece of art to bring warmth to any room. Tote Bag – Carry a bit of winter magic with you wherever you go. Fleece Blanket – Snuggle up with Scalesworth during the cold months. Shop now and let Scalesworth’s charm warm your heart and home!

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Azure Eyes of the Celestial Dragon

by Bill Tiepelman

Azure Eyes of the Celestial Dragon

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

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The Little Dragon of Heartfire

by Bill Tiepelman

The Little Dragon of Heartfire

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

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Baby Dragon’s Dazzling New Year Bash

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.

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Nestled in a Rainbow's Embrace

by Bill Tiepelman

Nestled in a Rainbow's Embrace

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

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Twinkle Scales and Holiday Tales

by Bill Tiepelman

Twinkle Scales and Holiday Tales

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

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Dragon Dreams Beneath the Tinsel

by Bill Tiepelman

Dragon Dreams Beneath the Tinsel

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

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The Dragon of the Christmas Grove

by Bill Tiepelman

The Dragon of the Christmas Grove

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

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A Dragon's First Breath

by Bill Tiepelman

A Dragon's First Breath

There are few things more awe-inspiring than the birth of a legend. But legends, much like dragons, rarely come into the world quietly. The egg sat atop a pedestal of stone, its surface a masterpiece of ornate carvings that seemed less the work of time and more of an artisan with a penchant for beauty and whimsy. Vines of delicate flowers and swirls wrapped around the shell, as though nature itself had decided to protect the treasure within. The room was silent, save for the faint hum of magic that pulsed in the air—an ancient rhythm, slow and steady, as though the world itself was holding its breath. Then it happened. A crack. It started as a whisper of sound, the faintest of clicks, as a single hairline fracture split the surface of the egg. From the fracture, a soft, golden light began to seep out, illuminating the chamber in a warm, ethereal glow. The crack widened, and then, with a sudden burst of force, a claw—tiny, yet unmistakably sharp—pierced through the shell. “Well, it’s about time,” muttered a voice from the shadows. The speaker, an ancient wizard with a beard that had seen too many years and a robe that had seen too few washes, stepped closer to the egg. “Three centuries of waiting, and you decide to make your entrance while I’m mid-breakfast. Typical dragon timing.” The dragon paid no attention to the wizard’s grumbles. Its focus was singular and instinctual—freedom. Another claw broke through the shell, followed by a delicate snout covered in shimmering pink and white scales. With a final push, the dragonling emerged, wings unfurling in a spray of golden dust. It blinked once, twice, its eyes wide and filled with the kind of wonder only the truly newborn can possess. “Ah, there you are,” the wizard said, his tone softening despite himself. “A little smaller than I expected, but I suppose even dragons have to start somewhere.” He squinted at the dragon, who was now inspecting its surroundings with a mixture of curiosity and mild disdain, as though unimpressed by the wizard’s décor. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re lucky you hatched here and not in some bandit’s den. This place has history!” The dragon sneezed, and a small puff of smoke escaped its nostrils. The wizard took a hasty step back. “Right, no need to start with the fire. We’ll get to that later,” he muttered, waving the smoke away. “Let’s see, you’ll need a name. Something grand, something that strikes fear into the hearts of your enemies—or at least makes the villagers less likely to throw rocks at you. How about… Flameheart?” The dragon tilted its head, unimpressed. “Alright, fine. Too cliché. What about… Blossom?” The dragon snorted, and a tiny ember landed dangerously close to the wizard’s robe. “Alright, alright! No need to be dramatic. How about Auriel? A bit of elegance, a touch of mystery. Yes, you look like an Auriel.” Auriel, as though considering the name, stretched its wings wide. They glimmered in the golden light, a tapestry of soft hues that seemed to shift and shimmer with every movement. For a moment, even the wizard was struck silent. The dragon, barely the size of a housecat, somehow commanded the room with the presence of something far greater. It was as though the universe itself had paused to acknowledge this small but significant life. “You’ll do great things,” the wizard said softly, his voice filled with a rare sincerity. “But not today. Today, you eat, you sleep, and you figure out how to fly without breaking everything in sight.” As if in agreement, Auriel let out a tiny roar—a sound that was equal parts adorable and pitifully small. The wizard chuckled, a deep, hearty laugh that echoed through the chamber. For the first time in centuries, he felt hope. Not the fleeting kind that comes and goes with a passing thought, but the deep, unshakable kind that settles in the bones and refuses to leave. “Come on then,” the wizard said, turning toward the doorway. “Let’s get you some food. And for the love of magic, try not to set anything on fire.” The dragon trotted after him, its steps light but full of purpose. Behind them, the shattered egg lay forgotten, its ornate shell a silent testament to the beginning of something extraordinary. As they left the chamber, a golden light lingered in the air, as though the magic itself knew that this was no ordinary day. Legends, after all, are not born; they are made. But every legend begins somewhere. And for Auriel, it began here, with a crack, a breath, and the promise of a world yet to be conquered.    Bring "A Dragon's First Breath" Into Your Home Capture the magic and wonder of Auriel's journey with stunning products that showcase this enchanting artwork. Whether you're looking to decorate your home or carry a piece of fantasy with you, we've got you covered: Tapestry - Transform your walls with the majestic glow of this magical dragon. Canvas Print - Bring the legend to life with a premium-quality canvas that exudes elegance. Throw Pillow - Add a touch of mythical charm to your living space with this cozy, decorative piece. Tote Bag - Carry the magic with you wherever you go with this stylish and durable tote bag. Each item is crafted with care and designed to bring the story of "A Dragon's First Breath" to life in your everyday world. Explore these products and more at Unfocussed Shop.

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Resting in the Light of Legends

by Bill Tiepelman

Resting in the Light of Legends

In a realm where mythical creatures still roamed (but had long since given up the urge to terrorize villages), there was an odd couple that had become the talk of the skies: Ember, a fiery phoenix with feathers as bright as a thousand sunsets, and Ash, a young dragon who still hadn’t quite mastered the art of flying straight—or fire-breathing, for that matter. Ember had found Ash on a cool autumn evening, tangled up in a very unfortunate situation involving a tree, a rather judgmental squirrel, and his own wings. The phoenix had sighed, wondering how a dragon of all creatures had managed to wrap himself up like a Christmas gift, before carefully disentangling him. “Thanks,” Ash mumbled, once his limbs were free, his silvery scales glinting in the setting sun. “I was just, uh, testing a new trick.” “Right. And how’s that working out for you?” Ember’s voice was dry, but the twinkle in her eyes showed more amusement than judgment. “Still perfecting it,” Ash replied with what he hoped was dignity. It was not. From that moment on, their bond was sealed—mostly because Ash seemed to find himself in various other predicaments that required rescuing. And Ember, ever the patient guardian, always came to his aid. She wasn’t quite sure if she was more babysitter than friend, but there was something endearing about the young dragon’s enthusiasm, even when it was misplaced. Their dynamic was, in a word, hilarious. Ember, ancient and wise, had seen centuries of chaos and was a firm believer in taking things easy. "I didn’t survive this long just to get my feathers singed by some overgrown lizard," she’d say, ruffling her wings dramatically. Meanwhile, Ash was constantly brimming with youthful energy and an insatiable curiosity that often got him into trouble. One evening, as they rested under the glowing autumn sky, the leaves swirling around them in fiery hues, Ash nestled into the warmth of Ember's wing. The meadow was calm, a perfect contrast to the usual chaos of their days. Ember’s feathers radiated a soft glow, keeping them warm as the evening air began to cool. “You know,” Ash began, his voice sleepy but thoughtful, “I’ve always wondered… Why don’t you ever burn out?” Ember chuckled softly. “Oh, I do. That’s kind of my thing. I burst into flames every few hundred years and rise from my own ashes. You know, the whole rebirth deal.” “That sounds exhausting,” Ash said, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. “I can barely get through one day without tripping over my own tail.” “You’ll get the hang of it,” Ember reassured him, though she couldn’t resist a bit of teasing. “Or maybe not. You might be one of those ‘learn by repeatedly failing’ types.” Ash snorted, a tiny wisp of smoke puffing out of his nostrils. “I am not. I just like to experiment.” “With gravity?” “Very funny.” They both fell silent for a moment, watching as the last of the daylight began to fade, leaving the meadow bathed in twilight. It was these quiet moments that Ember cherished. Despite Ash’s tendency to be a walking disaster, there was something soothing about their companionship—an unspoken understanding that neither of them was quite like the rest of their kind. “You know,” Ash said after a long pause, “I think we make a pretty good team.” “Is that what you call it?” Ember’s beak curved into a smile. “I call it ‘me keeping you from lighting yourself on fire.’” “Well, yeah, that too. But still,” Ash murmured, closing his eyes as sleep began to pull him under. “I think you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” Ember felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire in her veins. It was rare to find such an earnest soul—someone who didn’t care about her age or the legends surrounding her. To Ash, she wasn’t some mystical bird of flame. She was just Ember, his slightly sarcastic, always-reliable partner in crime. “Get some sleep, little dragon,” she whispered, her wing curling protectively around him. “Tomorrow’s another day, and I’m sure you’ll find some new way to defy the laws of physics.” But even as she said it, there was a fondness in her voice that she couldn’t quite hide. They might not have been the most conventional pair, but in a world where legends often stood alone, they had found something more valuable than fire or flight: each other. And as the stars began to twinkle overhead, casting their light on the peaceful scene below, one thing was clear—friendship, much like fire, had a way of warming even the coldest of nights.     Bring the Magic of "Resting in the Light of Legends" into Your Home Inspired by the warm bond between Ember and Ash, this stunning scene can now become a part of your everyday life. Whether you’re looking for a cozy addition to your living space or a unique piece to showcase your love for mythical creatures, we’ve got you covered with these exclusive products: Resting in the Light of Legends Tapestry – Bring the warmth of this legendary bond to your walls with this beautifully crafted tapestry, perfect for adding a touch of fantasy to any room. Resting in the Light of Legends Throw Pillow – Curl up with comfort and style with this decorative throw pillow featuring the vibrant artwork of Ember and Ash. A perfect accent for your couch or favorite reading chair. Resting in the Light of Legends Fleece Blanket – Snuggle up in the warmth of a fleece blanket adorned with the beautiful image of these mythical companions. It’s soft, cozy, and ideal for a chilly autumn night. Resting in the Light of Legends Tote Bag – Carry a piece of fantasy wherever you go with this practical and stylish tote bag, showcasing the heartwarming scene of Ember and Ash resting in their legendary bond. Explore these and more unique fantasy-themed products at Unfocussed Shop to bring a touch of magic into your everyday life!

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Nightwatch of the Starry Sentinel

by Bill Tiepelman

Nightwatch of the Starry Sentinel

In the realm where the fabric of night is sewn with threads of starlight, there was a dragon named Orionis, whose scales shimmered with a thousand galaxies. Orionis was ancient, a celestial being whose silent flight across the heavens was marked by the comet’s tail and the whisper of nebulas. On earth, his presence was known only to the wise and the watchful, to those who sought the solace of the stars and listened to the stories they told. It was on a particularly clear night that Orionis embarked on a journey unlike any he had known before. This night, his vast wings unfurled not to soar through the heavens, but to cradle something far more precious. Nestled within the crook of his tail, wrapped in the gossamer threads of the universe, lay a newborn child, an infant whose destiny was written in the constellations. The dragon’s journey was slow, a graceful arc that traversed the valleys and peaks of slumbering clouds. Below, the world spun in a silent waltz, unaware of the dragon's vigilant passage. Orionis’s eyes, deep pools of cosmic wisdom, reflected the tranquil world below — a patchwork quilt of sleeping forests, silent mountains, and winding rivers that gleamed like silver ribbons in the moonlight. With each beat of his mighty wings, the dragon and his charge rode the gentle rhythms of the night. It was a slow ride, a dance with the view of eternity, where each moment was savored, each star a story, each breeze a melody. The child, safe in the embrace of the dragon’s watch, slept soundly, the soft rise and fall of its chest a counterpoint to the beating heart of the cosmos. Orionis, the Starry Sentinel, knew the value of patience, of the slow passage of time. He knew that the smallest moments held the deepest truths, and as the earth slumbered below, he continued his watchful journey, a guardian not just of the child, but of the night itself, and all the small wonders it cradled. The Dreamscape Guardian As Orionis, the guardian of night, continued his celestial voyage, the veil between worlds grew thin, and the realm of dreams beckoned. The stars twinkled in recognition as the dragon entered this sacred space, a guardian not only of the physical night but of dreams as well. Each starlight beam was a path to a dream, and Orionis, with the sleeping child in his care, was the silent sentry at the gateway of dreams. The night deepened, and the dreamscape unfolded like a tapestry woven from the threads of imagination. Here, dreams bloomed like midnight flowers, each petal a different vision, each scent a different story. Orionis’s gentle breath stirred the dreams, sending them to dance around the child, weaving a lullaby of fantastical tales and adventures yet to be. In the dreamscape, the child stirred, smiling at visions of laughter and play, of flights through candy-colored skies and dives into rivers of starlight. These were the dreams that Orionis guarded, the innocent reveries of youth that held the seeds of tomorrow's hopes. With a deep, rumbling purr, the dragon infused the dreams with the warmth of his protection, ensuring that nothing but the sweetest of stories would visit the child's slumber. The universe watched and waited, for in the dreams of a child lay the future of all worlds. Orionis, the Dragon of Dreams, knew this well. As the first blush of dawn approached, the dragon completed his voyage, leaving the child cradled not just in the safety of its own bed, but in the promise of a new day filled with boundless possibilities, each one guarded by the vigilant love of the Starry Sentinel. With a final, affectionate glance, Orionis retreated into the tapestry of the waking sky, his silhouette fading into the light of dawn. Yet, his presence remained, a silent promise in the brightening sky, a guardian ever-watchful, ever-faithful, until the stars would once again call him to his nightly dance among the dreams.     Let the celestial tale of Orionis, the dragon guardian, weave its way into your world with our "Nightwatch of the Starry Sentinel" product collection. Each piece in this series captures the enchanting essence of the story, bringing the magic of the guardian's watch into your daily life. Adorn your wall with the "Nightwatch of the Starry Sentinel" poster, where the intricate details of Orionis’s scales and the peaceful innocence of the child he guards are brought to life in a visually stunning display. Enhance your desk with the mouse pad, a daily reminder of the dragon’s steadfast protection as you navigate through work and play, its smooth surface a testament to the seamless journey through the night sky. Wrap yourself in the fantasy with the tapestry, a fabric embodiment of the dreamscape that Orionis patrols, perfect for draping over your furnishings or as a wall hanging to transform any room into a space of dreamlike wonder. Assemble the celestial story piece by piece with our jigsaw puzzle, a meditative activity that echoes the dragon's slow and thoughtful passage across the heavens, culminating in a beautiful image of his sacred charge. And for those moments when you wish to send a message that carries the weight of ancient guardianship and timeless dreams, our greeting cards are the perfect vessel, each card a tribute to the dragon’s eternal vigil over the slumbering child. From the majestic to the intimate, the "Nightwatch of the Starry Sentinel" collection invites you to carry the magic of the guardians’ watch into your life, celebrating the peace and protection that blankets us all under the night sky.

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Orb of Origins: The Hatchling's Hold

by Bill Tiepelman

Orb of Origins: The Hatchling's Hold

The Hatchling's Awakening Once upon a time, in the velvety darkness of space, amongst the tapestry of twinkling stars, there emerged a tale as old as time itself. It was within the swirling nebulas and dancing auroras that a cosmic egg hummed with the promise of life. This was no ordinary egg, for it bore within its shell the potential for uncharted beginnings, a future written in the stars but yet to unfold. In the heart of the great cosmic nursery, amidst the harmonious choir of pulsating celestial bodies, the egg began to crack. It was a moment that the universe itself seemed to have paused to witness. A tiny snout, dusted with the glitter of stardust, nudged its way through the crack, followed by a pair of wide, curious eyes that held within them the birth of nebulae. This was the birth of Astra, a dragon hatchling whose scales shimmered with a cosmic hue, a mirage of the universe that birthed her. She was a creature born from the stars, and to the stars, she would forever belong. Astra unfurled her delicate wings, still tender and translucent, and gazed upon the radiant orb that lay nestled within the remnants of her cosmic cradle. The Orb of Origins, as it was whispered amongst the constellations, was said to contain the very essence of the universe’s creation. It was the heart of all matter, the core of all energy, and the seed of all life. The Orb pulsed gently, in rhythm with Astra's own heartbeat, and with every pulse, a new star blinked into existence somewhere in the endless ocean of space. As Astra cradled the Orb, she felt a connection to the cosmos that was both empowering and humbling. She understood, without knowing how, that she was now the guardian of this Orb, the keeper of potential, and the shepherd of the universe’s secrets. Her journey was just beginning, a path that would lead her through the mysteries of creation, the forging of worlds, and the nurturing of life. The Dragon's Dominion With the Orb of Origins warm against her chest, Astra rose upon her coiled tail. Her eyes, vast as the void yet warm as a sun's core, flickered with newfound purpose. The galaxies around her were not merely sights to behold; they were her charges, her play, her responsibility. As she moved, so did the fabric of space, warping in delightful patterns that tickled the edges of black holes and cometed past pulsars. Time passed in a manner unbeknownst to mortals, for time in space is as fluid as the celestial rivers that flow between stars. Astra grew, her scales hardening like the crusts of cooling planets, her breath becoming a solar wind that fanned the flames of distant suns. She was becoming part of the cosmic dance, a choreographer of celestial symphonies. But with great power came a solitude that hung heavy upon her heart like a black dwarf star. Astra longed for kinship, for another soul that shared her stellar lineage. It was then that the Orb of Origins, sensing the yearning within the dragon's heart, pulsed a deep crimson hue and began to hum a melody that resonated with the frequency of creation. Drawn by the melody, forms began to coalesce from the stardust—other beings, each unique in shape and hue, yet kindred in spirit. They were the Astrakin, born from Astra's longing and the Orb's boundless magic. They danced around her, a constellation of companions, each with a small orb of their own, a fragment of the original that continued to bind them to their dragon mother. Together, they soared across the universe, weaving new stars into the firmament, shaping nebulas, and whispering life into being. The Orb of Origins remained with Astra, its luminescence now shared amongst her kin, a reminder of their sacred duty as guardians of existence. In the heart of space, where dreams are born and time weaves its enigmatic tapestry, Astra and her Astrakin became the eternal shepherds of the cosmos, the dragon's dominion ever expanding, ever enduring.     As Astra and the Astrakin forged their legacy across the cosmos, tales of their guardianship and the Orb’s magic spread far and wide, even to the distant and imaginative realm of Earth. Here, in a world teeming with creativity, these stories inspired a series of exquisite items, each capturing the essence of the cosmic legend. The "Orb of Origins: The Hatchling's Hold" Sticker became a treasured emblem, finding its place among the possessions of those who cherished the wonder of the universe. It served as a constant companion, a reminder of the boundless universe that awaited beyond the sky's veil. The majestic Poster, with its vibrant display, turned plain walls into gateways to other worlds, inviting onlookers to step into a realm where dragons soared and stars were born at the gentle whim of a hatchling's dreams. On the web of commerce, a unique Tote Bag emerged, allowing earthlings to carry the enchantment of the cosmos on their shoulders, while the comfort of the stars was brought home with a Throw Pillow, each a soft throne fit for any dreamer. And for those who sought warmth under the same stars that Astra tended, the "Orb of Origins" Fleece Blanket wrapped them in a celestial embrace, as if the hatchling dragon herself had folded the fabric of the heavens around them in a tender, protective cocoon. Thus, the legend of Astra and her cosmic kin intertwined with the lives of those on Earth, the dragon's dominion extending beyond the stars to inspire, comfort, and ignite the imaginations of all who believed in the magic of the universe.

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Stardust Lullabies: Dreams Under Dragon Wings

by Bill Tiepelman

Stardust Lullabies: Dreams Under Dragon Wings

In the boundless theater of the universe, where celestial bodies perform an eternal ballet, there existed an ancient dragon, born from the nebulae and the silent songs of the cosmos. With scales that shimmered like the Milky Way and eyes as deep as black holes, it was a creature of both beauty and might, revered and whispered about in a thousand worlds. This dragon, known amongst the stars as Elysandral, had roamed the galaxies since the dawn of creation, its purpose as enigmatic as the dark side of the moon. Yet, on a quaint blue planet, nestled in the crook of the Orion Arm of the Milky Way, Elysandral found a calling that resonated with its timeless heart. Lyra, a child of the earth, born during a meteor shower, was said to hold the universe's fate in her tiny hands. Her laughter was like the chime of cosmic bells, her curiosity as vast as the void itself. Her parents, astrophysicists who sought to unravel the heavens' secrets, perceived the mystical connection their daughter shared with the canvas of night they so loved. Elysandral, sensing the child's significance, descended from the stars, taking on the silent oath of her protector. Each night, as Lyra was lulled into dreams by the soft caresses of her mother and the gentle tales of her father, Elysandral perched upon the moon, a silent silhouette against the silver light. The dragon's presence brought balance to the celestial tides. Comets curved their fiery paths to catch a glimpse of the duo, and even the restless spirits of the auroras hushed their vibrant dance to watch over Lyra's sleep. As months cascaded into years, Lyra's dreams grew vivid and wondrous. She dreamed of soaring amidst galaxies, of conversing with constellations that taught her the ancient language of the stars. Elysandral, through a bond forged of stardust and soul, shared its wisdom with her in slumber, nurturing the seeds of destiny planted within her. And so it was that Elysandral, the Dragon of the Nebulae, with wings that eclipsed suns and a heart as warm as a supernova's burst, became both guardian and guide to the Starborn child, Lyra. Together, they wove a story of protection and growth, a lullaby of hope that echoed through the cosmos, a testament to the power of dreams and the unyielding courage to embrace one's destiny. The tale of Lyra and Elysandral transcended time, a celestial legacy that would inspire generations to look up at the night sky with wonder, longing, and a profound sense of connection to the infinite mysteries that await.       As the tale of Elysandral and Lyra unfurls, it intertwines with objects from our own world, artifacts that carry the essence of their cosmic journey: Lyra's parents, true scholars of the sky, adorned their observatory with a majestic piece of art, the Stardust Lullabies Poster, that mirrored the beauty of their daughter's celestial guardian. The dragon's likeness captured in ink and parchment served as a daily reminder of the vast, loving watchfulness that spanned worlds. Upon her father's desk, where the mysteries of the universe were tirelessly explored, lay the Stardust Lullabies Mouse Pad, a fabric echo of the dragon's ethereal form. As his hand glided over it, chasing computations and constellations, the mouse pad was a tactile promise of the guardian's eternal presence. In Lyra's hands, as she assembled the pieces of the Stardust Lullabies Puzzle, was the very picture of her dreams made tangible. Each piece was a fragment of her story, a slice of the dragon's wisdom, guiding her through the playful development of her young, yet infinite mind. When venturing into the world, Lyra's mother carried the Stardust Lullabies Tote Bag, a vessel that bore the image of the protective dragon. It held within it the day's necessities, each item wrapped in the assurance of the guardian's embrace, no matter where their earthly travels took them. And during the coldest of nights, as the wind whispered tales of distant nebulas, Lyra was swathed in the warmth of the Stardust Lullabies Fleece Blanket. The fleece, soft as a cloud from the heavens, held a comforting weight, much like Elysandral's wings enveloping her in dreams. These products, more than mere objects, became woven into the tapestry of their lives, each a thread linked to the celestial saga of a dragon and a starborn child—a testament to the fact that even the most ethereal of bonds can find roots in the tangible world.

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Auroraflame: Hatchling of the Cosmic Dawn

by Bill Tiepelman

Auroraflame: Hatchling of the Cosmic Dawn

In the forgotten crevices of the universe, where stars are born and galaxies play, there fluttered a dragon hatchling, known as Auroraflame. She was a kaleidoscope of color, with scales that glinted with the secrets of the cosmos. This dragon was no ordinary creature; her breath, rumored to weave the fabric of reality, cast riddles into the void. One fateful eve, under the cosmic ballet of swirling nebulas, Auroraflame embarked on a quest whispered to her by the sentient quasars. The mission was to find the lost Guffaw Gem, a mythical stone said to hold the laughter of the universe—a treasure so potent, it could tickle the ribs of the sternest black hole. She flew through the tapestry of time, past constellations that told tales of yore, her wings cutting swathes of stardust, leaving a trail of spectral brilliance. As she ventured into the Labyrinth of Serendipity, a realm where space and time twirled in a lover's dance, she encountered creatures of legend and lore, each guarding their secrets like jealous lovers. One such guardian was the Sphinx of Saturn, a being with the body of a comet and the face of a star. It posed a riddle that had baffled the minds of many wanderers: "What force and strength cannot get through, I with my unique teeth can do. What am I?" Auroraflame pondered, her mind weaving through the enigma like a shuttle through the loom. With a sparkle in her eye and a mischievous grin, she replied, "A key!" The Sphinx, taken aback by her intellect, burst into a supernova of giggles and granted her passage. As Auroraflame drew closer to her goal, the nebulae thickened, and the stars whispered cautionary tales. The final guardian of the Guffaw Gem stood before her—a cosmic jester known as the Nebula of Nonsense. It danced around her, its bells jingling with the sound of forgotten laughter, and posed the final challenge: a game of wits and whimsy. The jester pulled from its sleeve a deck of quark cards, each fluttering with the essence of a joke. "Choose the card that answers the ultimate question: What makes the universe giggle with glee?" it chimed. Auroraflame, with her heart pulsating like a young star, drew a card, and there it was—the image of a cosmic egg. She turned to the jester, her gaze piercing the veils of mystery, and declared, "The universe laughs in the face of creation, for it hatched from the cosmic egg without a single joke to tell!" The Nebula of Nonsense erupted into a cacophony of laughter, the sound resonating through the cosmos. The Guffaw Gem appeared before Auroraflame, its radiance outshining the surrounding cosmic dust. With a touch of her claw, the gem unleashed a wave of laughter, rolling through the universe, causing even the most solemn planets to chuckle. And so, Auroraflame, with the Guffaw Gem held gently in her maw, returned to her starry abode, her quest complete, her story etched into the annals of the cosmos. But she kept the gem close, for every now and then, even a mystical dragon needs a good laugh.     With the Guffaw Gem nestled securely in her grasp, Auroraflame took to the stars once more, her heart buoyant with victory. Yet the cosmos is vast, and stories, like the universe, are ever-expanding. Our dragon's return journey would not be without its own tapestry of tales. As Auroraflame glided through the Corridor of Whispers, a stretch of space where echoes of ancient jokes bounced off asteroid belts, she encountered the Oracle of Orions, an ageless being who looked upon the hatchling with eyes that had seen the birth of time itself. "Auroraflame," the Oracle intoned, "the Gem you possess has awakened the humor of the heavens, but the earth below remains silent and stern. Take the laughter to the land of Terra; let it ring through the valleys and dance over the mountains." Intrigued by this new quest, the neon dragon folded her wings and descended upon the planet known as Terra. The world was somber, its colors muted, its creatures solemn. Not a chuckle or a chortle was heard; not a grin or a guffaw was seen. With the Guffaw Gem's power, she sought the one creature who could spread mirth across the land—the elusive Trickster Fox. The fox was a creature of myth, a clever spirit whose humor was as sharp as his tail was bushy. Finding him was no simple feat, for he was as elusive as the fleeting smile on a moonbeam. Yet, with the Gem's guidance, Auroraflame found the Trickster Fox, his coat as red as the dragon's fiery breath. "Auroraflame, you've come," said the fox, his voice tinged with mirth. "The Gem, I see it! But tell me, dragon of the cosmos, what is the sound of one claw clapping?" Auroraflame pondered the riddle, her mind dancing between planes of thought. And then, with a spark of insight, she clapped her claws around the Gem, and from within its depths, a laughter erupted that was pure and clear. It was the sound of joy, uncontained and unbound. The Trickster Fox laughed, a sound that cascaded through Terra's landscape, spreading like wildfire. Creatures of all walks and wings joined in the chorus, their laughter intertwining with that of the fox and the dragon. But just as the merriment reached its peak, a shadow fell upon the land. The Baron of Boredom, a dreary soul who hoarded silence like treasure, loomed over the hills. "Cease this foolishness," he bellowed. "Laughter has no place in Terra!" Undeterred, Auroraflame rose to meet him, the Guffaw Gem shining brilliantly in her chest. "Baron," she declared, "even you must know a chuckle, deep within that stern exterior. Join us, and let go of the gloom you guard so jealously." The Baron hesitated, his frown a fortress unto itself. But then, from the depths of his being, a small snicker bubbled up. It grew and grew until it burst forth, a laugh so heartfelt it shook the leaves from the trees and the Baron's perpetual gloom from the skies. With the land of Terra now resounding with laughter, Auroraflame took flight, her mission complete. The Guffaw Gem's glow spread throughout the cosmos, a beacon of merriment in a universe brimming with wonder. And as for the Trickster Fox? Well, he had one more joke to tell. As Auroraflame soared back to the heavens, the fox called out, "What did one star say to the other star when it told a joke?" Auroraflame glanced back, her curiosity piqued. "It cracked up!" The fox howled with laughter, and the dragon couldn't help but join in. The cosmos echoed with their shared delight, a testament to the joy that now twined itself through the fabric of reality, thanks to Auroraflame, the Hatchling of the Cosmic Dawn.     The saga of nascent power and cosmic allure comes to a vivid conclusion with the Auroraflame hatchling, a being of pure myth and burgeoning might. As the dragonling's story unfolds, it invites us to gaze upon its scales, shimmering with the ethereal light of the aurora borealis, and into its sapient eyes, which hold centuries of hidden wisdom. In a realm where the ground is a tapestry of molten creation and the heavens bloom with starry flora, this young dragon's dance with a sphere of pure energy symbolizes the unbreakable link between life and the elemental forces of the universe. Auroraflame is not merely a figment of legend; it is the embodiment of all the enchantment and exploration that the untouched galaxies have to offer. This extraordinary narrative of birth and becoming, akin to the genesis of stars and planets, is encapsulated in the Auroraflame Cross Stitch Pattern. It's an impeccable masterpiece for those who draw inspiration from the mystic realms of fantasy and the untold epics written in the celestial domains. Embrace the opportunity to stitch your own piece of the universe with this exquisite pattern, and let the story of Auroraflame guide your needle through a constellation of vibrant colors and designs, crafting not just an artwork, but a portal to worlds untold. As Auroraflame soared through the cosmos, her tales of mirth spread far and wide. On Terra, her story inspired the creation of beautiful keepsakes to capture her essence and the laughter she brought. The artisans of Unfocussed.com, moved by her radiant journey, immortalized her likeness in a collection of enchanting merchandise. The Auroraflame Poster, with its vivid colors and ethereal backdrop, brings a piece of cosmic wonder to any room. It's more than just wall art; it's a window to a universe brimming with joy and color. Available now on Unfocussed, it's the perfect way to infuse your space with the spirit of adventure and the warmth of laughter. For those who desire a touch of magic on the go, the Auroraflame Stickers are a whimsical choice. Durable, colorful, and imbued with the charm of the cosmic dragon, these stickers turn everyday objects into artifacts of delight and let your story stick with you. And for a cozy embrace, reminiscent of Auroraflame's warmth, the Auroraflame Throw Pillow is a must-have. Each pillow, featuring the dragon's vibrant image, promises to cradle you in comfort while stirring dreams of distant galaxies. Embrace the laughter and legends with these exquisite products, each a tribute to Auroraflame's journey. Bring a piece of her story into your life and let the cosmic dance of humor and mystery continue in your own abode.

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