Cosmic Dragon mythology

por Bill Tiepelman

The Leviathan of Crimson Fins

The Contract, the Boat, and the Bad Idea I signed the contract the way every bad adventure begins: with a cheap pen, a good whiskey, and a promise I absolutely should not have believed. The client wanted “one clean, frame-worthy, trophy-shot of a sea dragon breaching at golden hour—preferably with the fins backlit so the crimson pops.” In other words, they wanted the impossible. Also in other words, they wanted what I live for. Our boat—if you could call a grudging pile of bolted-together aluminum a boat—was The Indecision, and she creaked like a pirate’s knees. The crew was a handpicked circus. There was Mae, a marine biologist who moonlights as a sarcastic influencer (“Like and subscribe if you survive,” she said, deadpan, every time the deck tilted). There was Gus, a retired lighthouse keeper who’d seen enough storms to tsk at thunder and call it “atmosphere.” There was Scupper, a cat who never paid rent and absolutely ran the place. And there was me—the photographer who chases the kind of leviathan artwork that makes people mortgage walls to hang it on. We idled over a trench known on maps as the Cerulean Drop and in sailor gossip as Don’t. It was a bruise in the ocean, a perfect throat where currents swallowed ships, rumors, and occasionally an overeager documentary crew. My drones skimmed the waves like patient gulls, lenses hungry. The sky was bleached linen; the water was that heavy, iron-blue that means something ancient is thinking beneath it. “What are we even calling this thing?” Mae asked, fussing with a sensor array that looked suspiciously like a cookie tin strapped to a car battery. “Dragon? Serpent? Very large ‘nope’?” “The Leviathan of Crimson Fins,” I said, because you name the monster or it names you. “Ocean monster, apex myth, patron saint of bad decisions. And if we do this right, we turn it into fantasy wall art people whisper about from across the room.” Gus spat neatly into the scuppers. “You want whispering? Put a price on it.” Scupper meowed, which in cat means, you’re all idiots but I’m morally obligated to supervise. We set our trap, which was really more of an invitation. A crate of brined mackerel hung off the stern on a cable, swaying like a greasy chandelier. Mae swore by the scent profile. “Not bait,” she said, “just… an alert.” Sure. And my camera was “just” a high-speed confession booth where reality blurts out details in 1/8000th of a second. The trench breathed. The first signal was the light—gone flat, like a stage waiting for an actor. The second was heat: a soft exhale pushing up from thirty fathoms, frosting our lenses with humidity. The third was the sound: a distant churning, like cathedral doors grinding open under the sea. “Heads up,” Mae said, voice suddenly clean and professional. “Pressure shift.” Gus strapped in. “If it asks for our Wi-Fi, say no.” I checked the rig: twin stabilized gimbals; two primary cameras with glass fast enough to steal light from the gods; one custom housing that laughed at salt spray; and a backup sensor because I am unlucky, not stupid. I locked the focus plane where water becomes miracle—right at the skin of the sea, where everything important happens fast. On the monitor, my forward drone caught something like weather made of scales. Not a shape yet—more a rumor of geometry, patterns tiling and untangling, teal deepening to indigo, then flashing to ember as if a forge had opened underwater. “We’ve got movement,” I said. My voice did not shake. It quivered tastefully. The cable rattled. The mackerel crate jittered as if nervous about its life choices. The ocean lifted—not in a wave, but in a shrug—as if something vast were moving its shoulders beneath the surface. Mae inhaled. “Oh… wow.” I’ve seen whales breach like towns rising into the sky. I’ve watched a waterspout turn a horizon into a zipper. I’ve never seen intent like this. The sea dragon didn’t so much emerge as arrive—with the unbothered confidence of a storm or a billionaire. A horned brow cut the surface. Then an eye: gold, patient, and very much not impressed with us. The head that followed was architected in brutality, scaled in mosaics of copper-green and slate, every contour slick with the wet clarity that makes studio lights jealous. “Record. Record. Record.” I heard my own voice go stupid with awe. Shutter clatter became music. The hyper-realistic dragon in my viewfinder looked less like a legend and more like the ocean had decided to grow teeth and unionize. The dorsal fins surfaced next—those famous crimson fins—not simply red, but layered: ember at the roots, blood-orange in the membranes, and sunset right at the edges, where backlight turned them electric. The water loved those fins. It banded to them. It worshipped them in halos of spray. The droplets hung midair long enough to pose. Gus muttered, “That’s a church right there.” Mae was already taking readings with the kind of grin that makes tenure committees nervous. “Thermal spikes. Electromagnetic flutter. And… pheromone traces? Oh, that’s not great.” “Not great how?” I asked, eyes welded to the viewfinder, fingers dancing the exposure like a safecracker. “As in, we may have rung the dinner bell for two of them.” Scupper chose that moment to hiss at something no one could see. Cats always get the trailer before the movie. The dragon turned—slowly, with the bored drama of a queen acknowledging peasants—and noticed our crate. It extended a whiskered tongue, black as ship rope, and tasted the air with a sound like a violin string being plucked by thunder. Then it laughed. I swear to all six gods of the Gulf, it laughed—just a rasp, a chuckle made of old anchors and older appetites—but laughter, all the same. My camera caught that look: the cruel amusement, the lazy competence. The ocean guardian had decided we were entertainment. “Okay,” I said, “new plan: we don’t die, and we get a cover shot that sells out a thousand limited editions.” “Your plan is just adjectives,” Gus said. “Adjectives pay the fuel bill.” The dragon flowed closer, scales ticking like coins in a jar. Up this near, the details became a problem. There were too many: micro-ridges, healed scars, salt crystals clinging to the armored plates, tiny lichens (or were those symbiotic glow-worms?) threading faint bioluminescent veins through the membranes of those red sails. My lens, brave soldier, held the line. Then the ocean dropped three feet as something else displaced it. Mae’s monitors screamed. The surface behind the first dragon bulged, then fractured, as if the trench were spitting out a second opinion. “Told you,” Mae whispered. “Pheromones. Either a rival or a—” “Mate?” I finished, trying very hard not to picture how dragons date. “I am not licensed for that documentary.” Gus pointed with a hand that had steadied a lighthouse through hurricanes. “You two can argue taxonomy later. That one’s looking at our engine. That one’s looking at our camera. And neither of them blinks like something that respects warranties.” I toggled the burst rate to indecent and framed the shot of my life: the first dragon rising, jaws open in a roar that showed a cathedral of teeth; the second a darker ghost pushing the sea aside in a crown of foam; the horizon tilting like a stage set; a sky abruptly crowded with gulls who’d read the script and decided to improvise exits. Somewhere inside the panic, a part of me—the greedy, artistic, unfathomably stubborn part—did the math. If I waited one more beat, right as the primary broke full breach, the crimson would hit the sun at the perfect angle and the water would pearl along the fin like diamonds. That was the difference between a good shot and a print that makes rooms go quiet. “Hold…” I breathed, to the boat, the crew, the camera, the universe. “Hold for glory.” The ocean obeyed. It coiled, tensed, and exploded. The Leviathan came up like a missile wrapped in biology, every line razor, every scale readable, every drop a gemstone. The roar hit us a fraction later, a freight train made of choir. The fin flared—a curtain of crimson fire—and the sun, bless her dramatic heart, lit it like stained glass. I took the shot. And that’s when the second dragon surfaced directly off our stern, close enough to fog the lens with its breath, and gently—almost politely—bit the mackerel crate in half. The Shot That Cost a Hull The sound of the crate snapping was less “crunch” and more “financial catastrophe.” Half the bait disappeared into a jaw lined with teeth that could rent apartments in San Francisco. The other half bobbed sadly against the stern as if to say, you tried. Scupper leapt onto the cabin roof with the agility of someone who hadn’t co-signed a death wish and announced in cat-language, your deductible does not cover this. Mae’s instruments lit up like Vegas. “EM surge! Hull pressure spike! Oh, wow. That’s not physics anymore, that’s improv.” “Less readings, more surviving!” Gus barked, unspooling a line and clipping into the mast like he was back in a storm. “She’s gonna roll us if she sneezes.” The first dragon rose higher, body arcing with impossible grace, like a skyscraper pretending to be a fish. My lens was still glued to it. Water peeled off in sheets, catching the sun and painting rainbows across the fins. Every photo I snapped was pure fantasy dragon poster gold—images that galleries would bid for like hungry pirates. Every photo was also another nail in the coffin of our poor little boat. The second dragon wasn’t so much jealous as… practical. It inspected us with an eye the color of molten bronze. Then it tested our engine with a flick of its tongue. The engine, being mortal and carbureted, sputtered like a kid caught smoking. We weren’t moving unless the dragons approved. We had become their Netflix. Mae clutched her sensor tin. “They’re… they’re talking.” “Talking?” I said, too busy chimping my shots like an idiot to be alarmed. “Do we want subtitles?” “Not words. Pulses. They’re pinging each other with bioelectric bursts. One is dominant. The other’s… negotiating?” She paused, frowned, then added with dry menace: “Or foreplay. Hard to tell.” Gus muttered, “I didn’t sign up for National Geographic After Dark.” The boat lurched sideways as the second dragon nuzzled the stern with its snout. I know people romanticize sea monsters. They imagine scales like armor and faces like statues. Up close, though? It smelled like old kelp and ozone, and the hide wasn’t smooth at all—it was ridged, barnacled, scarred. History written in tissue. A camera lens makes it gorgeous. A human nose makes it survival horror. “Back it off!” Gus yelled, thumping the hull with a gaff hook like he was shooing a drunk walrus. “This tub ain’t rated for dragon cuddles!” I fired my shutter again and again, ignoring the sting of salt spray in my eyes. These were the epic sea creature shots that would hang over fireplaces, that would anchor collectors’ living rooms, that would make curators whisper who the hell got this close? I was already imagining the fine art catalogues: ‘The Leviathan of Crimson Fins,’ limited edition of 50, signed and numbered, comes with a notarized affidavit that the photographer was an idiot with good reflexes. Mae’s monitors screamed. “Guys! Electromagnetic discharge building in the dorsal fins. If this thing sneezes lightning, our cameras are toast.” “Or,” I said, framing the perfect shot of backlit crimson membranes swelling with static, “our cameras are legendary.” “You’re deranged.” “Visionary,” I corrected. The first dragon bellowed. The sound slapped the air itself into submission. Birds detonated from the sky in every direction. The horizon staggered. My stern drone caught the shot: two dragons in the same frame, one rearing with fins blazing like stained glass, the other circling close to our fragile deck, water hissing around its massive shoulders. A composition you could only get if you were suicidal or extremely lucky. I was both. Then the hull cracked. It wasn’t dramatic at first. Just a sound like ice fracturing on a winter lake. But every sailor knows that noise. It’s the universe whispering: you gambled too hard, kid. “We’re taking water!” Gus barked, already knee-deep in foam. He kicked the bilge pump awake, but it coughed like a smoker. “Ain’t gonna keep up if they keep hugging.” Mae looked up from her tin. “If they’re courting, this is the part where they display dominance.” “Define dominance,” I said, even though I knew. Oh, I knew. “Breaching duel,” she said flatly. “They’ll take turns leaping until one backs down. Guess what’s directly in their splash zone?” Scupper yowled, then retreated below deck, proving he was the smartest of us. The sea bulged again. One dragon plunged deep, dragging a wake that spun us sideways. The other rose, fins outspread like cathedral windows, then slammed down into the trench with a force that kicked our boat skyward. For one weightless moment I hung in the air, camera still clicking like an addict’s lighter, framing the impossible. Spray turned into shattered glass all around us. The horizon somersaulted. And then—inevitably—gravity collected its debt. We crashed back onto the sea with enough force to throw Gus across the deck. Mae screamed, not in fear, but in sheer scientific ecstasy. “Yes! YES! Data points! I’m going to publish so hard!” Water poured over the gunwales. My gear clanged. My cameras survived—miracle of miracles—but the boat was coughing its last prayers. The second dragon surfaced again, close enough to fog my lens with its steaming breath, and nudged us like a curious cat toy. Its eye locked on mine. Ancient. Playful. Predatory. And I realized in one sickening, thrilling instant: We weren’t observers anymore. We were part of the ritual. And the ritual wasn’t close to finished. The Baptism of Fools The boat was no longer a boat. It was a prop in somebody else’s opera. We bobbed in the froth between two dragons staging a thunderous love-hate courtship ritual, and every splash came with a side order of “there goes your insurance premium.” The first dragon, the one I’d already christened The Leviathan of Crimson Fins, launched into another breach that would’ve made Poseidon clap politely. It soared like a skyscraper in rebellion, fins ablaze with sunlight. I caught the exact frame: water exploding, teeth gleaming, scales refracting every color a paint store could dream up. A shot worth careers. A shot worth drowning for. Which was convenient, because drowning seemed imminent. The second dragon, not to be outdone, coiled under our stern and erupted sideways. The wave it threw wasn’t a wave at all—it was a wet apocalypse. The Indecision lifted, twisted, and for a few glorious seconds we were flying, boat and all. Gus roared curses so colorful they probably offended Poseidon personally. Mae clutched her tin and screamed, “YES! MORE DATA!” like she was mainlining chaos. Scupper yowled from the cabin in tones that translated roughly to, I did not vote for this cruise line. My cameras clattered around me as I straddled the deck, clicking wildly, chasing glory while the ocean demanded sacrifice. I knew these frames would be legendary dragon artwork, but in the back of my head another thought sharpened: don’t let the SD cards die with you. The dragons circled each other, slamming the sea like dueling gods. Every pass painted the water with streaks of foam, every roar carved the air into panic. Their massive bodies locked in spirals that dragged whirlpools open beneath them. The trench below seethed. The pressure shifted so hard my ears rang. The ocean wasn’t water anymore—it was stage lighting for monsters. And then they both went still. Not calm. Still. Hanging in the water, fins flared, eyes glowing with the judgment of creatures who’ve seen continents drown and continents rise again. The silence was worse than the noise. Even the gulls had stopped fleeing. For a heartbeat, the world forgot how to breathe. Then, as if choreographed, both dragons exhaled jets of steam so hot they scorched the salt from the air. Mae’s instruments fried in her hands with a sad little pop. Gus crossed himself with one hand while jamming a bilge pump lever with the other. Scupper padded up, sat in the middle of the chaos, and calmly licked his paw. Cats are contractually immune to existential dread. The dragons’ heads dipped toward us—closer, closer—until two golden eyes the size of portholes stared directly into mine. I swear they could see every stupid decision I’d ever made, every bill I’d ducked, every ex I’d ghosted. They knew I was here for the picture, not the wisdom. And then—just as my bladder politely suggested we evacuate—they blinked, as if to say: Fine. You’re amusing. You may leave. Both leviathans dived at once, slipping back into the abyss with a grace that mocked gravity itself. The sea rolled over their passing, flattening into a bruised calm. No trace left. No evidence. Just me, three lunatics, one damp cat, and a hull screaming for retirement. Mae finally broke the silence. “So, uh… round two tomorrow?” Gus threw his cap at her. “Round two my ass. This boat’s held together with duct tape and spite!” Scupper sneezed, unimpressed. I sat back, waterlogged, shaking, delirious with the high of it all. My cameras had survived. The cards were full. And when I flicked through the previews, my breath caught. The shots were everything I’d dreamed of: crimson fins lit like stained glass, teeth framed against the horizon, sprays of diamonds frozen midair. Proof that ocean mythology isn’t dead—it’s just very picky about photographers. I grinned through salt-stung lips. “Ladies and gentlemen, we just baptized ourselves in legend.” “And almost died doing it,” Mae muttered. “Details,” I said. “Adjectives pay the fuel bill.” Behind us, the horizon brooded, as if waiting for the next round. I didn’t care. For now, I had the crown jewel: The Leviathan of Crimson Fins, captured in all its feral majesty. People would whisper about these prints, hang them like relics, buy them as if owning one meant you’d faced the ocean’s oldest trick and lived. Which, against every odd, we had. Of course, the boat was sinking, but that’s another invoice.     Bring the Legend Home “The Leviathan of Crimson Fins” wasn’t just an adventure—it became an image worthy of immortality. Now you can bring that same feral majesty into your own space. Whether you want a bold centerpiece or a subtle reminder of oceanic legend, the Leviathan translates beautifully into curated art products designed to inspire awe every time you see them. For collectors and décor lovers, the framed print or acrylic print offer museum-quality presentation, capturing every crisp detail of the dragon’s scales and fins. For those who like to puzzle over mysteries (literally), the jigsaw puzzle lets you relive the chaos of the breach one piece at a time. On the go? Carry a touch of myth with you using the tote bag, perfect for daily adventures, or keep your essentials in a sleek zippered pouch that turns practicality into legend. Each product is more than just merchandise—it’s a piece of the story, a way to hold onto the wild thrill of witnessing a sea dragon rise from the deep. Own your part of the adventure today.

por 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.

por Bill Tiepelman

El infierno se encuentra con el Edén

En la última noche del año, cuando el mundo contiene la respiración esperando el amanecer de un nuevo comienzo, las fuerzas ancestrales despiertan. Mucho antes de las cuentas regresivas y los fuegos artificiales modernos, en la víspera de Año Nuevo se desató una batalla entre dos fuerzas primordiales: el Infierno y el Edén. Su enfrentamiento es a la vez una advertencia y una bendición, una historia que se cuenta en susurros de generación en generación, pero que rara vez se comprende. El despertar A medida que el año viejo se acerca a su fin, se forma un desgarro en el tejido del mundo. Oculto bajo la superficie de la tierra, en una caverna de fuego fundido y raíces enredadas, Inferno se agita. Su cuerpo está forjado con piedra negra agrietada, y palpita con vetas brillantes de magma que fluyen como sangre. Sus ojos brillan con hambre de destrucción, quemando los restos de lo que ya no sirve al mundo. Se alza con un rugido atronador, sacudiendo las montañas y agrietando la tierra. “Ha llegado el momento”, gruñe, su voz resuena con un poder primigenio. “Lo viejo debe arder. Lo que está muerto debe ser olvidado. Lo que es débil debe perecer”. Desde el lado opuesto de la caverna, Eden despierta. Su cuerpo es un tapiz de verdes vibrantes y azules relucientes, su cabello un bosque en cascada de musgo y enredaderas. Pequeños pájaros e insectos brillantes revolotean a su alrededor, y arroyos de agua cristalina caen de las yemas de sus dedos. Sus ojos son tranquilos pero penetrantes, un recordatorio de que la vida es tan frágil como resistente. —Siempre te apresuras a destruir, hermano —dice Edén, dando un paso adelante. Su voz es suave pero firme, llena de autoridad silenciosa—. Pero la destrucción por sí sola es hueca. Si todo lo que dejas son cenizas, ¿quién crecerá de ellas? Inferno gruñe y sus garras raspan el suelo rocoso. “Y tú, hermana, ahogarías el mundo en tu crecimiento infinito. Sin fuego, no hay lugar para la vida. Sin muerte, no hay renacimiento”. —Veamos entonces, como hacemos cada año —responde Edén, con tono firme—. Probemos el equilibrio. La danza eterna Las dos fuerzas entran en la enorme caverna, que se transforma en un campo de batalla sin límites. Sobre ellos, el cielo se divide en dos: una mitad resplandece con fuego, la otra brilla con luz esmeralda y azul. El aire vibra con tensión mientras Inferno carga, sus garras dejan rastros de roca fundida a su paso. Eden se mueve con gracia, sus pasos hacen brotar flores y árboles que crecen en un instante, solo para ser quemados por el calor de Inferno. Cuando él se lanza hacia ella, ella levanta una mano y una pared de enredaderas surge del suelo, bloqueando su camino. Las enredaderas chisporrotean y arden, liberando una nube de vapor fragante. —¿Lo sientes, Infierno? —pregunta Edén, su voz se escucha por encima del crepitar de las llamas—. ¿Las semillas enterradas en tus cenizas? Brotan incluso ahora, en medio de tu furia. El infierno ruge y desata una ola de fuego que abrasa el campo de batalla. “¿Y tú sientes esto, Edén? Tu precioso crecimiento no puede soportar mis llamas para siempre. Tus árboles se marchitan, tus ríos hierven. Todo debe terminar”. Edén avanza sin miedo y su mirada se cruza con la de él. —Sí, hermano, todo debe terminar. Pero tú olvidas que cada final es un comienzo. De tu destrucción, yo traigo vida. Sin mí, tu fuego no tiene sentido. Inferno hace una pausa y entrecierra sus ojos derretidos. Por un momento, la caverna queda en silencio, salvo por el siseo del vapor y el crepitar de las brasas. “Y sin mí”, gruñe, “tu crecimiento ahogaría al mundo. Lo sofocarías con raíces interminables, ahogándolo en tu abundancia sofocante”. —Tal vez —dice Edén, con una leve sonrisa en los labios—. Por eso nos necesitamos el uno al otro. Por eso el mundo nos necesita a los dos. La lección del equilibrio La batalla continúa, cada golpe y contragolpe pinta el campo de batalla con fuego y vida. Las llamas del Infierno consumen el bosque que Edén creó, pero de las cenizas brota nueva vida. Los ríos de Edén extinguen su furia ardiente, pero el vapor se eleva y se condensa en tormentas que alimentan su crecimiento. Es un equilibrio que ninguno puede romper, aunque ambos lo intentan cada año. A medida que el reloj se acerca a la medianoche, Inferno avanza y libera una última y devastadora ola de fuego que consume todo el campo de batalla. Por un momento, todo queda en silencio y el mundo se baña en un extraño resplandor naranja. Luego, del suelo carbonizado surge un único brote verde. Crece rápidamente y se convierte en un árbol que se extiende hacia los cielos, con sus raíces entrelazadas con el núcleo fundido de Inferno. Las dos fuerzas se detienen y sus miradas se encuentran. “Y así, todo vuelve a empezar”, dice Edén suavemente, apoyando la mano en la corteza del árbol. “Lo viejo deja paso a lo nuevo”. Inferno se ríe entre dientes, con un sonido profundo y retumbante. “Siempre encuentras la manera, hermana. Pero un día, tal vez mis llamas ardan con tanta fuerza que ni siquiera tú podrás recuperarte”. —Quizás —responde Edén, con su voz como el susurro de las hojas en el viento—. Pero hasta ese día, seguiré creciendo. Y también lo hará el mundo. El amanecer de un nuevo año Cuando el reloj marca la medianoche, el campo de batalla desaparece y el mundo vuelve a su tranquilo letargo. Los fuegos artificiales iluminan el cielo, un tributo a las llamas del Infierno. Los gritos y las risas resuenan en el aire, una celebración de la promesa de renovación del Edén. La leyenda del Infierno y el Edén ha sido olvidada por la mayoría, pero su lección perdura en los corazones de todos los que celebran el Año Nuevo. Es un momento para reflexionar, liberarse y crecer. Para abrazar la pasión ardiente del cambio mientras se nutren las semillas de la esperanza. Porque sin destrucción y renovación, no puede haber progreso ni vida. Y así, el ciclo continúa, año tras año, mientras el Infierno y el Edén realizan su danza eterna, recordando al mundo el delicado equilibrio entre el caos y la creación. Feliz Año Nuevo, donde el Infierno se encuentra con el Edén, y el pasado da paso al futuro. Dale vida a la leyenda Celebre el equilibrio eterno de la destrucción y la renovación con productos exclusivos inspirados en la leyenda del Infierno y el Edén. Ya sea que desee adornar su espacio o llevar consigo un pedacito de esta historia atemporal, estos artículos son la manera perfecta de encarnar el espíritu de transformación y crecimiento. Tapiz Inferno Meets Eden : transforma cualquier pared en una obra maestra con esta sorprendente representación del choque elemental. Impresión en lienzo : una obra de arte audaz y duradera que captura la pasión ardiente y la exuberante serenidad de la historia del dragón. Bolso de mano : lleva la leyenda contigo dondequiera que vayas con este diseño ecológico y artístico. Impresión en madera : una forma rústica y única de mostrar el poder y la armonía del Infierno y el Edén. Haga clic en los enlaces de arriba para explorar la colección y encontrar la pieza perfecta para inspirar su viaje hacia el Año Nuevo.

por Bill Tiepelman

Orbe de los orígenes: La fortaleza de la cría

El despertar de la cría Érase una vez, en la aterciopelada oscuridad del espacio, entre el tapiz de estrellas titilantes, surgió una historia tan antigua como el tiempo mismo. Fue dentro de las nebulosas arremolinadas y las auroras danzantes donde un huevo cósmico zumbaba con la promesa de vida. Este no era un huevo cualquiera, ya que llevaba dentro de su cáscara el potencial de comienzos inexplorados, un futuro escrito en las estrellas pero aún por desarrollarse. En el corazón de la gran guardería cósmica, en medio del armonioso coro de palpitantes cuerpos celestes, el huevo empezó a resquebrajarse. Fue un momento que el universo mismo parecía haberse detenido a presenciar. Un hocico diminuto, cubierto con el brillo del polvo de estrellas, se abrió paso a través de la grieta, seguido por un par de ojos muy abiertos y curiosos que contenían en su interior el nacimiento de nebulosas. Este fue el nacimiento de Astra, una cría de dragón cuyas escamas brillaban con un tono cósmico, un espejismo del universo que la dio a luz. Ella era una criatura nacida de las estrellas, y a las estrellas pertenecería para siempre. Astra desplegó sus delicadas alas, todavía tiernas y translúcidas, y contempló el orbe radiante que yacía dentro de los restos de su cuna cósmica. Se decía que el Orbe de los Orígenes, como se susurraba entre las constelaciones, contenía la esencia misma de la creación del universo. Era el corazón de toda la materia, el núcleo de toda la energía y la semilla de toda la vida. El Orbe latía suavemente, al ritmo de los propios latidos del corazón de Astra, y con cada pulso, una nueva estrella cobraba vida en algún lugar del infinito océano del espacio. Mientras Astra acunaba el Orbe, sintió una conexión con el cosmos que la empoderaba y la humillaba al mismo tiempo. Ella entendió, sin saber cómo, que ahora era la guardiana de este Orbe, la guardiana del potencial y la pastora de los secretos del universo. Su viaje apenas comenzaba, un camino que la llevaría a través de los misterios de la creación, la forja de mundos y la crianza de la vida. El dominio del dragón Con el Orbe de los Orígenes cálido contra su pecho, Astra se elevó sobre su cola enrollada. Sus ojos, vastos como el vacío pero cálidos como el núcleo de un sol, parpadearon con un nuevo propósito. Las galaxias que la rodeaban no eran simplemente lugares dignos de contemplar; eran sus cargas, su juego, su responsabilidad. A medida que ella se movía, también lo hacía la estructura del espacio, deformándose en patrones deliciosos que hacían cosquillas en los bordes de los agujeros negros y pasaban junto a los púlsares. El tiempo pasó de una manera desconocida para los mortales, porque el tiempo en el espacio es tan fluido como los ríos celestiales que fluyen entre las estrellas. Astra creció, sus escamas se endurecieron como las cortezas de planetas que se enfrían y su aliento se convirtió en un viento solar que avivaba las llamas de soles distantes. Ella se estaba convirtiendo en parte de la danza cósmica, en una coreógrafa de sinfonías celestiales. Pero con gran poder llegó una soledad que pesaba sobre su corazón como una estrella enana negra. Astra anhelaba un parentesco, otra alma que compartiera su linaje estelar. Fue entonces cuando el Orbe de los Orígenes, sintiendo el anhelo dentro del corazón del dragón, pulsó con un tono carmesí profundo y comenzó a tararear una melodía que resonaba con la frecuencia de la creación. Atraídas por la melodía, las formas comenzaron a fusionarse a partir del polvo de estrellas: otros seres, cada uno único en forma y tono, pero afines en espíritu. Eran los Astrakin, nacidos del anhelo de Astra y de la magia ilimitada del Orbe. Bailaron a su alrededor, una constelación de compañeros, cada uno con un pequeño orbe propio, un fragmento del original que continuaba uniéndolos a su madre dragón. Juntos, volaron a través del universo, tejiendo nuevas estrellas en el firmamento, dando forma a nebulosas y susurrando vida. El Orbe de los Orígenes permaneció con Astra, y su luminiscencia ahora se comparte entre sus parientes, un recordatorio de su deber sagrado como guardianes de la existencia. En el corazón del espacio, donde nacen los sueños y el tiempo teje su enigmático tapiz, Astra y su Astrakin se convirtieron en los eternos pastores del cosmos, el dominio del dragón en constante expansión, siempre duradero. A medida que Astra y los Astrakin forjaron su legado en todo el cosmos, las historias sobre su tutela y la magia del Orbe se extendieron por todas partes, incluso hasta el distante e imaginativo reino de la Tierra. Aquí, en un mundo repleto de creatividad, estas historias inspiraron una serie de artículos exquisitos, cada uno de los cuales captura la esencia de la leyenda cósmica. La pegatina "Orbe de los orígenes: La fortaleza de la cría" se convirtió en un emblema preciado, encontrando su lugar entre las posesiones de aquellos que apreciaban las maravillas del universo. Sirvió como un compañero constante, un recordatorio del universo ilimitado que aguardaba más allá del velo del cielo. El majestuoso Póster , con su vibrante exhibición, convirtió paredes lisas en puertas de entrada a otros mundos, invitando a los espectadores a entrar en un reino donde los dragones se elevaban y las estrellas nacían por el suave capricho de los sueños de una cría. En la red de comercio, surgió un Tote Bag único, que permitía a los terrícolas llevar el encanto del cosmos sobre sus hombros, mientras que la comodidad de las estrellas llegaba a casa con un Throw Pillow , cada uno de ellos un suave trono digno de cualquier soñador. Y para aquellos que buscaban calor bajo las mismas estrellas que Astra cuidaba, la manta polar "Orbe de los Orígenes" los envolvió en un abrazo celestial, como si la cría del dragón hubiera doblado la tela de los cielos a su alrededor en un tierno y protector capullo. . Así, la leyenda de Astra y sus parientes cósmicos se entrelazaron con las vidas de aquellos en la Tierra, el dominio del dragón se extendió más allá de las estrellas para inspirar, consolar y encender la imaginación de todos los que creían en la magia del universo.

por Bill Tiepelman

Jaque mate del Dragón Cósmico

En un universo místico, donde la esencia misma de la magia se entrelaza con los hilos de la realidad, se desarrolla una historia de proporciones épicas. El Gran Maestro Mago, una figura de inmenso poder y antigua sabiduría, cuyo manto es un tapiz de centelleante tela cósmica, se encuentra en el corazón de esta narrativa. Se enfrenta a un oponente formidable y majestuoso: el Dragón Cósmico, un ser cuyas escamas contienen los susurros del tiempo y el espacio, cuya sola presencia es una vorágine que altera el tejido del universo. Su arena, una extensión ilimitada transformada en un tablero de ajedrez titánico, se extiende sobre la inmensidad de una nebulosa nacida de estrellas. Este tablero, un reflejo del propio cosmos, acoge un juego de consecuencias existenciales. Las piezas de ajedrez, animadas por los ecos de la creación, son encarnaciones de fenómenos celestiales, desde estrellas pulsantes hasta cometas errantes, cada uno de los cuales resuena con la esencia de entidades cósmicas. Mientras el Gran Maestro Mago, con la mano envuelta en polvo de estrellas, contempla su siguiente táctica, sus dedos trazan el contorno de un alfil tallado en el corazón de un cometa. Su núcleo helado, resplandeciente de energía latente, espera el toque del destino. Sus ojos, profundos como el vacío sin fin, contienen el reflejo del pasado, presente y futuro, contemplando los infinitos resultados de la danza cósmica entre la creación y el olvido. Ante él, se alza el Dragón Cósmico, silencioso pero vibrante. Sus alas fractales se despliegan, un vasto tapiz de patrones fascinantes que hablan de los secretos encerrados en la estructura de todo. Su aliento, una conflagración de luz y energía primordial, baña el tablero de ajedrez con un brillo etéreo e imponente, una luz que canta sobre el nacimiento y la desaparición de los mundos. A medida que se desarrolla su lucha de voluntades e intelecto, el flujo mismo del tiempo se deforma a su alrededor. Los eones caen en cascada como momentos con cada cambio en el tablero. El mago, en un golpe maestro de previsión, hace avanzar a su reina, un movimiento que refleja el encendido de una nebulosa, un ballet cósmico de génesis e iluminación. El dragón contraataca con la gracia de la inevitabilidad, su caballero derribando una pieza, anunciando la caída silenciosa de una estrella distante, un guiño solemne a la fugacidad de todas las cosas. El cenit de su encuentro celestial llega cuando el mago, con su voz como un trueno bajo en el vacío, declara jaque mate. La maniobra, elegante y decisiva, parece dictar el destino de galaxias aún por nacer. En ese singular momento de aparente victoria, las alas del Dragón Cósmico se despliegan, revelando patrones de insondable complejidad, una sinfonía visual de conocimiento que trasciende la comprensión. Estos patrones, ocultos dentro de la piel cósmica del dragón, sugieren que este encuentro no es más que un vistazo de la eterna interacción de la estrategia cósmica, un juego interminable que se juega a través del tejido de la realidad. El mago, con los ojos encendidos con el fuego de mil soles, se inclina con profundo respeto. Reconoce la profundidad de su juego. Esta danza de movimientos y contramovimientos, proyectada sobre el lienzo del universo, no está sujeta a los términos de victoria o derrota. Existe en un reino donde las líneas entre la magia y lo material se desdibujan en la oscuridad, donde cada elección y oportunidad se convierte en parte del patrón ilimitado de la existencia. Y así, el Gran Maestro Mago y el Dragón Cósmico continúan su juego, moviendo cada uno un verso en el poema eterno del universo. Su contienda, lejos de concluir con la caída de un rey o el triunfo de un jaque mate, sigue viva como una narrativa infinita entretejida en el vasto y majestuoso tapiz de todo lo que es, fue y será. Mientras los ecos del jaque mate final resuenan en el cosmos, la gran historia de intelecto y estrategia entre el Gran Maestro Mago y el Dragón Cósmico inspira creaciones en el reino de los mortales. Para aquellos atraídos por el arte de las estrellas y la emoción de la conquista cósmica, el patrón de punto de cruz Jaque mate del dragón cósmico ofrece la oportunidad de enhebrar la aguja a través de la tela del universo, creando un cuadro de su encuentro legendario. Para las mentes que se deleitan en reconstruir los misterios del cosmos, el Rompecabezas Jaque Mate del Dragón Cósmico invoca al estratega interior, cada pieza es un fragmento del gran juego cósmico, esperando revelar la majestuosa imagen de la gran partida de ajedrez. Los admiradores del arte astral pueden contemplar el póster Jaque mate del Dragón Cósmico , donde se inmortaliza el vibrante duelo, una sinfonía visual que captura la saga en un momento único e inspirador. Para aquellos que buscan consagrar esta narrativa en su santuario, la impresión enmarcada ofrece una ventana al juego eterno, bordeada por la esencia de la elegancia y el encanto cósmico. Y en espacios donde el tejido de la realidad parece adelgazarse, el Tapiz Jaque Mate del Dragón Cósmico cuelga como testimonio de la imaginación ilimitada, sus hilos tejidos son una constelación de creatividad e inspiración, una pieza que no solo adorna sino que también trasciende como un portal. al juego infinito entre magia y realidad. A través de estos inspirados artefactos, el legado del Gran Maestro Mago y el Dragón Cósmico se extiende más allá del reino celestial, capturando la imaginación de aquellos que buscan tocar lo extraordinario, poseer una parte del cosmos y ser parte de la crónica perpetua. ese es el Jaque Mate del Dragón Cósmico.