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Rêves gelés dans un cadre en érable

par Bill Tiepelman – 06 décembre 2024

La feuille reposait sur la neige, épargnée par le vent qui soufflait dans la vallée. Ses veines brillaient faiblement, comme si les braises d’un automne oublié brûlaient encore dans sa forme délicate. Sarah est tombée dessus alors qu’elle marchait seule dans la nature gelée, son souffle s’embuant dans le froid mordant. Le soleil d’hiver disparaissait et des ombres s’étendaient sur la neige. Elle s’accroupit pour examiner la feuille, fascinée par le paysage qu’elle contenait – une minuscule rivière cristalline serpentant à travers des pins chargés de neige. Elle semblait vivante, trop vivante.

Ses doigts hésitaient, planant au-dessus de la rivière. « Ce n'est pas possible », murmura-t-elle. Les bleus vibrants de la rivière scintillaient, comme pour répondre à son doute. Une petite silhouette, pas plus grande que le bout de son ongle, semblait pagayer sur la rivière, son mouvement fluide et délibéré. Le cœur de Sarah s'emballa. Elle savait qu'elle devait s'éloigner, qu'elle ne devait pas la toucher. Mais la curiosité avait toujours été sa faiblesse. Ignorant le murmure de malaise qui grandissait dans sa poitrine, elle tendit la main.

Au moment où ses doigts effleurèrent la feuille d’érable, le monde changea. Le sol sous ses pieds disparut, remplacé par une soudaine bouffée d’air froid. Elle atterrit avec un bruit sourd sur la neige, mais ce n’était plus la neige de ses montagnes familières. Cette neige brillait de façon anormale, comme saupoudrée de diamants écrasés, et l’air était immobile – trop immobile.

La rivière n’était plus un paysage figé dans la feuille ; elle était là, coulant devant elle en rubans bleus lumineux, son eau si claire qu’elle semblait surnaturelle. De grands pins se dressaient autour d’elle, leurs branches alourdies par le gel. Quelque part au loin, le faible bruit d’un pagayage résonnait. La minuscule silhouette qu’elle avait vue auparavant n’était plus minuscule. C’était un homme, vêtu d’étranges vêtements en lambeaux qui scintillaient faiblement sous la lumière argentée du ciel. Il cessa de pagayer et tourna brusquement la tête, comme s’il sentait sa présence.

« Vous ne devriez pas être ici », dit l'homme, d'une voix grave et grave, avec une pointe d'avertissement. « Personne ne franchit la frontière sans raison. »

« Quel est cet endroit ? » demanda Sarah, la voix tremblante, tandis qu’elle se levait. Ses bottes s’enfonçaient légèrement dans la neige poudreuse, mais le sol en dessous semblait solide, presque chaud. Elle jeta un coup d’œil autour d’elle, à la recherche de quelque chose de familier, mais il n’y avait rien – seulement les arbres, la rivière et cet étrange silence creux.

L'homme sortit de son canoë, les yeux plissés. « C'est le Passage, l'espace entre ce qui était et ce qui pourrait être. Les gens comme toi n'ont pas leur place ici. » Il l'étudia un moment, puis ajouta : « À moins que… » Son expression s'adoucit légèrement. « As-tu trouvé la clé ? »

« Une clé ? » répéta-t-elle en serrant plus fort sa veste autour d'elle. « Je ne sais pas de quoi tu parles. J'ai trouvé une feuille. Une feuille d'érable dans la neige. »

À ces mots, le visage de l'homme s'assombrit. « La feuille t'a donc choisi. Elle le fait toujours. » Il soupira, enlevant le givre de ses mains. « Il est trop tard maintenant. Tu as été aspiré et la seule façon de t'en sortir est d'avancer. »

« Vers quoi ? » demanda Sarah, la voix plus haute. « Je n'ai rien demandé de tout ça ! »

« Personne ne le fait jamais », dit simplement l’homme. « Mais le passage n’est pas aléatoire. Il vous montre ce que vous avez besoin de voir, même si vous ne le comprenez pas encore. » Il fit un geste vers la rivière. « Viens. Le courant te portera vers la vérité, ou du moins vers la question suivante. »

Son instinct lui disait de courir, de fuir dans la forêt, mais quand elle jeta un coup d’œil par-dessus son épaule, le chemin d’où elle était venue avait disparu. Les arbres s’étendaient à perte de vue, un mur ininterrompu de givre et d’ombre. Il n’y avait pas de retour en arrière possible. Elle le suivit jusqu’au canoë, le cœur battant à tout rompre alors qu’elle montait à bord. L’eau glacée clapotait doucement contre les parois tandis que l’homme commençait à pagayer.

Ils voyagèrent en silence, le monde qui les entourait devenant de plus en plus étrange à chaque virage de la rivière. Le ciel scintillait de constellations inconnues et les arbres semblaient bourdonner doucement, comme s'ils étaient vivants. Sarah ne pouvait se défaire du sentiment d'être observée, bien qu'elle ne voie personne d'autre. Finalement, l'homme parla.

« Le Passage est un miroir », dit-il d'une voix calme. « Il reflète ce que vous cachez, ce que vous craignez et parfois, ce que vous espérez. Quoi que vous trouviez à la fin, vous devrez l'affronter seul. »

« Et que se passe-t-il si je n'aime pas ce que je trouve ? » demanda Sarah, la gorge sèche.

Il lui jeta un coup d'œil, son expression indéchiffrable. « Alors tu apprends. Ou tu n'apprends pas. »

La rivière s'élargit soudain, s'ouvrant sur un vaste lac gelé. Au centre se tenait une silhouette solitaire, enveloppée d'ombre. Cette vue fit froid dans le dos de Sarah, plus profond que le froid qui l'entourait. L'homme cessa de pagayer et se tourna vers elle.

« C'est ici que je vous laisse. Le reste est à vous. »

« Attends », supplia Sarah, la panique montant dans sa poitrine. « Qui est-ce ? Que suis-je censée faire ? »

Il ne répondit pas. D'un seul coup de pagaie, il fit dériver le canoë vers le bas de la rivière, la laissant seule. La silhouette au loin semblait lui faire signe, bien qu'elle ne bougeât pas. Sarah hésita, le souffle coupé. La peur la saisit, mais aussi quelque chose d'autre : une lueur d'espoir. Si le Passage était un miroir, alors peut-être, juste peut-être, pourrait-elle trouver ici quelque chose qu'elle avait perdu depuis longtemps.

Elle redressa les épaules et s'avança sur la glace, ses pas résonnant dans le silence. La silhouette l'attendait, immobile, tandis qu'elle s'approchait. Chaque pas lui semblait plus lourd que le précédent, l'air autour d'elle était lourd de tension. Mais même si la peur rongeait les limites de sa détermination, elle continua. La glace gémit sous son poids, mais elle ne s'arrêta pas. Elle ne s'arrêterait pas. Peu importe ce qui l'attendait au bout du Passage, elle était prête à l'affronter.

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Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Grumpy Griffin Hatchling

A Face Only a Mother Could Slap Barnaby knew he had made a mistake the moment the egg cracked open. He had expected something majestic—perhaps a regal beast that would soar the skies and guard his treasure hoard. What he got instead was a fistful of pissed-off fluff with the attitude of a bar bouncer who just got stiffed on a tip. The tiny griffin glared up at him with an expression that said, "I already hate you, and I’ve only been alive for twelve seconds." Its golden feathers bristled, its curled tail flicked like an irritated cat’s, and its beady little eyes burned with the fiery rage of an overcooked omelet. "Well, aren’t you just the embodiment of sunshine and rainbows," Barnaby muttered, rubbing his temples. The griffin let out a sound—part squawk, part growl, part tax audit notice. Then it immediately turned, lifted its tiny lion-esque rear, and shat on his boots. "Oh, for fu—" Barnaby grabbed an old towel, cursing whatever gods had let him hatch this grumpy abomination. He had paid a shady wizard a fortune for a 'Rare & Exotic Mystic Guardian.' Instead, he got a sentient middle finger wrapped in fur and feathers. A Starving, Screeching Nightmare Day two was somehow worse. As soon as the sun rose, so did the hellspawn, screeching with the desperate hunger of a drunken noble who just realized his servants forgot to restock the wine cellar. Barnaby tried raw meat. The griffin sniffed it and kicked it away like a snobby food critic. “Alright, asshole. What do you want?” he groaned. The griffin stared at him with all the warmth of a tax collector. Then, in a move that should not have been possible for something so tiny, it pounced—sinking its baby talons into his arm. “GAH! What the hell?! You little—” The creature didn’t bite. Instead, it glared at him harder. And then, with painstakingly slow effort, it reached over, grabbed the hunk of meat it had just rejected, and took a delicate, smug little nibble. "Oh, so you just wanted to establish dominance first, huh? Great. I’m raising a tiny warlord." The griffin made a chirping sound that almost sounded like laughter. Destroyer of Sleep, Devourer of Sanity By the end of the first week, Barnaby had reached new levels of exhaustion. The griffin, whom he had begrudgingly started calling "Bastard" because that’s what he shouted most often, had two hobbies: Judging him from atop furniture he had no business climbing. Waking him up every two hours with a scream that could curdle milk. It was like raising a demonic toddler with wings. Every time Barnaby thought he had a moment of peace, Bastard would knock something over, screech at nothing, or—on particularly annoying days—stare at the wall for hours, making Barnaby increasingly paranoid that he was about to be murdered by an invisible entity. And yet… the little bastard was kind of adorable. In an “I-hate-you-but-would-also-kill-anyone-who-hurt-you” kind of way. But there was no way in hell Barnaby was ready for what came next. The Tiny Terror Ascends Barnaby had survived bandits, bounty hunters, and one particularly bad case of dragon-induced food poisoning, but nothing had prepared him for the absolute nightmare that was a griffin experiencing its first wing growth spurt. “I swear to the gods, Bastard, if you knock over one more—” CRASH. “—thing.” Bastard sat on the floor, staring blankly at the shattered remains of a priceless vase. His golden wings, still awkward and too big for his tiny frame, twitched in what could only be described as absolute lack of remorse. Barnaby pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was an antique.” The griffin blinked. Then, in a deliberate move that was clearly designed to ruin his entire week, it stood up, strutted over to another vase, and swiped it off the table while maintaining direct eye contact. Barnaby let out a long, defeated sigh. He was never going to financially recover from this. Attempted Flight, Attempted Murder It was inevitable that Bastard would eventually try to fly. And, much like every other moment of his short existence, he approached it with a mix of arrogance and homicidal intent. The first attempt was harmless enough—mostly flapping, a lot of screeching, and a dramatic faceplant into Barnaby’s laundry pile. The second attempt, however, involved launching himself off the bookshelf while Barnaby was in the middle of breakfast. There was no warning. No chirp, no squawk, no malicious glint in his eye. Just *WHUMP*—a sudden impact as an entire griffin hatchling landed on Barnaby’s face. His chair tipped over. His breakfast flew across the room. His life flashed before his eyes. “YOU FEATHERED DEMON,” he bellowed, flailing wildly as Bastard flapped like a panicked bat and promptly got tangled in his hair. It took several minutes, a lot of screaming, and one overturned table before the two of them emerged from the disaster, panting and covered in food. Bastard, as usual, looked completely unbothered. “I hope you choke on your own smugness,” Barnaby grumbled. The griffin chirped, pecked at a bit of egg in Barnaby’s beard, and then strutted away like he hadn’t just committed attempted manslaughter via dive bomb. Mutual Loathing, Mutual Loyalty Weeks passed. Bastard grew bigger. More graceful. Slightly less inclined to wake Barnaby up at ungodly hours. He still judged him constantly, still acted like an entitled little prince, but somewhere between the destruction, the screaming, and the minor injuries, a grudging respect had formed. Barnaby had once thought about selling him back to that shady wizard, but the moment some idiot tried to mug him in the alley, Bastard had detached a man’s ear in under four seconds. After that, Barnaby figured… maybe the little hellspawn wasn’t so bad. Maybe. One evening, as Barnaby sat by the fire nursing a well-earned ale, Bastard flapped up onto his shoulder. He weighed a lot more now, and his talons dug into his skin, but Barnaby was too tired to care. The griffin let out a low, contented chirp and—perhaps for the first time ever—nuzzled his cheek. Barnaby narrowed his eyes. “If you puke on me, I swear—” But Bastard just curled his tail around Barnaby’s neck and dozed off, golden wings twitching as he fell into sleep. Barnaby exhaled, took another sip of ale, and grumbled, “Fine. But you’re still a little shit.” Somewhere in the realm of sleep, Bastard chirped in agreement. Take Home Your Own Little Bastard Love Bastard but not quite ready for the whole ‘raising a chaotic griffin’ experience? Good news—you can still enjoy his grumpy little face without dealing with the destruction! Check out these glorious ways to bring The Grumpy Griffin Hatchling into your home: Need a statement piece that silently judges your life choices? Get a Canvas Print. Want your space to exude the energy of a tiny, furious guardian? Snag a Tapestry. Feel like your couch is too peaceful? Add some attitude with a Throw Pillow. Want to carry around a piece of griffin-fueled chaos? Grab a Tote Bag—perfect for storing snacks, spellbooks, or questionable life decisions. Unlike the real Bastard, these versions won’t destroy your furniture, scream at ungodly hours, or attempt aerial assassinations. Probably.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Fluff of Wrath

A Feathered Menace is Born The villagers of Ember Hollow had many things to fear—rogue spells, mischievous sprites, the occasional fire-breathing goat (long story)—but nothing prepared them for the wrath of a particularly tiny, exceptionally furious ball of fluff. It began, as most catastrophes do, with an innocent mistake. Old Maeryn, the town’s eccentric herbalist, had discovered a peculiar egg nestled in the roots of a charred oak. Thinking it abandoned, she took it home, set it by the fire, and promptly forgot about it. That is, until it hatched. And oh, what a hatching it was. With a crack, a snap, and an explosion of embers, out popped a creature so ridiculously adorable it should have been illegal. But instead of soft peeps and wobbling steps, this fiery fledgling locked eyes with Maeryn, fluffed up its smoking feathers, and let out a shriek of pure, unfiltered rage. “What… in the blazes… are YOU?” Maeryn muttered, brushing soot from her apron. The chick’s eyes burned—literally—like twin molten suns, its expression that of a tiny overlord who had just discovered his empire was made of peasants. With an indignant chirp, it stomped forward, radiating a heat that singed Maeryn’s hem. She grabbed a wooden spoon and pointed it at the chick like a sword. “Now listen here, you little fire hazard,” she scolded. “I saved you, so you’d best drop the attitude.” The chick did not drop the attitude. If anything, it doubled down. It flared its wings (adorably useless), puffed out its chest (somehow even fluffier), and narrowed its smoldering eyes with all the menace of a pint-sized warlord. Then it sneezed. And set the curtains on fire. “Oh, fantastic.” Maeryn groaned as she grabbed a bucket. The fire was quickly extinguished, but the chick remained, unbothered, glaring at her with the silent fury of an emperor insulted by an unworthy subject. With a sigh, Maeryn folded her arms and stared back. “I suppose you need a name, don’t you?” she mused. “How about Ember?” The chick’s feathers flared brighter. It did not look impressed. “Ignis?” The chick let out a disgusted chirp. “Oh, for the love of—FINE. You tell me then.” The chick blinked. Its beak curled in the tiniest, most mischievous smirk. Then, with slow, deliberate menace, it hopped onto a wooden spoon, balanced itself like a feathered king upon his throne, and stared deep into Maeryn’s soul. “Blaze.” Maeryn’s jaw dropped. “Did you just—did you actually just name yourself? By the stars, what are you?” Blaze said nothing. He simply fluffed up, smirked again, and hopped off the spoon as if to say, You’ll find out soon enough. And that was the moment Maeryn realized she had made a terrible mistake. The Reign of Blaze It didn’t take long for the villagers to realize something was… different about Maeryn’s new ‘pet.’ For one, Blaze had opinions. Strong ones. And he expressed them with fire. The baker learned this the hard way when he refused to give Blaze an extra pastry. A perfectly golden croissant was exchanged for a pile of ashes. The town’s blacksmith, a burly man with the patience of a saint, tried to “train” Blaze into behaving. Blaze responded by perching on his anvil and making every single horseshoe he forged mysteriously melt into puddles. And poor old Thom, who dared to call Blaze ‘cute,’ found himself inexplicably locked in his outhouse for three whole days. “That chick is pure chaos.” Thom declared once freed. Maeryn, now sporting singed eyebrows and an ever-present air of exhaustion, could only nod. “I’d give him away, but I think he’d just set my house on fire in revenge.” Meanwhile, Blaze was busy asserting his dominance. He had claimed a spot on the village fountain, where he would sit, fluffing and glaring, as if he were the self-appointed king of Ember Hollow. Passersby would cautiously nod in greeting, lest they incur his wrath. The mayor, in a last-ditch effort to regain control, even tried offering Blaze an “Official Town Mascot” title. Blaze listened. Considered. Then set the mayor’s hat on fire. Things only escalated from there. It started small—chamber pots mysteriously heating up, porridge bowls boiling over before anyone touched them. Then, Blaze discovered revenge. A woman who shooed him out of her garden woke up to find every vegetable in it roasted. A man who laughed at Blaze’s size found his boots melted to the cobblestone. By the time the villagers realized they were living under a tiny, flame-feathered tyrant, it was too late. Blaze had taken full control. “We have to do something!” one of the council members whispered at a secret meeting. “Like what?” another hissed. “He’s unstoppable! He sneezes, and half the town needs repairs!” “Then we outsmart him,” Maeryn declared. “He’s got power, but he’s also got an ego bigger than his body. We just have to make him think it’s his idea to leave.” And so, the next morning, the town gathered at the square, where Blaze sat atop his usual perch, peering down at them like an unimpressed deity. Maeryn stepped forward, clearing her throat. “Oh great and powerful Blaze,” she began, barely suppressing her sarcasm, “we have an honor to bestow upon you.” Blaze blinked, intrigued. “You, our glorious overlord, have clearly outgrown this humble village,” she continued. “Your power is too grand, your presence too mighty. It is time you take your rightful place in the Royal Palace.” Blaze tilted his head. Palace? “Yes, yes!” one of the council members jumped in. “A legendary place where great beings such as yourself are worshipped and given endless food.” Blaze ruffled his feathers, considering this. Worship? Endless food? A palace? He let out a smug little chirp. “We shall escort you there in glorious procession,” Maeryn said dramatically. “Immediately.” With that, they placed Blaze onto a velvet pillow, carried him to the grandest carriage in town, and—with a final chorus of exaggerated praises—sent him off to a castle many miles away, where he would definitely be someone else’s problem. The villagers watched as the carriage disappeared over the hills. Then, in unison, they exhaled. “Do you think he’ll actually make it to the palace?” Thom asked. Maeryn shook her head. “Oh, absolutely not. But that’s a future problem.” And with that, Ember Hollow was free. For now. Bring the Wrath Home! 🔥 Blaze may have left Ember Hollow, but his fiery spirit lives on! Want to add some smoldering attitude to your space? Check out The Fluff of Wrath collection and take home this mischievous little tyrant in style: 🔥 Tapestry – Let Blaze loom over your kingdom (or living room) like the tiny overlord he is. 🔥 Canvas Print – Perfect for anyone who appreciates a side of attitude with their décor. 🔥 Tote Bag – Carry a little chaos with you wherever you go. Warning: May intimidate lesser bags. 🔥 Round Beach Towel – Because nothing says “don’t mess with me” like sunbathing with a furious fireball. 🔥 Throw Pillow – Soft, sassy, and slightly menacing. Just like Blaze. Get yours now and channel your inner firebird! 🔥🐤

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Grumpy Rain Sprite

A Sprite's Soggy Misery It had been a perfectly pleasant morning in the enchanted forest—until, of course, the sky decided to have a breakdown. One moment, the birds were singing, the mushrooms were gossiping, and the sun was doing its usual “Look at me, I’m glorious” routine. The next? A torrential downpour turned the world into a damp, sloshing nightmare. And no one was more annoyed than Thistle, the resident rain sprite with a temperament as stormy as the weather. She sat in a growing puddle, wings sagging under the weight of a thousand raindrops, her favorite moss dress clinging to her like a soggy tea bag. Her silver hair, normally a wild halo of untamed curls, was now a limp, rain-drenched disaster. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, hugging her arms tightly against her chest. “Absolutely ridiculous.” She yanked her massive leaf-umbrella lower over her head, scowling as another rivulet of water dripped off the edge and splattered onto her nose. The universe clearly had a vendetta against her today. Probably because of that whole "convincing the fireflies to unionize" incident last week. The elders had warned her about the consequences of mischief, but seriously, who even enforces karma these days? A rustling sound made her glance up, her pointed ears twitching. Emerging from behind a cluster of mushrooms was a familiar figure—Twig, the local mischief-maker and general pain in her leafy backside. Of course, he would show up now, probably just to mock her. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, his wings twitching with amusement. “If it isn’t Queen Soggy of Puddleland. Shall I fetch you a throne made of mud, or are you still holding court in your personal swamp?” Thistle fixed him with a withering glare. “If you value your wings, Twig, you will remove yourself from my miserable presence before I hex you into a slug.” Twig gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “A slug! Oh no! Whatever shall I do? It’s not like it’s already so wet I’d probably thrive as a slimy, wriggling creature.” He smirked, then plucked a dripping mushroom from the ground. “But honestly, Thistle, why the tragic act? You’re a rain sprite. This is literally your element.” “I control rain, I don’t enjoy being waterboarded by it,” she snapped. “There’s a difference.” “Ah, so it’s the ‘do as I say, not as I do’ approach. Very powerful leadership strategy.” Twig leaned on her leaf umbrella, making it droop dangerously close to collapsing entirely. “But hey, if you hate it so much, why not stop the rain?” Thistle let out a long, slow breath, resisting the urge to throttle him. “Because,” she gritted out, “that would require effort. And right now, I am choosing to marinate in my suffering like a dignified and tragic figure.” “Uh-huh. Super dignified,” Twig said, tilting his head at the way her damp dress clung to her legs. “You look like a particularly upset swamp rat.” Thistle reached out and shoved him into the nearest puddle. “That was uncalled for!” he sputtered, sitting up, now as drenched as she was. “You know what else is uncalled for? This entire rainstorm!” she barked, throwing her hands up, sending a gust of wind through the trees. “I had plans today, Twig. Plans. I was going to nap in a sunbeam, bother some butterflies, maybe even steal a honey drop from the pixie hive. And instead? Instead, I am here. In this puddle. Soaking. Suffering.” “Truly tragic,” Twig said, flopping backward into the puddle dramatically. “Someone should write a song about your struggle.” Thistle growled. She was going to kill him. Or, at the very least, strongly inconvenience him. A Sprite’s Revenge is Best Served Soggy Thistle took a deep breath, inhaling the damp, earthy scent of the rain-soaked forest. She needed to calm down. Committing sprite-on-sprite violence would only get her in trouble with the elders again, and honestly, their lectures were worse than Twig’s face. Twig, still sprawled in the puddle like some kind of lazy river nymph, smirked up at her. “You know, if you stopped sulking long enough, you might realize something.” Thistle narrowed her eyes. “Oh, this should be good. Enlighten me, oh wise and irritating one.” “You love chaos, right?” He flicked some water at her, and she barely resisted the urge to fry him with a well-aimed lightning bolt. “So why not embrace the storm? Make everyone else just as miserable as you?” Her scowl twitched. “Go on…” He sat up, grinning now, sensing he had her attention. “Think about it. The dryads just put up their new moss tapestries—imagine the heartbreak when they find them soggy and ruined.” He gestured wildly. “The mushroom folk? I hear they just finished harvesting their prized sun-dried spores. And the pixies? Ha! They’ve been preening their wings all week for the Solstice Ball. One extra gust of wind and—” Thistle’s face split into a wicked grin. “—frizz city.” “Exactly.” Twig leaned in conspiratorially. “You have the power to turn a minor inconvenience into a full-blown disaster. You could make this the most memorable storm of the decade.” Thistle tapped her fingers against her arm, considering. The elders would frown upon it. Then again, the elders frowned upon pretty much everything she did, and honestly, at this point, she was just collecting their disapproval like rare artifacts. Slowly, a plan began to form. She stood, shaking the rain from her wings with an air of purpose. “Alright, Twig. You’ve convinced me. But if we’re doing this, we’re going all in.” His grin widened. “Oh, I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Thistle cracked her knuckles. The sky rumbled in response. The first thing she did was kick up the wind—not enough to be dangerous, but just enough to make all the well-groomed pixies regret their life choices. Delicate curls frizzed instantly. Dresses caught in the wind, wings flapped uselessly, and the air was filled with high-pitched shrieks of horror. Next, she turned her attention to the dryads. Oh, their moss tapestries had been beautiful. Key word: had. Now? Now they were nothing more than damp, sagging clumps of regret. “This is delightful,” Twig sighed happily, watching a group of mushroom folk scramble to cover their precious spores. “I haven’t had this much fun since I convinced the fireflies that blinking in Morse code was a revolutionary act.” Thistle let the rain surge for one last dramatic flourish, sending a final gust of wind to scatter the pixies like irate confetti. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, she stopped it. The rain ceased. The wind died. The forest was left in a state of soggy, chaotic despair. And in the middle of it all, Thistle stood, looking very pleased with herself. “Well,” she said, stretching lazily. “That was satisfying.” Twig clapped her on the back. “You, my dear, are a menace. And I respect that.” She smirked. “I do try.” From somewhere deep in the forest, a furious elder’s voice rang out. “THISTLE!” Twig winced. “Oof. That’s got some real ‘disappointed parent’ energy.” Thistle sighed dramatically. “Ugh. Consequences. So tedious.” “Run?” Twig suggested. “Run,” she agreed. And with that, the two sprites vanished into the drenched, chaotic forest, cackling like the absolute menaces they were. Bring Thistle’s Mischief Home! Love the sass, the storm, and the sheer chaotic energy of our favorite rain sprite? Now you can capture her brooding brilliance in a variety of stunning formats! Whether you want to add a touch of whimsical rebellion to your walls, solve a puzzle as tricky as Thistle herself, or jot down your own mischievous plans, we’ve got you covered. ✨ Tapestry – Let Thistle reign over your space with fabric as dramatic as her attitude. 🖼️ Canvas Print – Museum-quality snark for your walls. 🧩 Jigsaw Puzzle – Because piecing together chaos is surprisingly therapeutic. 💌 Greeting Card – Share the moody magic with your fellow mischief-makers. 📓 Spiral Notebook – Perfect for plotting pranks, poetry, or your next escape plan. Don’t just admire Thistle—invite her into your world. She promises to bring charm, attitude, and possibly a little rain.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

High & Fungi

The Chillest Cap in the Forest The forest was alive with the sounds of rustling leaves, chirping crickets, and the occasional giggle of a mischievous fairy. Deep within the mossy undergrowth, nestled between the roots of an ancient oak, sat a mushroom unlike any other. His cap was lopsided, his red spots slightly faded, and his wooden-textured skin bore the wisdom of countless seasons. His name? Shlomo the Shroom. And if there was one thing Shlomo knew how to do better than any other fungi in the woods, it was to chill. “Brooo,” he exhaled, though mushrooms don’t technically breathe. “The air is like… so thick with vibes today, man.” A tiny glowing fairy, named Zibbit, fluttered down onto his cap, casually reclining like it was the comfiest beanbag in the world. “Shlomo, you’ve literally been sitting in the same spot for, like, a hundred years.” Shlomo squinted his oversized, half-lidded eyes. “Exactly. You think enlightenment just grows on trees?” He chuckled to himself. “Well, actually, it kinda does, but you know what I mean.” Zibbit rolled onto her back, stretching her tiny arms. “You ever get tired of just… doing nothing?” Shlomo wobbled slightly. “Oh, my sweet, sweet, naïve little winged homie. Nothing is everything. You gotta just be, man. Like, let the wind carry your worries, let the earth hold your past, and let the morning dew… like… I dunno, moisturize you or whatever.” Zibbit stared. “That might be the dumbest but most profound thing I’ve ever heard.” Just then, a rustling in the bushes made them both pause. Out of the shadows emerged a frantic-looking squirrel, eyes wide, tail twitching like it had just been struck by lightning. “GUYS!” the squirrel screeched. “THE OWLS! THEY KNOW!” Shlomo blinked slowly. “Know what, my hyperactive acorn-munching amigo?” The squirrel darted back and forth like it had overdosed on espresso. “I— I don’t know! BUT THEY KNOW!” Zibbit sat up. “Wait… what are we talking about?” The squirrel grabbed its own face, hyperventilating. “THE OWLS KNOW, MAN! ABOUT— ABOUT THE THING! THE SECRET! THE BIG, HUGE—” Shlomo let out a long, slow sigh. “Dude. Relax. Take a breath. Let the cosmic currents, like… un-knot your little tail, bro.” The squirrel stopped. He looked at Shlomo. Then at Zibbit. Then back at Shlomo. “Oh. Yeah. Good call.” He took a deep breath. Then another. Then, with sudden clarity, he whispered, “Wait… what were we talking about?” Shlomo grinned. “My dude. Exactly.” The Cosmic Revelation The squirrel, now in a state of deep existential confusion, flopped onto the forest floor, staring at the sky. “Whoa… I feel… kinda better. Maybe I just needed to slow down.” Shlomo nodded sagely, his cap wobbling slightly. “That’s the thing, little buddy. You rush around, chase acorns, worry about owls, and next thing you know, you forget to just exist, ya know?” Zibbit, still lounging on Shlomo’s cap, flicked a tiny spark of fairy dust into the air. “You’re really just making all of this up as you go, aren’t you?” Shlomo grinned. “Absolutely. And yet… doesn’t it make perfect sense?” The squirrel, now reclining in the moss, let out a relaxed sigh. “Damn. Maybe I have been overthinking things. Like… what if the owls don’t actually know anything?” Shlomo’s eyes widened slightly. “Whoa. What if, like… nobody knows anything?” A hush fell over the forest. Zibbit sat up. “Wait. Hold on. That’s actually kind of deep.” Shlomo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What if… reality is just, like… one big dream, man? Like, some enormous being is just tripping HARD right now, and we’re all part of its hallucination?” The squirrel gasped. “And when it wakes up…” “…POOF,” Shlomo said, wiggling his little wooden fingers for dramatic effect. “Gone. Just… spores in the wind.” Zibbit shuddered. “Dude, I was just here for the vibes. Now you’ve got me questioning the nature of my existence.” Shlomo exhaled—again, despite not having lungs. “Hey, don’t stress it, little winged wonder. Even if we’re all just part of some cosmic fever dream, it’s a pretty damn nice dream, yeah?” The squirrel nodded slowly. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right. I mean, I get free acorns. I got trees. I got my little twitchy tail. Life’s good.” Zibbit flopped back onto Shlomo’s cap, wings twitching. “You know what? Screw it. If reality is just a hallucination, I’m at least gonna enjoy it.” Shlomo grinned. “Now you’re getting it.” The trio sat in comfortable silence, watching the forest sway gently in the golden light. Birds chirped. Leaves rustled. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. The squirrel bolted upright. “Wait—THE OWLS KNOW! WE FORGOT!” Shlomo chuckled, eyes half-lidded once more. “Did we, though?” The squirrel blinked. Thought for a moment. Then let out a slow exhale. “Damn. Good point.” And just like that, the great owl conspiracy was forgotten forever. Probably. Take the Chill Vibes Home Love Shlomo’s laid-back wisdom? Now you can bring his mellow energy into your space with exclusive “High & Fungi” merch! Whether you're decorating your home, solving a puzzle, or carrying your essentials in style, we've got something for every fungi fan. 🌿 Tapestry – Perfect for transforming your space into a chill zone. 🎨 Canvas Print – Let Shlomo’s wisdom hang on your walls. 🧩 Puzzle – A trippy way to relax, one piece at a time. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry your essentials with mushroom-level chill. Get yours today and embrace the ultimate fungi philosophy—sit back, vibe, and let the world flow, man. 🍄✨

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Grumpicorn's Garden

The Curse of the Eternal Mood In the heart of the Enchanted Woodland, nestled between the Gigglebrook River and the Whimsydale Meadow, lay the most peculiar of places—The Grumpicorn’s Garden. A land of sparkling petals, twinkling dewdrops, and fluffy pastel clouds that floated lazily in the sky. It was, without question, a paradise. And yet, its self-appointed ruler was the grumpiest little creature to ever exist. Her name? Lady Fluffington Von Sassypaws III. Her title? The Supreme Empress of Perpetual Discontent. Her mood? Permanently unimpressed. Legend has it that Lady Fluffington was once an ordinary, albeit incredibly dramatic, feline. But one fateful day, a mischievous fairy named Glimmerdew tripped over her tail. In a fit of melodramatic rage, Fluffington unleashed a tantrum so magnificent that it sent Glimmerdew spiraling into a bush of sentient tulips. Enraged (and covered in pollen), the fairy placed a curse upon Fluffington. “May your fur be forever fabulous! May your horn shine brighter than the stars! And may you, above all else, be doomed to a life of… unbearable sassiness!” There was a dramatic clap of thunder (despite it being a perfectly clear day), and Fluffington was transformed into what she was always meant to be—a Grumpicorn. A tiny, fluffy, pink-maned, unicorn-horned feline with a permanent look of pure judgment. A being of beauty, but also of unrelenting moodiness. A Reign of Grumpiness Now, instead of spending her days doing normal cat things—like knocking cups off tables or plotting world domination—Fluffington ruled over her garden with an iron paw. She had a strict set of rules, all written in glittery ink on a scroll of enchanted parchment: Rule #1: No excessive cheerfulness. Smiling is acceptable in moderation, but giggling? Punishable by an immediate, soul-piercing glare. Rule #2: Do not, under any circumstances, call her “adorable.” The penalty? A single, dramatic hair flip followed by an exasperated sigh. Rule #3: Offerings of fine tuna and imported cream are required upon entering the garden. Rule #4: If one must compliment her, the words “majestic,” “glorious,” or “queenly” are preferred. Despite these rules, the woodland creatures couldn’t help but adore Lady Fluffington. The enchanted rabbits fluffed their tails in admiration. The owls whispered about her legendary sass. Even the fairies, despite their grudge, frequently peeked into the garden just to bask in her undeniable aesthetic. The Arrival of Trouble One peaceful afternoon, as Fluffington lounged on a plush velvet cushion (because grass was simply too pedestrian for her delicate paws), a shadow loomed over her kingdom. “HARK, MORTAL BEAST!” a voice bellowed. “I, PRINCE GUMDROPLEON OF THE GIGGLE FAIRIES, DEMAND AUDIENCE!” Fluffington, without even opening her eyes, exhaled the most exasperated sigh in the history of sighs. Fairies. Again. The prince, clad in shimmering golden tights and a cape made of literal stardust, fluttered down in a swirl of unnecessary dramatics. “You have long defied the Sacred Code of Whimsy! Your kingdom of perpetual sass threatens the balance of the Enchanted Woodland! By decree of the Grand Council of Unrelenting Cheerfulness, I demand you lighten up!” Fluffington finally cracked one eye open, her gaze dripping with disdain. “I will lighten up when the sun stops being an overachiever, Greg.” “It’s PRINCE GUMDROPLEON.” “Mmmhmm. Sure, Greg.” The prince huffed, twirling his wand impatiently. “You leave me no choice, Lady Fluffington. If you do not surrender your grumpiness willingly, we will FORCE you to experience joy!” At this, Fluffington’s tail twitched ever so slightly. “Excuse me?” “By the power vested in me, I hereby challenge you to the most sacred of fairy duels—The Trial of Ultimate Delight!” The enchanted woodland fell silent. A single petal drifted dramatically through the air. Somewhere, a butterfly gasped. Lady Fluffington narrowed her eyes. “You dare challenge me?” Prince Gumdropleon nodded. “If you lose, you must embrace whimsy, laughter, and all things joyous. If you win, well… you won’t win.” Fluffington rose to her paws, her horn glistening with defiant radiance. “Oh, sweet summer child,” she purred, “prepare to be grump-smacked.” The Trial of Ultimate Delight The air crackled with anticipation as woodland creatures, fairies, and a particularly nosy squirrel gathered to witness the most absurd showdown in enchanted history. Lady Fluffington Von Sassypaws III stood on one side, her tail swishing with supreme irritation. On the other, Prince Gumdropleon, his wings glittering with unearned confidence. A floating, sentient parchment hovered between them, unrolling with a flourish. “BEHOLD!” it boomed. “The sacred rules of The Trial of Ultimate Delight are as follows: The challenger—Prince Gumdropleon—shall present a series of whimsical challenges designed to break the accused’s grumpy demeanor. The accused—Lady Fluffington—must endure each trial without succumbing to joy.” Fluffington yawned. “Fabulous. Let’s get this nonsense over with.” Trial One: The Dance of Inescapable Cheer With a snap of his fingers, Gumdropleon summoned a battalion of enchanted tap-dancing mushrooms. They shuffled, twirled, and clicked their tiny feet in a synchronized performance so aggressively delightful that birds started harmonizing in the trees. The fairies swayed. The woodland creatures clapped. Even the trees seemed to bop along. Lady Fluffington? She blinked once. Slowly. “Not even a toe tap?” Gumdropleon gasped. Fluffington’s eyes remained void of amusement. “Your fungi are basic, Greg.” The mushrooms, insulted, pirouetted away in defeat. Trial Two: The Giggle Gauntlet Undeterred, the prince summoned a team of expert gigglers—fluffy baby bunnies, baby goats in pajamas, and one particularly chubby hedgehog in a tiny top hat. They snorted, wheezed, and tumbled over each other in a display of weaponized cuteness. The fairies collapsed from sheer delight. Fluffington watched, her expression colder than an ice sculpture of disappointment. “Precious,” she finally muttered. “But I have witnessed greater chaos at a brunch buffet.” The hedgehog dramatically fainted. Trial Three: The Sacred Sprinkles of Doom Prince Gumdropleon was sweating now. “Fine,” he said. “You leave me no choice. I must unleash the ultimate weapon.” He raised his wand, and from the heavens rained down… sprinkles. Pink. Blue. Glittering. Swirling in the air like a whimsical blizzard of saccharine doom. Fluffington gasped. Not out of joy—but out of pure, undiluted fury. “HOW DARE YOU?” she bellowed, shaking off the cursed confetti. “DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO GET SPRINKLES OUT OF FUR? THIS IS A WAR CRIME!” Gumdropleon smirked. “Ah-ha! You reacted! That counts as a—” Before he could finish, Fluffington’s horn pulsed with a blinding light. The ground trembled. The flowers shrank back in fear. The prince barely had time to yelp before a powerful GRUMP-WAVE exploded from the tiny unicorn-cat. The sprinkles disintegrated midair. The giggling bunnies went solemn. Somewhere, in the distance, a rainbow curled in on itself and wept. Victory and Consequences When the dust settled, Prince Gumdropleon lay face-down in a pile of existential dread. “So,” Fluffington said, delicately licking her paw, “who, exactly, was supposed to win again?” The sentient parchment twitched. “The accused has successfully resisted all forms of delight. She is, without a doubt, the Supreme Empress of Perpetual Discontent.” The woodland erupted into cheers—not of joy, but of deep, unwavering respect. Even the grudge-holding fairies had to admit it. Lady Fluffington Von Sassypaws III was simply too powerful. The Aftermath Prince Gumdropleon, now emotionally wounded beyond repair, rose with a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” he muttered. “You win. Keep your grumpiness. But know this…” He pointed a glittery finger at Fluffington. “I WILL RETURN.” “Mmhmm,” she said, already walking away. “Let me know how that works out for you, Greg.” And with that, the Grumpicorn stretched luxuriously, climbed onto her velvet cushion, and went back to what she did best—being gloriously, unapologetically unimpressed. Her garden remained as it always had—enchanted, beautiful, and ruled by the world’s most magnificent, moody, undefeated little creature. Bring the Grumpicorn Home Do you feel a deep, spiritual connection to Lady Fluffington’s unmatched level of sass? Do you, too, wish to bask in her unimpressed majesty? Good news—you can now welcome the Grumpicorn into your own kingdom! From regal canvas prints to mood-boosting (or mood-matching) throw pillows, you can bring her iconic presence into your home. Whether you need a tapestry to transform your space, a wood print to add timeless elegance, or even a puzzle to ponder her greatness piece by piece—there’s a Grumpicorn for every occasion. Remember: A home without a Grumpicorn is just a house. Make yours truly enchanting.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

A Trio of Springtime Mischief

The Great Bloom Heist Spring had arrived in the Enchanted Grove, and with it came the annual Cherry Blossom Festival—a time when the air smelled like honeyed petals, and even the grumpiest trolls cracked a smile (albeit begrudgingly). The festival was a sacred event, marked by a grand ceremony where the first bloom of the season was plucked and turned into the legendary Nectar of Eternal Delight, a potion so potent that one sip could make a banshee giggle. At the heart of this festival stood three very particular gnomes: Pip, Poppy, and Gus. They were known throughout the Grove not for their wisdom or generosity, but for their unrivaled talent in causing mayhem. Where there was trouble, there was a gnome-shaped footprint leading to it. “This year, we’re going to be legendary,” Pip declared, adjusting his oversized, rose-colored hat adorned with embroidered daisies. “We’re going to steal the First Bloom!” Poppy, the mastermind of the group, twirled her white beard thoughtfully. “The Blossom Keepers will be watching the tree all night. We’ll need a flawless plan.” Gus, who was currently stuffing his face with honeyed acorn pastries, raised a sticky finger. “What if we... bribe them?” Pip sighed. “Gus, we do not have enough pastries to bribe an entire guild of Keepers.” Poppy grinned. “But what if we make them think they’re needed elsewhere?” That was all it took. With a gleam in their eyes, the gnomes set their plan in motion. The Plan (Which Was Definitely Not Foolproof) At midnight, the Cherry Blossom tree stood tall and resplendent, its petals glowing faintly under the moonlight. The Blossom Keepers, clad in their ceremonial robes (which honestly looked suspiciously like oversized pajamas), stood at attention. No squirrel, fairy, or gnome would get past them. Or so they thought. Phase One: Distraction. Gus, wearing an absurdly large cloak that made him look like a sentient pile of fabric, waddled up to the Keepers. “I have urgent news!” he gasped dramatically. The eldest Keeper peered down. “What news, little one?” “The Moon Moths are revolting! They’re demanding better working conditions and have threatened to, uh, boycott the night sky!” The Keepers blinked. “That... doesn’t sound real.” “Oh, it’s VERY real,” Gus continued, summoning every ounce of fake sincerity he could muster. “Just imagine—no shimmering wings, no graceful moonlit dances. Just an empty sky, like a sad, forgotten soup bowl.” The Keepers exchanged nervous glances. They couldn’t risk a celestial labor strike. With a hurried nod, they rushed off to investigate, leaving the sacred First Bloom unguarded. Phase Two: The Heist With the Keepers gone, Pip and Poppy sprang into action. Pip climbed onto Poppy’s shoulders, teetering dangerously as he reached for the blossom. “Almost... got it...” Just as his fingers brushed the delicate petals, a gust of wind sent him toppling off Poppy’s shoulders and straight into the tree, where he clung like an oversized, panicked squirrel. Poppy, trying to be helpful, grabbed a stick and poked at him. “Just let go, Pip. I’ll catch you.” “That is an unbelievable lie, Poppy.” “Fair enough. Just—” Before she could finish, Pip lost his grip. With a dramatic yelp, he plummeted, bounced off a lower branch, and landed with a soft poof into Gus’s fluffy hat. They sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then Poppy grinned and held up the First Bloom, which had fallen neatly into her hands. “Would you look at that?” Victory! But just as they were about to celebrate, a shadow loomed over them. It was the Head Keeper. And he did not look pleased. “Well, well, well,” the Keeper said, arms crossed. “If it isn’t the Blossom Bandits.” Pip swallowed hard. “We prefer ‘Mischievous Floral Enthusiasts.’” The Keeper narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any idea what kind of punishment is in store for thieves like you?” Silence. Then Gus, ever the opportunist, cleared his throat. “Would you, uh, accept a bribe?” The Keeper raised an eyebrow. “Go on.” Gus pulled a slightly smushed acorn pastry from his pocket and held it out with a hopeful grin. And that was when the real trouble began. The Trouble with Bribes The Head Keeper eyed the smushed acorn pastry in Gus’s outstretched hand. The gnome trio held their breath. For a moment, it seemed like the Keeper might accept the bribe. His fingers twitched. His nostrils flared ever so slightly, catching the scent of honeyed nuts. But then, with a sigh, he crossed his arms. “I’m allergic to acorns,” he said flatly. Gus gasped in horror. “But they’re a superfood!” “For you, perhaps,” the Keeper said. “For me, they’re a death sentence. Now—” He snatched the First Bloom from Poppy’s hands. “You three are in a world of trouble.” The Trial of the Gnomes By dawn, Pip, Poppy, and Gus found themselves standing before the Grand Council of the Enchanted Grove—a collection of elders who looked very wise but also, conveniently, quite sleepy. Apparently, holding a trial at sunrise wasn’t an especially popular idea. “Gnomes Pip, Poppy, and Gus,” droned the eldest Council member, a wrinkled elf named Elder Thimblewick. “You have been charged with grand floral larceny, Keeper deception, and—” he squinted at the scroll in his hands, “—‘reckless tree climbing without a permit.’ How do you plead?” Pip glanced at his friends, then puffed up his chest. “Not guilty, on account of technicality.” Thimblewick frowned. “What technicality?” “The First Bloom fell into Poppy’s hands. Gravity did the real stealing.” The Council murmured amongst themselves. It was, admittedly, a solid point. The Head Keeper, still seething, stepped forward. “I demand justice! They plotted this crime! They tricked the Keepers and endangered the sacred blossom!” Gus cleared his throat. “To be fair, you abandoned your post because of a made-up moth strike. That’s on you.” “Silence!” the Keeper snapped. The Council exchanged glances. Finally, Elder Thimblewick sighed. “This is a mess. But a crime was committed. A punishment is required.” The Unusual Punishment The gnomes braced themselves. Banishment? Hard labor? Were they about to be sentenced to a life of unpaid squirrel-wrangling? Thimblewick cleared his throat. “For your crimes against the Enchanted Grove, your punishment is thus: You must personally assist in the Cherry Blossom Festival preparations.” The gnomes stared. “That’s it?” Pip asked. “You want us to—what—hang banners and sprinkle flower petals?” “Among other things,” Thimblewick said. “You will also oversee the nectar-making process and act as official greeters for every guest.” Poppy groaned. “Ugh. That means smiling, doesn’t it?” Thimblewick nodded. “Oh yes. And wearing matching festive gnome tunics.” At this, Gus let out a horrified gasp. “You mean—uniforms?” “Precisely,” the elder said with a smirk. “Pink ones. With ruffles.” The gnomes shuddered. The Worst Day of Their Lives Thus began the worst—and most humiliating—day in Pip, Poppy, and Gus’s mischievous little lives. First, they were forced into the most frilly, lace-covered, pastel-pink tunics imaginable. Gus nearly fainted. Poppy cursed under her breath. Pip, always the optimist, tried to convince himself they were wearing “intimidation garments.” They were not. Then came the endless festival preparations. They spent the morning filling nectar jugs, which was dull enough—until Gus accidentally fell into a vat of the sacred liquid and had to be fished out with a broom. By noon, they were tasked with handing out floral garlands to visitors. This part should have been easy, except that Pip got carried away and turned it into a competitive sport, aggressively throwing garlands at unsuspecting guests. “YOU GET A WREATH! YOU GET A WREATH!” Pip shouted, pelting a confused centaur in the face with a ring of daisies. By evening, they were utterly exhausted. They slumped against a cherry tree, their once-vibrant tunics now covered in flower petals, spilled nectar, and Gus’s dignity. “I can’t believe we got caught,” Poppy groaned. “We had such a solid plan.” Pip sighed. “Maybe we should retire from crime.” They sat in silence for a long moment. Then Gus snorted. “Nah.” They burst into laughter. Mischief, after all, was in their blood. As the festival continued around them, the three gnomes made a silent pact: Next year, they wouldn’t just steal the First Bloom. They’d steal the whole tree. But for now? They’d suffer through the ruffled tunics, hand out garlands, and bide their time. The gnome way. Bring the Magic Home Love the mischievous charm of Pip, Poppy, and Gus? Now you can bring their whimsical world into your home! Whether you want to cozy up with a stunning tapestry, add a touch of enchantment with a canvas print, or challenge yourself with a delightful puzzle, there's a perfect way to keep the gnome mischief alive. Looking for a charming gift? Send a magical message with a beautiful greeting card featuring this playful trio! Embrace the whimsy—shop the collection today!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Grumpiest Unicorn-Kitten

The Grumpiest Unicorn-Kitten’s Most Unfortunate Quest Once upon a very irritated time, in a realm where the flowers were too perky, the fairies were too chatty, and the air smelled aggressively like sugared violets, there lived the grumpiest unicorn-kitten ever to grace the land. Her name? Lilith von Fluffenstein. But she preferred "Lilith the Doomed"—because, in her words, "life is suffering, and so is my patience." Her white fur was pristine, her pink-tinged tail swayed with unimpressed authority, and her violet eyes could cut through the soul of anyone who dared to ask, “Who’s a cute little floof?” (The last creature who tried? A sprite named Jingles. He now exclusively communicates in terrified squeaks.) And yet, despite her magnificent disdain for most things, Lilith had a destiny. A prophesied quest. A divine calling that she absolutely did not ask for. The Worst Morning Ever It all began on a particularly infuriating morning, when Lilith awoke to find a scroll wedged between her tiny, majestic paws. A scroll wrapped in gold ribbon and sprinkled with—dear gods—glitter. "Nope." She flicked it off her pillow. Unfortunately, the scroll had other plans. It hovered mid-air and *booped* her grumpy little nose before unrolling itself: "Dearest Lilith von Fluffenstein, The realm of WhimsyWaddle has fallen into chaos! The Sacred Sprinkles have been stolen from the Cupcake Caverns! Without them, the Grand Muffin Mage cannot perform the Annual Sweetening Ritual, and soon all pastries shall turn bland! Bland, Lilith. You are our last hope. Retrieve the Sprinkles. Save the kingdom. Blah blah blah. You get the idea. P.S. This message will self-destruct in three… two…" "Oh for—" POOF! The scroll burst into a puff of vanilla-scented smoke, leaving Lilith covered in sparkles. There was only one thing to do. "I'm going to set something on fire," she muttered, shaking off the offending glitter. Enter: A Moth With Too Much Enthusiasm As Lilith plotted her most efficient route to vengeance—or at least a way to blame someone else for this nonsense—her least favorite being in all the land fluttered into her chamber. "LILITH! OH WOW, LOOK AT YOU! YOU’RE SO SHINY RIGHT NOW!" It was Mothsworth, a sentient, overenthusiastic moth with the attention span of a particularly caffeinated squirrel. "No." Lilith turned away. "No, what?" Mothsworth beamed, his tiny wings flapping with excitement. "No to everything you are about to say." "BUT LILITH!" He zipped around her, his dust-trailing wings leaving streaks of gold in the air. "YOU’VE BEEN CHOSEN FOR A QUEST! AN ADVENTURE! A HEROIC—" "Do you know what I was chosen for, Mothsworth?" Lilith narrowed her glowing violet eyes. "A nap. A peaceful, undisturbed nap. But now, thanks to celestial nonsense, I’m covered in glitter and being forced into some absurd pastry-related crisis." "OH OH OH!" Mothsworth did a mid-air somersault. "THIS IS PERFECT BECAUSE I WAS JUST THINKING THIS KINGDOM NEEDED MORE SPARKLE—" "I am going to eat you," Lilith said flatly. Mothsworth giggled. "YOU'RE SO FUNNY!" Lilith sighed and began padding toward the castle’s exit. "Fine. If I have to do this, I’m doing it my way. That means no singing, no clapping, and absolutely no heartwarming character growth." "OOOH, YOU’RE SO EDGY!" She flicked her tail. "Edgy gets things done, Mothsworth. Now, let’s go steal back some sprinkles before my patience crumbles like a week-old biscuit." And with that, the grumpiest unicorn-kitten stomped off into the unknown, a reluctant hero on a most unfortunate journey. A Totally Avoidable Detour Lilith trudged through the Twinkling Thicket with all the enthusiasm of a cat being forced into a holiday sweater. Mothsworth, as expected, was being the absolute worst. “LILITH, THIS IS AMAZING! THE STARS ARE SO BRIGHT! THE AIR IS SO FRESH! THE MAGIC IS SO—” “Do you ever shut up?” Lilith grumbled, shoving a glowing flower out of her way. “NOPE! NOT EVEN ONCE! DO YOU THINK THAT’S A PROBLEM? SOMEONE TOLD ME IT’S A PROBLEM, BUT I THINK—” “Mothsworth.” Lilith stopped and turned to him, her violet eyes darkening. “You are one sentence away from being personally responsible for the first recorded case of ‘moth-based homicide.’” He blinked. “DID YOU JUST THREATEN TO KILL ME?” “What? No. You’d just respawn somewhere annoying.” She sighed. “Now, can we please focus? We need to get to the Cupcake Caverns, steal back the Sacred Sprinkles, and get out before I lose what little faith I have in the universe.” “GOT IT! NO MORE DISTRACTIONS!” Thirty-seven seconds later, they were thoroughly distracted. “Mothsworth,” Lilith growled as she dangled upside down from a very suspiciously sentient vine, “do you want to explain to me why, instead of following the Very Clearly Labeled Path, we are currently being strangled by a plant?” “BECAUSE LOOK AT THIS ADORABLE LITTLE SIGN!” Mothsworth flailed his tiny wings, pointing to a wooden post. The sign, written in looping golden letters, read: “TOTALLY NOT A TRAP! FREE CUPCAKES THIS WAY!” “It literally says ‘totally not a trap,’” Lilith deadpanned. “WHICH MEANS IT PROBABLY WASN’T A TRAP UNTIL WE GOT HERE, RIGHT?” “I hate you.” The Argument That Saved Their Lives “Excuse me.” A gravelly voice interrupted their bickering. “Would you two mind screaming a little less? I’m trying to enjoy my afternoon tea.” Lilith twisted in the vine’s grip to get a better look at their captor. It was a giant carnivorous plant. With a monocle. The plant sighed and took a dainty sip from an extremely tiny porcelain teacup. “You know, back in the day, travelers had the decency to tremble before me. But no. Now it’s all sarcasm and attitude.” “Look, buddy,” Lilith said, flicking her tail, “you’re a talking plant with an accessory budget. I respect that. But do you really want to eat us?” The plant hesitated. “Well… I do like the dramatic ones.” “Let’s be honest. I’d taste like existential dread and misplaced aggression.” Mothsworth chimed in. “AND I’D TASTE LIKE SUGAR AND GLITTER!” The plant considered this. “Hmmm. Glitter is terrible for digestion.” “Exactly,” Lilith said. “Let us go, and I promise we’ll tell everyone you’re still very terrifying.” The plant huffed. “Fine. But next time, at least pretend to be scared.” With a flick of its leafy appendage, the vine released them. Lilith landed on all fours with an elegant *plop*. Mothsworth face-planted. “You’re the worst hero,” the plant muttered as it slithered back into the ground. The Cupcake Caverns By the time they arrived at the Cupcake Caverns, Lilith was out of patience, out of energy, and dangerously close to committing her first (and probably not last) act of pastry-related arson. The cavern itself was magnificent. Walls of golden caramel, chandeliers made of spun sugar, and a floor that smelled suspiciously like buttercream. But at the center of it all, atop a pedestal made of waffle cone, sat a small, glowing jar. The Sacred Sprinkles. And guarding them? A creature so utterly ridiculous that even Lilith had to take a moment to process it. A dragon. A dragon made entirely of… marshmallow fluff. “Oh, for the love of—” Lilith pinched the bridge of her tiny pink nose. “I am so tired.” The dragon yawned, stretching its gooey wings. “WHO DARES DISTURB—oh, it’s just a cat.” “Excuse me.” Lilith’s tail bristled. “I am a unicorn-kitten. There is a difference.” “Sure.” The dragon shrugged, sending a ripple through its marshmallow body. “And I am the Grand Protector of All That Is Sweet.” “Are you, though?” Lilith squinted. “Because you look like something I could spread on toast.” The dragon huffed. “RUDE.” “Yeah, yeah. Listen, here’s how this is gonna go.” Lilith stretched her paws. “You let me take the sprinkles, and I don’t roast you over an open fire.” The dragon snorted. “I’m immune to fire.” Lilith smirked. “Not magical fire.” She flicked her tail, and a very small but very determined spark of unicorn magic ignited at her horn’s tip. The dragon gulped. “Fine,” it grumbled, stepping aside. “But I hope your kingdom enjoys their diabetes.” Lilith grabbed the sprinkles, tossed them into her satchel, and turned on her heel. “Come on, Mothsworth. Let’s get out of here before I develop a real personality disorder.” And with that, the world’s grumpiest unicorn-kitten saved the kingdom. By accident. And under protest. THE END. Bring Lilith’s Sass Into Your World Do you need more grumpy magic in your life? Now you can own a piece of Lilith von Fluffenstein’s unimpressed glory! Whether you want to decorate your space, carry her attitude with you, or send some snark to a friend, we’ve got you covered. ✨ Tapestries – Cover your walls in fluffy rage. 🖼️ Canvas Prints – Frame her disapproval for all to see. 👜 Tote Bags – Carry your stuff with maximum attitude. 💌 Greeting Cards – Send a little grumpiness with love. Because let’s be honest—life is better with a little sass and a lot of fluff. Grab yours today and let Lilith judge your life choices from the comfort of your own home! 😾✨

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Old Magic and Stale Ale

The Pint of No Return Gorbwick the Grumpy Fae was having a day. A long, painful, gods-forsaken kind of day. The kind of day that made him question why he ever bothered getting out of his moss-covered bed. His wings, once shimmering gold and translucent like the morning dew, now looked like someone had used them to wipe up a particularly messy bar brawl. His tunic, which had probably been green in some distant past, was now a patchwork of ale stains, mud, and the occasional mysterious substance that he didn’t care to investigate. And worst of all? His beer was too damn foamy. “For fuck’s sake,” he grumbled, watching as another dollop of foam dribbled over the side of his wooden mug and plopped onto his bare foot. “Is it too much to ask for a proper pour? This is why I drink at home.” The bartender, a willowy dryad with an attitude as thorny as her ivy-wrapped arms, rolled her eyes. “You don’t have a home, Gorbwick. You have a tree stump that smells like regret.” “A tree stump is a home if you believe hard enough.” He took a long, slow sip of his ale, glaring at the world as if it had personally wronged him. Which, to be fair, it had. Once upon a time, he had been a trickster, a legend, a mischievous little shit whose name was whispered in taverns with a mixture of awe and irritation. Now? Now he was just the cranky bastard who never tipped. And that, dear gods, was unacceptable. “You know what?” he said suddenly, slamming his mug down on the counter. “I’m done with this. Done with the self-pity, the sitting around, the endless fucking drinking—” “You literally started today with a breakfast beer,” the dryad pointed out. “—Done, I say!” Gorbwick continued, ignoring her. “It’s time for a comeback.” “Oh no.” “Oh yes.” He stood up dramatically. At least, he tried. His left leg had fallen asleep, and instead of rising like a victorious warrior, he wobbled like a drunken goat. The dryad sighed. “You’re going to embarrass yourself.” “That’s how all the best stories start.” And with that, Gorbwick the Grumpy Fae, washed-up legend, set out on a grand new adventure—the first step of which was, of course, stumbling over a root and landing face-first in the dirt. The comeback was off to a fantastic start. A Fae, a Fool, and a Fistful of Bad Decisions Gorbwick peeled his face off the dirt with all the grace of a snail getting evicted from its shell. He spat out a mouthful of moss, muttered a curse that made a nearby squirrel cover its ears, and staggered to his feet. The comeback was still on. “Where the hell are you even going?” the dryad bartender called after him. “Adventure, my dear Twigs, adventure!” he shouted over his shoulder. Her actual name was Lissandra, but Gorbwick had been calling her Twigs for years, mostly because it annoyed the absolute shit out of her. “Well, at least let me get you some pants first!” she yelled. Gorbwick glanced down. Ah. That explained the draft. “No time! The wind shall cradle my nethers like a gentle lover!” “You’re gonna get arrested.” “Only if I get caught!” With that, he stumbled deeper into the forest, barefoot, pantless, and fueled by equal parts determination and whatever questionable liquor still sloshed around his gut. His goal? He had no idea. His strategy? None. His plan? Absolute nonsense. And that’s when he walked straight into the Goblin Mafia. A Poorly Timed Introduction Now, goblins are many things—shrewd, ugly, a little too enthusiastic about stabbing—but they were also businessmen. And business, on this particular evening, was going down in a clearing just past Gorbwick’s favorite piss-tree. Unfortunately, Gorbwick did not know this. Because Gorbwick, despite his magical heritage, was not what anyone would call “observant.” “Well, well, well,” drawled a greasy voice from the shadows. “Look what we got here.” Gorbwick blinked. Five goblins stood before him, dressed in ragged vests, fingerless gloves, and the kind of trousers that screamed, “I live in a hole but want to look professional.” At their feet were wooden crates labeled ‘DO NOT TOUCH OR YOU WILL BE STABBED’—a very specific warning. The lead goblin stepped forward. He had a face like a pug that had lost a fistfight and a permanent sneer that suggested he didn’t particularly like his own existence. “You lost, fairy boy?” Gorbwick dusted himself off, doing his best to stand tall despite the fact that he was very obviously half-dressed and covered in dirt. “I, good sirs, am not lost! I am merely… uh… assessing the perimeter.” The goblins looked at each other. “What?” “You know. Scouting.” “For who?” “…Future me.” The pug-faced goblin, whom Gorbwick now mentally named Squintsy, narrowed his beady eyes. “You a cop?” Gorbwick snorted. “Do I look like a cop?” Another goblin, this one with a tooth so long it curved over his bottom lip, leaned in. “Kinda, yeah.” “Oh, piss off.” Gorbwick sighed and crossed his arms. “Look, I don’t know what you little shits are smuggling, but I’m not here to mess with your business. I’m on an adventure.” “An adventure.” Squintsy deadpanned. “Yes.” “And you just happened to walk into our highly illegal, very secret deal?” “Yes.” “With no pants?” “…Yes.” The goblins mulled this over. Finally, Squintsy sighed and rubbed his face. “Okay. We’re gonna have to kill you.” Gorbwick threw up his hands. “Oh, come on. That’s excessive.” “Rules are rules.” “Can’t you just, I don’t know, kick me in the shin and call it a day?” “Nah, see, we’ve got a reputation to maintain.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake—” Before Gorbwick could finish, there was a loud crash. A wooden crate burst open, spilling its contents everywhere. Glittering, shimmering, bouncing contents. Pixie dust. Loads of it. A Brilliantly Terrible Idea Every goblin froze. Pixie dust was a tricky thing. In small doses, it could make you light on your feet. In moderate doses, it could make you float. But in high doses? It could turn an entire bar fight into a floating, screaming disaster. Gorbwick grinned. “No,” Squintsy said immediately. “No. Don’t even think about it.” Too late. Gorbwick lunged, grabbing two fistfuls of stolen pixie dust and launching himself backward, throwing the sparkling powder into the air like a deranged carnival performer. Chaos. One goblin shot straight into the tree canopy, screaming bloody murder. Another spun in midair, flailing as if he were trying to swim through honey. Squintsy, who had clearly been through this shit before, just sighed and let himself hover two feet off the ground. Gorbwick? Gorbwick rocketed up like a fucking firework. “WOOHOOOOO!” The world became a blur of treetops and moonlight as he spiraled uncontrollably through the sky. His wings, pathetic as they were, fluttered uselessly against the sheer force of pixie-fueled propulsion. Somewhere below, Squintsy’s voice echoed through the forest: “I hate fairies.” Gorbwick didn’t care. He was flying! He was free! He was— Oh. Oh no. He was losing altitude. “Oh, sh—” Gravity kicked back in like a pissed-off landlord, and Gorbwick plummeted toward the ground. He crashed through a tree, smacked into a branch, tumbled through a bush, and finally landed— —right back at the tavern’s doorstep. Lissandra the Dryad looked down at him. “So. How’d the ‘adventure’ go?” Gorbwick groaned. “I need another beer.” “Told you.” And with that, the grand comeback of Gorbwick the Grumpy Fae ended exactly where it began—on his ass, in the dirt, with a desperate need for alcohol. Take a Piece of Gorbwick’s Grumpy Glory Home Love Gorbwick's cranky, chaotic energy? Bring a bit of his misadventure into your space with Old Magic and Stale Ale—available as high-quality tapestries, canvas prints, tote bags, and even throw pillows for the ultimate fae-approved lounging. Perfect for lovers of fantasy, humor, and a touch of grumpy goblin magic, these unique pieces are a must-have for any adventurer—whether you're stumbling through a forest or just trying to survive another Monday. Shop now and let Gorbwick’s legendary attitude take up residence in your home!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Blue Jay in the Mystic Winterwood

The Fractal Perch and the Peculiar Prophecy Jasper was no ordinary blue jay. He was, as he often reminded his reflection in frozen puddles, an exceptional blue jay—cunning, curious, and just the right amount of handsome. But even he had to admit that today’s surroundings were, in his expert avian opinion, utterly bizarre. He was perched on what should have been an ordinary tree branch, but instead, it swirled and twisted in fractal spirals, growing smaller branches that mirrored themselves infinitely, all glowing with an eerie blue luminescence. The trees around him stretched impossibly tall, their trunks bathed in golden light, while the sky above shimmered like a mirage. The air smelled like winter and electricity, as if someone had left the northern lights on a slow simmer. “Well, this is new,” Jasper muttered, clicking his beak. Just then, a voice floated through the swirling frost. “You there, bird! Yes, you, with the judgmental eyes and the unreasonably perfect plumage!” Jasper fluffed up indignantly, ready to defend both his eyes and his plumage, when an ancient-looking squirrel emerged from the undergrowth. His fur was an unnatural shade of silver, and he had the weary expression of someone who had seen one too many prophecies. “Ah, another day, another feathered fool,” sighed the squirrel. “Welcome to the Mystic Winterwood. You are the Chosen One.” Jasper blinked. Then he laughed. A full, unapologetic cackle that echoed through the shimmering trees. “Me? The Chosen One? I think you’ve got the wrong bird, buddy. I’m more of a ‘steal peanuts from backyard feeders’ kind of guy.” But the squirrel remained unfazed. “The Frostseer has spoken. The Blue Jay of Unparalleled Beauty shall undertake the Great Quest to restore balance to the Winterwood.” He squinted at Jasper. “You are a blue jay, are you not?” Jasper smoothed down his chest feathers. “I mean, obviously. But unparalleled beauty is subjective.” “Oh, spare me the false modesty,” the squirrel huffed. “Now, listen closely. The Winterwood is trapped in an infinite loop of fractal frost. If we don’t break the cycle, we’ll be stuck in this mesmerizing yet increasingly annoying pattern forever. I, personally, am tired of my tail repeating itself.” He flicked his tail, and sure enough, tiny silver tails spiraled out of it in an infinite loop. Jasper tilted his head. “So, what exactly do I have to do?” “Simple.” The squirrel produced an acorn, except it wasn’t an ordinary acorn—it glowed with the same fractal energy as the trees. “You must take this to the Heart of the Winterwood and plant it. But beware! The path is filled with confusing illusions, mischief, and creatures that may try to steal your undeniable handsomeness.” Jasper scoffed. “Pfft. Good luck to them. But alright, fine. I’ll do it. Not because I believe in destiny, but because I’m curious, and also, I have literally no idea how to get out of here otherwise.” “Excellent,” the squirrel said, shoving the glowing acorn into Jasper’s wing. “Now, don’t mess this up. The fate of the Winterwood depends on your slightly above-average intelligence and outrageously good looks.” Jasper sighed, took a deep breath, and flapped into the swirling frost. The Perils of Vanity and the Unexpected Truth Jasper soared through the fractal frost, the glowing acorn tucked securely beneath his wing. The trees below twisted and curled like frozen ocean waves, their swirling branches whispering secrets that made absolutely no sense. “The snow remembers…” one tree murmured. “Your reflection is watching you,” another warned. Jasper rolled his eyes. “Fantastic. Cryptic trees. Just what I needed.” As he flapped deeper into the Winterwood, the air grew thick with shimmering fog, and suddenly, the world around him began to shift. Trees stretched and bent into impossible angles. The sky turned into a vast, reflective lake, and Jasper realized with horror— He was flying into a world made entirely of mirrors. Jasper screeched to a halt midair, barely avoiding colliding with himself. Or at least, a reflection of himself. No, wait—thousands of reflections, all staring back at him with the same expression of mild concern and impeccable plumage. “Ooooooh no,” he muttered. “This is a trap. A very vain trap.” A soft chuckle echoed from the endless reflections. “Oh, come now, Jasper. Is it really a trap… or an opportunity?” Jasper turned toward the source of the voice. In the center of the mirrored world, perched on a pedestal of pure ice, was another blue jay. Identical to him in every way—except for one unsettling detail. His duplicate was even more handsome. Jasper gasped. “What… but… how?” “I am your reflection, your potential, your better self,” the Handsomer Jasper said, preening. “I could be you, if only you stopped wasting time on silly little quests and embraced your true purpose: admiring your own perfection.” Jasper hesitated. This was, without a doubt, the most compelling argument he had ever heard. “I mean… that does sound nice,” he admitted. “But, uh, I do have an important quest. Something about saving a forest?” “A forest that will always be there,” Handsomer Jasper said smoothly. “But this moment? This chance to bask in your own greatness? Fleeting. Imagine the hours of self-admiration you’ve lost over the years, wasted on pointless flying and peanut theft. You could stay here forever, contemplating your own magnificence.” Jasper nodded thoughtfully. “That is a solid point. I do look incredible today.” He glanced at his many reflections, all nodding in agreement. This was dangerous. He was dangerously close to abandoning everything for the simple pleasure of gazing at himself forever. Then, out of nowhere, a peanut hit him square in the forehead. “Ow! What the—” Jasper spun around just in time to see a tiny, furious squirrel charging toward him, brandishing another peanut like a weapon. It was the silver squirrel from before, but now he looked very unimpressed. “Snap out of it, Pretty Boy!” he barked. “You’re being bamboozled by your own vanity!” “Am not!” Jasper shot back, but the tiny squirrel pelted him with another peanut. “Okay, maybe a little.” “More than a little!” The squirrel hopped onto a nearby mirror, his reflection splitting into infinite versions of himself. “This place is a trap! A perfectly crafted, wildly effective, vanity trap. It lures in creatures who are too impressed with themselves, and they never leave!” Jasper frowned. “Huh. That… does sound like me.” Handsomer Jasper sighed dramatically. “You don’t have to listen to him, you know. Look at you. Look at us! We could be so much more if we just stayed here and—” “Yeah, yeah, that’s great,” Jasper interrupted. “But I have a glowing acorn and a prophecy to fulfill, so I should probably get going.” He turned toward the silver squirrel. “How do I get out of here?” “Simple,” the squirrel said. “You just have to stop looking at yourself.” Jasper blinked. “I’m sorry, what now?” “Don’t look at any reflections. No mirrors, no polished feathers, nothing. Just close your eyes and fly.” Jasper paled. “That sounds insanely dangerous.” “More dangerous than being stuck here forever?” the squirrel shot back. Jasper groaned. “Fine. But if I fly into something, I’m suing.” He squeezed his eyes shut and flapped. The moment he did, the world around him seemed to shake. The endless reflections flickered, wavered, and then— CRACK! Like a shattered ice sculpture, the mirror world collapsed. Jasper burst through a wall of glistening frost and landed, panting, in a clearing bathed in soft, golden light. The swirling frost patterns had faded, replaced by gentle snowfall. The silver squirrel landed beside him. “Well, that was horrifying.” Jasper opened his wings. The glowing acorn was still there. “Huh. Guess I didn’t drop it.” The squirrel smirked. “Even you aren’t that self-absorbed.” Jasper huffed. “Debatable.” Before them, in the heart of the Winterwood, stood a single patch of untouched earth. Jasper hesitated, then gently placed the acorn in the soil. The ground rumbled. Light burst from the spot, shooting up in spirals that spread through the forest, washing away the fractal frost and restoring balance. The trees whispered a final message: “Thank you.” Jasper blinked as the world settled around him. Then he turned to the squirrel. “So… what now?” The squirrel grinned. “Now? We get peanuts. Lots and lots of peanuts.” Jasper grinned back. “Best prophecy ever.” And with that, the two unlikely heroes disappeared into the now-normal, much-less-fractally, but still slightly magical Winterwood—where they lived out their days telling exaggerated stories about their bravery and eating entirely too many peanuts. Bring the Magic of the Mystic Winterwood Home Jasper’s whimsical journey through the Mystic Winterwood doesn’t have to end here! You can bring a piece of this enchanting world into your own space with stunning artwork featuring the mesmerizing blue jay and his fractal frost surroundings. Whether you want to adorn your walls with a canvas print or a cozy tapestry, you can capture the essence of this magical forest. Looking for a fun challenge? Try piecing together the intricate details of the Winterwood with a beautiful puzzle, or carry a little enchantment with you wherever you go with a stylish tote bag. Whatever you choose, let Jasper’s adventure remind you that sometimes, the most magical journeys begin with curiosity… and a really good peanut.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Paws, Claws, and Dragon Flaws

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

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Peacock of a Thousand Sunsets

Spring had arrived in the Enchanted Glade, and with it came the annual Festival of Flourish, a spectacle of nature’s grandest show-offs. Flowers bloomed in synchronized bursts of color, trees shook off their winter moods like sassy models on a runway, and birds trilled complex symphonies composed over months of gossip and questionable life choices. And at the heart of it all—preening, posing, and absolutely reveling in the chaos—was Percival the Peacock. Percival wasn’t just any peacock. He was the peacock. The kind of bird that made sunsets jealous. His feathers shimmered in shades of molten gold, iridescent greens, and the sort of blues that could make the ocean question its self-worth. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, knowing full well that every step left an emotional scar on those who could never be him. “Darlings, darlings,” he cooed, flicking his tail just enough to catch the light. “Do try to keep up. I can’t be expected to carry this entire festival on my back—though, let’s be honest, I do.” The rabbits, who had been nervously nibbling on flower stems nearby, exchanged glances. “Here we go again,” whispered one. Every year, Percival treated the Festival of Flourish as his personal fashion show, and every year, the woodland creatures were caught somewhere between admiration and the deep, soul-crushing exhaustion that comes from dealing with divas. Even the bees—hardened workers that they were—took extra long breaks when Percival was around, unable to endure his dramatic monologues about wing-to-tail coordination and “the struggle of being this radiant.” “Excuse me,” came a voice, cutting through the crowd’s collective weariness. It belonged to Beatrice, a rather no-nonsense sparrow who had exactly zero patience for theatrics. “Ah, Beatrice,” Percival purred, turning ever so slightly to offer her his most devastating profile. “To what do I owe this delightful interruption?” Beatrice landed in front of him, wings folded. “You are aware that the Festival of Flourish is not a one-bird show, yes?” Percival gasped. The kind of gasp that required a deep inhale, a strategic wing placement, and just the right tilt of the beak to convey a mixture of offense and allure. “How dare you? I am the embodiment of spring! The very essence of renewal! The—” “You are a peacock with a superiority complex,” Beatrice interrupted. “And the festival committee is putting you on a performance schedule this year, so you don’t hijack the entire event.” The silence that followed was deafening. Even the flowers seemed to stop blooming for a second, unsure of how to process the sheer scandal of it all. Percival’s eye twitched. “A schedule?” he echoed. “You mean… regulations? On me? How dare you place limits on art?” Beatrice did not blink. “Yes. You’ll have a designated time slot—fifteen minutes, tops.” Percival staggered backward as if she’d slapped him with a particularly wet fern. “Fifteen minutes? That’s barely enough time for my opening strut!” “Then walk faster.” The festival crowd murmured, eyes darting between the two birds like they were witnessing the avian equivalent of a reality TV showdown. Beatrice remained unfazed. She had spent years navigating bureaucracy in the Festival Committee, and she was not about to be emotionally blackmailed by a bird with trust issues and an elaborate feather care routine. “You have three options,” she continued. “One, you follow the schedule. Two, you don’t perform, and we give your slot to Nigel the Nightingale—” “Ugh,” Percival shuddered. “Nigel’s ballads are a crime against sound.” “Or three,” Beatrice continued, ignoring him, “you can cause a scene, in which case, we have an incident, and I call for an emergency committee meeting, and trust me, Percival, I am not above paperwork.” Percival groaned, dramatically flopping onto a mossy branch, his tail feathers pooling around him like a spilled sunset. “Fine,” he huffed. “But just know, this is an attack on free expression, and I shall require emotional support worms to recover.” Beatrice smirked. “I’ll get right on that.” With the terms begrudgingly accepted, the festival preparations resumed, but not without the lingering knowledge that this was far from over. Percival had agreed to the terms, yes—but whether he would stick to them? That was an entirely different story. The Grand Finale (and the Slightly Illegal Pyrotechnics) The day of the Festival of Flourish arrived, and the Enchanted Glade buzzed with excitement. Butterflies flitted like confetti, the air smelled of fresh blooms and questionable herbal teas, and woodland creatures bustled around in their finest seasonal accessories. Even the usually grumpy hedgehogs had made an effort, wearing tiny flower crowns that made them look like dangerously adorable rolling bouquets. And then, of course, there was Percival. Perched on a mossy archway at the center of the festival grounds, he sat in a dramatic repose, awaiting his moment. His feathers had been fluffed, glossed, and preened to near-mythical levels of perfection. A single cherry blossom was delicately placed behind his crest—a final touch, inspired. Every angle, every shimmer, every molecule of his being was calculated for maximum visual devastation. His time slot was scheduled. He had agreed to the terms. And yet… “I simply refuse to be bound by mortal limitations,” Percival whispered to himself, eyes scanning the festival stage. The crowd had gathered for his grand performance. Beatrice, ever the festival enforcer, perched nearby, suspiciously eyeing him with the weary exhaustion of someone who knew she was about to regret allowing him to exist freely. As the announcer stepped forward, a soft hush fell over the crowd. “And now,” the chipmunk host declared, “for his—ahem—scheduled performance, please welcome Percival the Peacock!” Thunderous applause erupted. Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel fainted. Probably. With the grace of a creature who absolutely understood the assignment, Percival spread his dazzling tail, stepping forward in slow, deliberate elegance. The golden glow of the late afternoon sun hit his feathers just right, sending shimmering waves of color across the audience. Gasps of admiration rippled through the crowd. But just as Percival reached the center of the stage, something… shifted. The energy in the air changed. Beatrice’s feathers ruffled. She knew this feeling. It was the unmistakable sensation of being played. “Oh no.” Too late. Percival, the absolute menace of the avian world, had somehow—somehow—coordinated an unauthorized, unhinged, and possibly illegal pyrotechnic display. With a flick of his tail, tiny enchanted fireflies burst into the air, forming a glowing halo around him. A sudden gust of wind, no doubt orchestrated by a complicit owl, sent flower petals swirling in a dramatic cyclone of beauty. And then—because Percival never did anything halfway—he unfurled his full plumage, shaking his tail feathers with such force that tiny bursts of golden pollen exploded into the air, catching the light in a way that made it look like a literal divine intervention. The crowd lost their minds. Screaming, clapping, possibly fainting. Beatrice’s beak twitched. “You absolute menace.” Percival executed a flawless spin, his tail feathers sweeping in an arc of shimmering gold. He smirked. “Oh, Beatrice, darling. You cannot regulate destiny.” “DESTINY IS NOT SUPPOSED TO INVOLVE EXPLOSIONS,” Beatrice screeched, as a particularly excitable firefly nearly singed a dandelion. Percival ignored her. He was in the zone. He launched into his closing act—a dramatic, slow-motion strut toward the edge of the stage, pausing just long enough for the final burst of sunset light to hit him in exactly the right way. The applause? Deafening. The festival committee? Speechless. Beatrice? Trying to legally process what had just occurred. “You do realize,” she said, rubbing her temples, “that this was a gross misuse of festival resources.” Percival turned, utterly unbothered. “Correction: it was inspired use of festival resources.” She exhaled sharply, knowing she had lost this round. The festival-goers erupted in cheers, chanting his name. Beatrice begrudgingly admitted that, despite the chaos, it had been… well… stunning. A scandal, sure. But a beautiful one. Percival stepped off the stage and leaned in. “Now, about those emotional support worms?” Beatrice sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.” As the festival continued, it became clear that Percival had, once again, cemented himself as the icon of spring. Love him, hate him, fine him for unauthorized magic—one thing was undeniable: Spring had officially begun. Bring Home the Magic of Percival If you fell in love with the dazzling spectacle of The Peacock of a Thousand Sunsets, why not bring a piece of that enchantment into your own space? Whether you're looking to add a touch of whimsy to your walls, cozy up with an artistic tapestry, or even challenge yourself with a beautiful puzzle, we’ve got you covered! ✨ Tapestry – Transform any room with the vibrant elegance of Percival’s legendary plumage. 🖼️ Framed Print – A stunning centerpiece for your home, capturing all the magic of spring. 🧩 Jigsaw Puzzle – Piece together the beauty of this flamboyant feathered icon. 💌 Greeting Card – Send a bit of avian attitude and charm to someone special. 👜 Weekender Tote Bag – Carry a bit of drama and elegance wherever you go. 🏖️ Round Beach Towel – Because even your beach days deserve a touch of fabulous. Don’t miss out—shop now and let Percival’s radiance shine in your life! 💛✨

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Rainbow Plumage & Petal Dance

The Diva of the Garden Spring had finally arrived, and with it, the annual awakening of the garden. The bees were back on their pollination grind, the flowers were flaunting their petals like contestants in a floral beauty pageant, and the breeze carried the distinct scent of fresh blossoms and questionable pollen decisions. And then, there was *her*. Lady Beatrix Featherbottom III—known simply as *Bea* to her adoring fans—was the most radiant bird in the entire garden. Her feathers shimmered with a pastel iridescence so dazzling it made rainbows weep. She wasn’t just a bird; she was an *experience*. And she knew it. Bea perched delicately on a budding branch, basking in the golden glow of the sun. Below, the lesser birds (read: *everyone else*) bustled about, pecking at crumbs, building nests, and generally existing in an exhausting, non-glamorous fashion. "Ugh, Gerald, darling," Bea sighed dramatically, turning to a rather drab-looking sparrow beside her. "Spring is *so* high-maintenance. All this blooming and chirping—exhausting, really. It's like nature's version of a soft launch, and frankly, I don't have time for it." Gerald, accustomed to Bea’s *fabulous* monologues, preened a wing absentmindedly. "Uh-huh. Sure, Bea. But I think the real problem is your diet. You eat too many flower petals. I’ve seen you do it. That can't be normal." Bea gasped, clutching her tiny chest dramatically. "How *dare* you, Gerald! Are you implying I don’t have a refined palate? You think I should be one of those *barbaric seed-eaters*? I have delicate sensibilities!" Gerald rolled his beady little eyes. "I think you have expensive taste and no survival instincts." Bea scoffed, fluffing her tail feathers. "Please. Do you see this plumage? This level of beauty is *not* for the common bird. My aesthetic alone is a public service. I should be getting paid for this." "Bea, you literally don’t have a job. You just sit here and pose all day," Gerald deadpanned. "Excuse me," Bea huffed. "I am a *seasonal muse*, Gerald. A living work of art. My presence brings joy to photographers, artists, and the occasional lost poet. And what do you do? Eat bugs and look confused?" Gerald stared blankly. "Bugs are delicious." Bea shuddered. "You disgust me." Just then, a particularly bold butterfly fluttered past, its wings a vibrant shade of orange and blue. Bea’s sharp eyes locked onto it immediately. "Oh, *absolutely not*," she declared. "I refuse to be outshone by an *insect* with commitment issues." "Bea, it's just a butterfly," Gerald sighed. "*Just* a butterfly?!" Bea squawked. "That *winged peasant* just tried to upstage me in my own garden. I will *not* stand for this!" She puffed out her chest and struck her most dazzling pose, the sunlight hitting her feathers in such a way that even the most indifferent onlooker would be blinded by sheer magnificence. The butterfly, completely oblivious, continued on its merry way. Bea blinked. "Unbelievable. It didn’t even acknowledge me. Gerald, do you know how *insulting* that is?" Gerald did, in fact, know. But he also knew better than to engage. Spring was here, and with it, Bea’s annual battle to remain the most visually stunning thing in the garden. And as far as she was concerned, she was *winning*. The Garden Party Scandal The garden had been abuzz with whispers all morning. Something *big* was happening. The annual Spring Garden Party, hosted by Lady Primrose the Wise (a rather large and intimidating robin), was set to begin at high noon, and every bird, insect, and suspiciously nosy squirrel was invited. Bea, naturally, was already fashionably late. "Darling, a queen never arrives *on time*," she mused, delicately fluffing her tail feathers. "She arrives precisely when the peasants are at peak desperation." Gerald, who had somehow been roped into being her reluctant plus-one, frowned. "Bea, *nobody* is desperate for your arrival." "Gerald, please," Bea scoffed. "They live for my presence. You think they come for the *seeds* and *nectar*? No, darling. They come to *witness*." With that, she swooped gracefully down into the clearing, landing in the center of the gathering with a flourish. Birds turned. Squirrels paused mid-nibble. Even the bees hesitated (which, frankly, was a bit dangerous given their flight patterns). Lady Primrose the Wise blinked, unimpressed. "Ah. Lady Featherbottom. Late, as usual." Bea beamed. "Fashionably, darling. Fashionably." "Hmm," Primrose sniffed, before turning back to a tray of particularly well-arranged berries. Bea, not one to let an entrance *flop*, sauntered toward the center of the gathering. "So, what are we discussing? My breathtaking beauty? My undeniable grace? My upcoming memoir?" "We're discussing *actual* survival tactics for spring migration," a gruff pigeon named Frank muttered. Bea wrinkled her beak. "How utterly *dull*. Migration is for birds who can't handle a bit of seasonal inconvenience. I *thrive* in all climates." "You live in a *garden*," Frank deadpanned. "A *well-curated* garden," Bea corrected. "And I am its crown jewel." Frank groaned. "Some of us actually have to *fly* south." "Some of you should consider flying *elsewhere*," Bea retorted sweetly. A collective gasp rippled through the gathering. Lady Primrose cleared her throat. "Alright, alright. That’s enough. Let’s not start a *war* over *feathered theatrics*." Bea smirked. "*Feathered theatrics* is such a good brand name. I might use that." And with that, spring’s most *scandalous* garden party was officially underway. ✨ Bring Bea’s Glamour Into Your Home! ✨ Lady Beatrix Featherbottom III demands an audience, and now, you can bring her *unmatched elegance* into your space! Whether you want a statement piece for your living room or a touch of whimsy in your daily life, Rainbow Plumage & Petal Dance is available in stunning formats: 🏡 Canvas Prints – Perfect for adding a dreamy, artistic touch to your walls. 🖼️ Wood Prints – Bring natural warmth and elegance into your space. 🌟 Metal Prints – Sleek, modern, and vibrant, just like Bea herself! 🛏️ Tapestries – Turn your space into a whimsical haven. 🚿 Shower Curtains – Because even your bathroom deserves fabulousness. 👜 Tote Bags – Strut your stuff in style, just like Bea would want. Don’t let your walls (or bathroom, or wardrobe) suffer from *boring bird syndrome*. Give them the royal treatment with Bea’s dazzling presence! 🌸✨

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Mystic Feathers and Cosmic Light

Once upon a particularly weird Tuesday night, somewhere between a dream and an ill-advised fourth glass of wine, an owl named Professor Hootsworth McFluffington III found himself in an unusual predicament. He had been, quite frankly, minding his own feathery business—perched atop the tallest branch of the ancient Gloombark tree, contemplating the existential meaning of bread crusts—when the universe, in all its chaotic wisdom, decided to mess with him. With an unexpected POP! that sounded suspiciously like someone opening a bag of cheese puffs in a silent library, a rift in reality tore open before him. It shimmered in swirling neon hues—blue, red, and just a hint of existential dread. A moment later, something sucked him in like a cosmic vacuum cleaner set to “Maximum Nope.” The Unexpected Detour Through Space and Questionable Dimensions Now, to be fair, this wasn’t the first time something bizarre had happened to Professor Hootsworth. Once, he had mistakenly swallowed a glow-in-the-dark beetle and spent three days as a sentient nightlight. But this? This was new. As he tumbled through the void, surrounded by floating pocket watches, confused fish, and what he was fairly certain was his Aunt Mildred’s missing teapot, he pondered the choices that had led him here. Should he have ignored that weirdly glowing worm earlier? Was this the owl version of a midlife crisis? Why did space smell like burnt toast and mild regret? Before he could reach any satisfying conclusions, he crash-landed onto what appeared to be a throne made entirely of misplaced socks. And sitting before him, looking both regal and slightly constipated, was an eight-foot-tall cosmic hamster wearing a monocle. Lord Cheddington’s Demand “Ah, at last!” the hamster boomed, adjusting his monocle dramatically. “The Prophecy foretold of your arrival!” Professor Hootsworth sighed. “Of course, it did. Because why not?” The hamster ignored the sarcasm. “I am Lord Cheddington, ruler of the Interdimensional Lost & Found. And you, noble owl, have been chosen for a task of utmost importance!” Professor Hootsworth flexed his wings. “If this involves rescuing a princess, slaying a dragon, or assembling an ancient puzzle box, I’m going to need a drink first.” “No, no!” Lord Cheddington waved a tiny paw. “We need you to retrieve the Celestial Spork from the Realm of Infinite Bureaucracy.” There was a beat of silence. Then another. Finally, the Professor spoke. “…A spork?” “A Celestial Spork.” “…That is different from a regular spork in what way exactly?” Lord Cheddington’s whiskers twitched. “It glows.” Professor Hootsworth rubbed his temples with his wing. “Right. Of course. And why do you need me?” “Because,” the hamster said, eyes gleaming with dramatic importance, “you are the only one who can fill out the necessary paperwork.” The Trials of Bureaucratic Hell It turned out that the Realm of Infinite Bureaucracy was, in fact, exactly what it sounded like. Upon arrival, Hootsworth was immediately handed a Form 982-B (Request for Retrieval of Interdimensional Eating Utensils), followed by a Sub-Clause 17-A (Certification of Non-Malevolent Intent), and—his personal favorite—a W-2 Tax Form because, apparently, claiming celestial artifacts counted as taxable income. Three hours and one existential crisis later, he was sitting across from a gelatinous, sentient blob named Greg, who was, according to his name tag, an Assistant Manager of Mundane Cosmic Objects. “Sooo,” Greg slurped, “you’re saying you need the Spork because… a giant hamster in a sock palace told you to?” Professor Hootsworth, dead inside, nodded. Greg blinked. “That checks out.” And just like that, Greg handed over the glowing Celestial Spork. Mission Accomplished? Upon returning to Lord Cheddington, Hootsworth tossed the Spork onto the hamster’s ridiculously ornate cheese-shaped table. “Here. Glow-in-the-dark utensil, as requested.” Cheddington gasped. “You have done well, noble owl! The prophecy is fulfilled!” Professor Hootsworth narrowed his eyes. “So, uh, what does it do exactly?” Cheddington twirled his whiskers. “It… it, uh… allows me to eat soup and solid food with the same utensil.” Hootsworth stared. Then blinked. Then stared some more. “You sent me through literal bureaucratic hell for that?” Cheddington nodded. “Yes.” Hootsworth exhaled slowly. “You are aware that regular sporks exist?” “…They do?” “…You absolute rodent.” The Aftermath And that was how Professor Hootsworth McFluffington III decided he was done with interdimensional nonsense. He returned home, opened a bottle of wine, and swore that if he ever saw another glowing utensil, he would personally feed it to the nearest black hole. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans. Because the very next morning, a glowing fork appeared on his doorstep… with a note: “Dear Professor, I require a matching set. Sincerely, Lord Cheddington.” Hootsworth screamed into the void. THE END. Bring a Piece of the Cosmic Owl Home While Professor Hootsworth McFluffington III might not be thrilled about his latest interdimensional adventure, you can at least enjoy the mystic beauty of his world—without the bureaucratic nightmare. 🌌✨ Adorn your space with the ethereal glow of Mystic Feathers and Cosmic Light, available in stunning formats: 🌟 Tapestry – Transform your walls into a portal to another dimension. 🖼️ Acrylic Print – Vibrant colors, cosmic vibes, and a glossy finish. 🛋️ Throw Pillow – Perfect for existential pondering… or taking a nap. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry your belongings with the wisdom of the universe (and maybe a Celestial Spork). Don’t let the mysteries of the cosmos pass you by—grab your piece of intergalactic whimsy today! 🚀🦉

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Inferno Fang & Ocean Vein

The Awakening The legend was whispered in alleyways, scribbled in the margins of forbidden texts, and told in hushed voices among those who knew better than to dismiss the old myths. A serpent, vast as a river and ancient as the bones of the earth itself, lay sleeping beneath the city—a guardian of equilibrium, a harbinger of destruction. Few believed in the tale, of course. In a metropolis choked by neon lights and the hum of industry, there was no room for ancient gods. Yet, those who dug deep enough into the history of the city found signs—archived reports of sudden, inexplicable fires in one district while, mere miles away, streets were swallowed by floods. Survivors spoke of something slithering beneath the asphalt, something that should not exist. Amara Santiago had never believed in ghosts or folklore. A journalist hardened by years of covering crime and corruption, she dealt in facts, not fairy tales. That was until she received an anonymous email with a single image attached: a grainy, almost surreal photograph of a serpent with **one half engulfed in flames, the other dripping with water, its scales glistening with moss and embers alike.** The subject line read: **"It has begun."** At first, she dismissed it as a hoax, yet something gnawed at her—the image felt wrong, too vivid to be mere fabrication. Then the **earthquake** struck. Buildings groaned as the ground trembled, car alarms blared, and a deep, guttural sound echoed beneath the streets. Amara barely managed to grab her camera before rushing outside. What she saw would haunt her forever. Through the cracked pavement of **the Old District**, steam and fire erupted in one block, while another was swallowed by a sudden downpour, a torrential flood that defied all logic. And then, she saw it—the silhouette of the serpent, slithering just beneath the fractured cityscape, **its presence warping the very laws of nature.** “The Balance is broken.” The words were spoken by a man who appeared beside her, his face obscured by a hood. “The Inferno Fang has awakened, and Ocean Vein is not far behind. You have seen the signs, haven’t you?” Amara turned, her pulse hammering. “Who are you?” The man ignored the question, stepping forward as if watching something unseen. “It was bound beneath this city centuries ago, sealed by those who understood its power. But now… now the bindings are unraveling.” He turned to her, and for the first time, she saw his eyes—one flickering like embers, the other shimmering with deep blue light. “You have a choice, journalist. You can run, pretend this is another mystery with no answer, or you can seek the truth. But know this—once you step into the storm, there is no turning back.” A second tremor rocked the city, this one deeper, more violent. The sound of sirens filled the air, and in the distance, beyond the skyline, **the sky itself split—one half burning in an eerie red glow, the other shrouded in storm-laden darkness.** Amara’s instincts screamed at her to leave, to forget this madness. But she had spent her life chasing the truth. And something told her that if she did not seek the answers now, **there would be no world left to report on.** She took a breath and turned to the hooded man. “Where do we start?” He smiled grimly. “Where all great disasters begin—at the end of an old era and the birth of something new.” And with that, they descended into the depths of the city, unaware that the **Inferno Fang & Ocean Vein were watching, waiting.** The Reckoning The underground passage smelled of damp earth and something older—something that reeked of decay and forgotten time. Amara followed the hooded man deeper beneath the city, her mind torn between disbelief and the raw instinct to run. The tremors above grew stronger, and the sound of rushing water echoed through the tunnels, mingling with the distant roar of unseen flames. “We’re running out of time,” the man muttered. “They will awaken fully soon. And once they do—” He stopped abruptly, staring at the walls. Amara’s breath hitched. **The walls were moving.** No, not walls—**scales.** A colossal, breathing presence pulsed beneath the stone, its rhythm slow, measured, like something in the final moments of slumber. One side of the tunnel was warm, **pulsing with heat**, as if an unseen fire raged just beneath the surface. The other was slick with moisture, **coated in thick moss**, the air heavy with the scent of rain. “What the hell is this?” Amara whispered. “Their prison,” the man replied. “But the lock has broken. And soon, they will rise.” The ground shook violently, nearly knocking her off her feet. A deafening **crack** split the air, and then—darkness. The Eyes of the Serpent When Amara opened her eyes, she was no longer underground. She stood atop a ruined cityscape, skyscrapers shattered, streets flooded with fire and water alike. **The sky itself was divided—one side a searing inferno, the other a maelstrom of raging waves.** And in the center of it all, she saw them. The **Inferno Fang & Ocean Vein** had awakened. The twin serpents coiled around one another, massive beyond comprehension, their scales reflecting the ruin of the world they had been bound to protect. One glowed with the molten heat of the earth’s core, its every breath sending ripples of flame through the air. The other pulsed with the force of the oceans, its body trailing torrents of cascading water. **They were not enemies. They were balance.** And now, that balance was broken. The hooded man appeared beside her, his form flickering in and out of reality. “They were never meant to be separated, never meant to awaken apart. The city was their cage, but also their harmony. The people have shattered that balance—unchecked greed, reckless ambition, the belief that they were masters of this world.” Amara felt something shift within her, a deep, painful truth clawing at her soul. She had spent her life chasing corruption, exposing the rot of power, believing in justice. But this—**this was something older than justice. Older than humanity.** “Can we stop them?” she asked. The man turned to her, his eyes burning with both flame and water. “Not stop. **Choose.**” The words sent a chill through her bones. The serpents roared, their voices shaking the heavens. **Fire or water. Destruction or renewal.** Amara realized, with horrifying certainty, that the choice had never been theirs. It had always been humanity’s. And now, in this moment, it rested with her. The Final Choice Her mind raced. If she chose Inferno Fang, the world would burn. Fire would cleanse the land, reduce it to ash, and in time, new life would rise. But at what cost? If she chose Ocean Vein, the world would drown. Civilization would wash away, and nature would reclaim its dominion. But could humanity survive such a rebirth? Or—was there another way? The serpents watched her, waiting. **Judging.** She took a deep breath and stepped forward. “We do not need destruction to find balance,” she whispered. “We need understanding.” Her voice carried through the storm, through the fire, and for a moment—just a moment—the serpents hesitated. The hooded man’s expression shifted, a flicker of something almost like hope in his ageless eyes. Then, the world shattered. The Legend Continues... When Amara awoke, the city was whole. The earthquakes had stopped. The fires and floods had vanished. The sky was as it had always been—gray with morning smog. Had it been a dream? And yet, as she stood there, catching her breath, she noticed something beneath her fingertips— Her skin was warm on one side, cool on the other. Somewhere, in the depths of the world, **the Inferno Fang & Ocean Vein still waited.** Watching. Judging. And one day, when the balance is broken again, they will rise once more. The End? Bring the Legend to Life The tale of Inferno Fang & Ocean Vein is more than just an urban myth—it’s a symbol of balance, power, and the forces that shape our world. Now, you can bring this legendary imagery into your own space with stunning artwork and merchandise inspired by the story. 🔥🔥 Tapestries to transform your walls with the energy of fire and water. 🎨 Stunning canvas prints capturing the mythical serpent in breathtaking detail. 🛋️ Throw pillows that let you rest against the power of the elements. 👜 Tote bags infused with the energy of fire and water, perfect for everyday legends. Whether as a reminder of the story’s message or as a statement piece in your home, these items embody the raw power of Inferno Fang & Ocean Vein. Will you embrace the legend?

Contes capturés – par 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.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Earth’s Fury, Earth’s Grace

There is a story whispered among the mountain towns of the Pacific Northwest, a tale the old hunters refuse to tell after dark. They call it The Burning Bear, a guardian, a curse, or perhaps something far worse. It is said to appear in the deepest parts of the forest, where no roads dare go, where the trees twist unnaturally, and the air hums with unseen energy. Few have claimed to see it and lived. One of those men was Daniel Holt, a seasoned survivalist and tracker. He spent his life navigating the treacherous backcountry, unafraid of the wild—until the night he encountered something the wild itself feared. The Descent into the Forbidden It began in early November, when the air carried the sharp scent of winter and the ground crackled underfoot. Holt had heard rumors of missing hikers near Blackthorn Ridge, a stretch of land so untouched that even the most experienced explorers steered clear. But Holt was never one to turn down a challenge. Armed with his rifle, a pack of supplies, and his instincts, he ventured into the heart of the forest. For the first day, everything seemed ordinary—just another stretch of towering pines and winding streams. But as he moved deeper, he noticed strange signs. Trees split in perfect halves, one side charred and crumbling, the other vibrant with moss and dripping water. Animal tracks—huge, clawed, and burned into the earth—led forward, as if daring him to follow. Something Watches By nightfall, the feeling of being watched became unbearable. Holt set up camp near a small creek, the sound of rushing water grounding him. He was used to the silence of the wilderness, but this silence felt unnatural, pressing in on him like a held breath. Then came the sound—a low, guttural growl that seemed to rise from beneath the earth itself. Holt’s fingers tensed around his rifle. The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows across the trees. And then… he saw it. Emerging from the darkness, the beast was unlike anything he had ever imagined. A bear, but something more. Its left side seethed with molten cracks, embers drifting from its fur like dying stars. The right side was a vision of untouched wilderness, waterfalls cascading down its muscular form, moss and wildflowers blooming in its wake. Its eyes—one burning like a furnace, the other deep and endless like an ancient river—locked onto him. Holt’s breath hitched. This wasn’t just an animal. This was a force, something beyond nature itself. The Chase Before Holt could move, the bear let out a sound that shook the ground. He turned and ran. He had faced wolves, storms, starvation—but nothing compared to the primal terror that gripped him now. The creature didn’t chase him in the way a predator would. It moved with purpose, as if it already knew how this would end. The forest blurred around him. Trees split apart in its wake—one side turning to ash, the other sprouting new life. Holt’s lungs burned. He didn’t know where he was running, only that he had to get away. Then he saw it—a rusted fire lookout tower, long abandoned. He scrambled up the ladder, breath ragged, muscles screaming. Below, the bear stopped at the base, lifting its monstrous head. Its molten side pulsed with fiery veins, its lush half dripping with the scent of fresh rain. And then… it spoke. “You should not have come.” Holt froze. His mind refused to accept what had just happened. The voice—deep, guttural, ancient—was not the growl of an animal, nor the voice of a man. It was something else, something primal and immense, as if the mountain itself had spoken through the beast. He pressed his back against the splintered wood of the fire lookout, gripping his rifle with white-knuckled hands. The beast remained at the base of the tower, its molten eye flickering like a dying sun, its forested side releasing a damp mist into the cold night air. “Leave this place,” it said again, the words vibrating through Holt’s bones. “You were not meant to return.” The Truth Beneath the Earth Holt swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak. “What… what are you?” The beast lifted its head, as if considering his question. “I am what remains.” The words made no sense. The burning embers that lined its fur crackled softly in the night, while the tiny waterfalls on its back shimmered under the moonlight. It was impossible—fire and water, destruction and renewal, existing in the same form. And yet, here it was, watching him with knowing eyes. Holt had spent years dismissing local legends as nonsense, tales meant to scare tourists and keep outsiders from the deep woods. But this—this was real. And it was looking directly at him. “This land does not belong to you,” the bear continued. “It was never yours to take.” Holt’s pulse hammered in his throat. “I’m not trying to take anything.” The bear exhaled, and for a moment, the night smelled of smoke and pine, of ash and rain. “You already have.” Then the images hit him—flashes of something ancient, something buried beneath the roots of the mountain. A vision seared into his mind. He saw men with axes, cutting deeper into the forest than they should have. He saw rivers poisoned, mountains scarred, fire sweeping across the land where it was never meant to burn. He saw his own ancestors, men who had taken from this place without understanding what they had disturbed. And finally, he saw it—the moment when nature fought back. The First Fire Long ago, before roads carved their way into the mountains, before men built their towns and claimed dominion over the wild, the land had been whole. A sacred balance had existed, untouched and eternal. But then, greed came. Trees fell, rivers were dammed, the land was forced into submission. And with each wound inflicted upon the earth, something beneath stirred. The first fire had not been natural. It was a warning. The ground had cracked open, and the bear had risen. Born from the fury of the scorched land and the sorrow of the wounded forest, it had been neither fully beast nor spirit. It was vengeance. It was renewal. It was the reckoning of everything mankind had forgotten. It had burned the invaders to ash. But nature was not only wrath—it was also mercy. The bear had not destroyed all. It had allowed the survivors to flee, to pass their warning down through generations. The land healed, slowly, reclaiming what was lost. But as the years passed, men forgot. And now Holt stood before it. Judgment His body trembled, his breath shallow. “What do you want from me?” he whispered. The bear took a step forward, and the ground shuddered. “You carry the blood of those who took. Their debt is not yet paid.” Panic rose in Holt’s chest. “I didn’t do anything!” “Your kind never believes they are to blame.” The beast’s voice was neither angry nor cruel—it was simply true. Holt’s mind raced. There had to be a way out, a way to escape. But deep inside, he knew—this was not something he could outrun. He had trespassed into a place that had been waiting for his return. The bear raised its massive head. Fire raged along one half of its body, smoke rising into the air. The other half pulsed with green light, vines curling, flowers blooming. “You have a choice.” Holt’s breath caught in his throat. “What… what choice?” The bear’s burning eye bore into him. “Stay, and you will know the fate of those before you. Or leave, and carry the warning to others.” “Warning?” Holt croaked. The beast’s voice darkened. “Tell them the land remembers.” The Last Sunrise For what felt like hours, Holt sat in that crumbling tower, staring down at the impossible creature below. But when the first light of dawn crept over the mountains, the bear was gone. The ground where it had stood was untouched—no burned earth, no sprouting flowers, just undisturbed soil, as if nothing had ever been there. But Holt knew better. When he finally stumbled out of the woods, exhausted and forever changed, he did not speak of what he had seen—not at first. But when developers came, when new roads were planned, when men in suits talked about cutting deeper into the forest, he spoke. They laughed at him. Called him a fool. An old man clinging to superstition. Then the fires came. Not wildfires, but something else—something precise. The construction sites burned to the ground, leaving no trace of human interference. The roads crumbled before they were ever built. The rivers reclaimed their stolen paths. And finally, as the developers abandoned their plans, something else happened. New trees grew. Holt, now old and weary, stood at the edge of the forest and listened. The land was quiet once more. But he knew the truth. The bear was still there. Waiting. Watching. And should mankind ever forget again… it would rise. Bring the Legend Home The tale of Earth’s Fury, Earth’s Grace is more than just a story—it’s a powerful reminder of nature’s balance and resilience. Now, you can bring this legend into your own space with stunning artwork inspired by the myth. Explore exclusive products featuring this breathtaking design: 🔥 Mystical Tapestries – Perfect for creating an atmosphere of raw power and natural beauty. 🌿 Elegant Wood Prints – A rustic and timeless way to display this stunning artwork. 🐻 Unique Tote Bags – Carry the legend with you wherever you go. ⚡ Iconic Stickers – Add an electrifying touch to your laptop, notebook, or gear. Embrace the balance of fire and forest. Shop the full collection here.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Interstellar Harmony

The universe wasn’t always an empty void speckled with stars. Before time itself was counted, before the first atom trembled into existence, there were the Koi. They swam through the nothingness, carving rivers of stardust in their wake. The first, Hikari, was luminous, her scales painted in nebulae and celestial pinks, her long fins flowing like cosmic silk. The second, Kuro, was the abyss itself, speckled with distant galaxies and glowing constellations, his body curving with the fluid grace of the unseen forces that shaped reality. They weren’t gods, though they had been mistaken for such. No, gods were loud. Gods demanded sacrifice, built temples, whispered into the ears of desperate mortals. The Koi simply were. Silent, eternal, patient. But in their silence, they dictated the currents of time, the balance of creation and destruction, the unseen tides that pulled galaxies into spirals and planets into orbit. The Argument That Created Everything For eons, Hikari and Kuro swam in perfect harmony, circling, shifting, maintaining the great cosmic balance. But then, one day—though "day" is a flimsy word for creatures who existed before the concept of days—they had an argument. “You always turn left first,” Kuro grumbled. Hikari flicked her tail, scattering violet light. “No, I don’t.” “Yes, you do. Every time we complete a cycle, you veer left first. I have to adjust.” “Maybe you're just slow to react.” “Or maybe you’re doing it on purpose to annoy me.” She swam in an elegant loop. “Oh please. If I wanted to annoy you, I’d nudge you into a black hole.” Kuro snorted. “You tried that once. It tickled.” Their banter was harmless at first—just another ripple in the timeless sea of their existence. But then, for the first time in eternity, they did something unprecedented. They swam in opposite directions. The result was catastrophic. The Big Bang Was Just Koi Drama The instant they pulled away from each other, the universe exploded. Light and energy erupted into the void, expanding outward with a force neither of them had ever witnessed. Stars ignited, matter coalesced, and time itself began its relentless march. “See what you did?” Hikari huffed, staring at the chaos. Kuro flicked his fins, watching a nebula swirl into existence. “Me? You pulled away first.” “I did not!” “You absolutely did. Look, now there’s gravity. Gravity, Hikari!” They watched as planets formed, spinning like tiny marbles in the vastness of space. “Ooh, that one’s blue,” Hikari mused, peering at a newborn planet. Kuro eyed it. “Looks squishy.” “Wanna mess with it?” “Obviously.” And thus, their attention turned toward a small, fragile world floating in the new expanse of the cosmos. A world that would come to be known, in some distant future, as Earth. The First (and Last) Time They Got Involved For eons, they observed the planet from a distance, nudging its fate with the subtlest flicks of their tails. They watched single-celled organisms evolve, landmasses shift, and creatures crawl from the depths of the sea. They made bets. “That one with the scales,” Kuro said, pointing to a lumbering beast with tiny arms. “Five cycles before it dies off.” “Nah, ten,” Hikari countered. They watched empires rise and fall, mortals carve stories into stone, and people build temples in the Koi’s honor without ever realizing their celestial patrons had never actually asked for worship. But then humans started making really bad decisions. “Should we do something?” Hikari asked one day as she watched a war unfold. Kuro shrugged. “Mortals are weird.” “They’re blowing each other up over imaginary lines.” “Again, weird.” “We should intervene.” Kuro groaned. “Hikari, the last time we ‘intervened,’ we created the entire universe. Maybe we sit this one out.” But Hikari was stubborn, and Kuro, despite his protests, was curious. So, they did something neither of them had ever attempted before. They descended. And Earth would never be the same again. The Koi Touch Down Hikari and Kuro didn’t land so much as they materialized. One moment, they were suspended in the vastness of space, gazing down at Earth like bemused aquarium owners. The next, they were swimming through the sky, invisible to the mortals below. It was chaotic. Birds screeched and scattered as Hikari accidentally phased through a flock of geese. “Oops.” Kuro, already regretting this decision, grimaced. “See? This is why we don’t do things.” But Hikari wasn’t listening. She was fixated on the glowing cities sprawled across the continents. Humanity had advanced far beyond sticks and fire. They had electricity. Machines. Sandwiches. “They built lights,” she whispered in awe. “I noticed.” She twirled, trailing shimmering cosmic dust in her wake. “I like it.” Kuro rolled his eyes. “Great. Can we go back now?” Humanity's First Koi Sighting Of course, they didn’t leave. Curiosity had a hold of them, and so they drifted lower, observing the strange creatures below. And that’s when one particular human saw them. He was an old fisherman, out late, his boat bobbing in the darkness of the sea. He had seen many things in his long years, but nothing quite like this—two glowing, massive koi circling in the sky. He dropped his fishing rod. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Hikari and Kuro froze. “...He can see us?” Hikari whispered. “No, he can’t.” The fisherman squinted. “You’re real, ain’t ya?” Kuro sighed. “We should leave.” “You should leave,” Hikari countered, then turned to the fisherman. “Hi!” Kuro muttered something about cosmic disasters waiting to happen. The Legend of the Celestial Fish The fisherman was, to put it mildly, losing his mind. But in the way that old, wise men often do—with a mix of terror, curiosity, and the deep understanding that some things in the universe defy explanation. “You’re gods, ain’t ya?” he asked. “Nope,” Hikari said brightly. “Absolutely not,” Kuro added. “Then what are ya?” Hikari opened her mouth, but Kuro interrupted. “We’re just passing through.” “But you swim in the sky!” “So do birds.” The fisherman blinked. “You got a name?” Hikari, delighted by the conversation, swirled in a loop. “I’m Hikari! That’s Kuro. He’s grumpy.” “Because we shouldn’t be here,” Kuro muttered. “Ah,” the fisherman mused. “Kinda like my ex-wife.” Hikari giggled. Kuro groaned. The First Koi Cult (Oops) The next morning, the fisherman told everyone. At first, no one believed him. But then, others began seeing strange, shimmering fish in the sky—only at night, only near water. Rumors spread. Temples were built. Prayers were whispered. By the time Hikari and Kuro realized what was happening, people had begun offering tributes. “They left us sushi,” Hikari said, blinking at the small shrine. Kuro gave her a flat look. “They’re offering us dead fish. That’s like humans worshipping a cow and leaving it hamburgers.” “I mean… it’s the thought that counts?” The Great Koi Escape The problem with becoming an accidental religion was that people expected miracles. Crops to flourish. Storms to stop. Taxes to lower. The usual. Hikari was enjoying it. Kuro? Not so much. “We need to leave.” “Oh, come on! Look at them! They’re so excited!” “That one’s trying to summon us with a fishbowl and a candle.” Hikari hesitated. “Okay, yeah, maybe it’s getting a little out of hand.” “Ya think?” With one final swirl, they ascended, vanishing into the cosmic currents they had come from. And just like that, they were gone. The Legacy of the Sky Koi The humans, of course, were devastated. Their celestial fish had left them! For years, they searched the heavens, hoping to catch a glimpse of glowing fins in the night sky. But the Koi never returned. Well. Not physically. Their legend lived on. Stories were told. Paintings were made. A little symbol—a simple, swirling depiction of two koi circling each other—became a sign of balance, of duality, of the universe itself. And if, on particularly clear nights, someone near the water thought they saw two great celestial fish swimming among the stars... Well. That was probably just their imagination. Probably. Bring the Cosmos Home The legend of the celestial koi lives on—not just in the stars, but in art that captures their ethereal beauty. Now, you can bring a piece of this cosmic balance into your own space. Tapestry – Let the swirling dance of the cosmic koi transform your space into a portal to the stars. Canvas Print – A stunning centerpiece for dreamers, stargazers, and lovers of celestial art. Tote Bag – Carry the energy of the universe with you wherever you go. Sticker – A small but powerful symbol of balance and harmony, perfect for laptops, notebooks, or anywhere you need a cosmic touch. Whether you seek inspiration, balance, or just a stunning piece of art, "Interstellar Harmony" is a timeless reminder that even in chaos, beauty emerges. Explore the collection and bring the cosmos into your world.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Koi of the Cosmos

The sky had turned to water, or perhaps the water had swallowed the sky. It was impossible to tell. Stars shimmered beneath the surface of the river, and the current twisted like an unbroken stream of time itself. Beneath its glassy depths, two koi circled each other in an eternal dance—one woven from the fabric of the cosmos, its scales glittering with constellations, the other ancient, covered in moss and thick with the weight of the earth’s wisdom. Yara knelt at the river’s edge, watching them move in endless spirals, her breath shallow. The wind carried the scent of damp stone and moss, and the sound of the water lapping against the bank was unnervingly rhythmic, like the heartbeat of something vast and unseen. The elders had warned her against this place. They called it the River of Eternity, a name spoken in hushed tones, as if to utter it too loudly would summon something from the depths. But she had come anyway. The night air pressed against her skin, thick with an eerie stillness. She had expected to hear crickets, the distant howl of some unseen creature in the forest behind her—anything to ground her in the world she understood. Instead, there was only silence, as if the river had swallowed even the night itself. In her trembling fingers, she held the offering—a single pearl, its surface smooth and iridescent in the moonlight. It had been passed down through generations, a relic of a love story nearly forgotten. She had stolen it from the shrine at the village center, convinced that she could end the cycle, that she could return what had been taken and set things right. But now, as the koi moved beneath the water, the celestial one glowing like a fragment of a fallen star, the moss-covered one heavy with the weight of the earth’s sorrow, doubt coiled in her chest. The Tale of the Koi Gods Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her mind, soft and knowing. “They were once gods, you know.” Yara had been just a child when she first heard the story, curled up by the fire, her grandmother’s hands weaving intricate patterns in the air as she spoke. “One ruled the heavens, the other ruled the earth. But they were never meant to love. The sky and the land are eternal opposites, and the gods decreed they should remain apart. Yet they defied fate, meeting in secret beneath the river’s surface, entwining in the currents.” Her grandmother’s eyes had been far away then, lost in the past. “When the other gods discovered them, they were furious. They could not kill them—their power was too great. Instead, they cursed them. The sky pulled one upward, the land held the other down, and the river was made their prison. Now they circle each other, year after year, lifetime after lifetime, always reaching, never touching.” Yara had been too young to understand the weight of the story. She had only thought it tragic. Now, as she knelt by the water, she understood. The Offering She closed her eyes, whispering a prayer she was not sure anyone would hear. Then, with a deep breath, she let the pearl slip from her fingers. It hit the water without a sound. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the river burned with light. The celestial koi rose from the depths, its body shimmering brighter than the moon. The water twisted around it in ribbons of silver and blue, and for the first time, Yara could see the full span of its form—long and elegant, with fins that trailed behind it like fragments of the night sky. The moss-covered koi followed, its heavy form pulling free from the water’s grasp. The vines that clung to its body unraveled, revealing golden scales beneath the green. It looked… lighter, as if shedding its earthly bindings had freed it, if only for a moment. The two koi moved toward each other, the air crackling with unseen energy. Yara held her breath. Then the river shuddered, and the koi were torn apart. The celestial one was dragged upward, the sky reclaiming its own, its glow fading as it rose. The earthly one was pulled downward, sinking into the darkness below. The water stilled. Yara let out a ragged breath, her heart pounding. She had thought the offering would free them. She had thought love could defy the forces that bound it. But time was a cruel architect. Fate had already been written. The Cycle Continues The whisper came from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Not yet.” Darkness pressed in. Yara gasped, reaching for something—anything—but the world was unraveling around her, breaking apart like ripples in the water. The stars spun. The earth trembled. Then she fell. The Awakening She woke to damp earth beneath her palms, the scent of the river thick in the air. The sun was rising, golden light filtering through the trees. For a moment, she lay still, her mind grasping at fragments of something just beyond memory. Then her fingers curled around something smooth. The pearl. She sat up, staring at it in horror. It was the same one. The offering she had cast into the river. The one that should have been lost. The river was calm. There was no sign of the koi. But she knew they were still there. The cycle had not ended. She looked at the pearl, then at the river, then back again. Slowly, realization dawned. Perhaps she had not been the first to try. Perhaps she would not be the last. And perhaps, in another lifetime, in another form, they would meet again. And perhaps then, they would finally be free. Bring the Magic of the Koi to Your Home Immerse yourself in the celestial beauty and timeless story of the Koi of the Cosmos with stunning artwork available in various forms: Tapestry – Let the mesmerizing scene flow across your walls like an eternal river. Wood Print – A natural, earthy medium that brings out the organic mysticism of the koi’s tale. Throw Pillow – Add a touch of celestial wonder to your home with this beautiful and comfortable accent. Tote Bag – Carry the magic with you, wherever your journey takes you. Every piece is a tribute to the legend of the cosmic koi—a story of love, fate, and the endless dance of the heavens and the earth. Explore the collection and bring a piece of their world into yours.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Grumpy Guardian of the Glade

Deep in the heart of the Eldermoss Forest, where the trees whispered gossip about the birds and the mushrooms glowed suspiciously at night, there existed a tiny, winged creature with the disposition of a tax auditor during finals week. His name was Cragglethump, though most simply called him ‘that pissed-off fairy’ or, if they were particularly unlucky, ‘Agh, my face!’ Cragglethump had been the self-appointed (read: forcibly assigned by a drunken fairy council) Guardian of the Glade for over five centuries. His job? Ensure that no human, beast, or idiot goblin came trampling through, disrupting the delicate magic of the land. He did this mostly through a mixture of terrifying glares, creative insults, and, when necessary, strategic nut-punches. A Rude Awakening On this particularly fine morning, Cragglethump sat hunched on his favorite moss-covered branch, arms crossed, wings twitching in irritation. He had been rudely awoken by something truly horrific—a bard. Not just any bard, but a lute-wielding, hair-too-perfect, teeth-too-white, likely-to-have-chlamydia bard. The kind that sang ballads about love and heroism while knowing full well he had run from the last fight he was in. He was strumming away at his lute like he was trying to seduce a particularly lonely oak tree. Cragglethump narrowed his eyes and let out a low growl. “Oh, for the love of fungus-ridden troll bollocks.” The bard, blissfully unaware of his imminent demise, continued to butcher a song about some lost princess or whatever. Cragglethump sighed, cracked his knuckles, and stood. Fairy Diplomacy (aka Violence) With the grace of an elderly alley cat, Cragglethump launched himself off the branch and dive-bombed straight for the bard’s stupid face. The moment of impact was exquisite—a perfect combination of tiny fairy foot to nasal bridge. The bard shrieked and flailed, his lute slipping from his fingers and landing with a tragic *twang* against a rock. “GODS ABOVE, WHAT THE—” “YOU!” Cragglethump roared, flitting up to hover directly in front of the bard’s very confused and rapidly swelling nose. “Do you have any idea what time it is? What the hell do you think you’re doing polluting my glade with your noise pollution?” “I—I was just—” “No. No, no, no. You were NOT ‘just.’ You were warbling like a dying squirrel and expecting someone to be impressed. Spoiler alert: No one is impressed.” The bard’s lower lip trembled. “That’s a bit harsh.” Cragglethump smirked. “Oh, sweet summer twat, I haven’t even gotten started.” With that, he plucked a small handful of dust from his tattered sleeve, muttered an incantation under his breath, and blew it straight into the bard’s face. Instantly, the young man’s hair turned a spectacular shade of bright green, his teeth lengthened into miniature tusks, and a mysterious but persistent farting noise began emanating from his boots. The bard screamed. “What did you DO?!” “Cursed you.” Cragglethump dusted his hands off and turned away. “Enjoy your new look, dipshit. Now get out before I do something permanent.” As the bard ran wailing from the forest, Cragglethump landed back on his branch with a satisfied sigh. “Another successful morning,” he muttered. But his satisfaction was short-lived. Because that’s when the unicorn arrived. The Unicorn from Hell Cragglethump had seen some shit in his time—goblins trying to cook with rocks, witches attempting to seduce trees, even an elf trying to smoke an entire beehive (long story). But nothing had prepared him for this. Standing in the middle of his glade was a unicorn. And not the graceful, shimmering, poetic kind. No, this one had the dead-eyed stare of a creature who had seen things. Things that had changed it. Its once-pristine white coat was covered in what looked suspiciously like bloodstains. Its horn, instead of a delicate spiral of magic, was cracked and jagged like it had been used as a prison shiv. It chewed on what appeared to be an old boot, its jaw working methodically as it stared Cragglethump down. “…The fuck?” Cragglethump whispered. Regret in Equine Form The unicorn spat out the boot and took a step forward. “Yo,” it said. Cragglethump’s brain short-circuited. “Unicorns don’t talk.” “Yeah? And fairies don’t look like my grandpa’s angry hemorrhoid, but here we are.” Cragglethump’s eye twitched. “Excuse me?” “Name’s Stabsy,” the unicorn said, rolling its massive shoulders. “Been on the run. Shit went south in the Enchanted Plains.” “Define ‘shit,’” Cragglethump said slowly. “Well.” Stabsy licked his teeth. “Turns out, if you gore a prince, people tend to take offense.” Cragglethump groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “What. The. Actual. Hell.” The Absolute Worst Idea Stabsy clomped forward until he was nose-to-nose with Cragglethump. “Look, you seem like a guy who gets things done. I need a place to lay low. You got a nice setup here.” Cragglethump opened his mouth to say absolutely not, but Stabsy cut him off. “Also, I may have pissed off a warlock, and there’s a small but nonzero chance they’re tracking me.” “Of course there is.” Cragglethump rubbed his temples. “And what, pray tell, did you do to this warlock?” “You ever play blackjack?” Cragglethump stared at him. Stabsy grinned. “Turns out, warlocks really don’t like losing.” Before Cragglethump could start screaming, the first fireball hit. It is a universally acknowledged truth that if you curse a bard, they will absolutely, without a doubt, try to get revenge in the most dramatic and inconvenient way possible. Cragglethump should have known. He did know. And yet, when the first note of an all-too-familiar lute twanged through the trees, he still nearly choked on the acorn he’d been chewing. “Oh, for the love of—” He spun around, wings twitching furiously. There, standing at the edge of the glade, was the bard he had cursed earlier that morning. His once luscious brown locks were still an aggressive shade of green, his tusked teeth gave him the aesthetic of a failed orc cosplayer, and his eyes burned with the kind of melodramatic vengeance only a bard could summon. He had changed clothes, though. Which was a shame, because his new outfit was worse. “YOU!” the bard bellowed, pointing dramatically at Cragglethump. Cragglethump sighed, rubbing his temples. “What, dipshit?” “I, Alaric the Harmonious, have returned to reclaim my honor!” Stabsy the Unicorn, still lounging nearby and gnawing on a suspiciously human-looking bone, glanced up. “You look like an enchanted swamp farted you out, bud.” Alaric ignored him, instead launching into what was clearly a rehearsed monologue. “You thought you could humiliate me? Curse me?! Reduce me to some… some grotesque green-haired monster?!” “To be fair,” Cragglethump interjected, “you look like that one elf nobody invites to parties because he keeps talking about his beard-care routine.” Alaric’s eye twitched. “I have come to take my revenge.” The Power of Passive-Aggressive Music The bard reached into his bag and pulled out his lute. Cragglethump tensed, preparing for an attack, but instead of a fireball or some nonsense, the bard just started… playing. Badly. It wasn’t just out of tune—it was aggressively, maliciously out of tune. A truly diabolical combination of sour notes and over-exaggerated strumming. And worst of all, he was singing. “Ohhh, in the woods there is a beast, Whose old ass hair has never been greased, He curses bards and smells like mold, And probably has a shriveled-up—” “HEY!” Cragglethump barked. “You little shit.” Alaric smirked, strumming harder. “Ohhh, his wings are weak, his heart is small, And I bet he’s got no balls at all!” Cragglethump’s wings flared in pure rage. “I swear on my ancestors, if you don’t shut up—” But then, something truly horrifying happened. The plants started wilting. Leaves drooped. Mushrooms let out tiny, pitiful sighs before shriveling into dust. A rabbit hopped by, took one whiff of the melody, and immediately keeled over. “Oh, shit,” Cragglethump muttered. Stabsy took a step back. “That’s not normal.” Bardic Black Magic Alaric’s smirk widened. “Oh, did I forget to mention?” He plucked a particularly heinous chord. “I made a deal with a hag.” Cragglethump groaned. “Of course you did.” “Turns out, my curse wasn’t just cosmetic.” Alaric leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “The hag gave me a little bonus. Now, whenever I play, magic dies.” Silence settled over the glade. Then Stabsy burst out laughing. “HA! You made a deal with a hag over a bad haircut? That’s peak bard energy.” “Laugh all you want,” Alaric said. “But if I keep playing? This whole glade is going to be nothing but dirt.” Cragglethump clenched his fists. “You little shitweasel.” “Beg me for mercy,” Alaric said, smug. Cragglethump narrowed his eyes. “I’ll do you one better.” He grabbed a handful of dust from his sleeve and, with a flick of his wrist, blew it straight into Alaric’s face. The bard staggered back, coughing. “What the hell did you—” Then he froze. The Curse Upgrade Alaric’s eyes went wide. His face paled. Then, slowly, his lips began to tremble. Cragglethump grinned. “Enjoy your new curse, dumbass.” Alaric opened his mouth to scream—but no sound came out. His lips moved, but his voice was gone. Gone. The bard let out a silent wail, his hands clutching at his throat. He looked at Cragglethump with pure, unfiltered horror. “Oh, what’s that?” Cragglethump said, all fake concern. “You got something to say? A song, perhaps? A little ballad?” Alaric made a series of frantic, inaudible noises. “Oh, you poor thing.” Cragglethump smirked. “Must be awful. A bard with no voice? Tragic.” Alaric let out another silent scream and took off running. Stabsy shook his head, chuckling. “Damn. Remind me to never piss you off.” Cragglethump sighed, stretching his arms. “Well, that’s enough bullshit for one day.” Unfortunately, fate had other plans. Because that’s when the warlock arrived. The Absolutely Stupid Final Chapter There was something deeply, cosmically unfair about the fact that Cragglethump couldn’t get through a single godsdamned day without some new brand of magical bullshit showing up to ruin his life. First, the bard. Then, the sociopathic unicorn. And now? A warlock. And not just any warlock. This one looked like he’d crawled straight out of a bad fantasy novel. Robes too long, dramatic staff, glowing eyes, and an aura that screamed, Yes, I have sacrificed something alive today. The warlock stood at the edge of the glade, silhouetted by the eerie blue glow of his own sinister magic. He raised a single hand. “WHO,” he boomed, “HAS HARB—” “Hold that thought,” Cragglethump interrupted. “I need a drink.” The Best Worst Idea Ever The warlock blinked. “What?” “You heard me.” Cragglethump dusted himself off, fluttering to a nearby stump. “Look, I don’t know what this is about, but I already wasted most of my patience dealing with a bard’s revenge arc and a unicorn with murder issues. So before you monologue, I propose an alternative: a drinking contest.” There was a long, stunned silence. Stabsy’s ears perked up. “Oh, hell yes.” The warlock scowled. “I am here to avenge my honor! That thing—” he jabbed a finger at Stabsy “—cheated me out of a fortune, and I—” “Blah, blah, blah,” Cragglethump interrupted, yawning. “Drinking contest or shut the hell up.” The warlock frowned. “That’s not how vengeance works.” “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were a coward.” Stabsy gasped dramatically. “Ohhhhh shit, he called you a bitch.” The warlock’s eye twitched. “I accept,” he growled. Rules Are for Losers Within minutes, a crude wooden table was set up in the middle of the glade, covered in an alarming variety of alcoholic substances. Fairy mead. Dwarven stout. Goblin moonshine (which was technically illegal, but Cragglethump had connections). Cragglethump, Stabsy, and the warlock all took their seats. “Rules are simple,” Cragglethump said, pouring the first round. “We drink until someone passes out, vomits, or admits defeat.” “I should warn you,” the warlock said, gripping his tankard. “I have imbibed the elixirs of the darkest realms.” “Yeah, yeah,” Cragglethump muttered. “Less talking, more drinking.” Round One: Fairy Mead The first round went down smooth. Fairy mead was deceptively strong, but Cragglethump was built different. Stabsy barely reacted. The warlock took his with a slight grimace. “This is... sweet,” he muttered. Cragglethump snorted. “Yeah, well, enjoy it while you can.” Round Two: Dwarven Stout By the second round, things started getting fuzzy. Dwarven stout had the unique property of making everything seem both hilarious and imminently dangerous. Stabsy was now laughing uncontrollably at a nearby rock. The warlock looked oddly thoughtful. “You know,” he slurred, “I came here to incinerate you all, but I’m feeling kinda... warm.” “That’s the stout,” Cragglethump said. “And also the early stages of bad decision-making.” Round Three: Goblin Moonshine This was where things got serious. Goblin moonshine was not meant for civilized consumption. It was technically closer to weaponized alchemy than a drink. Cragglethump took his shot like a champion. Stabsy gagged, then hiccupped so hard he momentarily teleported. The warlock, meanwhile, turned an unsettling shade of green. “This is... ungodly.” Cragglethump grinned. “You tapping out, big guy?” The warlock narrowed his eyes. “Never.” Round Four: ??? At this point, no one knew what they were drinking. Some ancient, unlabeled bottle had appeared, and no one was sober enough to question it. Cragglethump took a swig. So did Stabsy. The warlock followed suit. Then everything went to shit. The Aftermath The next morning, Cragglethump woke up sprawled on his back, wings twitching, head pounding. There were scorch marks in the grass. The table was missing. Stabsy was asleep in a tree. The warlock lay face-down in the dirt, snoring softly. Cragglethump groaned. “What... the fuck happened?” Stabsy rolled over. “I think we bonded.” The warlock stirred, slowly sitting up. His robes were singed, and he was missing a boot. “I... no longer remember why I was angry.” Cragglethump smirked. “See? Drinking contest. Solves everything.” The warlock blinked at him, then sighed. “You know what? Fine. The unicorn lives. But I’m taking a nap first.” Cragglethump stretched. “Good talk.” And with that, he flopped back onto the moss, vowing to never deal with another idiot ever again. (Spoiler: He absolutely would.) Bring the Grumpy Guardian Home Loved this ridiculous tale of magical misadventures? Why not bring a little of that cranky fairy energy into your own home? The Grumpy Guardian of the Glade is available on a variety of products, so you can enjoy his grumpy little face wherever you go! Wood Print – Perfect for adding a touch of fantasy (and attitude) to your walls. Tote Bag – Carry your essentials with a side of grump. Throw Pillow – Because even the crankiest fairy deserves a soft place to rest. Fleece Blanket – Stay cozy while channeling your inner tiny, winged menace. Check out the full collection at Unfocussed Shop and bring a piece of the Glade to your world!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Alchemy of Fire and Water

The Birth of the Twin Koi In the beginning, before time learned to walk and the stars whispered their first names, there was the Void. It was neither light nor dark, for those were things yet to be. The Void was simply... waiting. And then, from the stillness, the First Pulse came. It was not a sound, nor a movement, but a knowing—a cosmic sigh that rippled through nothingness and split it in two. From this rupture, two beings emerged, born not of flesh but of essence itself. One burned with a fire that needed no fuel, its golden scales rippling like molten dawn. The other flowed with the cold certainty of the deep, its silvery form woven from the breath of glaciers. Their names were Kael and Isun, though neither spoke them aloud, for names had no meaning to the firstborn of the cosmos. Kael was the Infernal Koi, a creature of restless hunger, of movement, of destruction and rebirth. Isun was the Celestial Koi, patient as the tides, slow as the turning of ages, and as inevitable as the silence after the storm. For an eternity, or perhaps a moment, they circled one another, tracing patterns through the Void that had never before been drawn. Their movements shaped reality itself, giving birth to the first laws of existence. Where Kael passed, stars flared to life, burning bright with his insatiable energy. Where Isun swam, the cooling hush of gravity took hold, weaving planets from scattered dust. They were opposite. They were perfect. They were one. The Covenant of the Eternal Dance The first to break the silence was Kael. “What are we?” he asked, his voice like embers carried on the wind. Isun’s answer was slow, drawn from the depths of an ocean that had not yet formed. “We are motion. We are balance. We are the dream that keeps the cosmos from waking.” Kael flared with dissatisfaction. “Then why do I hunger? Why do I burn? If we are balance, why is my fire never still?” Isun did not answer, but heaved a sigh that became the first wave. In that moment, Kael knew what he must do. He would not simply swim through the void, tracing the same loops forever. He would change. He would grow. He turned sharply, breaking from their eternal spiral, diving toward the heart of the newborn stars. His fire raged, and the cosmos quaked. Suns collapsed, their burning hearts torn open. Worlds cracked and bled. The void filled with light and ruin. Isun, bound to him by the law of their existence, felt the disturbance ripple through his being. His tail flicked once, and time itself bent in his wake. He did not chase Kael, for water never chases fire. Instead, he followed in the way that the moon follows the tide—without rush, without force, but inevitable. Where Kael burned, Isun soothed. He let his presence cool the shattered husks of dying worlds, turning their molten cores into solid land. He wove the first oceans from the sighs of dying stars. He was the healer, the slow hand of patience to counter Kael’s furious destruction. And so, the first cycle was born—the dance of creation and ruin, of fire and water, of the endless hunger and the eternal calm. The First Betrayal But the balance was fragile. Kael, weary from his burning, turned to Isun and said, “I am tired of our endless dance. We exist only to undo each other’s work. What is the point?” Isun, unshaken, replied, “The point is that we are. Without me, your fire would consume all. Without you, my waters would freeze the stars themselves. We do not undo each other—we complete one another.” But Kael had already turned away. He did not want completion. He wanted more. And so, for the first time, he did the unthinkable—he struck Isun. It was not a battle of muscle or steel, for such things did not exist. It was a battle of essence, of energy and silence. Kael’s fire tore through Isun’s flowing form, sending cracks through the fabric of the heavens. Isun reeled, his shimmering scales darkened with burning scars. The void trembled at this first betrayal. But Isun did not fight back. Instead, he spoke softly: “If you destroy me, you destroy yourself.” And Kael knew it was true. Without Isun’s waters to temper him, he would rage unchecked until there was nothing left to burn. And so, with a growl of frustration, he fled into the darkness. Isun, left behind, sank into the silent deep. The Fragmenting of the Cosmos Where once there had been unity, now there was division. Fire and water no longer danced as one but warred across the heavens. Stars died and were born anew. Planets withered under Kael’s fury, then drowned beneath Isun’s sorrow. And yet, something new stirred in their wake. From the scattered embers of their struggle, life began to bloom. The cosmos, in its first act of defiance, had found a way to turn war into renewal, suffering into creation. The cycle had begun. But the dance was still unfinished. Kael and Isun had yet to meet again. And when they did, the balance of all things would hang upon a single choice. The Last Convergence Time does not move forward in the way mortals imagine. It does not march, does not flow like a river. It coils, it loops, it folds upon itself in ways only the oldest of things understand. And so, though eons had passed since Kael and Isun last touched, to them, it was but a breath—one held too long, waiting to be exhaled. Kael, the Infernal Koi, had gone where no fire should—into the void beyond the stars, where nothing could burn. He let himself shrink, let his flames dwindle to embers, let his hunger turn to silence. But silence did not suit him. And so, from the blackness, he watched. He watched as Isun shaped the worlds Kael had once shattered. He watched as rivers carved valleys, as rains kissed barren rock into verdant life. He watched as creatures small and fragile stepped from the waters, standing beneath skies he had once scorched. And he felt something he had never known before. Longing. The Summoning of Fire On the world Isun loved most—one spun from the dust of fallen stars, where water curled through the land like veins—there were beings that lifted their eyes to the heavens. They did not know of Kael and Isun, not as they once were, but they felt their echoes in the world around them. They built temples to the sun, to the tides, to the dance of the elements. One among them, a woman with hair the color of flame and eyes like the ocean’s depths, stood upon the highest peak and whispered a name she did not know she knew. “Kael.” And the embers in the void stirred. She called again, not with her mouth but with her soul, and this time, Kael heard. For the first time since his exile, he moved. He plunged from the heavens like a fallen star, his body still wrapped in the ember-light of his former glory. He struck the earth, and the ground split. The sky wept fire. The sea recoiled, steaming where it met him. And across the cosmos, Isun opened his eyes. The Return of the Celestial Koi Isun had felt Kael’s presence long before the woman had spoken his name. He had known, in the way the tides know when to rise, that this moment would come. And yet, he had not moved to stop it. He had let the call be made. But now, he could not be still. He descended, not in fire but in mist, his body unfurling through the sky like the breath of an ancient storm. He came to where Kael stood, his molten body still smoking from the journey. They faced one another upon the threshold of a world that had not yet been lost. Kael, trembling, spoke first. “Do you still hold to your silence, brother?” Isun did not answer at once. He let his gaze drift over the land, over the people who stood watching, over the woman who had called Kael back from the dark. Then, finally, he spoke. “You came because you were called.” Kael's flames flickered, uncertain. “I came because I remembered.” Isun tilted his head. “And what is it you remember?” Kael hesitated. He could feel the fire beneath his skin, urging him to act, to consume, to remake. And yet, beneath it, there was something else—something colder, steadier, something he had once despised but now yearned for. Balance. The Choice That Was Theirs Alone All things must choose, in the end. Even those who have lived since before time learned its own name. Kael knew he could burn. He could rise, could scorch this world and many others, could undo the work Isun had so carefully mended. It would be easy. It had always been easy. But then he looked upon the woman who had called him. He saw the way her fingers curled into fists, not in fear, but in defiance. He saw the way the people behind her stood, not in worship, but in wonder. And he understood. “You were never my enemy,” he said, his voice quieter than it had ever been. “You were my lesson.” Isun, at last, smiled. And so, for the first time in all of existence, Kael did not burn. He bowed his head. The Alchemy of Fire and Water In that moment, the cosmos changed. Not with the violent rending of worlds, not with the clash of fire and wave, but with something smaller, something gentler. With understanding. Kael stepped forward, his flames flickering with a new light, not of hunger, but of warmth. Isun met him, his waters not as a force of opposition, but of embrace. Their forms twined, not in battle, but in harmony. And where they met, the world flourished. Rivers carved the land not in destruction, but in creation. Volcanic fire did not burn unchecked, but nurtured the soil, making it rich. The seas did not rise to drown the land, but to shape it with care. The people watched, and they knew they were witnessing the birth of something greater than gods, greater than myths. They were witnessing balance. Kael and Isun, the twin koi, the first forces of all things, had become what they were always meant to be—not enemies, not rivals, but two halves of a single whole. And so, the cycle did not end. It simply began again. Bring the Balance Home The timeless dance of fire and water, of destruction and renewal, is more than just a myth—it is a reminder that opposites do not destroy, but complete one another. Now, you can bring this celestial balance into your own space with "The Alchemy of Fire and Water" collection, featuring stunning artwork inspired by the eternal koi. Tapestries – Transform your walls with the swirling beauty of Kael and Isun, captured in exquisite detail. Puzzles – Piece together the cosmic legend, one intricate detail at a time. Tote Bags – Carry the balance of fire and water with you, wherever your journey takes you. Wood Prints – A natural and timeless way to display this breathtaking fusion of elements. Let the dance of creation and transformation inspire your space and your spirit. Explore the full collection here.

Contes capturés – par 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. 🧚✨

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Froth and Fellowship

The Stranger with No Beard The ale flowed like a mountain spring, golden and rich, with froth thick enough to hide a dagger in. The Stone Tankard tavern was alive with the raucous laughter of dwarves, their beards tangled with the remnants of past feasts and their hands gripping mugs so large they might have been mistaken for war hammers. At the heart of the room sat three seasoned drinkers: Orin Ironjaw, whose beard had seen more battles than most men saw winters; Hargan “Two-Tankard” Frostborn, a title earned through both capacity and catastrophe; and Durnek the Silent, whose words were as rare as an elf in a mineshaft. They had gathered, as they did every fortnight, to drink, boast, and laugh at each other’s misfortunes. But this night was different. The heavy oaken doors swung open with an eerie creak. A hush fell over the tavern. Even the ever-burning lanterns seemed to flicker. The newcomer stepped forward—tall for a dwarf, but still unmistakably one of their kin. And then the true horror struck them all: he had no beard. Not a braid, not a whisker, not even a stubborn patch of stubble struggling to prove its worth. His face was smooth as polished mithril, bare as an elf’s cheek, an abomination in every dwarven eye that turned toward him. The silence deepened. A single peanut, thrown in mid-drink by a drunkard, struck the floor with an ominous clink. Orin leaned in to his comrades. “By the stone, I think I’ve lost my appetite.” “Aye,” said Hargan, gripping his tankard like a weapon. “A beardless dwarf? Either he’s a ghost, or we’re all deep in our cups.” “Hmph,” muttered Durnek, who had seen many things in his long life, but never this. The stranger approached the bar, his boots striking the stone floor with an unnatural lightness. He placed a coin—an old one, from a forgotten mint—on the counter and spoke. “A tankard of your finest,” he said, his voice smooth and unwavering. The barkeep, Gorrim Stonebrew, hesitated. His eyes narrowed. “And what name should I put to this ale?” The stranger smiled. “Call me Varn.” A collective shudder rippled through the room. The name meant nothing—and that was the problem. Every dwarf had a clan, a lineage, a tale to tell with their very presence. But this one? He was as blank as his face. Orin slammed his mug on the table. “Right. I’m not having this. Beardless or no, no dwarf drinks alone in my hall.” Hargan nodded, though his grip on his tankard didn’t loosen. “Aye, and no dwarf leaves without a tale to tell.” Durnek merely took a long, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving Varn. The stranger turned to them, his gaze meeting Orin’s with an intensity that sent a prickle down his spine. “Then let me buy the next round,” Varn said, his smile widening. “And I’ll tell you a tale you won’t forget.” The drinks were poured, the fire crackled, and the night pressed in close. And so the story began. The Tale of Varn the Beardless The first sip was taken in silence. Orin, Hargan, and Durnek each lifted their tankards, watching Varn closely as he did the same. The beardless dwarf drank like any other—deep, slow, appreciative. He did not flinch. He did not sip hesitantly, like an outsider unaccustomed to dwarven brews. And most importantly, he did not cough, gag, or collapse. That, at least, earned him a measure of respect. "Aye," Orin muttered, lowering his mug. "You drink like a dwarf. But you don’t look like one." Hargan leaned in. "You owe us a tale, beardless one. And it better be worth the ale." Varn wiped the foam from his lip—his bare lip, which still made the other dwarves uneasy—and let out a slow breath. "Very well," he said. "Let me tell you a story of treachery, of forgotten halls, and of a curse that only I have lived to escape." The Mountain of No Return "There was once a kingdom so rich in gold, so heavy with treasures, that even its rats gnawed on silver scraps. A dwarven hold older than memory, carved into the deepest heart of the mountains. Its halls were so grand that even kings of men would have knelt to see them. "This was Khuld Baraz, the Hollow Crown." At the name, Orin’s grip tightened around his mug. Hargan stopped mid-drink. Even Durnek’s eyes—hard as granite—narrowed slightly. Khuld Baraz was a legend. A myth. A ghost tale told to frighten young dwarves. No one in living memory had seen it, nor knew if it ever truly existed. "Aye," Varn continued, as if hearing their thoughts. "You’ve all heard the stories. The lost kingdom, the vanished clans, the gold that sings to itself in the dark. But what none of you know is this: it was not lost to war, nor dragon, nor cave-in. It was stolen. By its own people." He leaned in, his voice lowering. "I know this, because I was there when the gates shut for the last time." The tavern was silent, save for the crackle of the fire and the slow drip of spilled ale from Hargan’s forgotten mug. "A curse was set upon our kind," Varn said. "Not by sorcery, nor by gods, but by greed itself. The deeper we dug, the richer we became. The richer we became, the more we hoarded. And the more we hoarded, the less we could bear to part with it. Gold is a weight upon the soul, heavier than stone. One by one, the dwarves of Khuld Baraz ceased to leave. The gates rusted shut. The forges went cold. No trade, no messengers, no word from the outside. "And then came the sickness." Hargan scoffed. "Bah! What sickness? Dwarves don’t get sick." Varn met his gaze. "This one did." "It started slow. A reluctance to part with even a single coin. Then a hatred of the very idea of trade. We watched our brothers waste away, clutching their gold with gnarled hands, starving before they’d dare buy a scrap of bread. A madness that whispered in our ears, telling us the gold must never leave, that it was ours alone, and that death was preferable to losing even a single coin." "By the time I realized the truth, it was too late. I tried to flee, but the gates were sealed. None could leave. None wanted to leave. And so I did the unthinkable—I begged the mountain for mercy." The Price of Freedom "I do not know if it was the gods or the stone itself that answered me. But when I awoke the next day, I was different. The sickness was gone. The whisper of gold had left my mind." Varn let out a slow breath. "And so had my beard." The three dwarves at the table recoiled. "A curse of shame," Orin whispered. "Aye," Varn said. "The mountain took my beard in exchange for my mind. I am the only one who left Khuld Baraz, but I left as no dwarf at all." The silence stretched long and uneasy. "So," Hargan said, his voice hoarse. "That’s your tale." Varn nodded. Orin exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his beard. "And what now? You wander from hall to hall, drinking with proper folk, carrying a name with no clan?" Varn smirked. "Aye. And warning dwarves like you not to let gold weigh too heavy on your hearts." For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Durnek, who had sat in silence the entire time, reached into his pocket and tossed a single coin onto the table. "Buy another round," he said, his voice like grinding stone. "If you're going to tell such a fine tale, you’ll not drink on your own coin." Orin and Hargan grinned. "Aye," Orin said. "You may not have a beard, but by the stone, you drink like a dwarf. That counts for something." Hargan lifted his tankard high. "To Varn, the Beardless Bastard!" Varn laughed, and for the first time in years, he felt at home. And the ale flowed well into the night. Looking to own a piece of this tale? The stunning image that inspired "Froth and Fellowship" is available for prints, downloads, and licensing in our Image Archive. Visit our archive to bring this legendary scene to life in your own space.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Serenade of the Sakura and Stars

The river had always whispered to Rei. As a child, she would sit by its edge, dipping her fingers into the cool water, watching the koi glide beneath the surface. Her grandmother once told her a story: "Koi that swim against the current, if they are strong enough, transform into dragons." She had believed it then. She wanted to be one of them—a creature of legend, defying fate. But fate had never been kind to her. Life had been a relentless current, dragging her through heartbreak, loss, and quiet despair. The weight of unfulfilled dreams settled in her chest like stones, and somewhere along the way, she stopped fighting the flow. The koi in the river no longer inspired her; they were just fish, trapped in the cycle of existence. The Dream of the Celestial River On the night of her thirty-third birthday, after another evening spent alone, Rei walked to the river out of habit. The air was heavy with the scent of cherry blossoms, their petals drifting onto the water’s surface. She sat on the worn wooden dock, dangling her feet over the edge, staring into the abyss of her reflection. She didn’t notice when she started crying. Then, the water rippled. The koi—one obsidian black, the other moonlight white with a crimson mark—surfaced, locking eyes with her. Something about their gaze held her captive. The world seemed to hush, the night thick with something ancient, something waiting. Before she could move, the water began to glow, swirling into an impossible vortex beneath her. A force stronger than gravity pulled her in. Between Water and Stars Rei did not drown. She expected the suffocating embrace of water, but instead, she floated. She opened her eyes to a vast cosmos—a river made of stars, endless and unbound. The koi swam beside her, their forms shifting, blurring, as if they existed outside of time. “Where am I?” Her voice was barely a whisper. "Where you have always been meant to go," a voice answered—not spoken, but felt, woven into the currents of light. It was neither man nor woman, neither old nor young. It simply was. The koi began to circle her, their bodies leaving trails of shimmering energy in their wake. The stars pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat, an undeniable force pressing against her soul. Memories flooded her mind—the nights she had spent lost in loneliness, the dreams she had abandoned, the moments of love she had turned away from out of fear. And then, the voice spoke again. "You were never meant to drift forever. You are not meant to be lost. You are meant to rise." The Becoming The koi swam faster, their bodies dissolving into pure energy. The swirling cosmos around her grew blinding, the river of stars surging into a current she could not resist. Something deep inside her cracked open—a shell she had carried for years, built from doubt, fear, and resignation. For the first time in her life, she did not resist. And so, she became. Her body burned, not with pain, but with power. The sorrow that had weighed her down turned to light, lifting her higher, until she was no longer a woman but something more—something limitless. She spread her arms, and from her back unfurled wings made of cascading stardust. Her hands shimmered, her breath carried the scent of blooming sakura, and she understood. She was the dragon. She had always been. The Return Rei woke up on the riverbank, the dawn painting the sky in hues of rose and gold. The water was calm, save for the gentle ripple of koi swimming just below the surface. But she was different. For the first time in years, she was not afraid. She no longer felt small, no longer carried the weight of a life she thought had passed her by. She had seen the river of stars, felt the pull of destiny, and now, she understood. She did not need to wait for change. She was the current. She was the transformation. She had been the dragon all along. And she would never forget. Bring the Magic Home Inspired by Rei’s celestial journey? Capture the essence of transformation and cosmic serenity with these stunning products featuring Serenade of the Sakura and Stars: 🌌 Celestial Tapestry – Adorn your space with the breathtaking beauty of the cosmic koi. ✨ Dreamy Throw Pillow – Rest among the stars and koi as you embrace transformation. 🐉 Enchanted Tote Bag – Carry the wisdom of the koi and the universe wherever you go. ❄️ Cozy Fleece Blanket – Wrap yourself in the warmth of celestial energy. Let the story of Rei remind you: You are not meant to drift. You are meant to rise. 🌙✨

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Saga of the Warlord of the Frozen North

The Blood Debt Long before he was feared across the frozen wastes, before his name was whispered by terrified warlords, Hakon the Unyielding was just a very angry man with an axe and an unhealthy grudge. It started, as most good revenge stories do, with an absolute pile of betrayal. Hakon’s younger brother, Sigvard, was butchered by a sniveling little piss-stain of a jarl named Guthrum the Fat. The reason? Sigvard had won a bet against Guthrum over who could drink more mead before collapsing face-first into a fire. Turns out, petty men with big titles don’t like losing. One poisoned cup later, and Sigvard was puking up his insides in a pigsty while Guthrum cackled like a walrus who’d just learned to speak. Hakon was not amused. Instead of mourning like a reasonable person, he stormed into Guthrum’s hall that very night, kicked the doors open, and proceeded to cleave the first five people he saw in half before anyone even realized what was happening. Unfortunately, Guthrum had come prepared. The jarl’s personal guard swarmed in, and even though Hakon fought like a rabid bear on fire, he was eventually overwhelmed, knocked unconscious, and dragged out into the snow. When he woke up, he found himself tied to a tree, half-naked in the freezing wind, while Guthrum stood there monologuing about honor and consequences—like anyone gave a shit. The jarl ended his speech by carving a bloody “X” into Hakon’s chest, laughing as he proclaimed, “If the gods favor you, perhaps you’ll live to seek revenge.” They really shouldn’t have let him live. Hakon bit through his own ropes (because he's stubborn as Hel) and disappeared into the mountains, where he spent the next winter turning himself into an absolute nightmare. He trained, he hunted, he killed, and he made a vow under the frozen stars: He would return, and he would burn Guthrum’s hall to the ground with the bastard still inside it. And so, with nothing but his axe, a bad attitude, and an unholy thirst for revenge, Hakon set off to do just that. The Reckoning Winter passed. Then another. And another. By the time Hakon the Unyielding returned to civilization, he had become something more akin to a force of nature than a man. His body was carved from cold and war, his eyes burned with a madness that only revenge can forge, and his beard had grown so magnificent that lesser men wept when they saw it. He did not come alone. Somewhere in his mountain exile, Hakon had acquired a **band of lunatics** who shared his enthusiasm for violence and drinking. They were warriors, outcasts, and murderers who had looked into his rage-fueled eyes and said, “Yeah, let’s follow this guy.” And so they marched. Through blizzards, across fjords, and over the bones of anyone foolish enough to stand in their way. Their destination? **Guthrum the Fat’s stronghold, a walled village as bloated and overfed as the bastard who ruled it.** By the time they reached its outskirts, it was a quiet evening, and the villagers were enjoying a feast in the great hall. There was singing. There was laughter. Then there was screaming. Hakon’s warband hit the village like **Thor’s personal temper tantrum**. The first man who saw them had his head split open before he could finish screaming. The second was impaled and used as a battering ram to break down a door. The fighting spilled through the streets. Women and children fled. Guthrum’s warriors—drunk, lazy, and woefully unprepared—came stumbling out of the hall, only to be **cut down like wheat in a storm**. Hakon himself **kicked down the doors of the great hall**, eyes wild, axe dripping, and roared: “GUTHRUM! YOU FAT SACK OF HORSE SHIT! I HAVE COME TO REPAY YOU FOR MY BROTHER!” Silence. Then a loud belch. Guthrum sat at the head of the feast, goblet in hand, meat grease running down his chin. He squinted at Hakon, snorted, and said, “You again? Thought I left you tied to a tree.” Hakon grinned. “You did.” And then he threw his axe. The axe **sailed across the hall**, spinning end over end, **and lodged itself in the chest of the nearest nobleman**—who promptly died choking on his own surprise. Hakon blinked. “Meant to hit you, but that works too.” Guthrum lurched to his feet, **pulling a sword from his belt that looked like it had last seen battle before Odin had a beard**. “You think you can waltz in here, kill my men, and challenge me in my own hall?” Hakon cracked his knuckles. “I don’t think, Guthrum. I know.” The Duel With the hall in chaos—flames licking the walls, men brawling, and one particularly stupid guard getting stabbed with his own sword—Hakon and Guthrum **charged each other**. Guthrum fought like a man who had spent more time **lifting roasted pigs than training with a blade**, but to his credit, he was strong. He swung like a madman, his blows heavy enough to split shields. Hakon, however, fought like a man who had spent **years fantasizing about this exact moment**. He was faster. Meaner. And he had a deep personal hatred for Guthrum’s stupid, fat face. The fight was brutal. It ended **when Hakon caught Guthrum’s wrist mid-swing, twisted, and snapped it like a dry twig**. Guthrum howled, dropping his sword. Hakon, breathing hard, leaned in. “Tell me, Guthrum… do you think the gods favor me yet?” And with that, he **grabbed Guthrum by the throat and threw him—screaming—into the fire pit**. The hall erupted into chaos as Guthrum **flailed, bellowed, and sizzled like an overcooked hog**. His men either surrendered or died trying to avenge him. When the fire died down, and Guthrum was nothing more than a greasy pile of regrets, Hakon turned to the survivors and bellowed, “**This village belongs to me now. Any objections?**” There were none. And so, standing in the ruins of the hall that had once been his brother’s tomb, Hakon the Unyielding raised his bloodied fist and claimed his first throne. The Legend For the first time in his life, Hakon the Unyielding was a man of power. He had **killed the jarl, taken the village, and claimed the hall**. His warriors drank deep from Guthrum’s mead, feasted on his food, and threw his surviving noblemen into the pig pens to get shat on for a few days before deciding what to do with them. Everything was great—until the messengers arrived. See, Guthrum had been a bastard, but he had also been **a bastard with powerful friends**. Turns out, when you set a jarl on fire and take his land, people notice. And they don’t always clap. The War Council Hakon sat in what was once Guthrum’s great hall, drinking straight from the jarl’s favorite goblet like an **absolute disrespectful legend**, while his warband argued over what to do. “We could fortify the village,” suggested Erik the Bald, a man whose only notable skill was **not having hair**. “We could flee,” muttered Torvald the Unfortunate, whose name really said it all. Hakon took a long, thoughtful sip of mead. Then he **threw the goblet at Torvald’s head**. “**Flee?**” he growled. “I didn’t drag my hairy ass through the mountains for three winters just to run at the first sign of trouble.” “You also didn’t kill a jarl for fun,” Erik pointed out. Hakon considered this. “That’s debatable.” The problem was simple: **two warbands were coming**. One led by **Jarl Sigmund the Wolf**, a war-hardened bastard who had once chewed out a man’s throat because he didn’t like the way he looked at him. The other, Guthrum’s own brother, **Halfdan the Ruthless**, who had promised to **flay Hakon alive and use his ribs as a drinking rack**. So, yeah. Not ideal. Hakon stood, cracked his knuckles, and said the most **Hakon thing possible**: “**Then we fight.**” The Siege When the armies came, **they came in numbers**. Hundreds of warriors, banners waving, torches blazing, all marching toward **Hakon’s very stolen throne**. The village defenders—**outnumbered four to one**—watched this and collectively thought, “Well, shit.” Hakon, however, saw opportunity. He gathered his men, sharpened his axe, and addressed his warriors: “Men, we are surrounded.” Silence. “We are outnumbered.” More silence. “We are also very drunk.” Raucous cheering. “But most importantly,” he roared, “these poor bastards have walked all this way just to **die at our gates**.” And with that, **the siege began.** For two days, **the battle raged**. Arrows flew, men screamed, and the village **became a charnel house of blood and splinters**. Hakon’s warriors fought like **cornered wolves**—because, well, they were. They set **traps**, they lured men into **narrow alleys**, and when the enemy breached the gates, Hakon personally **set the whole damn entrance on fire**. Jarl Sigmund died first—**his skull cracked open by Hakon’s axe** in the mud outside the village walls. His men, leaderless and afraid, scattered into the trees, where they were promptly hunted down like **scared rabbits**. Halfdan, though, was a different beast. The Final Duel Halfdan was not the sort of man to **die easily**. He had **the strength of a bear, the scars of a hundred battles, and the personal motivation of a man whose brother had been roasted like a hog.** When the dust settled, **only he and Hakon remained standing**. The battlefield was littered with corpses, the village was burning, and the air reeked of blood and mead. Halfdan sneered. “You killed my brother.” Hakon grinned, wiping blood from his beard. “Which one was he again?” Halfdan **roared like an animal and charged**. What followed was **less of a duel and more of a brutal, knock-down, no-holds-barred street fight**. Swords were thrown away. Shields were smashed. **Fists met bone**. At one point, Hakon **bit off Halfdan’s ear just to be an asshole.** In the end, **Hakon stood victorious**. Halfdan lay in the dirt, **bleeding, broken, and very much dead**. Hakon, exhausted and grinning like a madman, **planted his boot on the corpse and raised his axe high.** **The battle was won.** The Legend is Born By dawn, **the village still stood**, but just barely. The survivors gathered, watching Hakon in silence. One of them—a warrior who had fought against him just days before—stepped forward and asked the question that would **change everything**: “What now?” Hakon, bloodied, battered, and standing atop a mountain of corpses, **grinned through broken teeth and said**: “We drink.” And so the legend of **Hakon the Unyielding, Warlord of the Frozen North, Slayer of Jarls, and All-Around Pain in the Ass** was born. They would tell his story for generations. They would whisper his name in fear. And somewhere, in the halls of Valhalla, the gods **raised their horns in amusement**. Hakon's legend lives on, and now you can own a piece of it. This epic Viking warrior image is available for prints, downloads, and licensing in our Image Archive. View and purchase here.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Melodies of the Woodland Mystic

Deep in the heart of the Everwhimsy Forest, where the trees whispered riddles and the mushrooms hummed in harmony, lived a peculiar fellow known as Bartholomew Bumblesnuff. He wasn’t a wizard, though his beard often housed stray fireflies that made him look the part. Nor was he an elf, though his fingers danced on the strings of his guitar like they knew secrets the wind had forgotten. Bartholomew was, quite simply, a mystic. Not the kind that charged absurd fees for vague prophecies, but the sort who understood that the universe was best unraveled through music, tea, and the occasional well-placed “hmm.” The Troubled Mushroom Council One evening, as he was composing a new song about the philosophical implications of buttered toast, a frantic delegation of sentient mushrooms appeared. These were no ordinary fungi; they were the esteemed Mushroom Council of Sporeston, known for their solemn debates on subjects such as “What Even Is Time?” and “Should We Outlaw the Word ‘Moist’?” “Oh wise and melodic one!” cried Chairman Portobello, adjusting his tiny spectacles. “We have a crisis most dire!” “Is it existential?” Bartholomew asked, taking a contemplative sip of his chamomile tea. “It is worse,” the mushroom trembled. “The Toad of Many Problems has returned!” The Toad of Many Problems The Toad of Many Problems was a well-known local menace. He had an extraordinary ability to complain about absolutely everything, at all times, without stopping for breath. He once ranted for three days about a single missing sock. Bartholomew nodded. “What, uh… what seems to be his problem now?” “He says,” Chairman Portobello gulped, “that the moon is looking at him funny.” Bartholomew strummed a few thoughtful chords. “Mmm. A tricky one.” Negotiating with a Toad The next day, Bartholomew strolled to the Toad of Many Problems’ favorite complaining spot, a mossy rock beside the babbling brook (which he had previously accused of “gossiping”). “Oh, hello,” the toad huffed. “Let me tell you. The moon? Completely judging me. Just up there. Looming.” Bartholomew nodded sagely. “Have you considered that the moon is just… existing?” The toad blinked. “What, like, without a motive?!” “Mmm,” hummed Bartholomew. He plucked his guitar, sending a lazy ripple through the air. “You know, everything just is, my warty friend. The moon shines, the river flows, you complain. It’s all very natural.” The toad frowned. “Are you saying I’m part of the great cosmic balance?” “Without you, who would point out the things others ignore? The moon needs you, my friend. Otherwise, it would have no one to keep it humble.” The toad gasped. “You’re right. I provide a service!” “Mmm,” Bartholomew hummed again. The Song That Saved the Forest That night, under a sky freckled with stars, Bartholomew composed a song inspired by the toad’s plight. It was a melody of acceptance, a ballad of embracing the weirdness of existence. As he strummed, the fireflies blinked in rhythm, the trees swayed approvingly, and the mushrooms sighed with deep fungal satisfaction. The Toad of Many Problems, sitting proudly on his mossy rock, nodded along. “You know,” he murmured, “maybe the moon and I can coexist after all.” And so, for the first time in centuries, the Everwhimsy Forest experienced a rare and beautiful thing: peace. At least until the toad discovered that someone had rearranged his pebbles. But that, dear reader, is another story. Looking for a piece of whimsical magic to add to your space? "Melodies of the Woodland Mystic" is available for prints, downloads, and licensing in our Image Archive. Bring the charm of this musical sage into your home or creative projects! 👉 View in the Archive 🎶✨

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Guardian of the Golden Clover

Deep in the heart of the Emerald Glade, nestled between the Wobbly Hills and the River of Regrettable Decisions, lived Fergus O’Twinkleboots, the self-proclaimed Guardian of the Golden Clover. No one had asked him to be the guardian. No one particularly wanted him to be the guardian. But Fergus had appointed himself to the position, made himself a badge out of melted gold coins, and spent most of his days drinking, yelling at passersby, and setting up ridiculously impractical security measures. Fergus was a rare breed—a gnome-leprechaun hybrid, possessing both the fiery stubbornness of gnomes and the chaotic mischief of leprechauns. He was about two feet tall, with a beard so curly it could double as a bird’s nest, eyes that sparkled like freshly poured whiskey, and a green coat that was covered in so much gold embroidery, it looked like a dragon had sneezed on him. His hat was an architectural masterpiece—so curled and floppy that it required structural support (provided by a network of enchanted twigs). A Guardian’s Responsibilities (or Lack Thereof) The Golden Clover was no ordinary plant. It was said to be the luckiest of all clovers, granting limitless fortune to whoever touched it. Naturally, this meant that Fergus had exactly three responsibilities: Keep the Golden Clover safe. Make sure nobody stole it. Drink enough ale to forget about responsibilities one and two. He excelled at the third one. To deter thieves, Fergus had set up a variety of highly sophisticated booby traps, including: A set of enchanted bagpipes that played off-key sea shanties when stepped on. A squad of attack squirrels trained in aerial acrobatics (though they mostly just stole his snacks). A badger named Nigel who could scream at such a high frequency that people momentarily forgot their own names. A fake map labeled “Secret Shortcut to the Clover” that actually led adventurers into the Pit of Existential Dread, where a magical voice would whisper, “Why do you even want luck? Isn’t happiness the true goal?” Needless to say, the traps were effective. For years, Fergus remained undefeated. The Great Heist (And The Even Greater Hangover) One fateful night, Fergus found himself in his favorite drinking establishment, The Tipsy Goblin, engaged in an intense drinking competition against a particularly shady-looking elf named Darius the Dubiously Employed. “Ye think ye can outdrink me?” Fergus slurred, slamming down his 12th mug of clover ale. Darius smirked. “I don’t think, Fergus. I know.” This was, of course, a blatant lie. Nobody could outdrink Fergus O’Twinkleboots. However, Darius had a plan: get Fergus so spectacularly drunk that he passed out, allowing Darius’ team of thieves to steal the Golden Clover. It was, as plans went, quite solid. It also backfired spectacularly. The Heist Begins At precisely 2:43 AM, Darius’ crew tiptoed into the glade, confident that their leader had successfully incapacitated the Guardian. They were wrong. Fergus, despite his intoxicated state, had muscle memory. The moment his enchanted “Thief-Detection Alarm” (Nigel the Badger) let out an ear-piercing screech, Fergus reacted. With the grace of a drunken ballerina, he leapt out of bed, donned his hat (upside down, but still), and pressed the hidden button beneath his left boot, activating The Oh No Ye Don’t Mechanism. What followed was a series of escalating disasters: A trapdoor opened beneath the thieves, dumping them into the “Pit of Mild Inconvenience,” where they were immediately tangled in enchanted laundry lines. The attack squirrels (who had been bribed with walnuts earlier) betrayed Fergus and stole his cheese collection instead. The bagpipes began blaring an off-key rendition of “Danny Boy,” causing one thief to voluntarily surrender out of sheer emotional distress. Finally, the Final Defense System was activated—a giant boot on a spring, which launched the remaining thieves directly into the River of Regrettable Decisions. By the time Fergus had stumbled to the clearing, the only sign of the attempted robbery was a single abandoned shoe and the distant sound of a thief cursing as he floated downstream. “HA! That’s what ye GET, ye gobdaws!” Fergus shouted, swaying slightly. Then he promptly passed out in a bush. The Aftermath When Fergus awoke the next morning, head pounding like a drum at a goblin wedding, he found himself surrounded by several concerned villagers. “Fergus… did ye fight off an entire gang of thieves while drunk?” one asked. Fergus groaned. “Aye. But don’t worry. I took care of ‘em.” “How?” Fergus grinned, pointing a thumb at Nigel, who was now wearing one of the thieves’ hats. “With me secret weapon.” From that day forward, Fergus became a local legend. His exploits were sung in taverns, his traps became the stuff of adventurers' nightmares, and Nigel the Badger was promoted to Chief of Security, a title he took very seriously. And as for Fergus? Well, he went right back to drinking, yelling at tourists, and perfecting his latest trap: The Catapult of Shame, which launched particularly persistent thieves directly into their childhood homes. After all, a Guardian’s work is never done. Love the mischievous magic of Fergus O’Twinkleboots? You can own a piece of his legendary tale! This whimsical artwork, Guardian of the Golden Clover, is available for prints, downloads, and licensing in our Image Archive. Click below to explore: View & Purchase the Artwork

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Heart of an Eagle, Soul of a Nation

Night had settled over the gathering, but no one moved to leave. The town hall, an unassuming structure of brick and wood, stood like a silent witness to the unfolding moment. The conversations had been raw, unfiltered—an outpouring of fears, frustrations, and fragile hopes. Yet, something was shifting, something imperceptible but undeniable. It began with a simple question, asked by a man who had seen too many election cycles, too many promises broken. “What do we do?” The silence that followed was heavier than any argument that had come before. It was not the silence of division but of contemplation—of responsibility. The mother, the worker, the veteran, the student, the immigrant, the business owner—they had all spoken their truths, but now, standing at the crossroads, they faced a harder task. How do you move forward when the road is broken beneath you? How do you trust when trust has been eroded by years of manipulation, misinformation, and fear? The young woman who had spoken earlier leaned forward, her voice softer now, less combative. “Maybe we start by agreeing on what patriotism really means.” The old man nodded. “It’s not a flag pinned to your chest or a slogan shouted in anger. It’s what you do when no one is watching. It’s choosing to build rather than tear down.” Another voice joined in, hesitant but firm. “It’s not about proving who loves the country more. It’s about showing up for it.” One by one, they began to speak—not about parties, not about leaders, but about values. Not the values that were convenient in a debate, but the ones that mattered in the quiet moments: honesty, compassion, fairness, sacrifice, courage. The kind of values that build bridges instead of walls. Someone pulled out a notebook, and soon, a list took shape. It wasn’t policy, it wasn’t law—it was a declaration of what they, as citizens, owed to each other. The simple, binding truths that had nothing to do with power and everything to do with character. The eagle stretched its wings above them, gliding silently against the moonlit sky. It had seen nations fall under the weight of their own anger, but it had also seen them rise—when they remembered that the strongest foundation was not in stone or steel, but in understanding. At last, the crowd began to disperse, stepping out into the cool night air. They had not solved everything. They had not erased their differences. But they had done something greater. They had listened. And for the first time in a long time, they had begun to remember: patriotism was not a weapon to wield, nor a prize to claim. It was a responsibility. A burden. A privilege. A choice. The storm had not passed. But now, they faced it together. The morning came not with a triumphant chorus, but with quiet resolve. The town still stood, the country still breathed, the divisions had not vanished overnight. But something had changed, however imperceptibly. A seed had been planted—a small but stubborn thing, pressing its roots into the soil of doubt and distrust. Days passed. Then weeks. The gathering faded into memory for some, but for others, it was a spark that refused to go out. Conversations shifted, if only by degrees. People began to ask not just, “What is wrong?” but, “What can we do?” Small changes, the kind that don’t make headlines, but move history all the same. A neighbor who had once pulled his flag down in anger raised it again—not as a statement of defiance, but as a promise to himself. A teacher, long exhausted by the weight of disillusionment, chose to stay another year. A veteran, weary of watching his brothers and sisters be used as symbols rather than heard as voices, started speaking out—not for a party, but for people. And in a hundred different ways, across a thousand different towns, others did the same. They did not agree on everything. They did not need to. They were not meant to. But they began to recognize something that had been forgotten in the noise: The soul of a nation is not found in its leaders, but in its people. In their kindness. In their courage. In their willingness to stand, not in front of one another, but beside. The eagle soared above them, watching as it always had. It had seen the nation in war and in peace, in triumph and in trial. It knew that America had never been perfect. It had never been easy. But it had always been possible. The storm would come again. It always did. But now, they were ready. Bring the Spirit of Patriotism into Your Home The image of the eagle, wings forming a heart of red, white, and blue, is more than art—it is a reminder of the strength, resilience, and unity that define a nation. Whether displayed in your home, carried with you, or shared as a meaningful gift, this artwork serves as a daily reflection of what it truly means to be American. Wrap yourself in inspiration with the Patriotic Tapestry, a stunning piece to elevate any space. Make a bold statement with a high-quality Canvas Print, capturing every intricate feather in breathtaking detail. Challenge yourself with the Jigsaw Puzzle, a rewarding experience that brings the image together piece by piece. Carry the message with you wherever you go with the durable Tote Bag, a stylish yet practical way to showcase your pride. Add comfort and meaning to your space with a plush Throw Pillow, blending patriotism with everyday coziness. Every piece is crafted with care, just like the ideals that shape a nation. Celebrate unity, resilience, and the enduring spirit of America. Explore the full collection here.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Beware the Red Phantom

The first time Gerald saw the cat, it was sitting on the old stone wall outside his apartment, watching him. A striking red and white creature, its fur seemed too perfect, too soft, too...deliberate. Its icy blue eyes glowed in the dim light, and as Gerald fumbled for his keys, the cat smirked. Not a normal feline twitch of the lips. A full, knowing smirk. “Shoo,” Gerald muttered, shivering as he turned the key in the lock. The cat didn't move. The Cat Returns Days passed, and the cat appeared again and again—perched on the stair railing, slinking through the alley near his office, reflected in the window of a subway train he hadn't even boarded yet. Each time, its gaze lingered a little longer, as if studying him, as if waiting. One night, a sharp knock at the door startled him. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Through the peephole, there was nothing but darkness. Then, the low, deliberate sound of something scratching against the wood. Gerald’s breath hitched. He stepped back, pulse hammering. The scratching stopped, replaced by a whisper—just a breath of sound. “Let me in.” He didn’t move. Seconds passed. A minute. Silence. Finally, convinced it was his imagination, he crept back to his room and slid under the covers, the uneasy feeling still crawling up his spine. The next morning, the front door was unlocked. The Red Phantom It escalated from there. Lights flickered when the cat appeared. The television turned on by itself, always to static. His reflection in mirrors looked... wrong. At first, just slight details—his smile too wide, his pupils a little too big. Then, one night, his reflection didn’t move when he did. It just stared. And in the corner of the mirror, nestled in the shadows, the Red Phantom was watching, its grin spreading, stretching, filled with too many teeth. Gerald smashed the mirror. Under the Bed By now, he knew he was being hunted. But by what? One night, as he lay awake, his breath shallow, he heard a sound from under the bed. A soft, wet clicking. A deep, purring voice whispered: "Almost time." He leapt out of bed, grabbed a flashlight, and crouched to look underneath. The beam of light cut through the darkness, illuminating— Nothing. Then, slowly, the cat's head emerged from the shadows. Only, it wasn’t quite a cat anymore. Its grin was wider than its face should allow, jagged teeth gleaming. Its fur rippled unnaturally, shifting like something was moving beneath its skin. The blue eyes were impossibly deep, swirling like distant galaxies. Gerald screamed and scrambled back. When he looked again, it was gone. The Final Message He barely slept after that. He tried moving apartments, staying with friends, even checking into a hotel for a week. It didn’t matter. The cat was always there. Then came the final night. His phone buzzed. A message. Look outside. Against his better judgment, he did. The Red Phantom sat on the fire escape. Smirking. Behind it, something massive loomed in the darkness, shifting, pulsing, waiting. His phone buzzed again. Open the window. His fingers moved on their own, reaching for the latch. And as the glass slid open, the Red Phantom leapt inside. Everything went black. The Next Tenant Months later, the landlord leased the apartment to a new tenant. A young woman named Liza. She was excited to move in, though she had heard the last guy left without a trace. On her first night, she settled into bed, exhausted from unpacking. Just as she started to drift off, she felt something move at the foot of the bed. A small weight. Gentle purring. She smiled. She had always loved cats. Then the purring turned into something else. A whisper. "Almost time." Take the Red Phantom Home The legend of the Red Phantom doesn’t have to stay in the shadows. Bring this eerie, mesmerizing feline into your world with a selection of exclusive products featuring the hauntingly beautiful artwork. Whether you want to add a touch of mystery to your home, gift a chilling surprise, or carry a piece of the legend with you, we've got you covered. 🖼️ Tapestry – Drape your walls in eerie elegance with a stunning tapestry featuring the Red Phantom. 💌 Greeting Card – Send a message wrapped in mystery with this uniquely chilling card. 📖 Spiral Notebook – Jot down your own dark tales in a notebook that whispers secrets between the pages. 🛌 Fleece Blanket – Stay warm while the Phantom keeps watch... just don’t fall asleep too soon. Dare to invite the Red Phantom into your life? Click on your favorite product and let the legend live on.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Moonlight Whispers of the White Buffalo

The journey began beneath falling snow, where Anara first met the sacred White Buffalo—a moment that bridged the past and the present, guiding her toward the wisdom of her ancestors. Through visions of history and echoes of forgotten voices, she discovered that her path was not merely one of remembrance, but of purpose. Yet, as the whispers of the past faded into the wind, a new question remained: what lay ahead? Now, under the luminous glow of the full moon, the White Buffalo has returned. But this time, it does not speak of the past—it calls her toward the future. Read Part One: Whispers of the White Buffalo The wind carried no sound beyond the steady breath of the White Buffalo, its presence as still as the stars above them. Snowflakes drifted lazily, shimmering under the silver glow of the moon, caught between the past and the present. Anara stood in the vast silence, her fingers pressed against the beast’s warm muzzle, feeling the rhythm of its breath—slow, steady, eternal. The journey was not over. She had seen the past, had felt the heartbeat of those who had walked before her. She had glimpsed a future where their songs were no longer echoes but vibrant melodies carried by new voices. Yet, there was still a path she did not know, an unknown stretch of time she had yet to cross. And for the first time, she was unafraid. The White Buffalo turned and walked, its massive hooves pressing deep into the untouched snow. The path it took was not carved by history nor mapped by the stars. It was being created in this moment, each step forming a new possibility, a new future. Anara hesitated only for a breath before following, her footsteps small but certain beside the ancient spirit. The Road of Trials They walked through the night, the moon a faithful guardian above them. The snowfall thickened, swirling in ghostly patterns, wrapping around them like spirits dancing in the wind. As the night stretched on, the landscape began to change. The open plains narrowed, giving way to towering trees, their skeletal branches weighed down by ice. The air grew colder, the silence deeper. Then, the whispers began. At first, they were distant, no more than a sigh carried by the wind. But as she walked, they grew stronger, forming words that wrapped around her like unseen hands. You do not belong here. You are not enough. Turn back. The voices were not those of her ancestors. They were not the guiding spirits who had led her this far. These whispers carried something darker—the weight of doubt, of fear, of generations silenced by history. She stopped, her breath catching in her throat. The White Buffalo did not pause, but it turned its great head slightly, as if waiting. “I don’t know if I can,” she admitted, her voice nearly lost to the wind. “What if I fail?” The buffalo did not answer in words. Instead, it lowered its head, pressing its forehead gently against her shoulder. The warmth of its touch cut through the cold, steady and unwavering. And she understood. The whispers were not hers. They were the shadows of those who had tried to break the spirit of her people. They were the ghosts of oppression, the weight of forgotten names and lost voices. But she carried within her something far stronger—the fire of those who had refused to be erased. She straightened, her shoulders no longer burdened by doubt. She stepped forward, and the whispers faded, swallowed by the endless night. The River of Reflection The trees gave way to open land again, but this time, the moonlight revealed something new. A river stretched before her, its surface frozen yet shifting, as if the water still ran deep beneath the ice. The White Buffalo stopped at the edge, waiting. She knelt, staring into the glassy surface. At first, she saw only her own reflection—her breath curling in the cold air, her eyes fierce yet weary. But then, the ice shimmered, and the image changed. She saw her mother, kneeling by a fire, whispering prayers into the flames. She saw her grandmother, fingers weathered with age, weaving stories into the fabric of a beaded shawl. She saw warriors, standing against storms, their feet rooted in the land that had birthed them. And she saw the children—the ones yet to be born, their eyes wide with wonder, their hands reaching toward a future she had yet to build. She was not just one life. She was many. She was a bridge between what was and what could be. Slowly, she reached out, placing her palm against the ice. I will not turn back. The river seemed to breathe beneath her touch, the ice groaning before settling into silence once more. The White Buffalo huffed, a cloud of warm mist curling into the air, then turned to walk once more. And this time, she followed without hesitation. The Dawn of Becoming They walked until the sky began to shift. The deep blues of night gave way to the soft grays of early morning, and in the distance, a horizon glowed with the promise of the sun. The cold still bit at her skin, but she no longer felt it in the same way. There was a fire within her now, something untouchable, something sacred. “Where does this road end?” she asked softly. The White Buffalo stopped, turning to look at her with deep, knowing eyes. And in that moment, she understood. There was no end. There was no single destination, no final place of arrival. The journey was the purpose. The walking, the learning, the listening—this was the path she had been searching for all along. She smiled, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she was weightless. The White Buffalo exhaled deeply, then took one final step forward before fading into the mist of dawn, its form dissolving like a breath released into the sky. But Anara did not grieve its departure. It was not leaving her. It never had. It was in every step she took, every story she carried, every whisper of wisdom that danced in the wind. She turned to face the rising sun, the first light spilling across the endless land before her. And she walked forward, unafraid. Carry the Wisdom of the White Buffalo with You The journey does not end here. The whispers of the White Buffalo continue, guiding those who listen. Let this sacred moment of connection, wisdom, and transformation become part of your own space. Surround yourself with the celestial beauty of the **Moonlight Whispers of the White Buffalo tapestry**, a stunning piece that captures the spirit of the sacred encounter. Bring the vision to life with an elegant **canvas print**, perfect for any space that seeks inspiration and serenity. Experience the connection piece by piece with the **White Buffalo puzzle**, a meditative way to reflect on the journey. Wrap yourself in the warmth of ancestral wisdom with a **soft fleece blanket**, a comforting reminder that the path forward is always illuminated. Let the whispers of the past guide your future. Walk boldly, dream deeply, and carry the strength of the White Buffalo with you always. 🦬🌙

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Whispers of the White Buffalo

The snow fell in soft, lazy spirals, blanketing the vast plains in a hush that felt sacred. The wind, carrying the scent of pine and distant fire, whispered through the land, as if the ancestors themselves had gathered to witness the moment. Anara stood still, her breath curling into the icy air, her heartbeat steady but expectant. She had traveled far for this meeting, seeking answers in the language only the soul could understand. Before her stood the White Buffalo, its massive form exuding a quiet power. Its fur, thick and shimmering beneath the dawn’s golden light, looked almost celestial. Dark eyes, deep and knowing, regarded her not as a stranger, but as something familiar—an echo of something long forgotten. She approached slowly, reverence in every step. The weight of tradition settled around her shoulders, the beaded patterns on her garments whispering stories of those who walked before her. The feathers in her headdress caught the light, each strand carrying prayers of protection, wisdom, and strength. She had prepared for this moment all her life, though she had not known it. From the bedtime stories of her grandmother to the solitary nights spent by the fire, listening to the stars, she had always felt a pull toward something unseen. Now, standing before this ancient spirit, she understood. This was not just a meeting. It was a homecoming. The Connection “I have come to listen,” she murmured, her voice barely more than breath. “To remember.” And then, as if the universe itself had aligned for this moment, the buffalo dipped its head. Anara closed her eyes and leaned forward until their foreheads touched. A warmth, more than physical, surged through her—an understanding too vast for words, too intimate for explanation. The world around her blurred and shifted. She was no longer standing on the frozen earth but moving through a space beyond time. The deep rumbling breath of the buffalo filled her ears, a sound like distant thunder rolling across an endless sky. Then, a voice—not of words, but of knowing—whispered through her mind. You are the echo of all who have come before. The blood in your veins carries their stories, their joys, their pain. Do not look to the past in sorrow. Carry it forward in strength. A rush of images flooded her vision. The Vision She was no longer Anara. She was a child, sitting by the fire at her grandmother’s feet, her small hands tracing the intricate beadwork on the old woman’s dress. She could smell the cedar burning, hear the distant drumming from a gathering in the village. “The buffalo is our teacher,” her grandmother had told her. “It gives its life so that we may live. It walks with us, even when we cannot see it.” Then she was running through the tall summer grass, her laughter mixing with the songs of the meadowlarks. She was free, unburdened, her feet knowing the land as if they had been born from it. Then, the world changed. Smoke. Screams. The sound of horses and men shouting. A world shattered, scattered like dust in the wind. The land, once filled with voices, fell silent. Families torn apart, traditions lost, sacred spaces trampled by feet that did not understand their worth. But even in the silence, something remained. A woman stood alone beneath the stars, singing a song no one else remembered. A child knelt beside the river, tracing patterns in the water, whispering to the spirits of those who had been taken. A man carved stories into wood, refusing to let them fade. The people had endured. Not in the way the world once knew them, but in ways unseen, in ways that could never be erased. And Anara was part of that endurance. The Awakening Her vision shifted, and she was herself again, standing in the snow, forehead pressed against the great beast before her. But she was not the same. The weight of her ancestors’ struggles pressed upon her, but it did not break her. Instead, it wove into her spirit, strengthening her, filling her with a love so profound it nearly brought her to her knees. She understood now. She was not alone. She had never been alone. She stepped back, her gaze still locked with the gentle giant’s. It had given her no words, no prophecy carved in stone, yet she had received something far greater—a knowing. A certainty that she was not lost, that her people were not forgotten. That their strength flowed through her veins, unshaken, unbroken. “Thank you,” she whispered, feeling the words resonate through her very bones. The buffalo let out a slow breath, its warm mist curling between them. Then, with deliberate grace, it turned and walked into the snowfall, its form fading into the horizon like a spirit returning home. The Journey Forward As Anara turned back toward the world waiting beyond this moment, she felt lighter. Stronger. She carried within her the whispers of those who had come before, the songs of those yet to come. She was no longer merely searching for meaning—she was the meaning, the continuation of something vast and sacred. She no longer feared the uncertainty of the future, for she knew now that her path was not just hers alone. It was the path of many, woven together across time. She walked forward, knowing that wherever she went, she would never walk alone. Bring the Spirit of the White Buffalo into Your Home The connection between spirit and nature, past and present, is beautifully captured in Whispers of the White Buffalo. You can carry this message with you in meaningful ways: Wrap yourself in the warmth of its wisdom with a soft fleece blanket. Transform your space with the powerful imagery of the Whispers of the White Buffalo tapestry. Take this sacred moment with you wherever you go with a beautifully designed tote bag. Experience the image in a new way, piece by piece, with the White Buffalo puzzle. Let the whispers of the past guide your journey forward. The snow had settled, the whispers of the past still lingering in her heart. Anara had seen the truth of where she came from, felt the presence of those who walked before her. But as the first light of dawn stretched across the horizon, she knew her journey was not over. The White Buffalo had shown her the past—now, it would call her toward the future. And somewhere beyond the frost-covered plains, beneath the glow of the moon, another vision awaited. Continue the journey in Part Two: Moonlight Whispers of the White Buffalo.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Warden Gnomes of the Mystic Grove

A tale of adventure, mystery, and three grumpy, battle-hardened gnomes who are really just trying to mind their own business. Part One: A Fool’s Errand “You hear that?” Gorrim, the tallest (by an impressive half-inch) of the Warden Gnomes, tilted his head toward the distant crunch of twigs underfoot. He narrowed his eyes beneath his heavy, rune-stitched hat, gripping the pommel of his sword. “Someone’s coming.” “Oh, fantastic,” huffed Baelin, the most cantankerous of the three. “Another dimwit thinking they can plunder our forest for ‘hidden treasures’ or some other nonsense.” He adjusted his ornate battle axe and leaned against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak. “I say we scare ‘em off. Let’s go full ‘ominous guardian’ routine. Maybe some spooky chanting.” “We did that last time,” Ollo, the youngest (a mere 312 years old), pointed out. “They just screamed and ran in circles until they fell into the bog.” Baelin grinned. “Exactly.” Gorrim sighed, rubbing his temples. “Let’s at least see what kind of idiot we’re dealing with before we start traumatizing them.” The three gnomes peered through the underbrush as a figure stumbled into view—a lanky, wide-eyed human man dressed in what could only be described as ‘fashionably impractical adventuring gear.’ His boots were too clean, his tunic too crisp, and his belt held far too many shiny trinkets for someone who had actually faced any real danger. “Oh, sweet mushroom spirits, he’s a noble,” Ollo muttered. “You can smell the entitlement from here.” “Good evening, fair woodland creatures!” the man announced with an exaggerated flourish. “I am Lord Percival Ravenshade, intrepid explorer, seeker of lost relics, and—” “—and first-place winner of ‘Who’s Most Likely to Get Eaten by a Bear,’” Baelin cut in. Percival blinked. “I—what?” “State your business, long-legs,” Gorrim said, his voice edged with patience that was rapidly wearing thin. “This is protected land.” Percival puffed up his chest. “Ah! But I seek something of great importance! The fabled Gem of Eldertree, said to be hidden within this very forest! Surely, noble gnome-folk such as yourselves would be delighted to assist a humble scholar such as myself!” The gnomes exchanged a look. “Oh, this is gonna be fun,” Ollo murmured. Baelin scratched his beard. “You mean the Gem of Eldertree?” “Yes!” Percival’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “The very same Gem of Eldertree that’s guarded by a bloodthirsty, soul-devouring, absolutely massive spirit-beast?” Percival’s confidence wavered. “…Yes?” Gorrim nodded solemnly. “The one that’s cursed to drive treasure hunters insane with whispering voices until they wander into a nest of venomous shadow-vipers?” Percival hesitated. “…Possibly?” Ollo leaned in conspiratorially. “The same gem that once turned a man’s entire skeleton inside out just for touching it?” Percival gulped. “That one?” Baelin grinned. “Yep.” The nobleman took a deep breath, then squared his shoulders. “No matter the danger, I shall face it with honor! Besides, legends say a trio of wise gnomes knows the way to the gem.” “Hah! Wise gnomes.” Ollo snorted. “Good one.” Gorrim crossed his arms. “And if we do know the way, what makes you think we’d help you?” “Gold!” Percival said brightly, jingling a pouch. “Plenty of it! And fame! Your names will be sung in the halls of kings!” “Oh yes, because that worked out so well for the last guy who came through here,” Baelin muttered. Gorrim sighed deeply. “Against my better judgment… I say we take him.” Baelin stared. “You what?” Ollo clapped his hands together. “Ohhh, this is going to be hilarious.” Gorrim smirked. “We take him… and make sure he fully appreciates the horrors of this forest before we even get close to the gem.” Baelin’s face broke into a wicked grin. “Oh, I like it.” Percival, oblivious, beamed. “Wonderful! Lead the way, my good gnomes!” “Oh, we will,” Ollo muttered as they began their trek into the dark heart of the Mystic Grove. “We most certainly will.” The Scenic Route to Certain Doom Percival strutted confidently behind the three gnomes, his boots crunching against the damp forest floor. The deeper they went into the Mystic Grove, the darker and more twisted the trees became, their branches curling overhead like skeletal fingers. A faint, eerie whispering echoed through the air—though whether it was the wind or something far more sinister was up for debate. “You know,” Baelin mused, nudging Ollo, “I give him twenty minutes before he cries.” “Ten,” Ollo countered. “Did you see how he flinched when that squirrel sneezed?” Gorrim, ever the responsible one, ignored them. “Alright, Percival. If you really want the Gem of Eldertree, there are some… shall we say… precautionary measures we need to take.” Percival, ever eager, nodded. “Ah, of course! Some kind of magical rite? Perhaps a test of my courage?” Baelin grinned. “Oh, it’s a test all right. First, we need to check if you’re… resistant to the Wailing Mushrooms of Despair.” Percival blinked. “The what now?” “Very dangerous,” Ollo said gravely. “If you hear their cries, you could be overwhelmed with such unbearable existential dread that you forget how to breathe.” Percival paled. “That’s a thing that happens?” Baelin nodded solemnly. “Tragic, really. Just last month, a guy collapsed on the spot. One moment, determined explorer. Next moment, curled up in a fetal position sobbing about how time is a meaningless construct.” Percival looked around nervously. “H-how do I know if I’m… resistant?” Ollo shrugged. “Oh, we’ll know.” They led him to a cluster of large, pulsing fungi with bioluminescent blue caps. Gorrim gave one a light poke, and it released a long, eerie wail that sounded suspiciously like an elderly man muttering, “What’s the point of it all?” Percival yelped and took several steps back. “By the gods! That’s unnatural!” “Hmm.” Ollo stroked his beard. “He didn’t immediately collapse into an existential crisis. That’s promising.” Baelin leaned in. “Think we should tell him they’re just regular mushrooms and the wailing sound is Gorrim throwing his voice?” “Not yet,” Ollo whispered back. “Let’s see how much more we can get away with.” Gorrim cleared his throat. “Alright, Percival. You’ve passed the first test. But the path ahead is dangerous.” Percival straightened up, puffing out his chest again. “I’m ready for anything!” Baelin smirked. “Good. Because the next part of the journey involves the Bridge of Certain Peril.” “Certain… peril?” Percival repeated warily. “Oh, yes,” Ollo said, nodding seriously. “A rickety, ancient bridge stretched across a bottomless chasm. So old, so fragile, that even a slight gust of wind could send a man plummeting into the abyss below.” Percival’s confidence wavered. “I… see.” Moments later, they arrived at said bridge. It was, in reality, a very sturdy, well-maintained stone bridge. The kind you could probably drive a fully armored war elephant across without so much as a wobble. But Percival didn’t need to know that. “There it is,” Baelin said, making his voice tremble just enough to sell the drama. “The most treacherous bridge in all the land.” Percival took one look at it and visibly paled. “It looks… uh… sturdier than I expected.” “That’s what it wants you to think,” Ollo said darkly. “It’s the cursed winds you have to worry about.” “Cursed winds?!” “Oh, yes,” Gorrim said with a straight face. “Unpredictable. Invisible. The moment you least expect it—whoosh! Gone.” Percival gulped. “Right. Yes. Of course.” Taking a deep breath, he stepped cautiously onto the bridge. Baelin, grinning like a madman, subtly cupped his hands and let out a low, ominous whoooooosh. Percival let out a shriek and flung himself flat against the stone, gripping it as if he might be flung into the abyss at any moment. Ollo wiped a tear from his eye. “I’m going to miss him when the forest eats him.” Gorrim sighed. “Alright, enough. Let’s get him to the ruins before he has a heart attack.” Percival, still visibly shaken, scrambled to his feet and hurried to the other side of the bridge, panting heavily. “H-ha! I conquered the Bridge of Certain Peril! That wasn’t so bad!” Baelin slapped him on the back. “Atta boy! Now just one last thing before we reach the temple.” Percival hesitated. “I swear, if it’s another test—” “Oh, no test,” Ollo assured him. “We just need to wake up the guardian.” “The… guardian?” “Yeah,” Baelin said, waving a hand dismissively. “The spirit-beast of Eldertree. Giant, angry, breathes fire, maybe eats souls? Honestly, it’s been a while.” Percival went rigid. “You weren’t… joking about that?” Gorrim smirked. “Oh no. That part’s real.” The trees ahead trembled. A deep, guttural growl echoed through the forest. Baelin grinned. “Welp. You first, brave adventurer.” Percival turned slowly toward them, his expression caught somewhere between utter horror and regret. “Oh,” Ollo whispered. “He’s definitely gonna cry.” To be continued… maybe. Bring the Magic Home! Love the world of the Warden Gnomes? Now you can bring a piece of their mischievous, mystical adventure into your own space! Whether you want to decorate your walls, challenge yourself with a puzzle, or send a whimsical greeting, we’ve got you covered. ✨ Tapestry – Transform your space with enchanting artwork that captures the magic of the Mystic Grove. 🖼️ Canvas Print – A high-quality piece to add an air of fantasy to any room. 🧩 Puzzle – Test your wits and patience just like our dear Percival. 💌 Greeting Card – Send a message with a touch of fantasy and mischief. Click the links above to grab your favorite magical keepsake and support the artistic adventures of the Warden Gnomes!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Lost in a World Too Big

The first thing Fizzlebop noticed upon hatching was that the world was entirely too loud, too bright, and too full of things that did not immediately cater to his needs. A terrible injustice, really. He blinked his enormous blue eyes, stretching his stubby wings with an exasperated sigh. The nest was empty. His siblings had hatched before him, leaving behind only cracked eggshells and a lingering warmth. How typical. They never waited for him. "Ugh," he muttered, dragging his tiny tail across the soft moss. "Abandoned at birth. Tragic." Fizzlebop attempted to stand, only to topple forward, his little claws scrabbling against the ground. "Oh yes, very majestic. Future ruler of the skies, right here," he grumbled, rolling onto his back. "Might as well leave me here to perish." The sky above him was a swirl of pastels, stars twinkling like they had something to be smug about. "Don't just sit there looking all mysterious," he huffed at them. "Help me!" The stars, as expected, did not assist. With a great effort, he managed to sit upright, his wings flaring dramatically for balance. He squinted into the distance, where flickering firelight suggested the rest of his nestmates were already feasting with their mother. "Of course they started without me," he muttered. "Because why wouldn't they?" Then, just to test if life was truly out to get him, Fizzlebop attempted to take a single confident step forward. His foot met a particularly devious rock, and he promptly face-planted. "Oh, I see how it is," he growled, flopping onto his side. "Fine. I'll just stay here. Alone. Forever. Probably get eaten by something big and toothy." Something rustled nearby. Fizzlebop froze. Slowly, carefully, he turned his head—only to come face to face with a fox. A very hungry-looking fox. The fox tilted its head, clearly confused by the sight of a baby dragon glaring up at it with an expression of profound irritation. Fizzlebop narrowed his eyes. "Listen here, overgrown rodent," he said, voice full of bratty confidence. "I am a dragon. A creature of legend. A force of nature." He puffed up his chest. "I will breathe fire upon you." Silence. The fox remained unimpressed. Fizzlebop inhaled deeply, ready to unleash his terrifying flame… and promptly sneezed. A pathetic little spark fizzled into the air. The fox blinked. Fizzlebop blinked. Then, with a sigh, he flopped onto his back and groaned. "Fine. Just eat me and get it over with." Instead of attacking, the fox sniffed him once, let out an unimpressed huff, and trotted away. "Yeah, that's right," Fizzlebop called after it. "Run, coward!" He lay there for a moment longer before muttering, "I didn't want to be eaten anyway." Then, grumbling to himself, he got back onto his feet and stomped toward the firelight, ready to make a dramatic entrance and demand his rightful place at the feast. Because if he was going to suffer in this unfair world, the least he could do was make everyone else suffer with him. Fizzlebop marched—well, wobbled—toward the glow of the firelight, muttering under his breath about betrayal, neglect, and the sheer injustice of being the last to hatch. His tiny claws crunched against the frost-covered ground, his tail flicking dramatically with each exaggerated step. “Oh yes, just leave the baby behind,” he grumbled. “Forget about poor, defenseless Fizzlebop. Not like I could have been eaten or anything.” He paused and shuddered. “By a fox. A fox, of all things.” The campfire flickered ahead, surrounded by his siblings, who were rolling around in a pile of meat scraps like the uncultured beasts they were. Their mother, a great silver dragon with molten gold eyes, lay nearby, preening her wings, looking—for lack of a better word—smug. Fizzlebop narrowed his eyes. They had noticed his absence. They just hadn’t cared. Well. That would not stand. He inhaled deeply, summoning every ounce of injustice and rage within his tiny frame, and let out a battle cry: “HOW DARE YOU.” The entire nest froze. His siblings blinked at him, meat dangling from their stupid little jaws. His mother arched an elegant brow. Fizzlebop stomped forward. “Do you have ANY idea what I have been through?” he demanded, wings flaring. “Do you know the STRUGGLES I have faced?” Silence. Fizzlebop did not care. He was going to tell them anyway. “First of all, I was abandoned,” he declared. “Cast out, left to suffer, forced to hatch in solitude like some tragic hero in a forgotten legend.” He placed a claw against his chest, looking to the heavens. “And then! As if that weren’t bad enough—” His mother exhaled loudly through her nose. “Fizzlebop, you hatched twenty minutes late.” Fizzlebop gasped. “Twenty minutes? Oh, I see. So I should just be grateful that my own family left me to perish in the cruel, unfeeling wilds?!” His mother stared at him. His siblings stared at him. One of them, a chubby dragon named Soot, licked his eyeball. Fizzlebop groaned. “You absolute buffoons.” He marched straight to the pile of meat, sat his tiny, frostbitten rear down, and grabbed the largest scrap he could find. “You’re all terrible, and I hate you,” he declared before stuffing his face. His mother sighed and stretched her wings. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” Fizzlebop waved a dismissive claw. “Yes, yes, I’m adorable, I’m a delight, I’m a gift to this family.” He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “But also, you should all suffer for your crimes.” His mother huffed a plume of smoke, which he chose to interpret as deep shame and regret. His belly now full, Fizzlebop curled into the warm pile of his siblings, who accepted his presence with the kind of easygoing obliviousness only dragons (and very stupid people) could manage. And as he drifted off to sleep, his mother’s tail curling around them for warmth, Fizzlebop allowed himself a tiny, satisfied smirk. For all his righteous suffering… being part of a family wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Probably. Take Fizzlebop Home! Love Fizzlebop’s adorable mischief? Bring this tiny dragon into your life with stunning prints and merchandise! Whether you want to add some whimsical charm to your home or carry a piece of dragon-sized attitude with you, we’ve got you covered: 🖼️ Acrylic Prints – For a sleek, high-gloss way to showcase Fizzlebop’s expressive pout. 🎭 Tapestries – Transform any space into a fantasy realm with a larger-than-life baby dragon. 👜 Tote Bags – Carry your essentials in style, and let everyone know you're as dramatic as Fizzlebop. 💌 Greeting Cards – Send a message with maximum sarcasm and cuteness. Get yours now and let Fizzlebop bring his bratty charm into your world! 🔥🐉

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Ember Trickster

Deep in the heart of the Enchanted Wilds, nestled between trees older than time itself, sat a very peculiar phoenix. His name was Ember, and unlike his noble, majestic ancestors—who soared through the heavens, bursting into flames in poetic displays of rebirth—Ember was... well, different. For one, he was a bit of a smartass. While other phoenixes spent their days philosophizing about the cycle of life and death, Ember spent his setting things on fire for comedic effect. Not major things, mind you—just enough to keep things interesting. A wizard’s beard here, a bard’s lute there. Nothing that couldn’t be regrown, replaced, or doused with a well-placed bucket of water. The Log of Legends Today, Ember was lounging on what he liked to call the “Log of Legends,” a fallen tree that had absolutely zero legendary qualities aside from the fact that it was remarkably comfortable. His golden-orange feathers shimmered in the dappled sunlight, and his large talons—larger than necessary, really—were casually propped up on the log, their sharp tips gleaming. One was raised in a lazy peace sign, because why not? “M’lady,” he said with a dramatic wink at a passing squirrel. The squirrel, unimpressed, flicked its tail and continued its hunt for non-flammable food. Ember sighed. “No one appreciates showmanship anymore.” The Bard Incident Now, the local townsfolk were well aware of Ember’s antics. Most of them tolerated him the way one tolerates a mischievous nephew—rolling their eyes but secretly enjoying the chaos. That was until the Bard Incident. It had started innocently enough. Ember had perched himself on the rafters of The Drunken Satyr tavern, listening to a particularly pompous bard named Oswald the Unceasing regale the crowd with a painfully long ballad about his own greatness. “And lo, the people did cry—‘Oswald, Oswald, you are truly the—’” FOOM. His lute burst into flames. There was a long silence. Then, pure chaos. Oswald flailed, flinging the flaming instrument across the room. A burly dwarf, assuming this was some sort of elaborate tavern brawl, upended a table. A rogue took the opportunity to swipe some unattended coin purses. A gnome started laughing so hard she fell off her stool. Ember, watching all this unfold from his rafter perch, let out a satisfied chuckle. “Now that was entertainment.” The Town Council’s Response Following the Bard Incident, the town council convened an emergency meeting to discuss what they referred to as the “Phoenix Menace.” “He’s a fire hazard!” huffed the innkeeper, whose beard was still singed on one side. “He’s a nuisance!” barked the town’s most serious blacksmith, who had once walked out to find Ember casually roasting marshmallows in his forge. “He’s hilarious,” murmured a half-elf who quickly shushed herself when she noticed the glares. Ultimately, they decided on a diplomatic approach. That approach involved sending Gretchen, the town’s designated “Weird Creature Whisperer,” to have a word with Ember. The Intervention Gretchen found him exactly where everyone expected—lounging on his log, basking in his own glory. “Ember,” she began, hands on her hips, “you need to stop setting things on fire.” Ember tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Define ‘need.’” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “The town is fed up. They’ve threatened to—” she hesitated, lowering her voice, “get the wizard involved.” Ember’s feathers ruffled. “Old Man Throgmorton?” “Old Man Throgmorton,” she confirmed. Now, Ember could handle pitchfork-waving villagers and sternly worded decrees. But Throgmorton? That guy once turned a banshee into a house cat just because it annoyed him. Ember shuddered. “Fine, fine,” he relented. “I shall... limit my fire-based pranks.” Gretchen raised an eyebrow. “Limit?” “Yes,” he said with a sly smile. “Limit.” The Flaming Conclusion And so, Ember turned over a new (slightly charred) leaf. He found other ways to entertain himself—stealing hats, mimicking townsfolk voices at inopportune times, mysteriously appearing in important council meetings wearing a tiny monocle. Did he still occasionally light things on fire? Yes. But only small things. And only when it was really funny. And thus, the legend of Ember Trickster lived on—not as a fearsome firebird, not as a grand symbol of rebirth, but as the one creature in town who could make even the grumpiest wizard crack a smile. Well… until the Dragon Ale Festival Incident. But that’s another story. Take Ember Trickster Home Love Ember’s fiery antics? Bring the mischievous phoenix into your own space with beautifully crafted **Ember Trickster** merchandise! Whether you want to cozy up in warmth or add a playful touch to your decor, there’s a perfect way to showcase your love for this quirky firebird. 🔥 Tapestry – A grand display of Ember’s vibrant plumage! 🔥 Wood Print – A rustic, high-quality print for any space! 🔥 Throw Pillow – Add a touch of whimsy to your home! 🔥 Fleece Blanket – Stay warm like a phoenix in the embers! 🔥 Sticker – A perfect little firebird for your laptop, notebook, or anywhere! Ember may have a penchant for setting things ablaze, but rest assured, these products are completely fire-safe. Get yours today and let the **legend of Ember Trickster** live on in your home! 🔥😄

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Whisper of the Bone Oracle

The Invitation The invitation arrived at dusk, inked in shimmering green on brittle parchment. It smelled faintly of decay and roses, an unsettling combination that made Edwin recoil before curiosity forced him to unfold it. “You have been chosen.” The words slithered across the page as if they might crawl off and whisper themselves directly into his ear. He wasn’t the sort of person who got chosen for anything—not promotions, not raffles, and certainly not mysterious, ominous invitations delivered by a skeletal hand that had vanished before he could slam the door. Edwin sighed. He was tired. He was hungry. And he was fairly sure accepting strange, cryptic invitations was how people ended up in shallow graves. But the note pulsed between his fingers, as if the very paper was breathing, waiting. Ignoring it wasn’t an option. The address led him to an old estate at the edge of town, a place that should have crumbled under the weight of its own bad reputation. It loomed beneath a sky thick with storm clouds, its windows glowing a sickly green. The wrought-iron gate swung open without a sound, which was somehow worse than the screech it should have made. “I should go home,” Edwin muttered. His feet had other plans. Inside, candlelight flickered against walls lined with portraits—every single one of them depicting a different person with hollowed-out eyes and painted skulls. They stared at him as he passed, mouths curved in knowing grins. “Welcome,” a voice purred. Edwin turned, and his breath hitched. At the top of a grand staircase stood her. The Bone Oracle. She descended in slow, deliberate steps, her gown dripping with emerald jewels that glowed like trapped souls. Her silver hair billowed, though there was no wind. The air itself seemed to hum around her, a song Edwin’s bones recognized before his mind did. “You answered the call,” she said, her voice silk wrapped around steel. Edwin swallowed. “I—uh—yes?” Her skeletal smile widened. “Then you must know why you are here.” “I really don’t.” The Oracle let out a low, melodious laugh. It felt like it was coming from inside his own skull. “Poor thing.” She extended a gloved hand, her nails shimmering like polished obsidian. “Then allow me to explain.” Edwin hesitated. The portraits seemed to lean in closer. “You have something I need,” she whispered. Her emerald eyes glowed. Edwin’s skin crawled. And then, somewhere deep in the house, something knocked—three slow, deliberate raps. The sound rattled his bones. And the door behind him locked. The Bargain Edwin’s stomach dropped as the final echo of the knock faded into silence. The Bone Oracle tilted her head, watching him like a cat contemplating a particularly slow mouse. “Do you know what that sound means?” she asked. Edwin swallowed. “That I should’ve stayed home?” Her laughter was soft and cruel. “It means your time is up.” He took a step back, but the shadows at his feet slithered, curling around his ankles like hungry eels. The portraits in the room had shifted again—now, every single one of them wore his face, their hollow eyes gazing at him with an expression he couldn’t quite name. Pity? Regret? “I—I don’t remember making an appointment,” he stammered. The Oracle sighed as if he were a particularly dense student. “No one remembers, dear. But a bargain is a bargain.” She lifted the skull she carried, its green-lit sockets locking onto his own eyes. The cracked bone pulsed, whispering something in a language Edwin had never heard but somehow understood. Give. Something in his chest tightened. “Listen, I think there’s been a mistake. I don’t make deals with—” He gestured vaguely at her glowing, bejeweled form. “—death-adjacent entities.” The Oracle smiled. “Oh, but you did.” She raised her hand, and suddenly, Edwin remembered. A night, years ago. A desperate wish whispered in the dark. An impossible favor granted. “You wanted time,” she murmured, stepping closer. “You begged for it. And I was kind.” Edwin felt the weight of all the stolen hours pressing down on him. “That was— I didn’t—” He exhaled sharply. “I thought it was a dream.” “Most gifts feel that way.” The shadows around his feet tightened their grip. The skull in her hands gleamed with eerie hunger. “Now, be a dear and return what you borrowed.” Edwin clenched his jaw. “And if I don’t?” The Oracle’s smile turned razor-sharp. She gestured toward the portraits. “Then you join the collection.” Edwin’s pulse thundered in his ears. His past selves stared at him from the walls, trapped mid-expression, frozen in their final moment of realization. The Oracle extended the skull. “A painless transaction, I promise.” Edwin hesitated. The air crackled with something ancient, something hungry. He could run—but where? The door was locked, the walls alive with watching eyes. “Fine,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Take it.” Her fingers brushed his forehead, and then— Darkness. Cold. A sensation like unraveling. When Edwin opened his eyes, he was somewhere else. The grand hall was gone. The Oracle was gone. Instead, he stood inside a portrait, staring out at a new figure standing where he had once been. A terrified young woman held a flickering invitation in her shaking hands. Her gaze lifted, locking onto his. Edwin tried to scream a warning. But the paint wouldn’t let him. And then the Bone Oracle’s voice filled the room once more. “You have been chosen.” Own a Piece of the Oracle’s Legacy Do the whispers still linger in your mind? Keep the haunting beauty of the Bone Oracle close with stunning artwork that captures her eerie elegance. Whether as a chilling centerpiece or a subtle nod to the supernatural, these pieces will forever remind you that some bargains should never be made. Tapestry – Let the Bone Oracle drape your walls in foreboding splendor. Canvas Print – A masterpiece of dark mystique, perfect for any eerie aesthetic. Jigsaw Puzzle – Piece together the Oracle’s secrets… if you dare. Tote Bag – Carry a touch of the macabre wherever you go. One way or another, the Bone Oracle always finds a way to stay with you. Will you invite her into your world?

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Pearl of the Galaxy: A Unicorn’s Glow

The universe was vast, endless, and seemingly indifferent to the struggles of those who wandered beneath its glowing constellations. Yet, in the darkest reaches of space, where the celestial tides whispered secrets of ages past, a legend was born—a creature of light, hope, and unyielding strength. She was called *Lunara*, the Pearl of the Galaxy. The Lonely Beginning Once, long ago, Lunara had been nothing but a wandering soul, a fragment of stardust drifting through infinity. She had no home, no purpose, only the silence of the void and the weight of solitude pressing against her ethereal form. For centuries, she floated in the vast nothingness, a lone shimmer lost amidst the endless cosmos. But even in loneliness, she did not despair. She listened to the quiet hum of the universe, the songs of stars being born and dying, the whispers of planets spinning in harmony. From these celestial murmurs, she gathered knowledge, weaving it into the strands of her silver mane, tucking it beneath the pearls that adorned her elegant crown. The Trial of Shadows One fateful night, as Lunara traversed the celestial plane, she encountered a realm unlike any she had seen before—a vast abyss, darker than the void itself. This was the Shadow Nebula, a place where lost souls whispered in sorrow, their light stolen, their dreams extinguished. Drawn by their pain, she stepped forward, her hooves igniting soft sparks against the emptiness. "Why do you linger in the dark?" she asked the wandering spirits. "Because we have failed," they murmured. "We have lost our way, our dreams shattered, our hopes forgotten." Lunara bowed her head, her shimmering horn casting a silver glow upon them. "Hope is not lost. It only slumbers. Come, follow me, and I will show you the way back to the light." Yet, the darkness clung to them, whispering doubts. "You cannot save them," the abyss hissed. "You, too, will falter. You, too, will fail." For the first time in her existence, Lunara felt fear. The weight of despair, the gravity of failure, pulled at her, threatened to dim her radiance. But she remembered the lessons of the stars—their silent resilience, their brilliance against the void. And so, she made a choice. She lifted her head, and with a single step, she released a pulse of starlight, a beacon so powerful it shattered the consuming darkness. It illuminated the lost souls, reminded them of who they were, of the strength that still dwelled within them. One by one, they rose, their light rekindled, their hearts burning once more with purpose. The Rise of the Lightbearer From that moment on, Lunara became more than a celestial wanderer. She became a guide, a beacon of hope for those who had lost their way. Across the universe, she traveled, her mane trailing cosmic light, her horn glowing with wisdom earned through trials. She whispered to those on the brink of surrender, reminding them that even in the vastest darkness, there is always a spark waiting to ignite. She visited worlds where dreamers had abandoned their visions, reigniting their passion with the whisper of moonlight. She comforted warriors weary from battle, reminding them that strength is not the absence of struggle, but the courage to continue despite it. She lifted the broken-hearted, the lost, the weary—showing them that no soul is ever truly alone. The Eternal Legacy As eons passed, the legend of Lunara spread. Poets wrote of her, artists painted visions of her celestial beauty, and storytellers spoke of her courage. They called her the Pearl of the Galaxy, a name that transcended time and space. Yet, Lunara never sought recognition. She did not wish to be worshipped or remembered as a myth. She only wished for one thing—to remind every soul, no matter how lost or broken, that they carried their own light, their own fire, their own unyielding hope. And so, if ever you find yourself adrift in the darkness, if ever you feel the weight of despair pressing against your heart, look to the sky. There, among the stars, you may catch a glimpse of silver light, a faint whisper in the wind. A reminder that within you, too, burns the radiance of a thousand stars. Believe. Rise. Shine. Bring the Magic Home Let the legend of Pearl of the Galaxy inspire your space with celestial beauty and cosmic wonder. Whether you seek comfort, elegance, or a touch of the ethereal, you can bring Lunara’s luminous presence into your home. ✨ Tapestry – Transform your walls into a portal to the stars. 🌙 Throw Pillow – A soft, celestial embrace for your dreams. 🛌 Duvet Cover – Sleep beneath the glow of the universe. 🛁 Bath Towel – Wrap yourself in cosmic elegance. Let Lunara’s story remind you that even in the darkest of nights, your light still shines. Surround yourself with the beauty of the cosmos and awaken the magic within.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Celestial Guardian of Chaos and Order

The Shattered Oath The sky burned with the fury of two warring gods. Fire and ice clashed in the heavens, their collision sending shockwaves across the battlefield. Beneath this celestial inferno stood a lone figure—a guardian draped in armor adorned with engravings of long-forgotten deities. His wings stretched wide, one blackened by shadow and crackling with crimson lightning, the other pure as moonlight, shimmering with ethereal blue energy. Azrael, the Celestial Arbiter, the keeper of balance between Chaos and Order, had stood for eternity as the last line of defense against cosmic ruin. His purpose was absolute—preserve harmony, ensure neither force consumed the other. Yet now, as the war between Heaven and Hell raged, that very balance had been shattered. He had been betrayed. The First Betrayal “You cannot refuse, Azrael. This is your purpose.” The words of the High Celestials still echoed in his mind, their decree absolute. They had ordered him to sever the path of Chaos—to destroy it utterly, tipping the balance so that Order would reign eternal. But Order without opposition was tyranny, an endless expanse of sterile nothingness. To destroy Chaos was to destroy freedom, to erase the essence of creation itself. He had refused. And for his refusal, they had branded him a traitor. The Descent His fall had been violent. Once beloved in the heavens, he had become a hunted exile. As his wings carried him into the mortal realms, he felt the searing pain of his essence being torn apart—half of him still bound to the light, the other embracing the forbidden power of the abyss. His halo, once a symbol of divine favor, flickered erratically above his head, a testament to his fractured soul. Azrael landed in a world scarred by the war he had once prevented, his boots sinking into bloodstained earth. The battlefield stretched endlessly before him, littered with the corpses of angels and demons alike. Screams of the dying filled the air. He knelt, his fingers pressing into the dirt, feeling the lifeblood of the realm itself tremble beneath his touch. “You see it now, don’t you?” The voice was familiar, yet laced with something darker. Azrael turned. A figure emerged from the smoke, his form draped in shadows. His wings, once as radiant as Azrael’s own, were now tattered and dark, pulsing with malevolent energy. His eyes, once filled with the light of divinity, now glowed with the embers of a fallen star. Lucien. Brother Against Brother Once, they had been kin, bound by an oath older than time itself. Where Azrael had walked the path of balance, Lucien had chosen another—the path of rebellion. The war that now engulfed all realms had begun with him. “You fell,” Azrael whispered. “And now you would have me fall, too?” Lucien smiled, the expression both weary and cruel. “You still don’t understand. I did not fall, brother. I was cast down, just as you have been. The moment you defied them, your fate was sealed. There is no balance anymore—only survival.” Azrael clenched his fists, the energy within him surging in conflict. “I will not choose a side.” Lucien stepped closer, his blackened wings trailing smoke. “Then you will die as they wish you to.” Their blades met in an explosion of light and shadow. The Breaking Point They fought across the battlefield, their clash shaking the heavens. Azrael’s fiery blade met Lucien’s dark scythe, each strike echoing with the force of worlds colliding. Blood stained the ground—divine ichor, black and gold, spilling into the earth like celestial tears. “Do you think this will end?” Lucien snarled, their weapons locked in a brutal stalemate. “Do you think if you hold to your precious balance, it will all go back to the way it was?” Azrael gritted his teeth, his mind warring against itself. He had spent eons maintaining the scales, ensuring the cosmos did not tip too far in either direction. But now? Now, he saw the truth—there was no balance left to keep. With a roar, he thrust Lucien back, sending him skidding across the broken ground. His wings trembled, his body torn between what he had been and what he was becoming. Then came the second betrayal. The Unforgivable Sin A blade of purest light pierced his back. Azrael gasped, his breath leaving him in a choked whisper. He turned, his vision blurring, and saw them—Celestial warriors, the same ones he had once called brethren, standing behind him, their weapons raised. “It must be done,” one of them murmured, sorrow lacing his voice. “For the good of all.” They had never intended to let him live. The pain was unlike anything he had known. His knees buckled, his strength fading as his own kind turned against him. He looked to the heavens, seeking some sign, some whisper of purpose. None came. And so, as the light drained from his vision, as his soul teetered on the brink of oblivion, he did the only thing he had left. He let go. And in that moment, Chaos and Order within him ceased to war. They became one. The Ascendant Reckoning There was no sky. No war. No sound. Only darkness—vast and endless. Azrael drifted through the abyss, weightless, unmoored from time. Pain had been his last memory, betrayal his final lesson. Yet here, in the void beyond existence, pain was but an echo. A reminder of something distant, something... incomplete. Then, a voice. Not spoken. Not heard. Felt. Rise. Power surged through his veins. His body, once weightless, became solid. His vision, once filled with nothingness, was now a blinding inferno of color. Red lightning coursed through his blackened wing, searing the void itself. Blue fire burned along his other, illuminating the abyss in its celestial glow. He gasped, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gulps. He was alive. The Awakening The battlefield stretched before him once more. Time had not paused in his absence—the war still raged, a chaotic maelstrom of steel and sorcery. Celestial warriors clashed with fallen demons. The heavens bled silver fire. The earth split apart, screaming beneath the weight of divine fury. And at the center of it all stood Lucien, his scythe glistening with celestial ichor. Azrael’s blood. The betrayal had been complete. His own kin had struck him down, and yet, it had not been enough to end him. He felt… different. Stronger. The forces that had once warred within him—Chaos and Order—no longer sought dominance. They had fused, become something greater. He was no longer merely a guardian. He was no longer simply an arbiter. He was the reckoning. The Return Azrael descended from the heavens like a burning star. His impact sent shockwaves rippling across the battlefield, hurling warriors from their feet. Lightning crackled at his fingertips, fire roared in his wake. He was neither angel nor demon, neither servant nor rebel. He was something new. Lucien turned, his expression shifting from triumph to something else. Fear. Brother Against Brother—Again “Impossible,” Lucien hissed, tightening his grip on his scythe. “You should be dead.” Azrael’s eyes burned with the power of twin stars. “I was.” He moved. Faster than thought, faster than sound. His blade met Lucien’s in a collision that sent the very cosmos trembling. The battlefield became their arena, their war eclipsing the one that raged around them. Each strike shattered the air, each blow carving the sky itself. Lucien fought with fury, desperation bleeding into his every motion. Azrael fought with something else. Purpose. The Breaking of Chains Lucien faltered. A single misstep. Azrael’s blade plunged into his brother’s chest. Lucien’s breath caught, his crimson eyes widening. He staggered, his scythe slipping from his grasp. He looked down, his expression unreadable. “So… this is how it ends,” he murmured. Azrael held him, gripping his fallen brother as if he could hold onto the past itself. “It didn’t have to be this way.” Lucien exhaled, a slow, shuddering breath. “It always did.” And with that, the light in his eyes faded. Azrael lowered him to the bloodstained earth. Around him, the battlefield stilled, the war grinding to a halt. Celestial warriors, demons, all bore witness to the end of an era. Azrael stood. And he spoke. The Reckoning “No more.” His voice carried, not just across the battlefield, but through the very fabric of existence itself. “This war has raged for eternity, fueled by fear, by pride, by the refusal to see another path.” His wings unfurled, light and darkness entwined. “That path ends today.” He raised his blade—and with it, his will. The heavens trembled. The earth shuddered. The forces of Chaos and Order, once bound to an eternal struggle, bent to his command. Celestial flames erupted from the sky, while abyssal shadows surged from the ground. The warriors—angels and demons alike—fell to their knees. For the first time in eternity, silence reigned. The New Era Azrael turned his gaze to the heavens, where once he had sought guidance. He found none. He no longer needed it. The age of war was over. Balance had not been destroyed. It had not been broken. It had been reforged. And Azrael, neither angel nor demon, neither servant nor traitor, was now its master. Bring the Legend Home Azrael’s journey may have ended, but his legend endures. The Celestial Guardian of Chaos and Order stands as a timeless symbol of power, balance, and destiny. Now, you can bring this breathtaking vision into your own space. Adorn your walls with the Metal Print, capturing every intricate detail in high-definition brilliance. Transform your room into a celestial sanctuary with the stunning Tapestry. Experience the thrill of assembling destiny piece by piece with the Puzzle. Add a touch of divine energy to your living space with a celestial Throw Pillow. Or carry the legend with you wherever you go with the striking Sticker. Immerse yourself in the cosmic battle between light and darkness. Shop the full collection now.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Guardian and the Kitten: Housebound Adventures

It all started when Elara, self-proclaimed queen of the household and a 17-pound Maine Coon with the ego of a warlord, discovered something rather unacceptable in her territory. There, perched atop her sacred sunspot on the wooden floor, was an intruder. And not just any intruder—a scaly, winged, fire-breathing menace about the size of an overgrown hamster. "What the actual fluff is this?" Elara muttered, tail flicking. The dragon, barely the size of a teapot, looked up from where it was chewing on the corner of a leather-bound book. It cocked its tiny, spiky head and let out a small, smoke-filled hiccup. "Oh. A cat. How original." Enter Smauglet, the Tiny Terror Smauglet—yes, that was what he called himself, as if the name wasn’t a little too ambitious for something that could be drop-kicked into a laundry basket—stretched his wings, knocking over an expensive-looking vase in the process. The crash was immediate, the effect devastating. Elara's ears twitched. "Oh. You're one of those." Smauglet grinned, all sharp teeth and no remorse. "One of what?" "One of those 'small but chaotic' types. Like the human's Roomba. Or the squirrel I tried to eat last summer." Smauglet flicked his tail, knocking over a candle. "Listen, Furball Supreme, I may be small, but I am a dragon. I bring fire. I bring destruction. I bring—" Elara swatted him mid-monologue, sending him tumbling across the floor like a scaly dust bunny. The Human Intervenes (Uselessly, As Expected) Just as Smauglet was trying to recover what little dignity he had left, their mutual overlord—the Human—stumbled in, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. She blinked at the scene: fur, scales, and what looked suspiciously like a singed couch cushion. "Elara, what did you do?" Elara, insulted beyond reason, fluffed up. "Excuse me? You're blaming me?" Smauglet, the opportunistic little gremlin that he was, immediately switched gears. He flopped onto his back, wings splayed dramatically. "She attacked me! I was just sitting here, minding my own business, contemplating the fragility of human existence!" "Oh, screw you," Elara snapped. The Human groaned, rubbing her temple. "Look, I don’t know what fresh level of fantasy nonsense I just walked into, but can we please try not to burn the house down?" She pointed at Smauglet. "You, no fire. You," she turned to Elara, "no homicide." Both culprits stared at her. Elara sighed. "Fine." Smauglet smirked. "Fine." The Truce (Which Lasts a Whole Five Minutes) For about an hour, things were peaceful. Elara reclaimed her sunspot, and Smauglet curled up on a bookshelf, gnawing on the spine of The Art of War, which was honestly on-brand. The Human relaxed, wrongly assuming she had restored order. Then Smauglet made the mistake of flicking his tail into Elara’s face. What followed was a blur of claws, fire, and a level of screaming that probably put the neighbors on high alert. The Human sprinted back into the room, holding a fire extinguisher in one hand and a spray bottle in the other. "That’s it! New rule—no more medieval warfare in my living room!" Elara and Smauglet glared at each other, then at the Human. Elara sighed dramatically. "You ruin all my fun." Smauglet rolled onto his back. "I'm hungry." The Human groaned. "I am moving out." And thus, an uneasy alliance was formed. The dragon would keep his fire to himself (mostly), and Elara would tolerate his existence (barely). And the Human? She stocked up on fireproof furniture and accepted her fate. After all, when you live with a cat and a dragon, peace is just a myth. Bring the Chaos Home Love the antics of Elara and Smauglet? Now you can bring their mischievous charm into your own space! Whether you're a fan of feisty felines, fiery dragons, or just enjoy a bit of magical mayhem, we've got something for you. 🔥 Wall Tapestry – Turn your room into a whimsical battleground of fur and flame. 🎨 Canvas Print – A high-quality masterpiece to showcase your love for mischief and magic. 🧩 Jigsaw Puzzle – Test your patience just like The Human does with these two chaos-makers. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry your essentials with the same confidence Elara carries her grudges. Click the links to grab your favorite, and let the legendary battle of cat vs. dragon live on in your home!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Gilded Dreams in Twilight Woods

The first rule of being a fairy queen? Don’t eat the glowing mushrooms. The second rule? Absolutely don’t stare into the abyss of a bioluminescent mushroom’s soul unless you enjoy existential crises at inconvenient times. Yet here she was, Queen Lysaria of the Gilded Vale, kneeling before one such mystical fungus, contemplating her life choices. The thing pulsed softly, casting golden light over her intricate tattoos—arcane markings that looked regal but mostly just reminded her of that one time she got blackout drunk and let an overenthusiastic warlock “enhance” her aesthetic. “Ugh. You again.” She exhaled dramatically, addressing the tiny golden skull nestled in the moss beside her. “What are you even doing here, Morty? You’re dead. Move on.” The skull, unsurprisingly, remained silent. Typical. A Queen’s Responsibilities (And Other Nonsense) Ruling an enchanted forest was exhausting. Sure, the job came with perks—glowing wings, an uncanny ability to manipulate moonlight, a harem of aggressively devoted satyrs—but it also came with an absurd amount of administrative work. Who knew fae taxes were a thing? Who was even paying them? No one had currency! Just trinkets, riddles, and the occasional stolen pocket watch. Last week, she spent two hours settling a border dispute between a family of talking foxes and a clan of sentient mushrooms. The foxes wanted to build a den. The mushrooms claimed ancestral land rights. Ancestral land rights. They were mushrooms. “Honestly,” Lysaria muttered to the mushroom she was now addressing like an unpaid therapist, “if one more tree spirit petitions me about ‘excessive owl hooting’ at night, I’m going to personally train every owl in the kingdom to recite poetry at full volume.” The mushroom twinkled in response. Rude. The Curse of Eternal Beauty It wasn’t that Lysaria hated being queen. It was that she hated work. And expectations. And—most tragically of all—being stunningly beautiful but still legally obligated to attend council meetings. Centuries of immortality had kept her looking like an elven supermodel, which was fantastic for seduction purposes but absolutely wretched when it came to avoiding responsibility. Everyone just assumed that because she was stunning, she had her life together. Hilarious. She adjusted the delicate golden crown atop her head—half out of habit, half to make sure it was still there, because losing a royal headpiece in a magical forest was a logistical nightmare. “What do I even want?” she pondered aloud, mostly to irritate the silent skull. “I mean, besides unlimited wine, zero responsibilities, and a sentient bathtub that whispers compliments?” The wind rustled in what she could only assume was judgment. A Plan (Or Close Enough) Suddenly, an idea. A stunningly reckless idea. “You know what?” She stood, brushing moss off her impossibly well-fitted gown. “I’m taking a sabbatical. A well-earned break from royal nonsense.” The mushroom flickered disapprovingly. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. What’s the worst that could happen?” The wind whispered again. The fireflies dimmed. The very air seemed to shudder. Somewhere in the distance, a tree spirit screamed. Queen Lysaria grinned. This was going to be fun. Adventures in Irresponsibility The plan was simple: disappear for a while. Let the kingdom figure itself out. If the trees started warring with the river spirits again, they’d just have to deal with it. Not her problem. She’d go incognito—maybe dye her hair, swap the crown for an edgy hooded cloak, and pretend to be a mysterious wanderer. Maybe she'd con some humans into buying enchanted trinkets for exorbitant prices. Maybe she’d find a nice fae tavern and get irresponsibly drunk on moonberry wine. The possibilities were endless. Just as she was about to turn and leave, a deep, unmistakable sigh came from the skull. Lysaria froze. “Morty,” she said slowly. “Did you just sigh?” The skull remained silent. She crouched down, narrowing her eyes. “I swear on my own ethereal beauty, if you’ve been sentient this whole time and just letting me rant to you like a lunatic—” The skull rattled. Ever so slightly. “Oh, you little—” Before she could finish her (no doubt eloquent and biting) insult, a bright golden light erupted from the mushroom beside her, forcing her to stumble back. “Oh, fantastic,” she muttered, shielding her eyes. “What now? Is it divine intervention? Have the gods decided I’m too gorgeous to be left unsupervised?” The light pulsed, and suddenly, the entire forest exhaled. The trees whispered. The leaves trembled. The skull? It laughed. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” Lysaria turned sharply as the golden glow coalesced into a shape. A figure. A tall, familiar, obnoxiously smug figure. Standing before her, wrapped in shimmering gold light, was Morty. Mortimer the Eternal. A once-great, now-mostly-dead trickster god. And he was grinning. “Miss me?” he asked, voice dripping with amusement. Lysaria closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and considered all of her life choices. “This,” she said, pointing at him, “is exactly why I need a vacation.” Morty laughed again, stepping forward. “Oh, my dear Queen. If you’re looking for an escape, I have just the adventure for you.” Lysaria narrowed her eyes. She should say no. She should say no. Instead, she sighed dramatically and dusted off her gown. “Fine,” she muttered. “But if this involves paperwork, I’m setting you on fire.” Morty just smirked. “You always were my favorite.” And with that, the forest exhaled again—this time, pulling them both into darkness. Rule #3: Never Trust a Trickster God In hindsight, Queen Lysaria should have known better. She should have turned around, walked straight back to her unnecessarily extravagant throne, and resumed pretending to care about border disputes between talking foxes and melodramatic mushrooms. But no. She had to be curious. Now, she was plummeting through a swirling void of golden light and bad decisions, with Mortimer the Eternal—former god, current pain in her ass—floating beside her like he was enjoying a leisurely swim. “You could have at least warned me,” she grumbled, trying to ignore the fact that gravity had seemingly taken a sabbatical. Morty smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?” Before she could launch into a well-deserved tirade, the golden vortex spat them out like a drunk tavern patron ejecting bad whiskey. Lysaria landed with a distinct lack of grace, her gown gathering an unreasonable amount of dust as she skidded to a halt on what she hoped was solid ground. Morty, the bastard, landed on his feet. “I hate you,” she informed him, brushing dirt off her regal gown. “That’s what makes this friendship so magical.” He winked. Welcome to the Absurdity Lysaria took a moment to examine her surroundings. They were no longer in the enchanted woods of her kingdom. Instead, they stood in what could only be described as a marketplace designed by someone who had read about capitalism once and misunderstood it entirely. Everywhere she looked, fae creatures bartered and haggled, exchanging everything from enchanted relics to what appeared to be… sentient vegetables? A goblin in an aggressively loud vest was trying to convince a very skeptical elf that his mushrooms would “absolutely not” cause hallucinations (they would). A mermaid, inexplicably in a floating bathtub, was selling bottled siren songs. And off to the side, a shady-looking sprite was peddling cursed jewelry with the energy of a back-alley salesman. “Where are we?” Lysaria asked, rubbing her temples. Morty spread his arms grandly. “Welcome to the Black Market of Bad Ideas. The finest collection of cursed, enchanted, and mildly illegal goods this side of the Veil.” “…You brought me to a black market?” “Correction: I brought you to the black market.” Lysaria exhaled slowly. “Why?” Morty grinned. “Because I need your help stealing something.” And This is Where It Gets Worse Lysaria blinked. “No.” “Hear me out—” “Absolutely not.” Morty sighed, looking far too amused for someone being rejected. “You haven’t even heard what it is yet.” “Let me guess: something dangerous?” “That depends on your definition of danger.” “Something illegal?” “More… morally flexible.” Lysaria pinched the bridge of her nose. “Morty, I swear on my stupidly perfect cheekbones, if this involves running from the Night Guards again, I will hex you so hard your skeleton forgets it had skin.” Morty chuckled, patting her shoulder. “Relax, Queenie. We’re just going to borrow something.” “From who?” Morty’s smirk widened. “The Fae Bank.” Lysaria stared at him. Then she turned around as if walking away from this conversation would make it disappear. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope.” The Heist of the Century (Probably) Unfortunately, Morty was not deterred by strong language or well-placed glares. Instead, he kept pace beside her, talking like a particularly persuasive con artist. “Think about it,” he said, voice dripping with charm. “A fae bank run by ancient bureaucrats. Magical vaults filled with untold treasures. The thrill of the heist.” “The thrill of getting arrested,” Lysaria corrected. “You act like that’s a bad thing.” She turned to him, hands on her hips. “Morty, the last time we did something even remotely illegal, we were chased by a werewolf tax collector for three days.” Morty grinned. “Ah, Geoff. Good guy. Terrible at card games.” Lysaria sighed, rubbing her temples. “Fine. What, exactly, are we ‘borrowing’?” Morty leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. “The Golden Feather of Fate.” She blinked. “The what now?” “Legendary artifact. Controls luck, fate, and probability. Currently locked in the most secure vault in the market. Untouched. Unstealable.” His grin sharpened. “I want it.” Lysaria crossed her arms. “And what, exactly, do I get out of this?” Morty’s smile turned dangerous. “An adventure. A story worth telling. And, oh yeah—freedom from that whole ‘queenly responsibility’ thing you keep whining about.” Lysaria stared at him. Considered her options. On one hand, this was deeply stupid. On the other hand… She exhaled. “Fine. But if this goes sideways, I’m blaming you.” Morty winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” The Plan (Which Is Not a Plan at All) “Alright, let’s go over this one more time.” Lysaria sat across from Morty in a dimly lit, extremely questionable tavern tucked in the back alleys of the Black Market of Bad Ideas. The clientele consisted of shadowy figures, morally ambiguous wizards, and at least one sentient cloak that was aggressively flirting with the bartender. Morty, unfazed by their surroundings, leaned in with his usual smirk. “Simple. We break into the Fae Bank, avoid the Night Guards, get past the arcane security, steal the Golden Feather of Fate, and casually stroll out as if nothing happened.” Lysaria sipped her wine. “That’s not a plan. That’s a list of things that will absolutely get us killed.” “Details.” She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Fine. Do we at least have disguises?” Morty gestured to a pile of suspiciously obtained clothing. Lysaria frowned. “Why do these look like they belong to medieval accountants?” “Because no one questions accountants.” “…That’s terrifyingly accurate.” Breaking and Entering (Emphasis on Breaking) Step one: infiltrate the Fae Bank. Easy. Step two: don’t get caught. Slightly harder. Step three: avoid magical security. Borderline impossible. They made it through the front doors without incident—Lysaria in a gray robe, Morty looking suspiciously comfortable in his bureaucratic disguise. The bank itself was a grand, towering structure made entirely of enchanted marble, gold filigree, and pure unbridled bureaucracy. Elves, dwarves, and goblins bustled about, filing paperwork, exchanging magical currency, and arguing over obscure financial spells. “I hate it here,” Lysaria muttered. Morty patted her shoulder. “That’s the spirit.” The Vault and Its Many, Many Problems After some creative bribery (read: giving a disgruntled elf clerk a cursed amulet that made his enemies stub their toes forever), they gained access to the restricted floors. “Alright,” Morty whispered as they approached the main vault. “Here’s where it gets tricky.” Lysaria stared at the absurd number of security measures. The door alone was guarded by enchanted chains, shimmering runes, and at least three spectral accountants floating nearby, ready to audit anyone who tried to enter. She turned to Morty. “Please tell me you actually have a way past this.” Morty grinned. “Oh, absolutely.” Then he pulled out a piece of paper and slapped it on the vault. Lysaria blinked. “What… is that?” “A strongly worded letter.” “…You’re joking.” The runes flickered. The chains rattled. The spectral accountants hesitated. Then, slowly, the vault door swung open. Lysaria’s jaw dropped. “What the—” Morty winked. “Nothing in this world is more powerful than bureaucratic confusion.” “You are deeply disturbing.” “And yet, you’re still here.” The Golden Feather of Fate (and Immediate Regrets) The vault was massive. Piles of treasure sparkled in the dim light, enchanted artifacts hummed with power, and ancient relics floated ominously in protective fields. And there, at the center of it all, sat the Golden Feather of Fate, pulsing softly with golden energy. “Well,” Morty said, cracking his knuckles. “That was surprisingly easy.” That was, of course, the exact moment everything went to hell. The Problem With Divine Artifacts The moment Lysaria reached for the feather, the entire room shook. Alarms blared. The runes on the walls turned a violent shade of NOPE. The air itself thickened with ancient, vengeful magic. Then, from the depths of the vault, a voice boomed: “WHO DARES STEAL FROM THE HOUSE OF FATE?” “…Ah.” Morty clapped his hands together. “So, minor issue.” Lysaria glared at him. “Define minor.” The shadows swirled. A gigantic, multi-eyed celestial being materialized, wings stretching across the vault, its eyes glowing with the knowledge of all existence. “Ah, shit,” Lysaria muttered. The entity turned its many eyes toward them. Judging. “Okay,” Morty said, backing up. “So, technically, this was all Lysaria’s idea—” “Excuse me?!” The celestial being roared, shaking the entire bank. Morty grabbed the feather. “Time to go!” The Great Escape (a.k.a. Running for Their Lives) They sprinted out of the vault, alarms ringing, magical defenses activating. Behind them, the celestial guardian gave chase, displeased. Guards were mobilizing. Spectral accountants were writing reports aggressively. A dwarf was yelling about interest rates. “This is the worst plan we’ve ever had!” Lysaria shouted. Morty grinned, leaping over a table. “Disagree! Top five, maybe.” They burst through the front doors, the entire city now aware of the heist. “Plan?” Lysaria gasped as they ran. Morty held up the feather, its magic swirling wildly. “Oh, I got one.” Then, with a flick of his wrist, he snapped the feather in half. Reality itself exploded. How to Break Reality in Three Easy Steps Step one: Steal the Golden Feather of Fate. Step two: Realize that was a terrible idea. Step three: Snap it in half and watch existence have a meltdown. Lysaria had exactly 0.3 seconds to process what Morty had done before the world detonated around them. The sky cracked like shattered glass. The air folded in on itself, warping into impossible colors. The celestial guardian let out a noise that could only be described as a divine entity’s version of a very displeased sigh. And then— Darkness. Welcome to the Aftermath When Lysaria opened her eyes, she was lying on her back, staring up at a sky that was… wrong. The stars were in places they shouldn’t be. The moon had three extra faces, all of which were frowning in disappointment. And somewhere in the distance, reality itself hiccupped. “Oh, fantastic,” she muttered. “We broke the universe.” Morty sat up beside her, stretching like this was just another casual Tuesday. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” “Because it is a bad thing, you absolute goblin.” She groaned, rolling onto her side, and took stock of their situation. They were in what looked like an endless void of golden mist, floating islands, and *way too many clocks* suspended in midair, ticking out of sync. “Where the hell are we?” she asked. Before Morty could answer, a booming voice echoed around them. “YOU HAVE MEDDLED WITH FATE.” Lysaria froze. “Oh, I hate that.” In a burst of celestial light, the **Guardian of Fate** materialized before them, all shimmering wings, shifting eyes, and the unmistakable energy of something that has run out of patience. Morty gave his best innocent smile. “Hello again.” “YOU HAVE CAUSED IRREVERSIBLE DAMAGE TO THE THREADS OF DESTINY.” Lysaria sighed, waving a hand. “Oh, come on. Irreversible? That seems dramatic.” The guardian’s many, many eyes glowed. “THE MOON HAS THREE EXTRA FACES.” “…Okay, that one’s on us.” The Consequences of Being a Disaster “So,” Lysaria said, dusting herself off. “What happens now? Do we get vaporized? Banished? Forced to do community service in the Realm of Endless Boredom?” The guardian’s wings flared. “FATE CANNOT BE UNDONE. BUT IT CAN BE—” It hesitated. Squinted at them. Then, very slowly, exhaled. “…RECALIBRATED.” Morty leaned in. “Oh. That doesn’t sound so bad.” The celestial being turned its full, unfathomable gaze upon him. “YOU ARE BEING REASSIGNED.” New Job, Who Dis? Lysaria frowned. “Reassigned? To what?” The air shimmered. “NEW ROLES HAVE BEEN SELECTED.” Morty, for the first time in his **mischief-filled** life, looked genuinely concerned. “Hold on, I don’t—” There was a flash of light. And suddenly— Queen Lysaria, Goddess of Minor Inconveniences Lysaria opened her eyes to find herself seated on an **actual** throne made of what appeared to be lost socks, tangled necklaces, and every quill in the world that had ever run out of ink at a crucial moment. She frowned. “What is this?” The celestial voice boomed. “YOU ARE NOW THE GODDESS OF MINOR INCONVENIENCES.” “…You absolute bastards.” A divine scroll materialized in her hands. She glanced at it. All shoes will now mysteriously contain a single grain of sand. All cloaks will get caught on door handles at least once per week. All enchanted mirrors will now give slightly delayed responses, just to be annoying. All fae bureaucrats will find their paperwork mysteriously misfiled. “…Actually, I’m okay with this.” Mortimer the Eternal, Lord of… Paperwork From across the divine plane, a **muffled scream of rage** echoed. Lysaria turned to see Morty standing in front of an **endless** wall of filing cabinets. He spun, horrified. “What is this?” The guardian’s voice rumbled. “YOU ARE NOW THE OFFICIAL **FAE RECORD-KEEPER.**” Morty paled. “No. No, no, no, no—” Paperwork materialized in his hands. He dropped it. It reappeared. “THIS ISN’T FUNNY.” Lysaria smirked. “It’s a little funny.” And So, A New Chapter Begins And just like that, Queen Lysaria—former fae ruler, reluctant adventurer, and professional disaster—became an actual deity. And Morty? Morty was **damned to paperwork for eternity.** “You’ll pay for this,” he muttered as he tried to escape an **onslaught of forms** that literally chased him through the divine halls. Lysaria just sipped her divine wine, watching from her very comfortable throne. “Oh, Morty,” she said, stretching lazily. “I already have.” Gilded Dreams in Twilight Woods is now available in our Image Archive for prints, downloads, and licensing. Own a piece of this mystical, dark fantasy world and bring a touch of enchantment to your space. ➡ View & Purchase Here

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Ascension of a Broken Heart

A Love Torn by Fate The rain fell in an endless cascade, each drop a quiet requiem against the shattered headstones. The world was silent but for the weeping sky and the whisper of the wind through skeletal trees. A graveyard of forgotten souls stretched beyond the horizon, and in the center of it all, he stood, staring at the newly carved name on the stone before him. Elara Varion His love. His soul’s tether. Gone. Lucian's fingers trembled as he traced the letters, the cold granite beneath his touch no substitute for the warmth that had once been hers. She had promised him eternity, and now she belonged to it, leaving him behind in a world that had suddenly become unbearable. “You lied,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You said we would have forever.” The wind howled in response, wrapping around him like an embrace laced with sorrow. He had nothing left—not after watching the life drain from her eyes, her heartbeat faltering beneath his fingertips as she whispered her final words. "Lucian… you must not follow me. Not yet." But how could he not? Every breath without her felt like a betrayal. Every heartbeat a cruel mockery. In the distance, the storm raged on, as though the heavens themselves mourned her loss. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the desolate landscape. The graves around him stood as silent witnesses to his pain, their occupants long since freed from the torment he still endured. The Heart’s Sacrifice He clutched the pendant that still bore her warmth—the only thing she had left him. A symbol of their love, of the life they had built. Of the promise they had made. But promises were fragile things, shattered by time, by fate… by death. Lucian fell to his knees, the damp earth swallowing his weight, and he did what he had sworn he would not do. He prayed. “Take me instead,” he begged. “Let her come back, let me fade in her place.” But there was no answer. Only the distant rumble of thunder. And then, it happened. A blinding crimson light tore through the heavens, searing through the darkness. A force unlike anything he had ever felt wrapped around his chest, inside his chest, and the pain—Gods, the pain—was unbearable. He gasped, clutching his chest as his heart felt like it was being ripped from his body. And then, it was. A wet, sickening sound echoed through the graveyard as his heart—his very essence—was torn from his chest, hovering before him, still beating. But it was no longer just his heart. It was something more. Encased in a crown of thorns, wings of ethereal white unfurled from its sides, and above it, a halo of pure crimson light burned like an unholy sun. It bled, yet it did not die. It ached, yet it did not falter. Lucian fell forward, gasping, the hole in his chest both physical and spiritual. He was empty, and yet, in the distance, he swore he could hear a whisper—soft, delicate, achingly familiar. "Lucian... don't." It was her voice. Elara. And suddenly, he understood. His love had not died. Not completely. She was somewhere beyond this realm, caught between light and shadow, waiting. And his heart—his cursed, bleeding heart—was the key. He had a choice. To let go, to fade into nothingness. Or to follow the path that had been carved before him, to walk the edge of life and death, to search for the soul he had lost. Lucian looked up at the bleeding heart before him, at the swirling vortex beneath it, pulsing like the gateway to something greater. He reached forward. And then— The world shattered. Between Life and Death Lucian fell through darkness. There was no sky, no ground—only an endless abyss pulling him deeper, the weight of his sorrow dragging him toward something unseen. His heart hovered above him, its wings beating with slow, mournful grace, leading him through the void. Time did not exist here. He did not know if he fell for seconds or centuries. Then—a whisper. "Lucian… why did you follow?" His breath caught in his throat. He turned wildly, seeking the source of the voice, his pulse racing despite the gaping wound in his chest. "Elara!" he cried, the name tearing from his lips like a prayer. And then she was there. She stood on the threshold of nothing and everything, wrapped in a glow so faint it flickered like dying embers. Her hair cascaded in weightless waves, her eyes the same shade of storm-gray he had memorized a lifetime ago. But she was pale, translucent, like a memory barely holding onto form. "You shouldn't be here," she whispered, pain lacing her voice. "Lucian, you were meant to live." His chest ached with something deeper than loss. "I couldn't," he admitted, stepping forward. "Not without you." She flinched, as if his words cut deeper than any blade. "You were always the stronger one. I was the dreamer. You… you were my anchor, Lucian." "And you were my heart," he murmured. "And I gave it up to find you." He gestured to the floating organ, its beat slow, steady, bleeding in the space between them. The thorns dug deeper, cutting through flesh that no longer belonged to him. The halo above it flickered, as if waiting for something. Elara’s gaze softened. "You always gave too much of yourself." Lucian stepped closer. "Then let me give this, too. Let me bring you back." The world trembled. A sound like distant bells rang through the void, the resonance of something ancient shifting. For the first time, Elara looked afraid. "Lucian, you don’t understand," she said desperately. "If you do this… there is no coming back. You can’t just undo death." "I don’t care!" His voice cracked, raw and filled with grief. "A world without you is not one I want to exist in!" The Cost of Love Elara reached up, brushing her fingers against his cheek. He could barely feel her, as though she were slipping through his grasp like mist. "Lucian," she murmured. "You don't have to save me. You just have to remember me." His throat closed, his entire body shaking. "But I don’t know how to live without you." A tear slipped down her cheek. "Then live for me." Lucian's grip tightened around his heart. He could still feel it beating, slow, steady, waiting for his decision. To force her back—to steal her from the afterlife—would be a betrayal of everything she had ever been. She had never feared death, only the thought of leaving him behind. And yet, here he was, standing on the precipice of eternity, unwilling to let go. His knees buckled, and he let out a broken sob. "I don’t want to let you go." Elara knelt before him, her touch a whisper against his hands. "You never will," she promised. "I will always be here." She pressed her hand to his chest, right over the gaping wound where his heart once was. "But Lucian… you need to take it back." His breath hitched. She smiled, though sorrow still laced her expression. "It was never meant to leave you." Hope in the Ashes Lucian looked at the bleeding heart between them, hovering, waiting. The light of its halo flickered, dimming, and he realized— It was dying. If he did not take it back now, if he let it fade, there would be no return. Not for him. Not for her. He had a choice. His hand trembled as he reached forward. The moment his fingers brushed against his heart, pain lanced through his body, fire and ice burning through his veins. He gasped, clutching it tightly, feeling the thorns dig into his skin. The moment it touched his chest, it rushed back into him— And he screamed. The world shattered into a thousand fragments of light. When he awoke, he was lying in the graveyard, the storm long gone. The earth beneath him was damp with rain, the gravestones standing silent in the morning light. His body ached. His chest felt raw. But he was alive. And in the wind, carried on the softest of whispers, he swore he heard her voice one last time. "Live for me, my love. And one day… I will find you again." Lucian looked up at the sky, at the breaking dawn, at the first light of a new day. And for the first time since losing her— He breathed. Own the Art – Bring the Story to Life Immerse yourself in the haunting beauty of "Ascension of a Broken Heart" with stunning prints and decor. Let the imagery of love, loss, and transcendence become part of your space. Tapestry – A breathtaking wall piece to capture the emotion. Canvas Print – Experience the depth of this artwork in gallery-quality print. Metal Print – A striking, modern presentation for dramatic impact. Throw Pillow – Bring a touch of dark elegance to your home decor. Fleece Blanket – Wrap yourself in the warmth of an unforgettable story. Puzzle – Piece together the beauty and tragedy of this artwork. Explore the full collection and bring a piece of Ascension of a Broken Heart into your world.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Fluttering Heart: A Teddy’s Fantasy

Fluttering Heart and the Quest for the Midnight Snack Deep in the heart of the Dreamrealm, nestled between the Land of Lost Socks and the Valley of Forgotten Passwords, lived an unusual teddy bear named Fluttering Heart. Now, Fluttering Heart was no ordinary stuffed bear. Oh no. With shimmering wings that could outshine a disco ball and blue fur softer than a cloud made of melted marshmallows, she was the undisputed guardian of dreams, protector of whimsy, and—most importantly—a connoisseur of midnight snacks. The Eternal Hunger Now, you might think magical creatures don’t get hungry, but let’s be real—nothing fuels enchantment like a good snack. And Fluttering Heart had a very particular craving: enchanted moon cookies. These weren’t just any cookies; they were baked from stardust, sprinkled with cosmic sugar, and had the uncanny ability to make your dreams extra weird. (Ever dreamt of being a sentient marshmallow fighting a giant spoon? That’s the moon cookies.) There was just one small problem: the cookies were locked away in the Celestial Pantry, guarded by Sir Pompington, a grumpy, sentient teapot who took his job very seriously. The Great Cookie Heist One fateful night, Fluttering Heart, along with her trusty sidekick—a mildly unhinged, caffeine-fueled bat named Bartholomew—decided enough was enough. It was time to execute Operation: Midnight Munch. With the grace of a particularly ambitious squirrel, Fluttering Heart fluttered toward the pantry, her wings glimmering like a Vegas marquee. Bartholomew, armed with nothing but terrible advice and questionable enthusiasm, provided moral support. “Alright, here’s the plan,” Fluttering Heart whispered. “I distract Sir Pompington with a philosophical debate about whether tea is just leaf soup. You grab the cookies.” Bartholomew flapped once. “Or, hear me out… we set off fireworks as a distraction.” “Where would we even get—” BOOM! Somehow, the bat had already launched a tiny firecracker. It exploded with a puff of glitter, startling Sir Pompington so much that he wobbled, spilling Earl Grey everywhere. “INTRUDERS!” the teapot bellowed. “YOU SHALL NOT STEEP!” The Great Escape Fluttering Heart snatched a bag of moon cookies as Sir Pompington engaged in a dramatic (and highly unnecessary) fencing match with a wooden spoon. Bartholomew, laughing maniacally, dive-bombed out the window, trailing sparks of chaos behind him. Back in their cozy hideout—a floating pillow fort made entirely of dreams and questionably obtained marshmallow fluff—Fluttering Heart and Bartholomew finally enjoyed their spoils. “Worth it?” Bartholomew asked, his face stuffed with cookies. Fluttering Heart took a slow, thoughtful bite, her sapphire eyes twinkling. “Oh, absolutely.” And from that night on, whenever someone had an especially ridiculous dream—like riding a unicycle made of spaghetti or befriending a talking goldfish who offered stock market advice—they knew it was the work of the legendary midnight snackers. The End (Or Is It?) Some say Sir Pompington is still out there, vowing revenge. Others claim Fluttering Heart’s wings glow just a little brighter when she’s had a fresh moon cookie. But one thing is certain… Midnight snacks will never be the same again. Bring the Magic Home! Inspired by the whimsical adventures of Fluttering Heart? Now, you don’t have to steal moon cookies to experience the magic! (Although, we fully support midnight snacking.) Bring a piece of the Dreamrealm into your own home with these enchanting items: ✨ Fluttering Heart Tapestry – Transform your space into a celestial dreamscape! 🌟 Metal Print – A high-quality, shimmering masterpiece for your walls. 🧩 Fluttering Heart Puzzle – Piece together the magic, one wing at a time. 🛋️ Throw Pillow – Cuddle up with the fluffiest fantasy ever! Don’t let Sir Pompington keep all the fun to himself—grab your favorite **Fluttering Heart** piece today and let the adventures begin!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Wings of Power, Tides of Fate

The wind howled over the churning sea, whipping through the jagged cliffs and sending waves crashing against the rocks. Above the stormy expanse, a dozen powerful wings cut through the sky, their owners locked in a deadly, time-honored contest. It was the Great Hunt, a once-a-decade competition among the sky’s most fearsome predators—the bald eagles of Thunder Peak. The rules were simple: the eagle that caught the largest fish would earn the title of Apex Hunter, a position of dominance, respect, and—most importantly—choice of the best nesting grounds. In a world where strength meant survival, this was no mere game. And there was no one hungrier for victory than Varek. The Contest Begins Varek had fought for years to earn his place in this competition, besting rivals, enduring harsh winters, and perfecting his hunting skills. His wingspan stretched nearly eight feet, each feather honed by countless battles against wind, rain, and rival talons. His eyes, sharp as obsidian, scanned the chaotic waters below, searching for a fish worthy of his legend-in-the-making. Below, the waves boiled with life—schools of shimmering herring, sleek salmon darting between the crests, and massive trout lurking in the depths. But Varek needed something extraordinary. Something that would make his name echo through the generations. Suddenly, the air vibrated with the piercing cries of his competitors. Garak, the Bone-Crusher, a veteran of three past contests, was already diving, talons extended, eyes locked on a thrashing silver salmon. In one swift movement, Garak speared the fish from the waves and lifted it skyward, the weight barely slowing his ascent. “Nice try, old man,” Varek muttered under his breath. “But I need bigger.” He wasn’t the only one watching. High above, perched on the cliff’s edge, the elders observed the hunt with keen interest. One in particular—Ironbeak, the reigning Apex Hunter—let out a gruff chuckle. “Let’s see if the young blood has what it takes.” The Beast Below Varek banked hard, tilting into a steep descent. He let the wind guide him, feeling the energy of the storm charge the air. Below, the water churned violently, almost unnaturally. Something huge moved beneath the surface. His instincts screamed at him. That was it. That was his prize. With a powerful thrust, he folded his wings and dove. The world blurred around him as he sliced through the sky, the wind roaring in his ears. The water rushed toward him, and then—impact. He plunged beneath the surface, talons stretching, groping— Then they hit something like steel. Varek’s claws sank into the thick, armored hide of the biggest fish he had ever seen. It wasn’t a trout. It wasn’t even a salmon. It was a monster. A lake sturgeon the size of a wolf, with prehistoric plates of bone covering its back and a mouth like a gaping abyss. The creature exploded in a frenzy of motion, dragging Varek under. The Fight for Survival His lungs burned as the icy water pulled him deeper. The beast thrashed, its immense tail battering him like a battering ram. But Varek refused to let go. This was his prize. His wings, heavy with water, struggled to beat against the crushing depth. He could hear the muffled cries of his competitors above. They weren’t diving in to help. They were waiting to see if he would die. With a final, desperate surge, Varek unleashed every ounce of strength in his body. His talons dug in deeper, piercing the fish’s armored flesh. Blood mixed with the saltwater, creating a crimson halo around them. The sturgeon twisted, but Varek twisted with it, using its own strength against it. Then—light. Varek broke through the surface with an explosion of water, his wings catching the wind. The sturgeon, still in his grasp, flailed violently, but it was too late. With a victorious cry, Varek lifted. Victory and Legends Silence fell over the cliffs as Varek rose, his prize dangling below him. The fish’s sheer size was undeniable—it dwarfed even Garak’s salmon. There was no contest. Ironbeak, watching from above, let out a slow, approving nod. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “The kid actually did it.” The other eagles, one by one, let out cries of acknowledgment. Garak, ever the proud warrior, flew beside Varek and gave a short nod. “Respect,” he said gruffly. “But next time, I’m taking that title.” Varek let out a breathless chuckle. “You’ll have to pry it from my claws, old man.” As the storm raged and the sea crashed below, a new legend was born—the story of Varek, the hunter who defied the depths and conquered the tides. And somewhere in the swirling waters, the ancestors of the great sturgeon lurked, waiting for the day another eagle dared to challenge the abyss. Bring the Legend Home Capture the raw power and breathtaking majesty of Wings of Power, Tides of Fate with stunning artwork and merchandise that brings this legendary hunt to life. Whether you’re an admirer of wildlife, a lover of epic storytelling, or someone who appreciates the beauty of nature’s fiercest moments, we’ve got something for you. 🦅 Wall Tapestry – Let the spirit of the hunt soar across your space with a dramatic, high-quality tapestry. 🎨 Canvas Print – Own a gallery-worthy piece of art, bringing every feather and drop of water to vivid life. 🧩 Puzzle – Piece together this incredible moment with a high-quality puzzle, perfect for eagle enthusiasts and puzzle lovers alike. 👜 Weekender Tote Bag – Carry the adventure with you wherever you go with a rugged yet stylish tote featuring this iconic image. Shop now and bring the legend home: View Full Collection.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Heartlight of the Enchanted Grove

Deep within the Whisperwood Forest, where the air shimmered with laughter and even the mushrooms had opinions, there existed a peculiar tradition among the fae and gnomes. It was called the Heartlight Offering—a mischievous, flirtatious game of magic and wit, where one had to steal, trick, or otherwise acquire the glowing heart of another. It was not theft, per se, but an invitation… a challenge… a game of delightful chaos. On the eve of the Moonlit Revel, a particularly devious fae named Sylwen danced her way into the domain of Bramblebeard, the gnome king. Sylwen, with her golden curls and wicked grin, had long decided that she would claim his heartlight this year—not just for the fun of it, but because, much to her irritation, she had grown inexplicably fond of the grumpy old gnome. A Game of Stolen Hearts Bramblebeard was no fool. He had spent centuries dodging trickster fae, and he was determined that this year, his heartlight would remain safely tucked away. His enchanted beard—an entity of its own, really—twitched in suspicion as Sylwen approached, her blue gown trailing behind her, floral crown glowing softly. “Sylwen,” he rumbled, his voice as rich as the earth. “I see you creeping. You can’t fool these old eyes.” “Creeping? Me? Oh, Bramble, you wound me.” Sylwen twirled dramatically, knocking over a very offended toadstool. The gnome squinted. “You’re here for my heartlight, aren’t you?” She gasped, clutching her chest in mock horror. “How dare you accuse me of such treachery! I only came to… to admire your beard.” His beard, traitorous as ever, preened at the compliment. “Flattery won’t work, lass.” Sylwen pouted. “Then what will?” Bramblebeard huffed, crossing his arms. “Not a thing! My heartlight is mine. You’ll not trick me into handing it over.” “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of tricking you.” Sylwen grinned and, in a blur of motion, flicked her fingers. A puff of shimmering dust engulfed Bramblebeard’s face. For a moment, the old gnome simply stood there. Then, quite abruptly, he sneezed so hard that his hat nearly flew off. Unfortunately for him, that moment of distraction was all Sylwen needed. When the glittering dust cleared, she was already holding his heartlight—a golden, glowing orb pulsing warmly in her hands. Of Stubborn Gnomes and Sly Fae “Ha!” Sylwen spun on her heels, cradling the heartlight. “I win! I own your heart now, Bramblebeard!” “Blasted fae trickery!” He stomped a foot, causing a nearby mushroom to mutter something rude. “Oh, hush.” Sylwen held up the orb, watching it flicker like a captured star. “Mmm, feels warm. And… oh dear, is that affection I sense?” She gasped, eyes twinkling. “Do you fancy me, Bramble?” The gnome turned a shade of red that rivaled his hat. “That’s none of your business!” “It is now, considering I’m literally holding your heart.” She smirked. “And it’s positively glowing for me.” Bramblebeard groaned. “You fae and your dramatics.” “Oh, come now, Bramble.” Sylwen stepped closer, placing the glowing heartlight against his chest. “Would it really be so terrible… to let someone hold your heart for a while?” Magic, Mischief, and Something More Silence stretched between them, the playful energy between fae and gnome shifting into something softer. The lanterns above flickered, the fireflies paused their flight, and even the cheeky mushrooms stopped gossiping. Bramblebeard sighed. “You’re an absolute menace.” Sylwen beamed. “That’s not a no.” The gnome grumbled, but there was no real bite to it. “Fine. But only because you cheated so spectacularly.” “Spectacular cheating is still winning.” She handed his heartlight back—but not before giving it a mischievous squeeze. “And don’t think I didn’t see you let me win.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His beard twitched suspiciously. As the Moonlit Revel began, the two wandered into the heart of the festivities, their banter never ceasing. But every so often, when he thought she wasn’t looking, Bramblebeard’s heartlight flickered a little brighter in her presence. And Sylwen? Well, she was already planning how she’d steal it again next year. Take a Piece of Magic Home The enchantment of the Heartlight Offering doesn’t have to stay within the pages of a tale. Bring the whimsy and warmth of Heartlight of the Enchanted Grove into your own world with stunning prints, tapestries, and more! ✨ Wrap yourself in magic with a soft and enchanting tapestry. 🖼️ Adorn your walls with the glow of fae and gnome love with a beautiful canvas print. 🧩 Get lost in the magic, piece by piece, with a whimsical puzzle. 💌 Send a little stardust to someone special with a charming greeting card. Whether for yourself or as a gift for a fellow dreamer, these treasures bring the magic of the Whisperwood Forest into your home. Let the heartlight glow on!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Rise of the Solar Phoenix

The world had forgotten the old ways. It had grown complacent beneath the artificial glow of its own creations, blind to the ancient cycles that governed existence. Empires had risen and fallen, but in their arrogance, the rulers of this age believed they would be the last. They built citadels of steel and glass, reaching toward the heavens, as if daring the cosmos to take notice. And the cosmos did. It began as a murmur—a tremor in the fabric of reality that only the oldest souls could sense. The sky, once an infinite vault of stars, grew restless. A shadow bled across the moon, swallowing its light, rendering the heavens a void deeper than night. The air grew thick with the scent of something ancient, something primal. The winds carried whispers from forgotten tongues, their syllables curling through the ruins of long-dead civilizations. Then, the first ember appeared. The Birth of the Inferno High above the desolate ocean, a spark flickered, impossibly small against the vastness of the sky. It pulsed, a rhythmic heartbeat against the silence, growing brighter with each passing moment. The clouds curled inward, drawn by its presence, dark tendrils of smoke swirling in chaotic formation. The ember swelled, expanding into a crackling orb of light. The heavens trembled as fire and shadow entwined, birthing something that had not graced this world in centuries. A single cry shattered the stillness—an unearthly sound that reverberated through bone and blood, echoing across continents. Then, with a blinding flash, the sky ignited. Wings of molten gold tore through the veil of night, unfurling in an explosion of fire and light. A shape emerged from the inferno, terrible and magnificent—feathers wreathed in celestial flame, armor adorned with the ruins of forgotten ages. The Solar Phoenix had returned. The Awakening In the depths of the ruined city of Ish’kar, the last of the Seers knelt before an altar carved from obsidian and bone. Their eyes, clouded with age and prophecy, widened as the vision unfolded before them. The Phoenix was not merely a creature—it was a force, a harbinger, a necessary cataclysm. "It is as the stones foretold," one of them whispered, voice barely audible over the rising winds. "The cycle has come full circle." From the highest tower, the remnants of humanity watched in silence. Their weapons, forged with the arrogance of technological supremacy, were useless against this celestial being. No steel, no war-machine, no scientific marvel could withstand what was to come. They had long since severed their ties to the ancient laws of balance, and now, balance would be restored by fire. The Phoenix spread its wings wide, the very air warping in response. With a single, mighty beat, it sent waves of fire cascading toward the earth, an inferno that swallowed the remnants of mankind’s greatest achievements. Towers crumbled, rivers evaporated, and the very land itself cracked open, spewing molten veins into the ruined streets. Between Destruction and Rebirth Yet, amidst the destruction, there was no malice. The Phoenix did not punish—it cleansed. In the wake of its flames, the ground did not wither but thrived. From the ashes of old structures, something new began to stir. Strange, iridescent vines slithered through the cracks of fallen monuments, curling around shattered statues and broken weapons. The land, long poisoned by war and greed, was healing. Deep within the heart of the inferno, the Phoenix’s eyes burned with cosmic wisdom. It had seen this cycle play out across countless worlds, countless civilizations. To resist change was to invite ruin. To embrace destruction was to invite rebirth. Visions of the Eternal Time ceased to hold meaning in the presence of the Solar Phoenix. The last of the Seers, those who had prepared for this moment, knelt in reverence before the creature, their spirits unshaken. As the flames danced around them, they saw visions—glimpses of what was to come. They saw the rebirth of the oceans, the return of lost rivers flowing with liquid silver. They saw forests of crystalline trees rising where once stood towers of glass and steel. They saw a people, unlike any who had walked this world before—beings born from fire and stardust, luminous and eternal. But they also saw the next fall. The next arrogance. The next age of forgetting. The Phoenix did not linger. It never did. Its purpose was fulfilled, its duty to the cosmic order complete. The Ascent As the first light of the new dawn kissed the horizon, the Phoenix turned its gaze skyward. The fire surrounding it flared, burning brighter than any star, until its form was indistinguishable from the sun itself. With a final, piercing cry, it ascended, leaving behind a world forever changed. For now. But one day, when the cycle reached its end again, when hubris eclipsed wisdom, and the land once more grew stagnant beneath the weight of its own excess—the Phoenix would rise again. 🔥 Bring the Legend Home 🔥 Experience the mesmerizing power of the Solar Phoenix with stunning, high-quality products featuring this breathtaking artwork. Whether you want to transform your space, carry its fire with you, or immerse yourself in its cosmic energy, we’ve got you covered: 🔥 Tapestry – Let the Phoenix blaze across your walls with this bold and vibrant textile piece. 🔥 Canvas Print – A museum-quality masterpiece capturing the essence of cosmic rebirth. 🔥 Phone Cases – Available for all phone types, encase your device in the fiery spirit of the Phoenix. 🔥 Beach Towel – Bask in celestial flames with a towel as bold as your spirit. Embrace the legend. Carry the fire. Witness the rebirth.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

A Lantern, A Frog, and A Thousand Laughs

Deep in the heart of the Whispering Woods, where mushrooms grew like umbrellas and fireflies made night look like a tavern festival, lived Old Jorgin—a gnome with a belly as round as his laugh was loud. He wasn’t just any gnome, though. No, no. He was the proud owner of the luckiest beard in the land. At least, that’s what he told himself every time a lady gnome refused to braid it. But tonight, Jorgin wasn’t thinking about his beard. He was thinking about the frog in his hands. “Damn thing jumped straight into my soup!” he grumbled, holding the vibrant green troublemaker up to his lantern. “Ruined a perfectly good mushroom stew. And it winked at me! Did you wink at me, you slimy little—?” The frog, to its credit, did not confirm nor deny the accusation. The Cackle Heard ‘Round the Forest “HAH!” A burst of laughter rang through the trees, startling Jorgin so badly he nearly dropped the frog. There, standing like a vision of chaos and delight, was Marla—the only woman in the village who could outdrink, outdance, and outwit him. Her wild curls were tucked beneath a hat overflowing with flowers, and her blue dress was embroidered with tiny hearts and vines, as if the fabric itself had fallen in love with her. She pointed at him, eyes sparkling. “Oh, Jorgin, tell me you didn’t—” “It was not a romantic dinner,” he huffed, lifting the frog. “This scoundrel jumped in uninvited.” Marla leaned in, smirking. “Are you sure? He’s got the eyes of a prince.” Jorgin snorted. “More like the eyes of a tax collector.” A Bet Sealed With a Kiss Marla crossed her arms. “Well, there’s only one way to find out.” Jorgin blinked. “What?” “You gotta kiss him.” He stared at her. “Marla, are you out of your damn mind?” She grinned. “You scared?” “Of catching frog flu? Yes!” But the way she was looking at him—mischievous, daring—made his gnome heart do a strange little somersault. And because he had never, not once, turned down a challenge from Marla, he sighed dramatically and brought the frog to his lips. The frog licked its own eyeball. Jorgin recoiled. “Nope. Absolutely not. That’s unnatural.” Marla cackled again, slapping his shoulder. “Fine, fine. I’ll do it.” Before he could protest, she plucked the frog from his hands, puckered up, and planted a smooch right on its bumpy little head. Well, That Didn’t Go as Planned The moment her lips left the frog, there was a poof of golden light. Jorgin jumped back. Marla gasped. The fireflies dimmed. And in the frog’s place… stood… a very naked, very confused, middle-aged accountant. “Oh gods,” the man muttered, looking at his hands. “Not again.” Jorgin and Marla exchanged looks. The man sighed. “I am Prince Dorian of the Evergild Kingdom. I was cursed by a swamp witch after a—let’s say—‘misunderstanding’ involving a debt I refused to pay. You have broken my curse, fair maiden, and I am forever in your debt.” He knelt before Marla, eyes brimming with gratitude. Jorgin cleared his throat. “Uh. You’re also naked.” Dorian sighed again. “Yeah, that happens too.” Marla Makes a Choice Marla took a long look at the prince. Then at Jorgin. Then back at the prince. “So… does this mean we have to get married?” she asked. Dorian smiled. “That would be the traditional fairy tale ending.” Marla tapped her chin. “Hmm. Counteroffer.” Jorgin tensed. “You go back to your fancy castle, pay your debts, and we pretend this never happened.” Dorian blinked. “Oh. That’s… that’s actually a relief.” Jorgin exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Marla turned back to Jorgin, still grinning. “So, what do you say? Want to share some frog-free stew with me?” Jorgin’s heart did another somersault. He coughed, rubbing his neck. “As long as you promise not to turn me into a prince.” She hooked her arm through his. “Oh, Jorgin. You’re already the king of my bad decisions.” And with that, they left Dorian to find some pants, while they laughed all the way back to their mushroom-lit village—where there were no curses, no royal obligations, and no more damn frogs in the stew. Love this whimsical tale? 🌿✨ The enchanting image that inspired it—"A Lantern, A Frog, and A Thousand Laughs"—is available for prints, downloads, and licensing in our Image Archive. 🔗 View in the Archive

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Betty’s Enchanted Valentine Gala

It was a night that promised mischief and magic—Betty Boop had no intention of playing coy. Dressed in a gown so sumptuous it could knock Cupid right off his cloud, she strolled into the enchanted garden of the Valentine Gala, where roses dripped from trellises like decadent ruby waterfalls and fairy lights whispered sweet nothings into the velvet night. Betty was ready to break hearts… and maybe collect a few along the way. “Ooh, la la, darling!” she purred to herself, glancing at her reflection in a nearby fountain. The gown hugged her curves in all the right places, with black lace weaving a tale of seduction and red roses blooming like forbidden love. Her heels clicked with precision as she entered the crowd, her confidence radiating like the warm glow of the heart-shaped lanterns strung across the garden. Heads turned. Mouths gaped. A waiter carrying champagne almost tripped over his own shoes. Typical. Betty had that effect. Love is in the Air… or is That Trouble? Betty wasn’t exactly here for romance—she had a complicated relationship with Cupid. The last time he shot an arrow her way, it landed her in a three-week affair with a jazz musician who couldn’t remember her name half the time. Tonight, she was here for one thing and one thing only: fun. And maybe a little drama. Okay, fine, maybe a lot of drama. As she wove her way through the crowd, sipping on champagne and tossing out winks like confetti, she spotted her first target of the evening: a tall, brooding man in a sharp black suit, leaning against a rose-covered archway as though he owned the place. He had that ‘I’m too cool for this’ look that Betty just couldn’t resist poking at. “Well, hello there, Tall, Dark, and Handsome,” she said, sidling up to him with a smile that could melt chocolate. “Enjoying the view, or are you the mysterious type who likes lurking in the shadows?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Depends. Are you the type to stir up trouble?” Betty gave a mock gasp, placing a hand over her heart. “Me? Trouble? Why, I’m just a sweet little thing here to spread some Valentine cheer!” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, and the man chuckled—a low, rich sound that sent a delightful shiver down her spine. A Dance to Remember It didn’t take long before the two of them were on the dance floor, swirling under the golden glow of the lanterns. The band played a sultry jazz tune, and Betty moved like silk in water, her hips swaying to the rhythm. Her partner wasn’t bad either; he had a smoothness to his steps that suggested he might’ve been a dancer in a past life. “So, mystery man,” she said as they twirled past a group of giggling partygoers, “do you have a name, or should I just call you ‘Valentine’?” “Call me Jack,” he replied, spinning her around effortlessly. “And what should I call you? Trouble still seems fitting.” “Honey, you can call me Betty,” she quipped, flashing him a playful grin. “Betty Boop, to be exact. But don’t get too attached—I’m a heartbreaker.” Jack smirked, clearly enjoying her sass. “Noted. Though I have a feeling you might be underestimating me.” Sparks Fly… Literally The night continued with laughter, champagne, and just the right amount of flirting. Betty was having a grand time until a sudden commotion near the dessert table caught her attention. Apparently, someone had gotten a little too excited with the flaming heart-shaped soufflés, and now there was a small fire threatening to spread to the chocolate fountain. “Well, that’s my cue,” Betty said, grabbing Jack’s hand and pulling him toward the chaos. “Let’s see if we can turn this into a proper spectacle!” “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Jack asked, but he followed her anyway, clearly intrigued. By the time they reached the table, the fire had been extinguished, but the crowd was abuzz with excitement. Betty, ever the performer, seized the opportunity. She climbed onto a nearby chair, raising her glass high. “Ladies and gentlemen, a toast!” she called out, her voice carrying over the chatter. “To love, to laughter, and to keeping things just a little bit messy!” The crowd cheered, glasses clinking in unison. Jack shook his head, clearly both amused and impressed. “You’re something else, Betty.” She hopped down from the chair, giving him a wink. “Don’t you forget it, darling.” The Grand Finale As the night wound down, Betty and Jack found themselves walking through the garden, the soft glow of the lanterns casting a romantic light on the path. For a moment, Betty felt the urge to let her guard down, to admit that maybe she wasn’t entirely immune to the charms of Valentine’s Day. But then Jack stopped, pulling her close. “Betty,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “you may be a heartbreaker, but you’ve met your match.” She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a smirk. “Is that so?” Instead of answering, he leaned in and kissed her—a kiss that was equal parts bold and tender, like a perfectly balanced jazz solo. For once, Betty was caught off guard, but she didn’t mind. As the kiss ended, she pulled back, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, Jack,” she said, her voice breathy but still full of sass, “you might just be worth keeping around.” And with that, Betty Boop, the queen of sass and sparkle, took Jack’s hand and led him back into the glowing night, ready for whatever mischief and magic the rest of the evening might bring. After all, Valentine’s Day wasn’t about playing it safe—it was about taking chances. And Betty Boop never did anything halfway. Bring Betty’s Magic Home If you’ve fallen under the spell of Betty’s enchanting Valentine adventure, why not bring a touch of her magic to your own space? Explore these exclusive products inspired by "Betty’s Enchanted Valentine Gala": Tapestry: Turn your walls into a romantic wonderland Canvas Print: A timeless piece for your Valentine décor Puzzle: Piece together the romance of Betty’s gala Throw Pillow: Add a touch of whimsical charm to your space Celebrate the season of love with these unique items, perfect for fans of Betty Boop and all things romantic. Shop now and keep the magic alive!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Neon Hatchling of the Deepwoods

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

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Emerald Majesty and the Cheerful Rider

“How many damn carrots does one dragon need?” shouted Grizzle Thimbletwig, his scrunched-up nose nearly glowing red beneath his ridiculous floppy hat. The gnome tugged at the dragon’s reins—not that they worked, because Scorchbutt wasn’t the kind of dragon that obeyed reins or any sort of authority. The massive emerald-scaled beast merely snorted, blowing a gust of hot breath that nearly singed Grizzle’s beloved beard. “Oi, watch it! This beard is older than your great-great-grandmother’s scales!” Scorchbutt responded by farting. Loudly. The flatulent blast rattled the nearby trees, sent a flock of birds scattering, and left Grizzle choking on sulfurous air. “That’s it, you flying gasbag! One more toot like that and I’m cooking gnome stew—with dragon wings as garnish!” he hollered, though they both knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Grizzle was perched precariously on the dragon’s back, as Scorchbutt's wings stretched wide and prepared for another jaunt into the skies above. Grizzle grumbled and braced himself. The last ride had nearly unseated him—damn near got him tangled in his own underpants when Scorchbutt decided to show off with a barrel roll mid-air. A Gnome with Big Dreams It all started when Grizzle decided he’d had enough of gnome society. Too many rules. Too much bureaucracy. And far too many mandatory potlucks. “Bring a casserole,” they’d say. “Don’t spike the cider,” they’d demand. Bah! Where was the fun in that? So one fine morning—fine, if you ignored the dragon dung steaming in the fields—Grizzle packed up his meager belongings, grabbed his trusty pipe, and went out to find some adventure. And what did he find? Scorchbutt. Or rather, Scorchbutt found him, roasting an entire sheep in the middle of the forest. Grizzle, to his credit, didn’t run. He just threw a turnip at the dragon’s head and said, “You missed a spot, ya lazy lizard.” To Grizzle’s utter shock, the dragon didn’t eat him. Instead, Scorchbutt let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, though it was accompanied by smoke and a small flame. Somehow, the two had clicked. Grizzle had finally found someone—or something—that appreciated his irreverent sense of humor and complete lack of respect for authority. The Mischievous Duo Now, the gnome and the dragon were infamous. Farmers complained about missing cows. Tavern keepers swore they’d seen a tiny man and a dragon drinking ale out of barrels. And let’s not forget the incident at the Duchess’s garden party, where Scorchbutt had sneezed mid-air, torching three rose bushes and a very elaborate hat. Grizzle had laughed so hard he’d fallen off the dragon and landed in the punch bowl. “We’ve got a reputation to uphold, ol’ Scorchy,” Grizzle said, patting the dragon’s scaly neck as they soared over rolling green hills. Below them, a group of shepherds pointed and screamed something unintelligible about missing sheep. “Relax, it’s just a little creative redistribution of livestock. They’ll thank us when they have fewer mouths to feed!” Scorchbutt let out another of his rumbling chuckles, then dived low, snagging a sack of potatoes from an unsuspecting farmer. “We’ll make potato stew tonight, eh?” Grizzle said, holding on tight as the dragon spiraled upwards again. “And by stew, I mean vodka. Gotta keep warm somehow!” Chaos at the King’s Banquet Their latest adventure had led them to a new target: the royal palace. Grizzle had heard rumors of a grand banquet being held for the King’s birthday, complete with golden goblets, roasted pheasants, and desserts so decadent they’d make a unicorn blush. Naturally, he couldn’t resist. “Now listen here, Scorchy,” Grizzle said as they landed just outside the palace gates. “We’re not here to burn the place down. Just... mildly inconvenience them.” Scorchbutt tilted his head, one glowing emerald eye fixed on the gnome. Grizzle rolled his eyes. “Fine. You can roast a little bit. But don’t overdo it, alright?” The banquet was in full swing when the dragon burst through the stained glass windows, sending shards raining down on horrified nobles. Grizzle leapt off Scorchbutt’s back and landed on the King’s table, scattering plates and sending a roasted pig tumbling to the floor. “Good evening, esteemed jerks and fancy pants!” he announced, grabbing a goblet of wine. “I’ll be your entertainment tonight. And by entertainment, I mean thief. Now hand over the cake and no one gets torched!” The nobles shrieked as Scorchbutt let out a mighty roar, blowing out half the candles in the room. The King stood up, red-faced and trembling. “How dare you!” he bellowed. “Seize that gnome!” “Oh no, they’re seizing me!” Grizzle said in mock terror, taking a huge bite out of the nearest drumstick. “Whatever will I—Scorchy, NOW!” The dragon unleashed a fiery sneeze, sending guards diving for cover as Grizzle grabbed the cake—an enormous tower of chocolate and cream—and clambered back onto Scorchbutt’s back. “Thanks for the hospitality! We’ll be back next year!” he shouted as they blasted through the ceiling, leaving a charred hole and a very angry King behind. Home Sweet Chaos Back at their makeshift lair—a cozy cave littered with stolen goods and half-burned treasure—Grizzle kicked back with a slice of cake and a mug of potato vodka. Scorchbutt curled up nearby, his massive body radiating warmth. “Another successful mission,” Grizzle said, raising his mug in a toast. “To chaos, cake, and Scorchy’s gassy arse.” Scorchbutt let out a low rumble that could have been a purr—or another fart. Grizzle waved a hand in front of his nose. “Bloody hell, Scorchy. I’ve been meaning to say this: you really need to lay off the sheep.” And with that, the gnome and the dragon settled in for another night of mischief, ready to dream up whatever shenanigans tomorrow might bring. The End… or is it? Bring the Adventure Home Love the mischief and magic of Emerald Majesty and the Cheerful Rider? Now you can own a piece of this whimsical world! Explore our exclusive collection of products featuring this vibrant artwork, perfect for fans of fantasy and quirky storytelling. Tapestries: Transform your space with the bold and colorful adventure of Grizzle and Scorchbutt. Canvas Prints: Bring this tale to life on your walls with museum-quality prints. Puzzles: Piece together the magic with a fun and challenging puzzle featuring the Emerald Majesty. Greeting Cards: Share the adventure with friends and family through beautifully crafted cards. Shop now and bring a touch of whimsy to your life!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Elf and the Dragon's Meeting

Deep in the Enchanted Forest, where the toadstools were as large as wagon wheels and just as sturdy, an elf named Lila stumbled into a peculiar predicament. At only two hundred years old—a mere adolescent by elven standards—Lila was tasked with gathering herbs for the village apothecary. Of course, she'd immediately gotten distracted by the sight of an enormous glowing mushroom and decided it would make the perfect spot for a nap. Who could blame her? Sunlight filtered through the canopy in golden streams, and the forest smelled like fresh moss and adventure. Naturally, her basket of herbs was still empty. As she climbed the mushroom like a drunk squirrel—there were no stairs, after all—she muttered, “Why doesn’t anyone ever build steps for these oversized fungi? If we can enchant pots to stir themselves, we can install a railing or two!” Huffing and puffing, she finally reached the top and sprawled out across the mushroom's cap, arms spread wide. She closed her eyes, reveling in the forest's hum of life. And then she heard it. A raspy, gravelly voice said, “Excuse me, this is my mushroom.” Lila sat bolt upright, her heart pounding. Standing before her was a small dragon. Well, "small" was relative—it was about the size of a large dog, but with shimmering blue-green scales, wings that looked like they’d been stolen from a stained-glass window, and an expression that could only be described as unimpressed. “Your mushroom?” Lila asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Since when do dragons care about mushrooms?” “Since always,” the dragon said, puffing out its chest. “This mushroom is mine. I’ve been guarding it for weeks. Do you know how many squirrels try to pee on it daily? It’s a full-time job!” Lila stifled a laugh but failed miserably. “A dragon. Guarding a mushroom. What’s next? A goblin knitting scarves?” “Laugh all you want, elf,” the dragon snapped, its sapphire eyes narrowing. “This is no ordinary mushroom. It’s a Toadstool of Luminescence. Extremely rare. Extremely magical. And it doesn’t appreciate your sweaty elf butt all over it.” “Oh, forgive me, your Mushroom Majesty,” Lila said, standing up and mock-bowing. “I had no idea I was sitting on the throne of fungal greatness. Please, go ahead and—what do you even do with it? Eat it? Wear it? Propose marriage to it?” The dragon sighed, pinching the bridge of its snout with its claw, as if trying to ward off an impending headache. “Clearly, you’re too immature to understand the finer points of mycology.” “Clearly,” Lila replied with a smirk. “So, what happens now? Do we duel for the mushroom? I’m warning you—I’ve been in at least two tavern brawls, and I only lost one of them because someone threw a barstool at my face.” The dragon tilted its head, genuinely intrigued. “You’re... quite odd for an elf. Most of your kind would have apologized by now. Or tried to sell me herbal tea.” “I’m not most elves,” Lila said with a grin. “And you’re not most dragons. Most of them would’ve eaten me by now, not given me a lecture on mushroom conservation.” They stared at each other for a moment, the tension hanging in the air like an overripe peach. Then the dragon snorted. Not a fiery snort—more of a laughing one. “You’re funny,” it admitted grudgingly. “Annoying, but funny.” “Thanks,” Lila said. “So, what’s your name, oh mighty fungus protector?” “Torvik,” the dragon said, straightening up. “And yours, oh sweaty elf invader?” “Lila. Nice to meet you, Torvik. So, what does a dragon do for fun around here? Besides yelling at squirrels?” Torvik grinned, showing off a set of teeth that could probably shred steel. “Well, there is one thing. You’re good at climbing mushrooms, yes?” “I’m basically an expert now,” Lila said, gesturing grandly at the mushroom they were perched on. “Excellent. Because the next mushroom over has been taken over by a particularly nasty family of raccoons, and they’ve been stealing my food stash. Think you can help me scare them off?” Lila’s face lit up. “Oh, I thought you’d never ask. But fair warning—I’m terrible at being intimidating. I once tried to shoo a possum out of my garden and ended up giving it my lunch.” “Perfect,” Torvik said, his wings flaring dramatically. “This is going to be hilarious.” And so, the elf and the dragon set off on their first adventure together. There was laughter, chaos, and yes, a raccoon uprising that would go down in forest history as “The Great Mushroom Skirmish.” But that’s a tale for another time. For now, suffice it to say that Lila and Torvik found in each other something they hadn’t expected: a friend who appreciated the absurdity of life as much as they did. And maybe, just maybe, the Toadstool of Luminescence really was magical. Because if a snarky dragon and a sassy elf could share a mushroom without killing each other, anything was possible. For those captivated by the whimsical charm of “The Elf and the Dragon’s Meeting,” you can bring this enchanting tale to life in your own space. From the radiant glow of the Toadstool of Luminescence to the playful banter of Lila and Torvik, these moments are now available as stunning art products: Tapestries: Transform any wall into a magical forest scene. Canvas Prints: Perfect for showcasing the intricate details of the dragon and the glowing forest. Puzzles: Piece together the magic and relive the story, one detail at a time. Stickers: Add a touch of whimsy to your daily life with these delightful designs. Whether you’re an adventurer at heart or simply a fan of the fantastical, these products allow you to carry a piece of the Enchanted Forest into your world. Explore more at our shop and let the magic inspire you.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Heartfelt Whimsy in Bloom

Under the glow of a heart-shaped luminescence deep within the Enchanted Briarwoods, a pair of gnomes sat together on a mossy log, their hands almost—but not quite—touching. Bimble, a rosy-cheeked gnome with a beard as wild as the tangled roots beneath their feet, nervously tugged at his embroidered vest. Beside him, Thistle, radiant in her petal-laden hat, giggled softly, her floral perfume mingling with the earthy scent of the garden. She knew mischief when she saw it, and Bimble was practically oozing with it tonight. "You’re plotting something, aren’t you?" Thistle asked, her voice like the tinkling of wind chimes. "Don’t even try to deny it, Bimble Butterbur." Bimble’s face turned an even deeper shade of pink. "Plotting? Me? What an accusation!" he exclaimed, clutching his chest as though wounded. "Can a gnome not simply bask in the beauty of his lady fair without his honor being questioned?" Thistle rolled her eyes but smiled. "The last time you said that, I ended up on a goose chasing me through the meadow because you ‘accidentally’ swapped my hat for a breadcrumb crown." "An honest mix-up!" Bimble protested, though the corners of his mouth twitched with suppressed laughter. "Anyway, this time I’ve planned something much grander." He gestured grandly toward the glowing flowers that surrounded them. "Behold! The Grand Gnome-aissance of Romance!" Thistle arched an eyebrow, intrigued despite herself. "Go on." A Mischievous Courtship Bimble hopped off the log, his boots squishing softly against the moss as he fumbled in his satchel. From it, he withdrew a tiny golden vial. With a flourish, he sprinkled its shimmering contents into the air. The glow of the heart-shaped light intensified, casting the clearing in a soft golden hue, and the flowers began to sway as though caught in a gentle breeze. "I may have… borrowed some fairy dust," Bimble admitted sheepishly, "to create a night you’d never forget." Thistle gasped. "Bimble! Borrowed? Or stolen?" "Does it matter?" he said, waving a hand dismissively. "I’ve only used a smidgen. Besides, I thought you liked it when I was a bit… roguish." "I like it when you don’t get us cursed by the Fair Folk," she replied, though her smile betrayed her amusement. As if summoned by her words, a tiny, high-pitched voice rang out from the shadows. "Bimble Butterbur, you scoundrel!" A flickering figure emerged, a diminutive fairy clad in a gown made of cobwebs and dew. Her iridescent wings fluttered angrily. "You think you can just pilfer our dust and go about your merry way?" The Bargain Bimble froze, his eyes darting to Thistle, who was now openly laughing. "See? I told you," she said between giggles. "You always take things a step too far." "Lady Fizzlewisp," Bimble began, bowing so low his hat nearly touched the ground, "it was merely a harmless—" "Harmless?" Fizzlewisp shrieked. "Do you know how much fairy dust costs on the black market? If I had a silver mushroom for every time a gnome stole from me, I’d own the whole forest!" Bimble opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted by Thistle, who stepped forward gracefully. "Lady Fizzlewisp," she said, curtsying with an elegance that even the fairy couldn’t ignore, "my dear companion was only trying to woo me. It’s a bit clumsy, I admit, but his intentions were pure." Fizzlewisp eyed Thistle suspiciously. "And you’re okay with this bumbling buffoon as your suitor?" "He grows on you," Thistle replied with a wink. The fairy sighed dramatically. "Fine. I’ll let this one slide, but only if he promises to pay me back." "Of course!" Bimble said eagerly. "Anything! Just name your price." Fizzlewisp’s eyes glinted mischievously. "You’ll cater the Fairy Ball next week." "Cater?!" Bimble squeaked. "But I can’t even bake a mud pie without setting it on fire!" "That’s your problem," Fizzlewisp replied with a grin. "See you in seven days!" With a puff of glitter, she vanished. The Dance of Delight Once the fairy was gone, Thistle burst into laughter. "You’ve really done it now, Bimble." Bimble groaned, sinking back onto the log. "I was just trying to impress you." "And you did," she said, sitting beside him. She reached over and took his hand, her touch warm and reassuring. "But you’re going to need my help if we’re going to pull this off." "You mean you’ll help me bake for the ball?" he asked, hope lighting up his face. "Bake? Oh no, you’ll be baking," she said with a smirk. "I’ll supervise." For the rest of the evening, the two gnomes planned their culinary adventure, surrounded by glowing flowers and the soft hum of the forest. Mischief might have gotten Bimble into trouble, but it was love—and a little fairy dust—that made it all worthwhile. And as the heart-shaped glow dimmed, the Enchanted Briarwoods echoed with laughter and the promise of a chaotic, yet unforgettable, adventure. Bring the Enchantment Home Fall in love with the whimsical charm of "Heartfelt Whimsy in Bloom". Celebrate the mischievous romance of Bimble and Thistle with stunning products that bring this enchanting world into your home: Tapestries: Transform any space with the magical glow of this storybook scene. Canvas Prints: A timeless way to showcase the romance and whimsy of the Enchanted Briarwoods. Throw Pillows: Add a touch of cozy charm to your home with these beautifully designed accents. Duvet Covers: Drift off to a magical dreamland with the perfect bedding for any fantasy lover. Discover these products and more in our shop to keep the magic of "Heartfelt Whimsy in Bloom" alive in your everyday life.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Baby Scales in a Fur-Trimmed Coat

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

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