by Bill Tiepelman
Cranky Wings & Cabernet Things
The Root of All Sass The forest hadn’t always been this irritating. Once upon a century or three ago, it was a quiet, dewy glade where deer pranced, squirrels politely asked to borrow acorns, and the mushrooms didn’t have delusions of poetry. Then came the influencers. The elf-folk with their glittery yoga mats. The centaur DJs thumping trance beats into the soil. And worst of all—gentrification by unicorns. Just because they crap rainbows doesn’t mean they belong on every enchanted hillside selling kombucha out of crystal flasks. She had had it. Her name was Fernetta D'Vine—though the locals just called her “That Wine Bitch in the Thicket.” And she was fine with that. Titles were for royalty and real estate agents. Fernetta was far more interested in her own domains: the mossy log she ruled from, her deep collection of fermented potions, and the daily ritual of glaring disapprovingly at every twit who dared prance past her glade without a permit—or pants. Today was a Tuesday. And Tuesdays were for Cabernet and contempt. Fernetta adjusted her wings with a groan. The years had left them creaky, like an old screen door that screamed when you opened it at 2 a.m. to sneak out for questionable decisions. Her dress, a glorious tangle of ivy and attitude, brushed the ground with a stately rustle as she lifted her goblet—no stemless nonsense here, thank you—and took a sip of what she called “Bitch Blood Vintage 436.” “Mm,” she muttered, eyes narrowing like a hawk spotting a tourist. “Tastes like regret and someone else's poor planning.” Just then, a chirpy little sprite buzzed into view, high on pollen and bad decisions. She wore a sunflower bra and had glitter in places that clearly hadn't been cleaned in days. “Hi Auntie Fernetta!” she squealed. “Guess what? I’m starting an herbal side hustle and wanted to gift you my new line of detox beetle-water enemas!” Fernetta blinked slowly. “Child, the only thing I detox is joy,” she said. “And if you flutter one wing closer with that fermented insect filth, I will personally shove that potion up your nectar hole and call it aromatherapy.” The sprite’s smile faltered. “Okayyy…well…namast-eeeeee!” she buzzed, zooming off to terrorize a willow tree. Fernetta took another sip, savoring the silence. It tasted like power. And maybe a little like last week’s berries soaked in disappointment, but still—power. “Fairies these days,” she muttered. “All glitter, no grit. No wonder the gnomes have gone into hiding. Hell, I’d hide too if my neighbors were lighting sage to align their chakra while farting through recycled leaves.” Just then, the rustling of bushes drew her attention. She slowly turned her head and muttered, “Oh look. Another woodland dumbass. If it’s one more damn bard looking for ‘inspiration,’ I swear by the crust in my wings I’ll hex his lute so it plays only Nickelback covers.” And from the underbrush stepped someone... unexpected. A man. Human. Middle-aged. Balding. Slightly confused and definitely in the wrong fairytale. He blinked. She blinked. A crow cawed. Somewhere in the distance, a mushroom wilted from secondhand embarrassment. “...Well,” Fernetta drawled, slowly standing. “This should be good.” Man Meat and Mossy Mayhem He stood there, mouth slightly ajar, looking like a half-baked biscuit who’d wandered into a renaissance faire after taking the wrong turn at a Cracker Barrel. Fernetta sized him up like a wolf eyeing a microwaved ham. He was wearing cargo shorts, a “World’s Best Dad” T-shirt that had clearly surrendered to time and coffee stains, and a confused expression that suggested he thought this was the line for the gift shop. In one hand he held a phone, blinking red with 3% battery. In the other, a laminated trail map. Upside down. “Oh,” she sighed, swirling her cabernet. “You’re one of those. Lost, divorced, definitely on your third midlife crisis. Lemme guess—you signed up for a ‘healing hike’ with your yoga instructor-slash-girlfriend named Amethyst and got ditched at the crystal cairn?” He blinked. “Uh… is this part of the nature tour?” She took one long, slow sip. “Oh sweetheart. This is the of your dignity tour.” He stepped forward. “Look, I’m just trying to get back to the parking lot, okay? My phone’s dead, and I haven’t had coffee in six hours. Also, I may have accidentally eaten a mushroom that was… glowy.” Fernetta chuckled, low and wicked, like a storm cloud amused at the idea of a picnic. “Well then. Congratulations, dumbass. You just licked the universe’s glitter cannon. That was a dreamcap. The next three hours are going to feel like you're being spiritually exfoliated by a raccoon wearing a therapist’s pants.” He swayed slightly. “I think I saw a talking chipmunk that said I was a disappointment to my ancestors.” “Well,” she said, slapping a mosquito off her shoulder with the grace of a drunk ballerina, “at least your hallucinations are honest.” She turned away, refilling her wine from a nearby stump that was—improbably—tapped like a keg. “So what’s your name, forest trespasser?” “Uh. Brent.” “Of course it is,” she muttered. “Every lost man who stumbles into my part of the woods is either named Brent, Chad, or Gary. You boys just roll off the production line with a six-pack of poor decisions and one good college memory you won’t shut up about.” He frowned. “Look, lady—fairy—whatever. I’m not trying to cause trouble. I just need to find the exit. If you could point me to the trailhead, I’d be—” “Oh, honey,” she interrupted, “the only head you’re getting is the one from the hallucination beaver who thinks you’re his ex-wife. You’re in my glade now. And we don’t just offer directions. We offer... lessons.” Brent paled. “Like... riddles?” “No. Like unsolicited life advice wrapped in sarcasm and aged in shame,” she said, raising her glass. “Now sit your crusty behind on that toadstool and brace yourself for an aggressive fairy intervention.” He hesitated. The toadstool made a suspicious farting noise as he lowered himself onto it. “What… kind of intervention?” Fernetta cracked her knuckles and summoned a cloud of wine vapor and attitude. “We’re gonna unpack your issues like a suitcase at a nudist colony. First of all: why the hell do you still wear socks with sandals?” “I—” “Don’t answer. I already know. It’s because you fear vulnerability. And fashion.” Brent blinked. “This feels… deeply personal.” “Welcome to the glade,” she smirked. “Now, tell me: who hurt you? Was it your ex-wife? Your daddy? A failed podcast about cryptocurrency?” “I… I don’t know anymore.” “That’s step one, Brent,” she said, standing tall, her wings shimmering with drunken menace. “Admit that you’re not lost in the woods. You are the woods. Dense. Confused. Filled with raccoons stealing your lunch.” Somewhere in the distance, a tree spontaneously caught fire out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. Brent looked like he was about to cry. Or pee. Or both. “And while we’re at it,” Fernetta snapped, “when did you stop doing things that made you happy? When did you trade wonder for spreadsheets and excitement for microwave burritos? Huh? You had magic once. I can smell it under your armpits, right between the regret and Axe body spray.” Brent whimpered. “Can I go now?” “No,” she said firmly. “Not until you’ve purged all the bro energy from your soul. Now repeat after me: I am not a productivity robot.” “…I am not a productivity robot.” “I deserve joy, even if that joy is weird and sparkly.” “…even if that joy is weird and sparkly.” “I will stop asking to ‘circle back’ during Zoom calls unless I’m literally chasing my own tail.” “…That one’s… hard.” “Try harder. You’re almost healed.” And just like that, the glade shimmered. The trees sighed. A chorus of frogs sang the opening bars of a Lizzo song. Brent’s third eye blinked open just long enough to witness a vision of himself as a disco lizard dancing on a tax return. He passed out cold. Fernetta poured the rest of her wine into the moss and said, “Another one converted. Praise Dionysus.” She sat back on her log, exhaled deeply, and added, “And that’s why you never ignore a fairy with wine and unresolved emotional bandwidth.” Hangover of the Fey Brent awoke face-down in moss, his cheek pressed lovingly against what may or may not have been a mushroom with opinions. The sun filtered through the treetops like judgmental fingers poking a sleeping shame sandwich. His head throbbed with the kind of ancient drumbeat usually reserved for tribal exorcisms and EDM festivals in abandoned warehouses. He groaned. The moss squelched back. Everything hurt—including some existential parts of him that had been long dormant, like hope, ambition, and the idea of ordering something other than chicken tenders at restaurants. Somewhere behind him, a teacup-sized voice chirped, “He lives! The human rises!” He rolled over to see a hedgehog. A talking hedgehog. Wearing a monocle. Smoking what was clearly a cinnamon stick fashioned into a pipe. “What fresh hell…” he muttered. “Oh, you’re awake,” came Fernetta’s voice, laced with her usual brand of sarcasm and sage-like disdain. “For a minute I thought you’d gone fully feral and joined the bark nymphs. Which, by the way, never do. They’ll braid your chest hair into dreamcatchers and call it a vibe.” Brent blinked. “I had… dreams.” “Hallucinations,” corrected the hedgehog, who offered him a shot glass of something that smelled like peppermint and regret. “Drink this. It’ll balance your aura and possibly reset your digestive tract. No promises.” Brent drank it. He instantly regretted it. His tongue recoiled, his toes curled, and he sneezed his deepest shame into a nearby fern. “Perfect,” said Fernetta, clapping. “You’ve completed the cleanse.” “Cleanse?” “The Spiritual Audit, darling,” she said, fluttering down from a branch like a disillusioned angel of sarcasm. “You’ve been assessed, emotionally undressed, and gently smacked with the stick of self-awareness.” Brent looked down at himself. He was wearing a crown made of twigs, a tunic fashioned from moss and squirrel fur, and a necklace of... teeth? “What the hell happened?” Fernetta smirked, taking another languid sip from her ever-present wine glass. “You got fairy drunk, emotionally baptized in pond water, told a fox your deepest fears, slow-danced with a sentient daffodil, and yelled ‘I AM THE STORM’ while peeing on a rune stone. Honestly, I’ve seen worse Tuesdays.” The hedgehog nodded solemnly. “You also tried to start a commune for divorced dads called ‘Dadbodonia.’ It lasted fourteen minutes and ended in a heated debate about chili recipes.” Brent groaned into his hands. “I was just trying to go on a hike.” “No one just hikes into my glade,” Fernetta said, poking him with her wine glass. “You were summoned. This place finds you when you’re on the brink. Teetering on the edge of becoming a motivational meme. I saved you from dad jokes and sports metaphors for feelings.” Brent looked around. The forest suddenly felt different. The light warmer. The colors sharper. The air thick with mischief and mossy wisdom. “So… what now?” “Now you leave,” Fernetta said, “but you leave better. Slightly less of a tool. Maybe even worthy of brunch conversation. Go forth into the world, Brent. And remember what you’ve learned.” “Which was…?” “Stop dimming your weird. Stop apologizing for being tired. Stop saying ‘let’s touch base’ unless you mean physically, with someone hot. And never—ever—bring boxed wine into a sacred grove again or I’ll hex your plumbing.” The hedgehog saluted. “May your midlife crisis be mystical.” Brent, still blinking in disbelief, took a few tentative steps. A squirrel waved him goodbye. A pinecone winked. A raccoon dropped a single acorn at his feet in symbolic solidarity. He turned once more to look at Fernetta. She raised her glass. “Now go. And if you get lost again, make it interesting.” And with that, Brent stumbled out of the glade and back into the world, smelling of moss, magic, and a hint of Cabernet. Somewhere deep inside, something had changed. Maybe not enough to make him wise. But enough to make him weird. And that, in fairy terms, was progress. Back in her glade, Fernetta sighed, stretched, and settled back on her mossy throne. “Well,” she muttered, sipping again. “Guess I’ll do mushrooms for dinner. Hope they don’t talk back this time.” And somewhere in the trees, the forest whispered, laughed, and poured another round. 🍷 Feeling personally attacked by Fernetta's sass? Well, now you can hang her grumpy face on your wall like a badge of chaotic enlightenment. Click here to see the full image in our Fantasy Characters Archive and grab your very own print, framed masterpiece, or license-worthy download. Perfect for wine witches, forest freaks, or anyone whose soul runs on sarcasm and Cabernet. Because let’s be honest—you either know a Fernetta… or you are one.
