Fairy with attitude

por Bill Tiepelman

Aged Like Fine Wine and Dark Magic

The problem with being an immortal fae wasn’t the magic, the wings, or even the centuries of unpaid taxes. No, the real issue was the hangovers. The kind that lasted decades. Madra of the Withered Vale had once been a sprightly little thing, flitting through the moonlit woods, enchanting mushrooms, cursing ex-boyfriends, and generally making a nuisance of herself. That was a long time ago. Now, she was what the younger fae rudely referred to as “vintage,” and she had no patience for their nonsense. She took a long, deliberate sip from her goblet of Deepwood Red, a cursed wine so potent it had ended kingdoms. The glass was chipped, but so was she. “You’re staring again,” she muttered. There was, of course, no one around. Except for a particularly nosy squirrel perched nearby, watching her with its beady little eyes. It had been doing this for weeks. “I swear, if you don’t scram, I’ll turn you into an acorn. Permanently.” The squirrel chittered something obscene and darted up a tree. Good. She had enough problems without dealing with judgmental rodents. The Golden Age of Poor Decisions Once upon a time (which, in fae terms, meant somewhere between fifty years and five hundred, she had stopped counting), Madra had been at the center of every enchanted revelry. She had danced on tables, cast spells of questionable legality, and made absolutely terrible choices involving attractive strangers who later turned out to be cursed frogs. Or worse—princes. Then one fateful evening, she had challenged the wrong elf to a drinking contest. Elves, being the smug little tree-huggers they were, rarely drank anything stronger than honeyed mead. But this one had been different. He had a wicked grin, a suspiciously high alcohol tolerance, and the kind of bone structure that suggested he’d never known true hardship. “I bet I can drink you under the table,” she had declared. “I bet you can’t,” he had replied. Madra had won. And lost. Because the elf, in a spectacularly petty move, had cast a drunken curse upon her before passing out in a puddle of his own hubris. She would never, ever be able to get properly drunk again. “May your tolerance be eternal,” he had slurred. “May your liver be unbreakable.” And that was that. Decades of drinking and nothing. She could chug a bottle of fae whiskey without so much as a dizzy spell. All the joy, all the chaos, all the questionable decision-making? Gone. And now she sat here, on her usual branch, drinking out of pure spite. Visitors are the Worst She was midway through her fourth glass of sulk-wine when she heard the distinct sound of footsteps. Not the light, careful steps of an animal or the sneaky little scurrying of goblins trying to steal her socks. No, this was a person. She groaned. Loudly. “If you’re here to ask for a love potion, the answer is no,” she called out. “If you’re here to complain about a love potion, the answer is still no. And if you’re here to steal my wine, I’ll turn your kneecaps into mushrooms.” There was a pause. Then a voice, deep and annoyingly smooth, called back. “I assure you, I have no interest in your wine.” “Then you’re an idiot.” The owner of the voice stepped into view. Tall. Dark hair. The kind of smirk that suggested he either had a death wish or was a professional seducer. “Madra of the Withered Vale,” he said, with the kind of dramatic flair that made her want to throw her goblet at his head. “I have come to seek your wisdom.” Madra sighed and took another sip. “Oh, stars help me.” She had a feeling this was about to be one of those days.     Some People Just Don’t Listen Madra stared at the mysterious visitor over the rim of her goblet, debating whether she was sober enough to deal with this nonsense. Unfortunately, thanks to the elf’s curse, she was always sober enough. “Listen, Pretty Boy,” she said, swirling her wine in a way that suggested she was this close to throwing it at him. “I don’t do ‘wisdom.’ I do sarcasm, mild threats, and occasionally, revenge-fueled spellcraft. If you’re looking for a wise old fae to give you a heartwarming prophecy, try the next forest over.” “You wound me,” he said, placing a hand on his chest like some kind of tragic bard. “Not yet, but I’m seriously considering it.” He chuckled, entirely too at ease for a man standing in front of a clearly irritated fae with questionable morals. “I need your help.” “Oh, for the love of the Moon.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. What exactly do you want?” He stepped closer, and Madra immediately pointed a clawed finger at him. “If you’re about to ask for a love spell, I swear—” “No love spells,” he said, holding up his hands. “I need something much more serious. There’s a dragon.” She sighed so hard it rattled the leaves. “There’s always a dragon.” Why is it Always a Dragon? Madra took a long, slow sip of her wine, staring at him over the rim of her goblet. “Let me guess. You need a magic sword. A fireproof cloak. A blessing from an ancient fae so you can fulfill some ridiculous prophecy about slaying the beast and reclaiming your lost honor.” He blinked. “...No.” “Oh. Well, that’s disappointing.” He shifted on his feet. “I need to steal something from the dragon.” She snorted. “So, what you’re saying is, you don’t just want to get yourself killed—you want to do it in the most spectacularly bad way possible.” “Exactly.” “I like you.” She took another sip. “You’re an idiot.” “Thank you.” Madra sighed and finally set down her goblet. “Alright, fine. I’ll help. But not because I care. It’s just been a while since I’ve watched someone make absolutely terrible decisions, and frankly, I miss it.” Bad Plans and Worse Ideas “First things first,” she said, sliding off the branch with surprising grace for someone who looked like she’d been through at least three wars and a questionable marriage. “What, exactly, are you trying to steal?” He hesitated. “Oh, no.” She pointed a gnarled finger at him. “If you say ‘the dragon’s heart’ or some other romantic nonsense, I am leaving.” “It’s… uh… a bottle.” She narrowed her eyes. “A bottle of what?” He cleared his throat. “A very old, very magical bottle of enchanted liquor.” Madra went completely still. “You mean to tell me,” she said, voice dangerously low, “that there exists a drink strong enough to be locked away in a dragon’s hoard, and I have been suffering through this for centuries?” She waved at herself, meaning the curse, her sobriety, and possibly her entire life. “...Yes?” Madra’s wings twitched. “Alright,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “New plan. We’re stealing that bottle, and you are my new favorite human.” He grinned. “So, you’ll help?” She grabbed her staff, took a final sip of wine, and flashed a wicked, too-sharp smile. “Darling, I’ll do more than help. I’ll make sure we don’t just survive this—we’ll make it look good.” And with that, Madra of the Withered Vale set off to do what she did best. Cause absolute, spectacular chaos.     Take a Piece of the Magic Home Did Madra’s snarky wisdom and thirst for chaos resonate with you? Perhaps you, too, appreciate a fine wine, a terrible decision, or the idea of an ancient fae who’s just so over it. If so, you can bring a little of her enchanted, slightly tipsy magic into your own world! 🏰 Enchant Your Walls with a Tapestry – Let Madra’s unimpressed gaze remind you daily that life is short, but wine is forever. 🌲 A Rustic Wood Print for Your Lair – The perfect addition to any home, office, or mysterious forest dwelling. 🧩 A Puzzle for the Cursed and the Cunning – Because assembling a thousand tiny pieces is still easier than dealing with adventurers before coffee. 💌 A Greeting Card for Fellow Mischief Makers – Share Madra’s unimpressed expression with friends and let them know you care—just, you know, in a fae kind of way. Whether you're decorating your walls, sending a snarky note, or testing your patience with a puzzle, these magical creations are the perfect way to celebrate fae mischief and questionable life choices. Shop the collection now and bring a little enchanted attitude into your world. Just... don’t challenge an elf to a drinking contest. Trust us.

por Bill Tiepelman

Dancing with the Breeze

Dancing with the Breeze: A Fairy’s Guide to Chaos and Confidence In the heart of the Meadow of Improbable Wonders, where wildflowers whispered secrets and dragonflies gossiped like suburban moms, lived a fairy named Calla. And Calla? Well, Calla was a *lot*. Not in a *causing-the-downfall-of-a-kingdom* way—though, let’s be honest, she’d probably be excellent at that, too. No, Calla was simply a walking, flying, glittering embodiment of “extra.” She didn’t just exist. She *thrived.* Loudly. And sometimes at the expense of other people’s patience. “It’s not my fault,” she would say, tossing her golden curls. “I was born fabulous. Some of us are just built different.” Most fairies in the Meadow had sensible jobs—pollinating flowers, controlling the weather, guiding lost travelers. Calla, on the other hand, had a self-assigned role: *Chief Enthusiasm Officer of General Nonsense.* Which is why, on this particularly sunny morning, she was standing on a toadstool, dramatically monologuing to a crowd of deeply uninterested insects. The Art of Waking Up Fabulous Let’s get one thing straight—Calla was *not* a morning person. In fact, she considered mornings to be a personal attack. They arrived uninvited, they were unnecessarily bright, and worst of all—they required her to function. She had perfected a strict wake-up routine: Groan dramatically and refuse to move for at least fifteen minutes. Knock over her jar of stardust (every. single. morning.). Complain loudly that life was unfair and that she needed a personal assistant. Finally drag herself out of bed and look in the mirror. Admire herself. More admiration. Okay, *one more minute* of admiration. Start the day. Today was no different. She stretched luxuriously, let out a satisfied sigh, and blinked blearily at the world. “Another day of being perfect. Exhausting, honestly.” After throwing on her *signature* fairy outfit—a tiny cropped top, shredded green shorts (courtesy of an unfortunate incident with a hedgehog), and a sprinkling of moon-dust highlighter—she fluttered out of her tree-hollow home, ready to cause *just a little* chaos. The Wind Selection Process Calla had one simple mission today: Find the *perfect* breeze and dance with it. Not just *any* wind would do. No, no, no. This was an art form. A science. A spiritual experience. The breeze had to be just right—strong enough to lift her, soft enough to keep her floating, and ideally infused with just a little magic. She tested the Morning Dew Drift—too damp. Nobody likes soggy wings. The Midday Gust of Disappointment—too aggressive. Almost yeeted her into a tree. The Afternoon Swirl of Indecision—too unpredictable. It nearly carried her into an awkward conversation with Harold the socially anxious squirrel. Finally, just as she was about to give up, the Sunset Whisper arrived. Warm, golden, playful. “Oh yes,” she purred. “This is the one.” Flying, Flailing, and Unexpected Lessons With a running start, Calla leapt into the air and let the wind carry her. She twirled, flipped, let herself get lost in the rhythm of the sky. The world blurred in streaks of green and gold, and for a few perfect moments, she was weightless. Then, because life is rude, she lost control. One second she was soaring. The next, she was spiraling, heading directly for the *one* obstacle in an otherwise open field—Finn. Now, Finn was a fellow fairy, known mostly for his ability to sigh like an old man trapped in a young body. He was a realist, a planner, a problem-solver. He was also, unfortunately, standing exactly where Calla was about to crash. “MOVE!” she yelled. Finn looked up, blinked, and said, “Oh, no.” And then she collided with him, sending them both tumbling into a cluster of wildflowers. Debriefing the Disaster “Calla,” Finn wheezed from beneath her. “Why?” She rolled off him dramatically. “Oh, please. That was at least 70% your fault.” Finn sat up, picking daisies out of his hair. “How, exactly?” “Standing. In my way. Not moving. Existing too solidly.” Finn sighed the sigh of someone who had made poor life choices by knowing her. “So,” he said, “what was today’s lesson? Aside from the fact that you need to work on your landings.” Calla stretched her arms, smiling at the setting sun. “Life is like a breeze. Sometimes you fly, sometimes you crash, but the important thing is—you go for it.” Finn considered this. “Huh. Not bad.” “Obviously.” She flipped her hair. “Now, come on. Let’s go throw rocks into the pond dramatically.” Finn groaned, but followed. Because Calla? Calla made life interesting.     Take the Magic Home Want to bring a little fairy mischief and whimsy into your life? Whether you’re looking to add a touch of enchantment to your walls, snuggle up with cozy magic, or carry a piece of the fairy realm with you—these handpicked products are the perfect way to capture the spirit of Calla’s adventures. ✨ Canvas Print: Elevate your space with the stunning "Dancing with the Breeze" Canvas Print. Let Calla’s carefree energy inspire you daily. 🧚 Throw Pillow: Add a sprinkle of fairy dust to your home with this magical Throw Pillow, perfect for daydreaming and dramatic sighing. 🌙 Fleece Blanket: Wrap yourself in cozy fairy magic with the ultra-soft Fleece Blanket. Ideal for chilly nights or plotting your next mischief. 👜 Tote Bag: Carry a little fairy sass wherever you go with this enchanting Tote Bag. Perfect for magical errands and spontaneous adventures. Life is short—surround yourself with things that make you smile. And remember, when the breeze is right, always dance. 🧚✨

por Bill Tiepelman

Taza de magia helada

Una mañana nevada en los bosques encantados de Glimmergrove, una hada muy pequeña y muy molesta llamada Zephyra se encontró en una posición bastante indigna. Había estado en sus asuntos, es decir, durmiendo la siesta en su hamaca favorita de pétalos de rosa, cuando una ráfaga de viento invernal la catapultó a una taza roja de gran tamaño. La taza, dejada atrás por algún humano descuidado, ahora era su residencia no deseada. —Genial —murmuró, mientras se quitaba de un soplido un mechón de pelo plateado de la cara—. Esto es exactamente lo que necesitaba: una prisión helada disfrazada de cerámica de mala calidad. —Se cruzó de brazos y agitó las alas con disgusto, enviando una pequeña ráfaga de escarcha al aire—. Si quisiera congelarme el trasero, habría aceptado ese trabajo de modelo para el estúpido jardín de esculturas de hielo de la Reina de las Nieves. Las alas de Zephyra eran carámbanos brillantes, su cabello estaba enredado en un moño desordenado que gritaba "espíritu sobrecargado de trabajo" y su nariz pecosa estaba roja por el frío. Miró hacia el borde imponente de la taza. Para su consternación, estaba cubierto por una capa resbaladiza de escarcha, lo que convertía cualquier intento de escape en un desastre resbaladizo a punto de ocurrir. —Perfecto. Simplemente perfecto —dijo, levantando las manos con dramatismo—. Soy un hada de siglos de antigüedad con poderes mágicos y estoy atrapada en una taza de café como una especie de adorno alado. Entra el zorro Mientras planeaba su escape, un zorro curioso apareció a la vista, moviendo su cola esponjosa sobre la nieve. El zorro se detuvo, olfateó el aire y luego miró fijamente a Zephyra. Una lenta sonrisa se extendió por su rostro, o al menos la más amplia que un zorro podía lograr. —Oh, no —gruñó Zephyra—. Ni lo pienses, bola de pelo. El zorro inclinó la cabeza, claramente pensando cuál era la mejor manera de volcar la taza y quedarse con su nuevo bocadillo de hadas. Con un movimiento descarado de su muñeca, Zephyra conjuró una pequeña bola de nieve y la arrojó a la nariz del zorro. El animal chilló y retrocedió unos pasos, mirándola con orgullo herido. —¡Así es! —gritó, levantándose en la taza con toda la autoridad que su estatura de cinco centímetros le permitía—. No soy un aperitivo para tu bufé de invierno. ¡Fuera! El zorro soltó un bufido desdeñoso y se alejó trotando, decidiendo claramente que no valía la pena el esfuerzo. Zephyra se dejó caer de nuevo en la taza, con sus pequeños puños apoyados en las caderas. —Ahuyento a los depredadores, sobrevivo a las tormentas de nieve y, aun así, sigo atrapada en esta estúpida cosa —murmuró—. ¿Qué será lo próximo? ¿Una ardilla que intente usarme como adorno para el árbol? El mago del café Como si fuera una señal, el sonido de pasos crujidos llegó a sus oídos congelados. Una figura alta emergió de los árboles, envuelta en capas de túnicas y bufandas. La recién llegada llevaba un termo humeante y tarareaba una melodía alegre que hizo que las alas de Zephyra se contrajeran de irritación. —Un mago —murmuró—. Por supuesto. Porque mi día no podría ser más extraño. El mago, ajeno a la mirada asesina del hada que lo miraba fijamente desde el interior de la taza, se acercó con una mirada de deleite. —Bueno, ¿qué tenemos aquí? —dijo con voz resonante y cálida—. ¡Una pequeña hada en una taza! ¡Qué sorpresa tan agradable! Zephyra arqueó una ceja. “¿Delicioso para quién, exactamente? Porque no me siento particularmente caprichosa en este momento”. El mago la miró con los ojos entrecerrados. —Oh, eres una chica muy luchadora, ¿no? —¿Guerrero? Escucha, imitación de Gandalf, he tenido una mañana difícil y, a menos que tengas una escalera, un hechizo de teletransportación o al menos un capuchino decente, te sugiero que sigas caminando. El mago se rió entre dientes. “Está bien, pequeña. Pero ¿cómo terminaste ahí?” Zephyra puso los ojos en blanco. “¿Parezco que lo sé? Un minuto estoy durmiendo la siesta y al siguiente soy un helado en esta monstruosidad”. El mago asintió con sabiduría, como si se tratara de una explicación perfectamente razonable. —Bueno, no te preocupes, porque te liberaré de tu prisión de porcelana. —¡Oh, por fin! Alguien con algo de sentido común —dijo Zephyra—. Y tal vez puedas poner una manta encima mientras estás ahí. Me estoy congelando las alas. La gran evasión Con un movimiento de muñeca, el mago lanzó un suave hechizo y la taza empezó a calentarse. Del borde se levantó vapor, derritiendo la escarcha y permitiendo que Zephyra extendiera sus alas. Revoloteó en el aire, dando un pequeño giro solo para sacudirse el frío. —Ya era hora —dijo ella, mientras se quitaba el polvo imaginario de su reluciente vestido—. Gracias, supongo. El mago sonrió. “De nada, pequeña. Aunque debo decir que tienes todo un carácter”. —Sí, bueno, cuando eres tan pequeño, tienes que tener una gran personalidad —dijo ella, guiñándole un ojo con picardía—. Ahora, si me disculpas, tengo que terminar una siesta y, si otra taza se cruza en mi camino, le prenderé fuego. Dicho esto, Zephyra se adentró en el bosque, dejando al mago riendo y sacudiendo la cabeza. Y así, la taza helada permaneció vacía en la nieve, un monumento a la determinación de una hada muy descarada de nunca dejar que el invierno, o la mala cerámica, se apoderen de ella. Lleva la magia a casa Si la gélida aventura de Zephyra te dejó encantado, ¿por qué no traer un pedacito de su mundo al tuyo? 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