mythical friendship

por Bill Tiepelman

Sassy Shroom Shenanigans

Tongue Wars and the Forest Code of Sass In the deepest thicket of the Glibbergrove, where mushrooms grew big enough to get parking tickets and squirrels wore monocles unironically, there perched a gnome with absolutely no chill. His name? Grimbold Butterbuttons. His vibe? Absolute chaos in wool socks. Grimbold wasn't your average gnome. While the others busied themselves polishing snail shells or whittling toothbrushes from elder twigs, Grimbold had an entire *reputation* for being the forest’s number one instigator. He made faces at butterflies. He photobombed the Council of Owls. Once, he’d even replaced the Queen Badger’s royal tea with flat root beer just to watch her snort. So naturally, it made perfect sense that Grimbold had a pet dragon. A tiny pet dragon. One that barely came up to his belt buckle but acted like she ruled the canopy. Her name was Zilch, short for Zilcharia Flameyfangs the Third, but no one called her that unless they wanted to get singed eyebrows. That morning, the two of them were doing what they did best—being complete little shits. "Bet you can't hold that face for longer than me," Grimbold snorted, sticking out his tongue like a drunken goose and widening his eyes so far they looked like boiled turnips. Zilch, wings flaring, narrowed her gold-slitted eyes. "I INVENTED this face," she rasped, then mimicked him with such perfect deranged accuracy that even the birds stopped mid-tweet. The two locked in a battle of absurdity atop a giant red-capped mushroom—their usual morning perch-slash-stage. Tongues out. Eyes bugged. Nostrils flaring like melodramatic llamas. It was a face-off of epic immaturity, and they were both thriving. "You’re creasing your eyebrows wrong!" Zilch barked. "You’re blinking too much, cheater!" Grimbold fired back. A fat beetle waddled by with a judgmental glance, muttering, "Honestly, I preferred the mime duel last week." But they didn’t care. These two lived for this kind of nonsense. Where others saw an ancient, mysterious forest full of magic and mystery, they saw a playground. A sass-ground, if you will. And so began their day of shenanigans, with their sacred forest motto etched in mushroom spores and glitter glue: “Mock first. Ask questions never.” Only they didn’t realize that today’s game of tongue wars would unlock an accidental spell, open an interdimensional portal, and quite possibly awaken a mushroom warlord who’d once been banned for excessive pettiness. But hey—that’s a problem for later. The Portal of Pfft and the Rise of Lord Sporesnort Grimbold Butterbuttons’ tongue was still proudly extended when it happened. A *wet* sound split the air, somewhere between a cosmic zipper and a squirrel flatulating through a didgeridoo. Zilch’s pupils dilated to the size of acorns. “Grim,” she croaked, “did you just... open a thing?” The gnome didn’t answer. Mostly because his face was frozen mid-snarl, one eye twitching and tongue still glued to his chin like a sweaty stamp. Behind them, the mushroom shivered. Not metaphorically. Like, the actual mushroom. It quivered with a noise that sounded like giggling algae. And from its spore-speckled surface, a jagged tear opened in the air, like reality had been cut with blunt safety scissors. From within, a purple light pulsed like an angry disco ball. "...Oh," said Grimbold finally, blinking. "Oopsie-tootsie." Zilch smacked her forehead with a tiny claw. "You broke space again! That’s the third time this week! Do you even read the warnings in the moss tomes?" "No one reads the moss tomes," Grimbold said, shrugging. "They smell like foot soup." With a moist belch of spores and questionable glitter, something began to emerge from the portal. First came a cloud of lavender steam, then a large floppy hat. Then—very slowly—a pair of glowing green eyes, slitted like a grumpy cat that hadn’t had its brunch pâté. “I AM THE MIGHTY LORD SPORESNORT,” boomed a voice that somehow smelled like truffle oil and unwashed gym socks. “HE WHO WAS BANISHED FOR EXCESSIVE PETTINESS. HE WHO ONCE CURSED AN ENTIRE KINGDOM WITH ITCHY NIPPLES OVER A GRAMMAR MISTAKE.” Zilch gave Grimbold the longest side-eye in the history of side-eyes. "Did you just summon the ancient fungal sass-demon of legend?" "To be fair," Grimbold muttered, "I was aiming for a fart with echo." Out stepped Lord Sporesnort in full regalia—moss robes, mycelium boots, and a walking staff shaped like a passive-aggressive spatula. His beard was made entirely of mold. And not the cool, forest-sorcerer kind. The fuzzy fridge kind. He radiated judgment and lingering disappointment. "BEHOLD MY REVENGE!" Sporesnort roared. "I SHALL COVER THIS FOREST IN SPORE-MODED MISCHIEF. ALL SHALL BE IRRITATED BY THE SLIGHTEST INCONVENIENCES!" With a dramatic swirl, he cast his first spell: “Itchicus Everlasting!” Suddenly, a thousand woodland creatures began scratching themselves uncontrollably. Squirrels tumbled from branches in mid-itch. A badger ran by shrieking about chafing. Even the bees looked uncomfortable. "Okay, no. This won’t do," said Zilch, cracking her knuckles with tiny thunderclaps. "This is our forest. We annoy the locals. You don’t get to roll in with your ancient mushroom face and out-sass us." "Hear hear!" shouted Grimbold, standing proudly with one foot on a suspicious mushroom that squelched like an angry pudding. "We may be chaotic, bratty, and tragically underqualified for any real leadership, but this is our turf, you decomposing jockstrap." Lord Sporesnort laughed—an echoing wheeze that smelled of old salad. “Very well, tiny fools. Then I challenge you... to the TRIAL OF THE TRIPLE-TIERED TONGUE!” A hush fell across the glade. Somewhere, a duck dropped its sandwich. "Uh, is that a real thing?" Zilch whispered. "It is now," Sporesnort grinned, raising three slimy mushroom caps into the air. "You must perform the ultimate display of synchronized facial sass—a three-round tongue duel. Lose, and I take over Glibbergrove. Win, and I shall return to the Sporeshade Realms to wallow in my own tragic flamboyance." "You're on," said Grimbold, his face twitching with a growing smirk. "But if we win, you also have to admit that your cloak makes your butt look wide." "I—FINE," Sporesnort spat, turning slightly to cover his rear fungus flare. And thus the stage was set. Creatures gathered. Leaves rustled with gossip. A beetle vendor set up a stand selling roasted aphids on sticks and “I ♥ Sporesnort” foam fingers. Even the wind paused to see what the hell was about to happen. Grimbold and Zilch, side by side on their mushroom stage, cracked their necks, stretched their cheeks, and waggled their tongues. A hush fell. Sporesnort’s fungal beard trembled in anticipation. "Let the tongue games begin!" shouted a squirrel with a referee whistle. The Final Tongue-Off and the Scandal of the Sassy Underwear The crowd leaned in. A snail fell off its mushroom seat in suspense. Somewhere in the distance, a fungus chime rang out one somber, reverberating note. The *Trial of the Triple-Tiered Tongue* had officially begun. Round One was a classic: The Eyeball Stretch & Tongue Combo. Lord Sporesnort made the first move, his eyes bugging out like a pair of grapefruit on springs as he whipped out his tongue with such velocity it created a mild sonic pop. The crowd gasped. A field mouse fainted. “BEHOLD!” he roared, his voice echoing through the mushroom caps. “THIS IS THE ANCIENT FORM KNOWN AS ‘GORGON’S SURPRISE’!” Zilch narrowed her eyes. “That’s just ‘Monday Morning Face’ in dragon preschool.” She casually blew a tiny flame to toast a passing marshmallow on a stick, then locked eyes with Grimbold. They nodded. The duo launched into their countermove: synchronized bug-eyes, nostril flares, and tongues waggling side to side like possessed metronomes. It was elegant. It was chaotic. A raccoon dropped its pipe and screamed, “SWEET GRUBS, I’VE SEEN THE TRUTH!” “ROUND ONE: TIED,” announced the squirrel referee, his whistle now glowing from sheer stress.     Round Two: The Sass Spiral For this, the goal was to layer expressions with insult-level flair. Bonus points for eyebrow choreography. Lord Sporesnort twisted his fungal lips into a smug, upturned frown and performed what could only be described as a sassy interpretive dance using only his eyebrows. He finished by flipping his cloak, revealing fungus-embroidered briefs with the words “BITTER BUT CUTE” stitched across the rear in glowing mycelium thread. The crowd lost their collective minds. The beetle vendor passed out. A hedgehog screamed and launched into a bush. “I call that,” Sporesnort said smugly, “the Sporeshake 9000.” Grimbold stepped forward slowly. Too slowly. Suspense dripped off him like condensation off a cold goblet of forest grog. Then he struck. He wiggled his ears. He furrowed one brow. His tongue spiraled into a perfect helix, and he puffed out his cheeks until he looked like an emotionally unstable turnip. Then, with a slow, dramatic flourish, he turned around and revealed a patch sewn into the seat of his corduroy trousers. It read, in shimmering gold thread: “YOU JUST GOT GNOMED.” The forest exploded. Not literally, but close enough. Owls fainted. Mushrooms combusted from joy. A badger couple started a slow chant. “Gnome’d! Gnome’d! Gnome’d!” Zilch, not to be outdone, reared back and made the universal hand-and-claw gesture for *“Your fungus ain’t funky, babe.”* Her tail flicked with weaponized sass. The moment was perfect. "ROUND TWO: ADVANTAGE — GNOME & DRAGON!" the referee squeaked, tears running down his cheeks as he blew the whistle like it was possessed.     Final Round: Wildcard Mayhem Sporesnort snarled, spores puffing from his ears. “Fine. No more cute. No more coy. I invoke... the SACRED MUSHUNDERWEAR TECHNIQUE!” He ripped open his robes to reveal undergarments enchanted with wriggling fungal runes and vines that wove his sass into the very fabric of the universe. “This,” he bellowed, “is FUNGIFLEX™ — powered by enchanted stretch and interdimensional attitude.” The forest fell into a hush of pure, horrified admiration. Grimbold simply looked at Zilch and smirked. “We break reality now?” “Break it so hard it apologizes,” she growled. The gnome clambered atop the dragon’s back. Zilch flared her wings, eyes burning gold. Together they launched into the air with a mighty WHEEEEEEE and a burst of glitter confetti summoned from a leftover prank spell. As they twirled through the sky, they performed their final move: a dual loop-de-loop followed by simultaneous tongue-wagging, face-contorting, and butt-shaking. From Grimbold’s trousers, a secret pocket opened, revealing a banner that read, in flashing enchanted letters: “GNOME SWEAT DON’T QUIT.” They landed with a thump, Zilch belching sparkles. The crowd was in chaos. Tears. Screaming. An impromptu interpretive dance broke out. The forest was on the brink of a vibe collapse. “FINE!” Sporesnort yelled, voice cracking. “YOU WIN! I’LL GO! BUT YOU... YOU SHALL RUE THIS DAY. I’LL BE BACK. WITH MORE UNDERWEAR.” He swirled into his own portal of shame and unresolved mushroom trauma, leaving behind only the faint scent of garlic and regret. Zilch and Grimbold collapsed atop their favorite mushroom. The glade shimmered under the setting sun. Birds chirped again. The badger couple kissed. Someone started roasting victory marshmallows. "Well," said Grimbold, licking his thumb and smearing moss off his cheek. "That was... probably the third weirdest Tuesday we’ve had." "Easily," Zilch agreed, biting into a celebratory beetle snack. "Next time we prank a warlord, can we avoid the fungal lingerie?" "No promises." And so, with tongues dry and reputations elevated to mythical status, the gnome and the dragon resumed their sacred morning ritual: laughing at absolutely everything and being gloriously, unapologetically weird together. The end. Probably.     Want to bring the sass home? Whether you're a certified mischief-maker or just deeply appreciate the sacred art of tongue-based warfare, you can now take a piece of Grimbold and Zilch’s legendary moment into your own lair. Frame the chaos with a gallery-quality print, wrap yourself in their ridiculousness with this fleece blanket, or go full forest-chic with a wood print that'll make even Lord Sporesnort jealous. Send cheeky greetings with a whimsical card, or slap some mushroom-powered attitude onto your stuff with this top-tier Sassy Shroom Shenanigans sticker. Because let’s be honest—your life could use more dragons and fewer boring walls.

por Bill Tiepelman

The Unicorn Keeper

Deep in the Thistlewhack Woodlands, just past the grumbling bogs and that one suspiciously carnivorous mushroom grove, lived a girl named Marnie Pickleleaf. Now, Marnie wasn’t your usual woodland creature—no sir. She was a certified, broom-carrying, opinion-having fairy-child with a mouth too big for her wingspan and an unfortunate allergy to fairy dust. Which was, frankly, ironic. But the real kicker? Marnie had recently been promoted to Unicorn Keeper, Third Class (Provisional, Non-Salaried). The unicorn in question was named Gloompuddle. He was majestic in that "oh he’s been in the mead again" sort of way—ivory white, shimmering hooves, a spiraled horn so pristine it looked like it had never been used to skewer a single goblin (false; it had). Gloompuddle came with a floral garland, a chronic case of dramatic sighing, and what Marnie referred to as “emotional flatulence” — not dangerous, just deeply inconvenient during polite conversation. Now, one does not become a Unicorn Keeper on purpose. Marnie had tripped over a binding circle at precisely the wrong moment while chasing a rebellious broom, muttered a few creative curses, and accidentally formed an eternal pact. Gloompuddle, overhearing the spell, had dramatically swiveled his head and declared, “At last, someone who sees the torment in my soul!” It was downhill from there. Their bond was sealed with a headbutt, a sprinkle of rose petals, and a 48-page care manual that immediately self-destructed. Marnie had many questions—none of them answered. Instead, she received a rope lead made of cloud-thread, which the unicorn immediately tried to eat. And so their companionship began. Every morning, Marnie swept the golden leaves off Gloompuddle’s path with her enchanted (and slightly sarcastic) broom named Cheryl. Cheryl disapproved of the unicorn and once muttered, “Oh look, Mr. Glitterbutt needs walking again,” but she complied. Mostly. Gloompuddle, on the other hoof, had opinions. Many. He disliked wet leaves, dry leaves, leaves that rustled, squirrels with attitude, and anything that wasn't chilled elderberry mousse. He also had a habit of stepping dramatically onto hilltops and shouting, “I am the axis upon which fate turns!” followed by an awkward tumble when his hoof caught a pinecone. Still, something curious began to bloom in the crisp autumn air. A shared rhythm. A silly little dance between a cranky unicorn and a determined girl. Gloompuddle would roll his eyes and follow her broom-sweep trail. Marnie would scowl and stuff his mane full of forest flowers, muttering about freeloading equines with no concept of personal space. But they never left each other's side. On the eleventh day of their accidental bond, Gloompuddle sneezed glitter all over her face. Marnie, furious, chased him three miles with a pail. It was the first time either of them laughed in years. That evening, with the forest painted in gold and cider-scented wind curling through the trees, Marnie looked up at him. “Maybe you’re not the worst unicorn I’ve been soulbound to,” she muttered. Gloompuddle blinked. “You’ve had others?” “Only in my dreams,” she said, scratching his neck. “But you’d hate them. They were punctual.” And for the first time, Gloompuddle didn’t sigh. He simply stood there—quiet, still—and let her fingers rest between the knots of his mane. The kind of silence that meant something sacred. Or possibly gas. By their third week together, Marnie had taken to wearing a permanent scowl and a necklace made of dried apple cores and glitter—both byproducts of her daily unicorn wrangling. Gloompuddle, meanwhile, had developed a fondness for performing interpretive dances in the glade at sunset. These involved a lot of stomping, whinnying, and slow-motion tail flicks that sent entire families of field mice into therapy. It had become clear that their bond wasn’t just emotional—it was logistical. Marnie couldn’t go more than twenty paces without being yanked off her feet by the cloud-thread rope, which had the spiritual elasticity of a caffeine-addicted slingshot. Meanwhile, Gloompuddle couldn’t eat anything without Marnie reading the ingredients aloud like a suspicious mother with a gluten allergy. They were stuck with each other like gum to the underside of destiny’s sandal. One cool, mist-hugged morning, Marnie discovered the true horror of her new role: seasonal molting. Gloompuddle’s coat, once pristine and glowing with unicorny elegance, began shedding in massive floofs. Entire foxes could've been assembled from the tufts blowing across the field. Marnie tried sweeping it up, but Cheryl—the broom—refused. "Not my job," Cheryl said flatly. "I don’t do dander. I am a flooring specialist, not your mythical livestock stylist." Left with no choice, Marnie fashioned the fluff into various accessories: a scarf, a dramatic monocle moustache, even a questionable pair of earmuffs she sold at the local Goblin Flea Market (no goblins were pleased). Gloompuddle, vain as he was, spent hours grooming himself with a discarded fork he found by the wishing well, claiming it gave him “volume.” And then came The Great Snorting Festival. Every year, in a deeply underwhelming part of the woods known as Flatulence Hollow, creatures from across the realms gathered for a grand contest involving feats of nasal flair. Gloompuddle, hearing about the event from a gossiping badger, insisted they attend. “My nostrils are sonnets made flesh,” he proclaimed, striking a pose so dramatic a nearby oak tree fainted. Marnie reluctantly agreed, mostly because the prize was a year’s supply of enchanted oats and a coupon for one free de-worming. Upon arrival, they were greeted by a banner that read: “LET THE SNORTING BEGIN” and a centaur DJ named Blasterhoof. The crowd roared. A troll juggled hedgehogs. A kobold sneezed and caused a minor landslide. It was chaos. When Gloompuddle’s turn came, he stepped onto the mossy stage with the gravity of a war general. The hush was palpable. He inhaled. He paused. He aimed both nostrils toward the moon and SNORTED with such ferocity that several small birds un-birthed themselves and a druid’s wig flew off. The judges gasped. A nymph fainted. Someone’s goat proposed marriage to a chair. They won, naturally. Gloompuddle was given a golden tissue and a crown made entirely of sneeze-blown dandelions. Marnie held up the prize bag and grinned. “Now that’s some fine oat money,” she whispered. Gloompuddle nuzzled her cheek and promptly sneezed directly into her hair. It glittered. She sighed. Cheryl wheezed from laughter. On the way back to their glen, Marnie felt something strange. Contentment? Possibly gas. But also… pride? She looked up at Gloompuddle, who was humming a tune from a musical he wrote in his head called “Horned and Fabulous.” She laughed. He side-eyed her and said, “You know you love me.” “I tolerate you professionally,” she replied. “At great psychic cost.” Yet as the crisp twilight settled in, and the fireflies painted lazy constellations in the air, she felt that weird, quiet magic that only comes when life has spun out of control in just the right way. The kind of chaos that feels like home. They reached the glade. Gloompuddle did one last interpretive tail twirl. Cheryl muttered something about unionizing. And Marnie? She looked up at the sky, stretched her arms wide, and yelled into the wind, “I am the Keeper of the Uncontainable! Also I smell like sneeze glitter and regret!” The wind didn’t answer. But the unicorn beside her snorted approvingly, and that, somehow, was enough. It was sometime between the Harvest Moon and the Night of Unsolicited Goblin Poetry that things began to shift between Marnie and Gloompuddle. Subtly at first. Like the moment she stopped complaining when he trampled the herb garden (again) and instead calmly replanted the thyme with a muttered “we never liked it anyway.” Or the time Gloompuddle started using his horn not to theatrically skewer tree bark in protest of his oats, but to delicately hold open Cheryl’s instruction manual so Marnie could finally read the chapter titled: “Handling Magical Beasts Without Losing Your Mind or Your Eyebrows.” Their rhythm wasn’t perfect. It never would be. He still had opinions about atmospheric pressure and how it should “respect his mane,” and she still hadn’t figured out how to bathe a unicorn without getting waterboarded by his tail. But something gentle bloomed between them—an accidental symphony of shared chaos. And then came the Flying Potato Crisis. It began, as most catastrophes do, with a bet. A gnome in a pub challenged Marnie to launch a potato “as far as a pixie's resentment." She accepted, obviously. Gloompuddle, offended at not being consulted first, added a magical twist: he charged the potato with unstable unicorn magic—normally used only in extreme rituals or soap-making. When launched from Cheryl’s broomstick-catapult, the potato tore across the sky, split the clouds, and hit a passing wyvern named Jeff square in the unmentionables. Jeff was not pleased. He declared a Writ of Winged Vengeance and descended on Thistlewhack with the fury of a thousand passive-aggressive dinner guests. “I will turn your glade into mulch!” he roared, flames licking his fangs. Villagers screamed. Pixies fainted. An elf tried to sue someone preemptively. But Marnie didn’t run. Neither did Gloompuddle. Instead, they stood side by side—one with a broom, the other with a horn, both slightly damp from the morning dew and their mutual emotional avoidance. “Remember that headbutt spell that bonded us?” Marnie asked, raising an eyebrow. “The one involving eternal soul-tethering and seasonal glitter rash?” “Yeah. Let’s do it again. But angrier.” And so they did. Gloompuddle lowered his horn. Marnie lifted her broom. Cheryl shrieked something about liability insurance. Together, they charged the wyvern, who paused—just for a moment—too confused by the sight of a girl and a unicorn screaming battle cries like “FELT HATS ARE A LIE” and “GOBLINS CAN’T COUNT.” The impact was spectacular. Gloompuddle’s horn released a blast of incandescent energy shaped like an angry badger. Marnie leapt midair and clocked Jeff in the snout with Cheryl. The wyvern tumbled backward into a marsh, where a trio of offended frogs immediately sued him for pond trespass. Victory, as it turns out, smells like singed mane and triumphant sweat. The next day, the village threw a party in their honor. There were cider fountains, reluctant bagpipes, and one very enthusiastic interpretive dance from Gloompuddle that ended with him wearing a flowerpot like a helmet. Marnie even got a plaque that read: “For Services to Unreasonable Heroism.” She hung it in their glade, right next to the place where Gloompuddle kept his emergency drama tiara. Later that evening, as the stars rolled out like spilled sugar across the velvet sky, Marnie sat on a mossy log, sipping lukewarm cider and watching Gloompuddle chase a confused moonbeam. Cheryl, exhausted and possibly drunk on proximity to nonsense, snoozed nearby. “You ever think about... the whole forever thing?” she asked, half to herself. Gloompuddle slowed his trot and trotted over. “You mean our unbreakable soul pact sealed by ancient forest magic and extreme glitter exposure?” “Yeah. That one.” He blinked, flicked his tail, and said, “Only every day. But I think I like it now. Even the sneezing.” Marnie snorted. “You only say that because I stopped braiding your tail like a court jester.” “I liked the bells.” They sat in silence, watching fireflies drift past like wandering punctuation marks. Then, slowly, Gloompuddle lowered his head, touching his horn to her forehead—just as he had on the very first day. “Unicorn Keeper,” he said softly. “You’ve kept more than you know.” And just like that, the air shimmered. Not with magic, not with prophecy—but with something quieter. Friendship forged in foolishness. Love made not from longing, but loyalty. A keeper, and the kept. Companions who never asked for each other, but found a kind of forever in the ridiculous, anyway. “Want to go launch another potato?” she whispered, smiling. “Only if we aim for someone named Carl.” And off they went into the moon-touched night: a girl, a unicorn, and a broom with a mild hangover—ready for whatever dumb, dazzling thing came next.     If this ridiculous and heartfelt adventure between Marnie and Gloompuddle tickled your funny bone—or warmed that cozy corner of your heart where unicorn glitter and emotional potato warfare live—bring the magic home. Our official The Unicorn Keeper collection is now available at shop.unfocussed.com, featuring high-quality fantasy artwork by Bill and Linda Tiepelman. Wrap yourself in autumnal whimsy with a fleece blanket as soft as unicorn fluff, or send someone a little enchanted nonsense with a greeting card worthy of magical correspondence. Decorate your space with a fantasy poster print that captures the glowing gold of Thistlewhack’s enchanted forest, or go rustic with a textured wood print perfect for any magical nook. Whether you're a lifelong fantasy fan, a secret unicorn believer, or someone who just appreciates emotionally dramatic equines, The Unicorn Keeper collection is a whimsical tribute to the joy of unlikely friendship. Explore the full line and let a little magic into your space.

por Bill Tiepelman

Pequeños rugidos y brasas ascendentes

De anillos de humo y amistades impulsadas por el descaro Érase una vez, un mediodía de euforia, en medio de un prado perdido que olía sospechosamente a margaritas tostadas y arrepentimiento, una cría de fénix se estrelló de bruces contra un cardo. Chisporroteó como un malvavisco el 4 de julio y soltó un chillido capaz de desplumar a un buitre. "¡Malditas galletas de ceniza!", chilló, agitando sus alas medio horneadas y sacudiéndose lo que parecía polen quemado. No estaba viviendo un momento de renacimiento glamuroso. Estaba viviendo una muda existencial en público. De detrás de un arbusto que claramente había visto mejores opciones de jardinería, se oyó una risita. Un dragón bebé —rechoncho, cubierto de hollín y ya apestando a decisiones cuestionables— salió rodando, agarrándose la barriga escamosa. "¿Olvidó la diosa del fuego las instrucciones de aterrizaje otra vez, Hot Stuff?", eructó, soltando una pequeña bocanada de humo con forma de dedo corazón. Su nombre era Gorp. Abreviatura de Gorpelthrax el Devorador, lo cual era divertidísimo considerando que intimidaba tanto como un pedo en la iglesia. —¡Qué bien! Una lagartija con acné y sin alas. Dime, Gorp, ¿todas las dragoncitas de tu nido huelen a carne quemada y a vergüenza? —espetó el fénix, cuyo nombre, por razones que se negó a explicar, era Charlene. Solo Charlene. Afirmó que era exótico. Como cítricos. O colonia de gasolinera. Charlene se levantó, hizo una sacudida dramática que esparció brasas por todas partes (y amenazó levemente a una mariposa), y se pavoneó con la arrogancia temblorosa de una diva mediocre. "Si quisiera burlas no solicitadas, visitaría a mi tía Salmora. Es una salamandra con dos ex y un rencor". Gorp sonrió. "Eres vivaz. Me gusta eso en un amigo inflamable". Los dos se miraron con mutuo disgusto y un afecto incipiente; esa energía confusa, de «no sé si quiero pelear contigo o trenzarte el pelo», que solo los inadaptados mágicos pueden reunir. Y mientras la cálida brisa de verano soplaba por el prado, trayendo el aroma a hierba quemada y al destino, comenzaron a surgir los primeros vestigios de una extraña y salvaje amistad. —Entonces —dijo Charlene, mientras se esponjaba las plumas de la cola—, ¿te la pasas en los campos de flores echando humo y juzgando a los pájaros de fuego? —No —respondió Gorp, sacándose una mariquita de la lengua—. Normalmente cazo ardillas y les hago daño emocional a las ranas. Este es solo mi lugar para almorzar. Charlene sonrió con suficiencia. «Fabuloso. Convirtámoslo en nuestra sala de guerra». Y con eso, el fénix y el dragón se dejaron caer entre las flores, ya planeando cualquier disparate que vendría después, completamente inconscientes de que acababan de apuntarse a una semana de queso robado, mapaches robando pantalones y esa orgía de centauros de la que preferían no hablar. Todavía. El robo del queso, el culto del centauro y los pantalones que no eran La mañana siguiente llegó con la gracia de un sátiro con resaca intentando hacer yoga. El sol se desvanecía en el cielo como mermelada demasiado madura, y las plumas de Charlene estaban extremadamente encrespadas, posiblemente por el rocío, pero más probablemente por sueños que involucraban un caldero cantor y un gnomo coqueto con una barba que no se le caía. "Necesitamos una misión", declaró, estirando las alas y prendiendo fuego sin querer a un saltamontes que pasaba. Gorp, masticando una piña medio derretida, levantó los ojos desde su posición supina sobre un semillero de menta. Necesitamos un brunch. Preferiblemente con queso. Quizás pantalones. Charlene parpadeó. "¿Qué tiene que ver el queso con los pantalones, por el hongo del pie de Merlín?" —Todo —dijo Gorp, demasiado serio—. Todo. Y así empezó: una misión forjada en el disparate, alimentada por antojos de lactosa y la incapacidad mutua de decir no al caos. Según el buitre local —Steve, que trabajaba como columnista de chismes por su cuenta—, encontrarían el mejor queso a este lado de las montañas de fuego en las bodegas abandonadas de un antiguo monasterio de centauros convertido en un spa nudista. Obviamente. "Se llama Saddlehorn", había susurrado Steve con los ojos brillantes. "Pero no hagas preguntas. Tráeme una rueda de gouda añejado y quedamos en paz". "¿Quieres que robemos un culto de monjes centauros del queso?" preguntó Charlene, ligeramente ofendida por no haberlo pensado antes. “Ya no son monjes”, aclaró Steve. “Ahora solo cantan afirmaciones y se untan aceite en los muslos. Ha evolucionado”. Su viaje a Saddlehorn tomó aproximadamente cuatro descansos para tirarse pedos, dos desvíos causados ​​por el miedo paralizante de Charlene a los erizos ("¡Son solo piñas con ojos, Gorp!") y un momento incómodo que involucró a un hongo maldito que susurraba consejos fiscales. Para cuando llegaron al spa, el prado que tenían detrás parecía pisoteado por un monstruo atiborrado de cafeína y con problemas de compromiso. Charlene estaba lista para la sangre. Gorp, para el queso. Ninguno de los dos estaba listo para lo que les aguardaba tras el seto. Saddlehorn no era... lo que esperaban. Imaginen una extensa finca de madera pulida, suaves cascadas y vapor con aroma a lavanda. Imaginen también: treinta y siete centauros sin camisa practicando yoga sincronizado mientras susurran "Soy suficiente" en un unísono inquietante. Gorp intentó inhalar su propia cabeza, avergonzado. —Oh, dioses, están calientes —susurró, con la voz quebrada como una tortilla en mal estado. Charlene, por otro lado, nunca había estado más excitada, ni más confundida. "Concéntrate", susurró. "Estamos aquí por el gouda, no por los glúteos". Se colaron entre un cesto de taparrabos lleno de ropa sucia —Charlene prendió fuego a uno sin querer y atribuyó la culpa a la "energía térmica ambiental"— y se deslizaron (bueno, se contonearon) hasta el sótano. El olor los impactó primero: penetrante, añejo, ligeramente sensual. Hileras y filas de ruedas de queso encantadas brillaban suavemente en la penumbra, irradiando la energía de la mantequilla. —Dulce madre de los milagros derretidos —suspiró Gorp—. Podríamos construir una vida aquí. Pero el destino, como siempre, es un bastardo con la sonrisa burlona. Justo cuando Charlene se metía una rueda de gouda en las plumas de la cola, un fuerte relincho se oyó tras ellos. Allí estaba el hermano Chadwick del Círculo del Muslo Interno: el jefe de los aceites, el guardián del queso y, posiblemente, un Sagitario. "¿Quién se atreve a profanar el sagrado santuario de la lechería?", tronó, flexionándose en cámara lenta para lograr un efecto dramático. —Hola, sí, hola —dijo Charlene, sonriendo con la seguridad de quien ya ha prendido fuego a todas las rutas de escape—. Soy Brenda y este es mi lagarto de apoyo emocional. Estamos en una peregrinación de quesos. El hermano Chadwick parpadeó. "¿Brenda?" —Sí. Brenda la Eterna. Portadora de la Llama Feta. Hubo un silencio tenso. Entonces —bendito sea el universo idiota— Gorp eructó humo en forma de cuña de queso. Eso fue suficiente. “¡Ellos son los elegidos!” gritó alguien. En los siguientes 48 minutos, Charlene y Gorp fueron coronados sacerdotes honorarios de la lactosa, sometidos a una incómoda ceremonia de masajes y se les permitió irse con una rueda de queso ceremonial del destino (triplemente añejada, ahumada con ceniza de saúco y maldecida a gritar la palabra "BUTTERFACE" una vez a la semana). Mientras regresaban a su prado —Charlene con una cola llena de cuajada de contrabando, Gorp lamiendo lo que podía o no ser sudor de cabra de sus garras— coincidieron en que había sido su mejor almuerzo hasta el momento. —Formamos un equipo muy bueno —murmuró Charlene. —Sí —dijo Gorp, abrazando el queso—. Eres el mejor peligro de incendio que he conocido. Y en algún lugar a lo lejos, Steve el busardo lloró lágrimas de alegría... y colesterol. De la política de los mapaches, las tormentas de fuego y la cosa salvaje llamada amistad De vuelta en el prado, las cosas se habían vuelto... complicadas. El regreso de Charlene y Gorp de su cursi viaje espiritual no había pasado desapercibido. Se corrió la voz, como suele ocurrir en círculos mágicos, y en cuestión de días su prado se había convertido en un lugar de peregrinación para cualquier loco del bosque mediocre con un hueso que bendecir o un hongo en el dedo del pie que curar. Había druidas meditando en el charco de gases favorito de Gorp. Faunos componiendo baladas para laúd sobre «El Gouda y la Gloria». Al menos un unicornio intentó soplar la cola de Charlene para obtener «vibraciones de combustión sagrada». —Tenemos que irnos —dijo Charlene con un tic en el ojo mientras echaba a un bardo de su nido por tercera vez esa mañana. —Necesitamos gobernar —respondió Gorp, ahora completamente reclinado en una hamaca hecha de pelo de elfo y sueños, con una corona de margaritas y cortezas de queso—. Ya somos leyendas. Como Pie Grande, pero más atractivos. Charlene entrecerró los ojos. «Ni siquiera llevas pantalones, Gorp». “Las leyendas no necesitan pantalones”. Pero antes de que Charlene pudiera prenderle fuego por duodécima vez esa semana, un crujido entre la maleza interrumpió su discusión. De repente, apareció una delegación de mapaches: seis hombres, cada uno con pequeños monóculos, y el que iba delante blandía un pergamino hecho de corteza de abedul y una expresión de pasividad agresiva. “Saludos, Pájaro de Fuego y Flatulento”, dijo el mapache líder, con voz como la grava mojada. “Representamos al Consejo local de la Soberanía de los Contenedores. Han alterado el equilibrio ecológico y político de la pradera, y estamos aquí para presentar una queja formal”. Charlene parpadeó. Gorp se tiró un pedo nervioso. —Tu imprudente robo de queso —continuó el mapache— ha creado un mercado negro de lácteos. Los hurones se están amotinando. Los erizos están acaparando gouda. Y la economía de los duendes se ha derrumbado por completo. Exigimos reparaciones. Charlene se volvió lentamente hacia Gorp. "¿Vendiste queso en el mercado negro?" —Define vender —dijo Gorp, sudando—. Define negro. Define mercado. Lo que siguió fue un montaje caótico, posiblemente con música de banjo y gritos a la luz de la luna. Los mapaches declararon la ley marcial. Charlene incineró una rueda de brie en protesta. Gorp invocó accidentalmente a un elemental del queso llamado Craig, quien solo hablaba con juegos de palabras y tenía opiniones violentas sobre la pureza del cheddar. El clímax llegó cuando Charlene, acorralada por los mapaches, lanzó un grito tan potente que incendió medio cielo. Con las plumas encendidas, se elevó por los aires —su primer vuelo real desde el accidente en la pradera— y se lanzó como un cometa contra la horda, dispersando roedores y pergaminos llameantes por todas partes. Gorp, al verla explotar de rabia, belleza y posiblemente hormonas, hizo lo lógico. Rugió. Un rugido de verdad. No una combinación de estornudo y pedo. Un rugido profundo, ancestral, nacido de un dragón, que retumbaba en las entrañas, que partió un árbol, asustó a una mofeta hasta que fue a terapia y resonó por las colinas como una declaración de guerra alimentada por el descaro. La batalla fue corta, apestosa y ligeramente erótica. Cuando el polvo se disipó, el prado era un desastre, Craig, el Elemental del Queso, se había convertido en fondue, y los mapaches velaban en silencio sus monóculos caídos. Charlene y Gorp se desplomaron entre los escombros, cubiertos de hollín, plumas y al menos tres tipos de gouda. "Eso", jadeó Gorp, "fue la cosa más sexy que he visto en mi vida". Charlene se rió tanto que escupió fuego. «Por fin rugiste». —Sí. Para ti. Hubo una larga pausa. A lo lejos, una ardilla confundida intentó subirse a una piña. La vida volvía a la normalidad. "Eres el peor amigo que he tenido", dijo Charlene. —Lo mismo —respondió Gorp sonriendo. Yacieron en silencio, observando cómo las estrellas se desvanecían en el cielo. Sin queso. Sin sectas. Solo fuego y amistad. Y tal vez, solo tal vez, el comienzo de algo aún más tonto. —Entonces… —dijo Charlene finalmente—, ¿qué sigue? Gorp se encogió de hombros. "¿Quieres ir a robarle la bañera a un mago?" Charlene sonrió. "Claro que sí." ¡Dale un toque de caos, encanto y mitos inspirados en el queso a tu mundo! Inmortaliza la legendaria saga de Charlene y Gorp con impresionantes piezas de arte coleccionables como esta lámina metálica que brilla con un brillo arrollador, o una lámina acrílica que resalta cada pluma y llama. ¿Te animas? Intenta armar su épico robo de queso en este rompecabezas : un regalo perfecto para quienes disfrutan de los desastres míticos y las rebeliones de mapaches. O crea el ambiente perfecto para tu propio prado mágico con un tapiz artístico digno de un spa de culto a los centauros. Aprobado por Gorp. Bendecido por Charlene. Posiblemente encantado. Probablemente inflamable.