autumn forest magic

par Bill Tiepelman

The Turquoise Troublemaker

Crimes of Leaf and Laughter There was a place, nestled deep in the forest’s golden curls, where the laws of logic melted faster than a caramel gnome in a hot spring. And at the center of that leaf-spackled lunacy lived a creature both loved and loathed by woodland society: The Turquoise Troublemaker. They never gave their real name. Some said it was unpronounceable. Others claimed it was legally redacted. But most just called them “Turq,” usually while groaning or scrubbing glitter out of unspeakable places. Turq was not your standard forest cryptid. No, this one had taste. Style. A mustard-yellow hoodie permanently zipped just below the horns, sneakers that had clearly been stolen from a tourist, and a smirk that promised both charm and chaos with equal intensity. They didn't walk through the woods so much as *swagger*, tail flicking behind them like punctuation to an ongoing roast session. On this particular fall morning, Turq was crouched on their usual log—the one that allegedly belonged to an ancient dryad who’d gotten tired of the drama and moved to coastal Italy. Surrounding them was a semi-circle of horrified, mildly confused, and fully bewitched woodland animals. Because Turq was teaching a workshop. “Today’s topic,” Turq announced, sipping something steamy from a chipped mug shaped like a screaming acorn, “is Advanced Pranking for Emotional Clarity and Power Reclamation. Or, in simpler terms, how to ruin someone’s day with style.” A squirrel raised its paw. “Is this therapy?” “Yes. But with less crying and more confetti.” Turq spun on their heel and slapped down a chart that read: ‘SARCASM AS A TOOL FOR COMMUNITY BUILDING’. Underneath were bullet points, all glittered, none legible. “Now,” Turq continued, “imagine your local bird is annoying. Chirping too loud. Smug about flight. What do you do?” A badger grunted. “Eat them?” “This isn’t medieval TikTok,” Turq snapped. “No eating. We prank. We humble. We redirect the vibe.” “You make everything sound like an Instagram caption,” muttered a hedgehog with trauma bangs. “That’s because I am an aesthetic,” Turq replied, fluffing their hoodie with flourish. “Anyway, last week I convinced Chadwick the human that moss was a currency. He gave me twenty bucks for a patch. I’m rich in both lichen and lies.” The crowd murmured. Chadwick, ever the over-curious nature blogger, had become the unofficial victim of Turq’s seasonal chaos. From “accidentally” swapping his eco-toothpaste with edible glitter, to replacing his trail mix with enchanted jumping beans, Turq considered Chadwick both their muse and their moral playground. “But today,” Turq whispered, crouching low with dramatic eyebrow arches, “we go bigger.” They unrolled a parchment so wide it bonked a possum in the face. On it was a sprawling map labeled: ‘OPERATION AUTUMNCLAP’. “We’re going to stage a full-blown fall festival pop-up and gaslight Chadwick into thinking it’s an ancient forest rite. We’ll wear leaf crowns. We’ll chant nonsense. We’ll sell him acorn ‘smoothies’ that are 70% bark.” “Why?” the hedgehog asked, halfway into a resigned sigh. “Because,” Turq said, eyes gleaming, “he put pumpkin spice in the forest stream. There are frogs hallucinating romance novels. Someone has to restore balance.” It was decided. Operation AutumnClap would commence at dusk. But just as Turq began instructing the squirrels on acorn smoothie ratios (less pulp, more crunch), a sound echoed from the trees. It was faint at first—like the groan of an overdramatic pine tree—but it grew louder. And deeper. Like thunder laced with attitude. “What in the photoshopped fungus was that?” Turq muttered. “That,” said the hedgehog, now clutching a leaf like a prayer flag, “is the Custodian.” The animals scattered like unpaid interns. Turq stood alone, clutching their mug like a sacred relic. “The Custodian? I thought that was just a myth. A tale invented by the elder chipmunks to make us compost properly.” But it wasn’t a myth. Because from between two great oaks, dragging a rake made from bone and bark, came a creature as tall as a sapling and twice as cranky. Draped in robes of rotting leaves, crowned with fungi, and radiating a very intense “I'm not mad, I'm disappointed” energy—The Custodian had returned. “Who disturbed the leaf order?” the Custodian boomed. Turq smiled. “Hi. That would be me. Turquoise. Mischief. Local menace and part-time emotional support cryptid. Do you need a hug, or…?” The Custodian growled. Turq winked. And then, quite suddenly, the ground split with a gust of compost-scented magic, launching both creature and cryptid into an accidental duel that would later be known (and wildly exaggerated) as: The Great Leaf Fight of Merribark Glen. The Great Leaf Fight of Merribark Glen The Custodian of Leaves was not built for nuance. It was built for rules. Sacred rakes. Standardized crunch levels. Color-coded leaf rot timelines. And here was Turq, the unofficial chaos mascot of Merribark, standing in defiance with a smirk, a hoodie, and what appeared to be a double-shot of pumpkin fog chai. “You have violated the Ordinance of Autumnal Order,” the Custodian thundered, pointing its rake like an accusation dipped in mold. “You danced on sacred mulch. You organized an unregistered seasonal gathering. And—worst of all—you scattered candy corn like cursed runes.” “Those weren’t runes,” Turq chirped. “They were forest snacks. And you’re welcome.” The Custodian narrowed its compost-crusted eyes. The forest held its breath. Somewhere, a squirrel dropped a nut in suspense. Then it happened. With a roar that shook pinecones off their branches, the Custodian summoned the full wrath of the forest bureaucracy. Forms flew. Vines twisted into red tape. Acorns arranged themselves into alphabetical grievance piles. A furious gust of enchanted leaflets exploded into the air, each stamped with angry oak sigils and the haunting phrase: “MANDATORY COMPOST COMPLIANCE.” “Oh no,” Turq whispered, ducking behind their log. “He’s going full Autumn Audit.” Animals scattered in every direction. Twiggy the hedgehog fake-fainted behind a fern. A raccoon tried to claim diplomatic immunity by wearing a monocle and yelling, “I’m Switzerland!” Turq, meanwhile, launched a counter-attack the only way they knew how—vibes-first. They struck a dramatic pose atop the log, hoodie billowing, sneakers glinting in the firefly glow, and shouted: “This is not anarchy! This is festivity with flair!” And with that, they hurled a bag of enchanted glitter directly into the Custodian’s face. It exploded in a shower of sparkle and defiance. The Custodian gasped as fuchsia powder coated its leaf-robes and the words “FALL VIBES ONLY” appeared across its chest in shimmering script. “You dare bedazzle me?” it bellowed. “You were asking for it,” Turq said, adjusting their horns like sunglasses. “You walk like an October tax return.” The ground shook again, but this time from below. From deep under Merribark, the mycelium networks flared to life—glowing with bioluminescent confusion. The Fungi Council had awakened. Griselda the Mushroom Queen emerged slowly from the moss, chewing a mushroom cigar and squinting through the forest mess. “What’s all this noisy bullshroom?” she rasped. “Leaf fascism,” Turq explained helpfully. “Ugh,” Griselda groaned. “Again? Didn’t we sort that out in the Great Rake-Off of ’04?” “Apparently not,” said Turq, dodging a flying leaf citation that whistled past their ear like bureaucratic death. Griselda squinted at the Custodian. “You. Twig brain. You woke me up for decorum violations?” The Custodian, puffed up and half-covered in glitter, tried to retort, but Griselda raised a gnarled finger. “Shut it. Everyone’s got sap in their socks these days. You know what the forest needs?” “A gnome boycott?” Turq guessed. “An equinox rave,” she said, grinning slowly. “We blast the spores. Burn the bylaws. Drink fermented leaf tea until the moss sings.” “That sounds… unregulated,” the Custodian said, visibly sweating compost. “Exactly,” said Griselda. “Sometimes nature needs chaos to breathe.” Turq high-fived her so hard a squirrel fell out of a tree. “I’m calling it: Fungtoberfest.” The forest crowd, emboldened by rebellion and fermented sap shots, rallied. Lights flickered. Mushrooms pulsed with rhythm. The raccoons formed a drumline. Chadwick, drawn by the scent of spectacle and forbidden cider, stumbled into the clearing with his camera already filming. “What… what is this?” he whispered, stunned. “It’s Merribark, darling,” Turq said, throwing an arm around him. “And this is what happens when you mess with seasonal aesthetics without consulting your local trickster.” As night swallowed the last of the golden sky, the forest transformed. What began as a duel ended in a wild, stomping, glitter-covered celebration of chaos, community, and the complete deconstruction of leafy hierarchy. The Custodian, reluctantly sipping leaf tea through a straw, even tapped its foot once. Maybe twice. And Turq? Turq stood on their log, hoodie flecked with dirt and pride, watching the chaos swirl with gleaming eyes. This was more than mischief. This was meaningful nonsense. This was forest magic, unfiltered and absurd. “To the troublemakers,” they toasted, raising their mug to the moon. “May we never be organized.” The moon winked back.     Need more mischief in your life? If *The Turquoise Troublemaker* made you cackle, conspire, or crave glitter warfare, why not invite a little Merribark mayhem into your home? From high-impact wall art to snuggly sass vessels, this vibrant troublemaker is now available in magically merchified formats—designed to delight woodland rebels and cozy chaos agents alike. Wood Print: Add a rustic, enchanted edge to your wall with a textured wood finish perfect for mischief-friendly décor. Framed Print: Polished, professional, and just smug enough to remind you who’s in charge—this troublemaker is gallery ready. Acrylic Print: Bold, glossy, and dripping with magical realism. Perfect for spaces that need a little more sass-per-inch. Tote Bag: Because every forest trickster needs a carry-all for snacks, glitter bombs, and emotional support acorns. Fleece Blanket: Soft, cozy, and just chaotic enough to keep you warm while plotting your next seasonal rebellion. Find the full collection at shop.unfocussed.com and let the sass spill into your space. Because rule-breaking looks great in high resolution.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Ember-Eyed Wanderer

Of Hoodies and Horns The forest of Merribark was not on any map, mostly because the cartographers who found it never made it out again—distracted by the intoxicating scent of maple-sugar moss and the unsolicited life advice given by the ferns. Some claimed the trees whispered gossip about local wildlife. Others said the squirrels held tiny séances and debated philosophy. But none of these eccentricities compared to the real enigma of Merribark: the ember-eyed creature in the hoodie. He had no name—or rather, he had so many that he simply shrugged when asked. The owls called him "Snugglehorn." The chipmunks used “The Fuzzy Prophet.” The humans, few and flustered as they were, referred to him only as "Oh My God What Is That—It’s So Cute—AAAAAH." He just went with “Wanderer,” which sounded mysterious and chic. Our Wanderer had the vibe of a creature that drank oat milk lattes, listened to forest lo-fi, and probably had an Etsy shop for enchanted pinecones. With plush white fur, oversized ears blushing with warmth, and twin antelope-like horns peeking through a shaggy mop of fluff, he was the kind of creature you'd want to cuddle, unless you disliked unsolicited sarcasm from woodland beings. Today, like many other days, he sat cross-legged on his favorite log wearing his mustard-toned hoodie—too big, slightly frayed, and enchanted to always smell like cinnamon rolls. Leaves drifted lazily down around him, performing aerial ballet. He watched them fall with an expression that suggested deep contemplation, though in truth, he was just wondering if it was too early for second breakfast. “You’re philosophizing again, aren’t you?” came a voice from the ferns, brittle and judgmental. It was Twiggy, a very sharp-tongued hedgehog with bangs and a dramatic sigh. She emerged with all the flair of a diva suffering a wardrobe malfunction, dragging a mini handbag made from acorn caps and sass. “Only about bread, darling,” said Wanderer, blinking his glowing eyes slowly. “Why do we bake it, slice it, and then toast it? Isn’t that emotional whiplash for the wheat?” “You need a hobby. Or a boyfriend,” Twiggy sniffed. “Or a therapist. Or all three. Probably in that order.” “You’re just upset because the mushroom you married turned out to be a toadstool in disguise.” “We do not speak of Reginald the Deceiver,” she hissed. “Besides, he was too spongy anyway.” Just then, a frantic bluebird dive-bombed through the clearing, panting in short, tweet-sized bursts. “HE’S COMING! THE TWO-LEGGED GIANT!” The entire forest paused mid-wind-blow. Leaves froze in midair. Even the judgmental ferns stiffened their fronds. Wanderer, meanwhile, adjusted his hoodie like a fashion influencer preparing for a live stream. “Oh yes, the one with the camera and the tragic man-bun,” he said. “Chadwick.” “He brings gluten,” whispered a squirrel reverently from the shadows. “He steps on fungi,” muttered a mushroom bitterly. Wanderer sighed, stood up, and brushed his tiny paws off on his hoodie. “Well, let’s not be rude. We’ll give him a proper Merribark welcome. Someone fetch the sarcasm wreath and the ‘You Tried’ banner.” By the time Chadwick stumbled into the clearing—half-mulched by brambles, holding his DSLR like it was an ancient relic—the forest scene had been curated to Pinterest-worthy perfection. Wanderer perched regally on his log, leaves spiraling behind him like nature’s confetti, eyes glowing like warm bourbon lit by fairy light. Chadwick gasped. “You’re… real.” Wanderer tilted his head. “Define ‘real.’ Existentially? Metaphysically? Or just tax-deductible?” Chadwick began clicking frantically. “This is going viral. I’m going to call you ‘Forest Catfox!’” “That’s offensive,” Twiggy growled from a branch. “He’s a Forest Dramaturge.” “I’m more of an Emotional Support Goblin,” Wanderer said with a shrug. “But I’ll let it slide for a croissant.” Chadwick, dazed and elated, kept snapping photos, unaware that the squirrels had already started rummaging through his backpack, assessing the value of his granola bars in acorn currency. And that’s when the whisper started, soft and eerie: a voice among the trees, unmistakably annoyed. It wasn’t Chadwick. It wasn’t Twiggy. And it definitely wasn’t one of the squirrels (though they could be dramatic). It was something older. Wilder. Grumpier. And mildly damp-smelling. The forest shivered. The leaves dropped like dead gossip. And Wanderer… Wanderer stood up straighter. Adjusted his hoodie. And whispered, “Oh fungus muffins. She’s awake.” The Slumbering Grump and the Granola Apocalypse The forest of Merribark was not accustomed to drama. Sure, there were the occasional turf disputes between badgers and raccoons (usually over who left peanut butter on the communal hammock). And yes, the annual “Mushroom Masquerade” sometimes ended with a few intoxicated toadstools face-down in the duck pond. But *this* was different. Because She had awakened. Deep beneath the glade, where roots knotted like secret handshakes and the earth hummed with unsent emails from Mother Nature, something ancient stirred: Grumple Griselda, the disgruntled fungus queen, was no longer dormant. She was awake, crusty, and she was hungry. “You didn’t tell me you lived over a spore mat,” Chadwick whispered, eyes wide behind his ironically large glasses. “Technically, I rent it. On a very flexible mycelium sublease,” Wanderer replied, cracking his knuckles like a woodland chiropractor. “But semantics aside—yes. We are standing on the grumpy fungal womb of doom. And you brought peanut butter trail mix. Excellent.” “That wasn’t me!” Chadwick hissed. “That was the influencer I dated last week! I’m more of a keto sunflower seed guy!” “Oh, you’re that guy,” Twiggy said, hopping down with a sniff. “The one who won’t shut up about gut biome and 'intermittent enlightenment.'” “Wanderer,” a voice rumbled from the soil itself. “Is that a human I smell?” “You smell that?” Wanderer muttered. “That’s ancient mold resentment mixed with existential dread and body lotion called ‘Forest Seduction.’” The ground trembled. From a slowly splitting mound of moss and dirt rose a towering column of sentient mushroom—hulking, multicolored, and wildly over-accessorized in damp velvet and beetle-shell jewelry. Griselda, Her Sponginess, emerged like an angry sourdough starter granted mobility. “YOU.” Her voice sloshed across the clearing like gravy rage. “You let another one in. Another two-leg. With hair gel!” “Chadwick, do not—do not—try to negotiate,” Wanderer warned. But Chadwick had already stepped forward, pulling out a bag of gluten-free trail mix like an offering to a snacky goddess. “It’s vegan?” Griselda blinked. Then blinked again. Then released a sound that could only be described as a mycological snort. “You think you can bribe me with roasted chickpeas? CHILD, I was fermenting before your ancestors even knew how to boil an egg!” “That’s true,” Twiggy piped up. “She’s older than regret.” “And just as clingy,” Wanderer added. “But she also really loves interpretive dance. Maybe we distract her.” “With dance?” Chadwick gasped. “With interpretive existential dread dance,” Twiggy clarified. “Big difference.” And so it began. In the center of the forest clearing, the most awkward flashmob in magical history unfolded. Squirrels somersaulted with nut-cluster precision. Frogs leapt in chaotic jazz sequences. Twiggy twirled like an angry pretzel, while Chadwick—bless his soft-shelled soul—attempted a combination of tai chi and a mid-2000s boy band routine. Wanderer, meanwhile, simply stood still, eyes glowing brighter than before, hoodie rippling in the wind like he was in an emotionally complicated shampoo commercial. Griselda narrowed her eyes. “What is this?” she demanded, swaying. “A ritual?” “A vibe,” Wanderer replied smoothly. “A forest reclaiming its narrative through kinetic vulnerability and granola-averse choreography.” Griselda paused. Blinked again. “...It’s working. My rage… it’s slowing…” “Careful,” Twiggy hissed. “She’s entering her sentimental fermentation phase.” “This is when she’s most dangerous,” Wanderer added. “If she starts quoting ancient mushroom poetry, we’re doomed.” “Let the moss beneath us bear witness,” Griselda began, her voice softening into a tragic, echoing croon, “to the cycle of growth and rot… for even the firmest fungi… must one day… split…” Chadwick burst into tears. “That’s so beautiful.” “He’s been emotionally compromised,” said a badger wearing monocles. “Time to engage Protocol Nutshake.” Before anyone could ask what that was, a chipmunk rocketed out of the underbrush riding a red squirrel bareback and wielding two pinecone maracas. The scene dissolved into joyful chaos as woodland creatures celebrated the near-aversion of disaster through interpretive art and accidental snack diplomacy. Griselda, touched by the bizarre communal ritual, slowly receded into her fungal dormancy. “Fine,” she grumbled. “You may keep your camera monkey. But I expect seasonal tributes. And at least one heartfelt ballad about the tragedy of mold.” “I’ll have Chadwick write an indie folk song,” Wanderer promised. “It’ll have banjo. And melancholy.” “Better have accordion,” Griselda muttered, sinking back into the dirt. “Or I will rise again…” By nightfall, the forest had returned to a semi-chaotic peace. The squirrels were tipsy on fermented berries. Chadwick had 347 blurry photos and one accidental selfie with Griselda. Twiggy had started selling tiny bottles of forest-scented oil labeled “Spores & Sass.” And Wanderer? He returned to his log, hoodie fluffed, sipping tea brewed from leaves that giggled when plucked. “So,” Twiggy asked, curling beside him. “Think he’ll come back?” “Probably,” Wanderer said with a sly smile. “Humans love mystery. And granola. And I am, if nothing else… extremely photogenic.” The stars blinked awake above Merribark, as soft laughter echoed through the trees and the forest whispered secrets to itself. And somewhere, far below, a mushroom queen dreamt of accordions. The End.     Bring the magic home: If “The Ember-Eyed Wanderer” stole your heart, whispered to your inner mischief, or made you cackle into your tea, you can now bring a piece of Merribark Forest into your world. From soft furnishings to gallery-worthy wall art, this enchanting scene is available in a variety of charming formats to suit every adventurer’s den. Tapestry: Perfect for creating a cozy reading nook or dreamy bedroom vibe, this fabric art brings the wanderer’s forest glow into any space. Canvas Print: Museum-quality texture with a rustic touch—ideal for showcasing this whimsical scene in your home gallery. Metal Print: Bold, luminous, and modern—this sleek print makes the glowing eyes and autumn tones pop with spellbinding clarity. Throw Pillow: Soft enough for squirrel naps and stylish enough for enchanted living rooms. Cozy up with forest flair! Fleece Blanket: Wrap yourself in woodland whimsy—ideal for chilly evenings, tea rituals, or pretending you're napping in a magical glade. Explore the full collection at shop.unfocussed.com and let the ember-eyed mischief-maker spark stories in your space.

par Bill Tiepelman

Le gnome et le cerf couronné de la moisson

Au cœur de la forêt de Braise, où l’air scintillait d’un soleil doré et où le craquement des feuilles emplissait l’air, un gnome nommé Wimble Leafwhistle manigançait des méfaits. Wimble, connu sous le nom de « l’As du gland », avait la réputation de transformer les événements forestiers les plus sereins en spectacles chaotiques. Son partenaire dans ces escapades ? Un cerf royal nommé Chestnut, dont les magnifiques bois étaient drapés de guirlandes de glands, de feuilles d’automne et de baies. « Très bien, Chestnut », dit Wimble, perché sur le dos du cerf et ajustant son chapeau rouge surdimensionné. « Aujourd'hui, nous allons montrer à cette forêt à quoi ressemble le véritable art. Oubliez vos traditions d'automne ennuyeuses : la fête des récoltes de cette année restera dans l'histoire ! » Chestnut émit un grognement sceptique, son souffle s'échappant dans l'air vif de l'automne. Mais Wimble, comme toujours, l'ignora. Il avait des projets. De grands projets ridicules. La scène du festival La fête des récoltes était l'événement le plus grandiose d'Emberwood. Les créatures des bois se rassemblaient sous le Grand Chêne pour présenter leurs plus beaux glands, tartes et décorations. Les écureuils bavardaient avec enthousiasme en exposant leurs sculptures de glands. Les hérissons offraient des chopes fumantes de cidre chaud. Même les blaireaux toujours grincheux avaient préparé des tartes à la citrouille pour l'occasion. Wimble et Chestnut firent leur entrée avec toute la subtilité d'un chêne qui tombe. Le gnome avait attaché de petites clochettes aux bois du cerf, qui tintinnabulaient bruyamment alors qu'ils trottaient dans la clairière. Les bois de Chestnut scintillaient de rosée, et Wimble avait même attaché une lanterne à sa selle pour un effet théâtral. « Faites place ! » appela Wimble en agitant la main de façon théâtrale. « Le Cerf couronné des moissons et son fidèle écuyer sont arrivés ! » La foule se tourna pour regarder, leurs bavardages s’éteignant. Elder Maple, l’écureuil pragmatique qui présidait le festival, plissa les yeux. « Wimble », dit-elle lentement, « qu’est-ce que tu fais ? » « Jusqu'à moi ? » demanda Wimble, feignant l'innocence. « Je suis simplement ici pour ajouter une touche de classe à votre humble rassemblement. » Il tira sur les rênes de Chestnut, et le cerf s'avança à contrecœur, secouant ses bois décorés. Les glands qui pendaient des guirlandes s'entrechoquaient comme de minuscules clochettes. Le concours de glands La première cible de Wimble était le Grand Concours de Glands, une compétition où les écureuils présentaient leurs plus impressionnantes collections de glands. Les pièces étaient soigneusement disposées sur une longue table, chaque gland étant poli pour obtenir un éclat brillant. Wimble se pencha pour les inspecter, sa barbe tressaillant de malice. « Très joli, très joli », dit-il en ramassant un gland particulièrement gros. « Mais ne serait-ce pas plus... excitant s'ils bougeaient ? » Avant que quiconque ne puisse l'arrêter, il répandit une poignée de « poussière de jitter » enchantée sur la table. Les glands frémirent, puis de minuscules pattes apparurent et commencèrent à courir comme des scarabées frénétiques. Les écureuils poussèrent des cris perçants, plongeant à la poursuite de leurs glands en fuite. Elder Maple lança un regard noir à Wimble. « Vraiment ? » demanda-t-elle. « Quoi ? » dit Wimble en souriant. « C'est plus amusant comme ça ! » La dégustation de tartes Ensuite, le concours de dégustation de tartes, un moment fort du festival, a eu lieu. Des hérissons, des renards et même une famille de loutres avaient apporté leurs plus belles pâtisseries pour être jugées. Wimble, bien sûr, n'avait pas l'intention de laisser tout cela se dérouler sans accroc. Alors que les juges commençaient à goûter les tartes, Wimble se pencha vers Chestnut. « Regardez ça », murmura-t-il en sortant une petite fiole de sa poche. L’étiquette disait : « Poudre pop au poivre ». D'un mouvement de poignet, il répandit la poudre sur les tartes. Quelques instants plus tard, les juges prirent leur prochaine bouchée et commencèrent immédiatement à hoqueter de petites flammes. Le juge renard hurla, agitant sa langue, tandis que le hérisson roula sur le sol, envoyant des étincelles. « Un goût ardent ! » déclara Wimble en frappant des mains. « Un choix audacieux ! » Chestnut gémit, secouant la tête tandis que le chaos se déroulait. Le défilé des bois de cerf Le point d'orgue du festival fut la parade des bois de cerf, où les cerfs de la forêt exhibaient leurs bois richement décorés. Chestnut, avec sa couronne éblouissante de glands et de feuilles, était clairement le favori, jusqu'à ce que Wimble décide de « rehausser » la compétition. « Ne bouge pas », dit Wimble en grimpant sur la tête de Chestnut et en répandant quelques baies enchantées sur les guirlandes. Les baies commencèrent à briller, projetant une lumière rouge chatoyante qui illumina toute la clairière. « Regardez ! » s’écria Wimble alors que Chestnut entrait dans le ring de parade. La foule haleta de stupeur, mais son admiration se transforma rapidement en confusion lorsque les baies commencèrent à éclater comme des feux d’artifice. Des étincelles brillantes jaillirent dans les airs, surprenant les autres cerfs. Un cerf s’enfuit, dispersant des rubans partout, tandis qu’une biche trébucha sur sa propre guirlande. « WIMBLE ! » cria Elder Maple en serrant ses petits poings. « Tu es allée trop loin cette fois ! » « Trop loin ? » s’exclama Wimble, feignant d’être choqué. « C’est de l’art ! » L'évasion Se rendant compte qu'il était sur le point d'être chassé du festival (une fois de plus), Wimble tira sur les rênes de Chestnut. « Il est temps d'y aller, mon pote ! » dit-il. Le cerf renifla, visiblement peu impressionné, mais s'envola au galop, ses bois brillants éclairant leur chemin à travers la forêt. Derrière eux, frère Maple cria : « Tu es banni du festival à vie, Wimble ! » « Des promesses, des promesses ! » s’écria Wimble par-dessus son épaule en riant. Les conséquences Plus tard dans la soirée, alors qu'ils se reposaient sous un érable doré, Wimble tapota le flanc de Chestnut. « Tu dois admettre que nous avons volé la vedette », dit-il en souriant. Le cerf roula des yeux mais ne protesta pas. « L’année prochaine, » continua Wimble, « il faudra voir encore plus loin. Peut-être… des citrouilles enchantées ? Qu’en penses-tu ? » Chestnut poussa un long soupir las, mais Wimble le prit pour un accord. « Je savais que tu serais à bord », dit-il en s'adossant contre l'arbre. Tandis que les feuilles dorées tombaient autour d'eux, Wimble sourit intérieurement. Chaos, rires et une touche de magie : une autre journée parfaite dans la forêt de Braise. Apportez la magie de l'automne à la maison Vous aimez l'aventure automnale espiègle de Wimble et Chestnut ? Capturez le charme vibrant et la fantaisie de leur histoire avec notre collection exclusive de produits inspirés de ce conte enchanteur : Impressions sur bois : ajoutez une touche rustique à votre décoration intérieure avec cette scène magnifiquement vibrante sur bois. Tapisseries : Transformez vos murs en un pays des merveilles automnal avec ce design magique. Puzzles : Amusez-vous à reconstituer le plaisir de l'aventure fantaisiste de Wimble et Chestnut. Sacs fourre-tout : emportez le charme de cette balade magique en forêt avec vous partout où vous allez. Commencez votre collection dès aujourd'hui et laissez Wimble et Chestnut apporter la beauté et la malice de l'automne dans votre vie !