charming gnome folklore

par Bill Tiepelman

The Eggcellent Trio

In the heart of the Whimwood Glen, nestled between mossy tree trunks and wild cherry blossoms, lived three eccentric gnome siblings: Bramble, Tilly, and Pip. Known collectively (and proudly) as “The Eggcellent Trio,” their reputation stretched far beyond their size — which was roughly two and a half carrots high. They weren’t famous for being wise, nor particularly helpful. No, their fame came from a very specific seasonal skill: Easter egg smuggling. Not smuggling *from* anyone, mind you — smuggling *to*. Their mission? Delivering mysterious, oddly magical eggs to unsuspecting woodland residents who clearly didn’t ask for them. “It’s called surprise joy, Pip,” Bramble would say, polishing a particularly glittery teal egg while his beard twitched with excitement. “The best kind of joy is the unsolicited kind.” “Like mushrooms in your tea,” Tilly added, cheerfully placing a glow-in-the-dark egg inside a squirrel’s sock drawer. She wasn’t quite sure the squirrel even wore socks, but the drawer had a hinge and that was reason enough. Each egg was a work of odd art: some chirped when opened, others puffed confetti laced with giggles, and one memorable creation laid a tiny marshmallow every full moon. They weren’t practical, but practicality was rarely on the menu in Whimwood. The trio coordinated with military-level precision. Pip was in charge of reconnaissance — mostly because he was sneaky and once accidentally dated a vole for two weeks without anyone noticing. Bramble crafted the eggs using recipes that may or may not have included fermented jelly beans. And Tilly? She was the getaway driver, using her handmade leaf-cart which only occasionally caught fire on downhill slopes. This year’s mission was different. Bigger. Bolder. Borderline illegal in three counties (if gnome law were ever enforced, which, thankfully, it wasn’t). They had set their sights on High Hare Haven — the elite burrow community of the Easter Bunny himself. “We’re going to sneak into the Bunny’s personal egg vault,” Bramble declared, nose twitching with anticipation, “and leave our eggs there. Reverse robbery. Joy-burglary. Egg-bomb of happiness.” “That’s… bold,” Pip said, already halfway into a bush for surveillance. “Also, we might die. But like… in a festive way.” “Imagine the Bunny’s face,” Tilly sighed dreamily, tucking a giggle-egg under her bonnet. “He’ll open his vault and be confused and delighted. Or mildly concussed. Either way, a memory.” So they plotted. And packed. And possibly had too much elderflower wine. At dawn, with cheeks rosy and hats lopsided, the Eggcellent Trio rolled toward legend, wobbling in their little leaf-cart full of chaos, glitter, and cheer. The sun had barely yawned over Whimwood Glen when the Eggcellent Trio rolled to a halt behind a suspiciously large mushroom that Tilly claimed had “excellent acoustics for eavesdropping.” Before them loomed High Hare Haven — a sprawling underground compound disguised as a hill, complete with a topiary shaped like a smug-looking rabbit and a "No Solicitors" sign that Pip was certain had once been a gnome. “Alright,” Bramble whispered, adjusting his oversized pom-pom hat like a war general donning his helmet. “We’re going in quiet, fast, and as delightfully illegal as gnome-ly possible.” “Are we sure this isn’t just trespassing?” Tilly asked, adjusting her knitted bloomers. “Like, Eastery trespassing, sure. But still…” “No. It’s reverse burglary,” Bramble insisted. “Totally different. We’re leaving things. That’s gifting with flair.” High Hare Haven was guarded by a platoon of overly serious bunnies wearing aviator goggles and fitted vests embroidered with “EggSec.” Pip, the smallest and sneakiest of the three, executed his signature move: the Hop ’n’ Drop. It involved hopping like a bunny, dropping like a gnome, and generally confusing everyone within a 10-foot radius. He slipped past the guards using a cardboard decoy shaped like a motivational quote about carrots. Inside, the halls shimmered with magical wards — pastel runes glowing faintly, whispering phrases like “Access Denied,” “Hippity Hop No,” and “Don’t Even Try It, Chad.” Pip snorted and picked the lock with a candy cane sharpened to a felony-level point. He was in. Meanwhile, Bramble and Tilly made their approach from the rear, scaling a jellybean drainage chute. It was slick. It was sticky. It was absolutely not up to code. “Why is everything in here edible and also a death trap?” Tilly hissed, chewing absently on her sleeve. “That’s called branding,” Bramble replied. “Now climb.” After what felt like a lifetime of crawling through a licorice-scented wind tunnel, they reached the vault: a massive golden egg embossed with the words “BunVault 9000 – Authorized Whiskers Only.” Pip was already there, munching nervously on a marshmallow decoy egg. “Bad news,” he whispered. “The Bunny’s in there. Like, in the vault. Napping. On a pile of Fabergé backups and Cadbury prototypes. He looks very… serene.” “So we stealth it,” Bramble said, wide-eyed. “Drop the eggs, don’t wake the bun, get out. Like folklore ninjas.” “With hats,” Tilly added. They crept in, balancing their carefully curated chaos-eggs in gloved hands. Pip tiptoed over a glowing carrot-shaped alarm, while Tilly used her scarf to muffle the sound of glitter spilling from her surprise-bomb egg. Bramble, too round to be stealthy, rolled like an oddly soft cannonball behind a stack of commemorative Peep dispensers. Then it happened. Someone — and historians would never agree on who — sneezed. It was not a small sneeze. It was a gnome-sized, pollen-induced, allergy-fueled kaboom of a sneeze that echoed off the vault walls like a jazz solo on bath salts. The Bunny stirred. His left ear twitched. One eye fluttered open… and locked onto Pip, who froze mid-egg placement like a tiny Easter-themed criminal caught mid-gift. “...The fluff,” the Bunny growled, voice deep and oddly seductive for a rabbit. “Who the fluff are you?” The trio panicked. Bramble launched a Confetti Egg of Tactical Distraction™. It exploded in a blast of rose-scented streamers and faint giggling noises. Tilly dove under a velvet table. Pip did a cartwheel so perfect it nearly earned him a sponsor. “We’re joy insurgents!” Bramble cried, crawling toward the exit. “We come bearing unsolicited delight!” “And artisan eggery!” added Tilly, throwing a marshmallow grenade that fizzled with the smell of nostalgia. The Bunny blinked. Then blinked again. He stood slowly, brushing glitter off his tail with dramatic flair. “You… … to give me eggs?” “Well, we weren’t going to just keep them,” Pip muttered, somewhat insulted. For a long moment, the room held its breath. The Bunny stared at the chaos. At the rainbow of odd eggs now nestled among his curated collection. At the gnomes—wide-eyed, covered in sparkles, one of them chewing his own hat out of nerves. Then the Bunny… laughed. A soft, huffy kind of chuckle at first, which soon snowballed into a deep, belly-hopping cackle. “You’re all certifiably insane,” he said. “And possibly my new favorite people.” He offered them a cup of carrot espresso and a chocolate cigar. “No one’s surprised me in a hundred years,” he admitted. “I’d forgotten what nonsense felt like. It’s delightful. Dangerous, but delightful.” The Eggcellent Trio beamed. Bramble wept a little, blaming it on the espresso. Pip tried to pickpocket a Fabergé just for old time’s sake. Tilly gifted the Bunny a “Tickle Egg” which snorted every time someone walked past it. They didn’t get arrested. They got invited back. Officially. As chaos consultants. From that day forward, every Easter morning in Whimwood and beyond, odd little eggs would appear where none had been — on doorknobs, in shoes, under teacups. They didn’t hatch anything living, but they often hissed compliments or whispered off-key songs. No one knew where they came from. Except everyone did. And they smiled. Because somewhere out there, three gnomes in knitted clothes were probably giggling behind a bush, cartwheeling through danger, and redefining what it meant to deliver joy… one wildly unnecessary egg at a time.     Spring turned to summer, and summer to cider-season, but the whispers of *The Eggcellent Trio* only grew louder. Children would wake to find eggs that burped haikus. Grandmothers discovered pastel spheres in their breadboxes that told scandalous jokes in Old Gnomish. One bishop swore his sermon notes were replaced by a talking yolk that recited Shakespeare, backwards. The Bunny — now their greatest accomplice — commissioned them as official “Agents of Anarchy & Cheer,” complete with embroidered sashes they never wore because Pip used his to smuggle tarts. Their leaf-cart was upgraded to a licorice-fueled hover-sled, which exploded often and to great applause. Occasionally, other gnomes tried to copy them. One trio attempted a "Maypole Mayhem" stunt with explosive taffy. It ended in melted shoes and a goat with trust issues. The truth was simple: only Bramble, Tilly, and Pip had the right balance of heart, humor, and total disregard for sensible planning. Now and then, on especially magical mornings, if you follow a trail of giggles and candy wrappers deep into Whimwood Glen, you might stumble upon a scene beneath a cherry blossom tree — three gnomes, bellies full of laughter, arms full of nonsense, and eyes twinkling with plans they probably shouldn't share. And somewhere in a vault, in the heart of High Hare Haven, a single egg sits on a velvet pillow. It hums softly. It smells faintly of cookies. And once a year, it cracks open — not with a chick, but with a new idea. An idea wild enough to earn its place in the legend of the Eggcellent Trio… ...the only gnomes to ever break into a vault to break out a holiday.     Love the tale of Bramble, Tilly, and Pip? Bring their mischievous charm into your home with artful keepsakes from our Captured Tales collection. Whether you’re looking to smile every morning with a cozy throw pillow, puzzle your way into gnome-lore with a delightful jigsaw puzzle, or send joy in the mail with a whimsical greeting card — this trio’s legendary spirit is ready to hop into your heart and your space. Adorn your walls with the magic of mischief using our vibrant metal print or turn a plain space into a giggle-worthy nook with our enchanting tapestry. It’s not just art — it’s an egg-ceptional adventure, waiting to be displayed. Explore more Captured Tales Art at shop.unfocussed.com and let the legend live on... one egg, one giggle, one gnome at a time.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Easter Gnome's Secret Stash

Of Eggs and Egos It was the Thursday before Easter, and somewhere in the overgrown back corner of an English cottage garden, a gnome named Barnaby Thistlebum was preparing for what he considered to be the most important event of the year: the Annual Egg Hiding Championship. An event so sacred, so deeply rooted in gnome culture, that it made the Summer Solstice Pie Bake-Off look like amateur hour. Barnaby wasn't your typical gnome. While most of his kin were content with humming over mushrooms or pruning violets with unnecessary drama, Barnaby had ambition. And not just the small kind. We’re talking *legendary underground chocolate mafia* levels of ambition. His dream? To become the most feared and revered egg-hider in all the woodland realms. This year, however, the stakes were high. Rumors whispered through tulip petals and buzzed by gossipy bees told of a challenger—a mischievous sprite known only as “Twig.” Twig, it was said, had mastered the art of egg invisibility and once hid an egg inside a robin’s nest mid-flight. Barnaby, naturally, took offense to this. “Nonsense,” he scoffed, peering through his monocle at the basket of glittering, impossibly well-decorated eggs he’d lacquered himself. “Floating eggs. Invisible eggs. What’s next, eggs that quote Nietzsche?” Armed with nothing but his own ingenuity and a suspiciously sticky map of the garden, Barnaby set out at dawn. His beard was braided for aerodynamic efficiency. His olive shirt bore the proud badge of the Gnomeland Security Agency (a title he awarded himself, complete with laminated ID card). And in his hands? Two eggs of epic misdirection—one filled with confetti and the other with marzipan whiskey truffles. He placed eggs in birdhouses, teacups, and the hollow of a boot once owned by a garden witch with a gambling problem. Every egg had its story. The pink-striped one with the glitter shell? Hidden beneath a dandelion trap that would sneeze glitter on any who disturbed it. The blue speckled egg? Dangling from a fishing line rigged between two daffodils, swaying like bait for curious children and cocky squirrels. By mid-afternoon, Barnaby was sweaty, smug, and just a little bit drunk on the truffle fillings he'd “quality checked.” With only one egg left, he sat on a mossy rock, admiring his handiwork. The garden looked innocent enough—an explosion of color and bloom—but beneath the daffodil dazzle lurked 43 impossibly hidden eggs and one emotionally unstable toad guarding a golden one. “Let Twig try to top this,” Barnaby muttered, pulling his hat over his eyes and collapsing backward into a pile of lavender. He laughed to himself, then quickly stopped, realizing his laughter sounded just a bit too villainous. “Damn it, keep it whimsical,” he reminded himself aloud. The Great Egg War of Willowbend When Barnaby Thistlebum awoke the next morning, he was immediately aware of two things: one, the bees were unnaturally quiet, and two, he’d been pranked. It wasn’t the type of gentle prank one might expect in the gnome world—like daffodil dye in your tea or enchanted hiccups that sang madrigals. No. This was full-on sabotage. The kind of prank that screamed “war has been declared and it’s pastel-colored.” His eggs… were gone. All 43 of them, plus the emotionally unstable toad. In their place: ceramic decoys, each one shaped like a smug-looking acorn with Twig’s initials carved on the bottom in aggressive cursive. Even worse, a hand-written note lay at his feet, folded into the shape of a duck (a show-off move if there ever was one): “Nice hiding spots, Thistlebum. I found them all before brunch. Thought I’d leave you something to remember me by. Hoppily yours, —Twig 🧚‍♂️” Barnaby’s fists clenched. Somewhere deep in his beard, a robin nesting for the season sensed a tremor of rage and relocated to a less chaotic gnome. “This. Means. WAR,” he hissed, channeling the fury of a thousand overcooked scones. And so began the Great Egg War of Willowbend. Barnaby sprang into action like a garden ninja fueled by spite and caffeine. He sprinted (okay, briskly waddled) back to his burrow, where he retrieved his secret stash of emergency eggs. Not just any eggs, mind you—these were trick eggs, each one a miracle of gnome engineering and bad decisions. Among them: The Screamer: emits the sound of an angry goat when touched. The Sleeper: contains poppy spores to mildly sedate nosy elves. The Gossip: whispers your secrets back at you until you cry. Barnaby recruited allies—mostly disgruntled woodland creatures and one exiled hedgehog who owed him a favor. Together, they deployed decoys and diversions, leaving a trail of false clues across the garden. Gnome scouts delivered misinformation wrapped in daisy petals. Smoke bombs made of thyme and sassafras exploded into clouds of lavender deception. By twilight, the garden had become a minefield of psychological warfare. And then, just as Barnaby prepared to unleash The Whispering Egg (a sentient creation banned in three provinces), a shriek cut through the air. “AAAAUGH! MY HAIR IS FULL OF HONEY!” Twig. The sprite emerged from the rosebushes, soaked head to toe in wild honey and wearing a daisy chain crown now swarming with bees. Barnaby cackled with the kind of unhinged joy usually reserved for the final act of a Shakespearean tragedy. “You fell for the Bee Trap!” he shouted, brandishing a spoon like a sword. “You sticky little goblin!” Twig glared, swatting bees and dignity with equal desperation. “You planted eggs full of jam in my treehouse!” “That was diplomacy!” Barnaby countered. “You vandalized my truffle stash!” “You threatened me with an egg that quotes Nietzsche!” “That egg was philosophical, not aggressive!” And then, something strange happened. They laughed. Both of them, doubled over in the honeysuckle, choking on pollen and absurdity. The war had lasted less than a day, but it was legendary. And as the moon rose over the garden, they sat together beneath a weeping willow, sipping rosehip tea spiked with questionable gnome brandy, watching fireflies blink over the now egg-littered battlefield. “You know,” Twig said, “you’re not half bad… for a lawn ornament with control issues.” “And you’re not completely insufferable,” Barnaby replied, raising a tiny toast. “Just ninety percent.” They clinked teacups. Peace was declared. Sort of. Every year since, they’ve kept the tradition alive—a new Egg War each spring, escalating in chaos and creativity. And though the garden suffers for it, the residents agree on one thing: Nothing brings a community together like petty rivalry, surprise bees, and an emotionally unstable toad with a grudge.     Epilogue: The Legend Grows Years passed. Seasons turned. The garden bloomed, withered, bloomed again. Children came and went, occasionally stumbling across a glittery egg tucked beneath a fern or a suspiciously sarcastic toad loitering by the compost heap. But the legend… oh, the legend remained. Barnaby Thistlebum and Twig the Sprite became something of a seasonal myth—two mischievous forces of nature bound by rivalry, respect, and an unhealthy obsession with outwitting one another via painted eggs. Each spring, the garden braced for their antics like a tavern bracing for karaoke night: with mild dread, popcorn, and a first-aid kit. The gnomes began betting on who would “win” each year. The woodland creatures organized viewing parties (squirrels made excellent commentators, albeit biased). And the bees? Well, they unionized. You can only be used as a prank so many times before demanding dental coverage. Somewhere beneath the oldest oak in the garden, there now rests a small, moss-covered plaque. No one remembers who placed it there, but it reads simply: “In memory of the Great Egg War: Where chaos bloomed, laughter echoed, and dignity was lightly poached.” Barnaby still roams the garden. Occasionally seen sipping dandelion wine, crafting decoy eggs that smell like existential dread, or mentoring a new generation of prank-happy gnomelings. Twig? She visits now and then—always unannounced, always glitter-bombing the bird bath, and always with a wicked grin. And every Easter, without fail, a new egg appears in the center of the garden. Just one. Perfectly painted. Strategically placed. Containing, perhaps, a note, a tiny riddle, or something that meows. No one knows who leaves it. Everyone knows who it’s from. And the game? It’s never really over.     Bring the Mischief Home Love the tale of Barnaby Thistlebum and the Great Egg War? Bring a piece of the magic into your world with our exclusive “The Easter Gnome’s Secret Stash” collection by Bill and Linda Tiepelman—available now on Unfocussed. From quirky gifts to seasonal décor, there’s something for every mischievous heart: 🧵 Wall Tapestries – Bring the garden mischief to life on your walls 🖼️ Canvas Prints – Vibrant, whimsical, and gallery-ready 👜 Tote Bags – Perfect for egg hunts or chaotic grocery runs 💌 Greeting Cards – Send a little mischief this Easter 📓 Spiral Notebooks – For planning your own egg-centric escapades Shop the full collection now at shop.unfocussed.com and embrace your inner trickster.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Elder of the Enchanted Path

In the heart of the Verdant Woodlands—just past the babbling creek that sounds suspiciously like it's gossiping—stood a moss-covered stump known only to a few as the “Proposal Post.” It was not used for mail, mind you. It was used for moments. Grand, clumsy, blush-colored moments. And it was here that the Elder of the Enchanted Path, a gnome named Thistlewhip Fernwhistle (though friends just called him “Thish”), had decided to make his move. Thish was old. Not old as in creaky or cranky, but old as in "once dated a dryad who turned into a willow mid-conversation." He’d seen thirty-three thousand springs, or so he claimed—though most suspected it was closer to seven hundred. Either way, age hadn't dulled his sense of style. He wore a robe that shimmered faintly like beetle wings, boots made from repurposed pinecone scales, and a floppy hat stitched with kiss-marks collected over centuries. No one knew how he got them. No one asked. Springtime always made him... itchy. Not in a hay-fever kind of way, but in a soul-thirsty, heart-tingly kind of way. The kind that makes one write poetry on mushroom caps or serenade chipmunks who didn't ask for it. And this year, the itch had a name: Briarrose O’Bloom. Briarrose was the head florist of the forest—a dryad with curls like cherry blossoms and a laugh that sounded like rain on tulip petals. She ran “Petal Provocateur,” a scandalously delightful flower cart where the bouquets were arranged to match your deepest, possibly even your naughtiest, desires. She once made a tulip arrangement so evocative that a centaur fell in love with himself. Thish had admired her from afar (well, from behind a tree… regularly), but today was the day he would step into the light. Today he would declare his affection—with a bouquet of his own making. He had spent the last three days crafting it. Not just picking flowers—no, this was an event. He had bartered for moon-drenched daisies, stolen a honeysuckle kiss from a sleeping bee, and convinced a peony to open two weeks early by reciting scandalous limericks. At last, the bouquet was done. Full of pinks, purples, blushes and scents that could render even the grumpiest toad euphoric, it was bound with a ribbon made from spider-silk and a whisper of thyme. He stepped out onto the mossy trail, bouquet in hand, heart doing cartwheels. Ahead, the cart glowed beneath hanging lanterns, and there she was—Briarrose—flirting with a hedgehog in a bowtie (he was a loyal customer). She laughed, tossing her curls, and Thish forgot how legs worked for a second. He approached. Slowly. Carefully. Like one might approach a wild unicorn or a particularly judgmental goose. “Ahem,” he said, in a voice that was far too high for his body and startled a nearby mushroom into fainting. Briarrose turned. Her eyes—violet and wise—softened. “Oh, Elder Thish. What a surprise.” “It’s… a spring gift. A bouquet. I made it. For you,” he said, offering it with a trembling hand and a hopeful smile. “And also, if possible… a proposal.” She blinked. “A proposal?” “For a walk!” he added quickly, cheeks blooming with embarrassment. “A walk. Through the woods. Together. No... wedlock unless mutually discussed in twenty years.” She laughed. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. But like bells dancing in the wind. “Thish Fernwhistle,” she said, taking the bouquet and breathing it in. “This might be the most ridiculous, romantic thing I’ve seen all season.” Then she leaned in, kissed his cheek, and whispered: “Pick me up at dusk. Wear something scandalous.” And just like that, spring came alive. Dusk in the Verdant Woodlands was a sensual thing. The sky flushed lavender, tree branches stretched like lazy lovers, and the air smelled of sap, honeysuckle, and just the faintest hint of cedar smoke and temptation. Thish, true to his word, had dressed scandalously. Well, for a gnome. His robe had been swapped for a vest stitched from foxglove petals, his boots polished until the pinecone scales gleamed, and beneath his famous hat he’d tucked a sprig of lavender “just in case things got steamy.” Briarrose had outdone herself. She wore a gown made entirely of woven vine and blooming jasmine that shifted with her every breath. Butterflies seemed to orbit her like moons. A glowbug landed on her shoulder and promptly fainted. “You look like trouble,” she said with a grin, offering her arm. “You look like a good reason to misbehave,” Thish replied, taking it. They walked. Past willows humming lullabies. Past frogs playing banjo. Past a couple of raccoons necking behind a toadstool and pretending not to notice. The mood was thick with pollen and possibility. Eventually, they reached a clearing lit by floating lanterns. In the middle stood a picnic blanket so elaborate it might have violated several zoning laws. There was elderberry wine. Sugarroot pastries. Chocolate truffles shaped like acorns. Even a bowl of “Consent Cookies”—each one labeled with messages like “Kiss?”, “Flirt?”, “Get Weird?” and “More Wine First?” “You planned this?” Briarrose asked, raising a brow. “I panicked earlier and overcompensated,” Thish admitted. “There’s also a backup string quartet of badgers if things go awkward.” “That’s... kind of perfect.” They sat. They sipped. They nibbled on everything but the cookies—those required mutual cookie signals. The conversation meandered through poetry, pollination, failed love spells, and one deeply embarrassing story involving a unicorn and a very poorly labeled bottle of rosewater. And then—just when the air was perfectly still, when the last rays of sun kissed the tree branches—Briarrose leaned in. “You know,” she said softly, her eyes gleaming, “I’ve been arranging bouquets for half the forest. All kinds. Lust, longing, revenge-flirtations, awkward apologies. But no one’s ever made one for me like yours.” Thish blinked. “Oh. Well. I suppose—” She placed a single finger on his lips. “Shhh. Less talking.” Then she kissed him. Long and slow. The kind of kiss that made the wind pause, the fireflies turn up their glow, and at least three nearby squirrels applaud. When they finally pulled back, both were flushed and slightly breathless. “So…” Thish grinned. “Do I get a second date? Or at least a sensual bouquet review?” She giggled. “You’re already trending in the fern networks.” And under the soft twilight, two hearts—older than most, sillier than many—bloomed like springtime had written them into a love story all its own.     Epilogue: The Bloom Continues Spring turned to summer, and the forest, well—it talked. Not gossip, exactly. More like gleeful speculation. A fox claimed she’d seen Thish and Briarrose dancing barefoot beneath a raincloud. A squirrel swore he spotted them picnicking nude in a tulip field (highly unconfirmed). And a particularly smug robin reported hearing giggles echoing from inside a hollow tree. All we know for certain is this: the “Proposal Post” now had a permanent bouquet atop it, refreshed every full moon by unseen hands. Briarrose’s flower cart began offering a new line called “Thistlewhips”—chaotic little bundles of love, passion, and one wildcard bloom that may or may not inspire spontaneous foot rubs. And Thish? He wrote a collection of romantic haikus titled “Petals and Puns”, available only in bark-scroll editions, and only if you asked the badger librarian very, very nicely. They never married—because they didn’t need to. Love, in their part of the world, wasn’t something to bind. It was something to bloom, gently and wildly, year after year. And every spring, if you walk the Enchanted Path just after dusk, you might find two figures laughing beneath the lanterns—sharing cookies, kisses, and the occasional mischievous wink at the moon. May you too find someone who brings you flowers you didn’t know you needed… and kisses you like they were written in the bark of your bones.     🌿 Explore the Artwork This story was inspired by the original artwork "Elder of the Enchanted Path", available exclusively through our image archive. Bring home a bit of woodland whimsy with fine art prints, digital downloads, and licensing options. ➡️ View the artwork in the Unfocussed Archive

par Bill Tiepelman

Blossoms, Beards, and Forever

Deep in the heart of the Whispering Woods, where the moonlight danced with the shadows and the flowers bloomed with a radiant glow, there lived two gnomes with a reputation for mischief. Orin, with his snow-white beard and twinkling eyes, was a tinkerer who spent his days crafting clever contraptions. Lila, with her fiery red curls peeking out from beneath her floral-crowned hat, was a healer with a penchant for sneaking a sip of enchanted mead from her own supply. Together, they were the forest’s most infamous troublemakers—and its most enduring love story. Orin and Lila had been partners in crime and heart for decades. They’d stolen enchanted honey from the Fairy Queen’s garden, tricked a troll into giving up his golden lute, and once, quite famously, outwitted a grumpy owl wizard to win back a stolen mushroom crown. Yet tonight, something was different. Tonight, Orin had a plan—one that didn’t involve pranks or potions. The Mischievous Proposal Under the glowing arch of heart-shaped flowers he had secretly cultivated for weeks, Orin sat nervously, twirling a tiny wooden box in his hands. “Do you think she’ll like it?” he whispered to a firefly buzzing around his head. The firefly blinked twice, a silent encouragement. At that moment, Lila appeared, her dress swirling like a petal caught in the wind. “What are you up to, old man?” she teased, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “I saw the glow from a mile away. You’re not trying to lure the Fairy Queen here again, are you?” Orin chuckled, patting the mossy spot beside him. “No mischief tonight, my dear. Just you and me—and a little something I’ve been working on.” A Night of Revelations Lila’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she sat down beside him, her hand brushing against his. The warmth of his touch, even after all these years, still sent a thrill through her. Orin cleared his throat and opened the wooden box, revealing a ring carved from the rarest moonstone, shimmering with an otherworldly light. “Lila,” he began, his voice unusually serious. “You’ve been my partner in everything—mischief, magic, and love. I’ve tricked trolls and dodged curses with you by my side. But I’ve never taken the time to say what you really mean to me.” “Orin,” Lila interrupted, her voice trembling with amusement and emotion, “are you proposing to me? After seventy years of adventures?” Orin grinned, the twinkle in his eye brighter than ever. “Yes. And before you start, no, this isn’t enchanted, it won’t explode, and it definitely won’t turn your finger green. It’s just... me, asking you, to be mine forever.” A Mischievous Twist Lila took the ring, examining it with a critical eye. Then, with a sly smile, she slipped it onto her finger. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “But you know, Orin, I can’t make this too easy for you.” Before Orin could respond, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a tiny vial of shimmering blue liquid. “This,” she said, holding it up, “is a truth serum. If you drink it and tell me why you really love me, I’ll say yes.” Orin raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “You’re going to make me work for this, aren’t you?” “Always,” Lila replied, her eyes sparkling. The Truth Unveiled Orin took the vial and drank it without hesitation. The serum worked instantly, its magic pulling the truth from his heart. “I love you, Lila,” he said, his voice softer now, “because you’re wild and fearless. Because you make the impossible seem like a game we can win. Because you’re the only one who can keep up with me—and the only one I want to keep up with forever.” Lila’s mischievous smile faltered, replaced by a softness that made her cheeks glow brighter than the flowers around them. “Well, you big fool,” she whispered, leaning in close, “you’ve gone and stolen my heart all over again.” As their lips met beneath the glowing arch, the fireflies danced around them, casting their light over the enchanted garden. The truth serum, the moonstone ring, and the magical heart-shaped arch—all of it faded into the background. In that moment, there was only Orin and Lila, two mischievous souls bound by a love as eternal and magical as the forest itself. Epilogue In the days that followed, the news of Orin and Lila’s engagement spread through the Whispering Woods. The Fairy Queen sent enchanted flowers as a gift (perhaps as a peace offering for past pranks), the troll grudgingly played his golden lute at their celebration, and the owl wizard sent a cryptic message of congratulations. But none of it mattered to Orin and Lila. They were too busy planning their next adventure—this time, as husband and wife. After all, mischief was more fun when it was a family affair.     Bring the Magic Home Celebrate the enchanting love story of Orin and Lila with our exclusive collection of "Blossoms, Beards, and Forever" products. Perfect for adding a whimsical touch to your space or as a heartfelt gift for someone special. Explore our featured items: Enchanted Tapestry – Transform any room with a stunning, wide-format depiction of this magical scene. Canvas Print – A timeless way to capture the charm of Orin and Lila’s love story. Whimsical Puzzle – Piece together this romantic adventure, one magical detail at a time. Tote Bag – Carry the spirit of the Whispering Woods with you wherever you go. Click on the links above to shop and bring this enchanting tale to life in your own unique way.