comedic dragon

par Bill Tiepelman

Snuggle Scales

Of Blossoms, Boredom, and Blunt Claws Snuggle Scales was not her given name. No self-respecting dragon would hatch with a name that sounded like it belonged to a toddler’s bedtime plushie. No, she was born as Flareth Sparkfang the Third, a name that demanded respect, fear, and at the very least, a mildly dramatic soundtrack. But that all changed when she tumbled—quite literally—out of her cozy cave and landed butt-first in a bed of cherry blossoms, wings tangled and claws pointed skyward, like a fallen croissant with an attitude. That’s when the forest gnomes found her. All seventy-three of them. “OH MY GOODNESS, IT’S GOT TOES!” one of them shrieked with the volume of a kazoo in heat. “AND LOOK AT HER LITTLE BELLY FLUFF!” another gushed, already crocheting a pink bow mid-hyperventilation. The vote to rename her "Snuggle Scales" was unanimous. Flarespark-whatever was never mentioned again—except by her therapist (a deeply overworked toad named Dr. Gloomp). Now, Snuggle Scales lived in the *Whifflewood Glade*, an aggressively cheerful corner of the Enchanted Lands that always smelled faintly of cinnamon and gossip. It was springtime, which meant the petals were falling like pink confetti, the birds were practicing passive-aggressive harmonies, and Snuggle Scales had reached peak boredom. She'd already rearranged her claw polish collection (sixteen shades of 'Molten Mischief'), ironed her tail ribbons, and sorted her wing glitter by sass level. So, she decided to do something no baby dragon had dared before. She would leave the glade. She would enter The Human Realm. Why? Because dragons were meant to soar, not pose for gnome-sponsored tea parties with daffodil cupcakes and emotional support hedgehogs named Crispin. And if one more elf tried to paint her scales for “pastel realism” art class, she was going to burn their easel into bite-sized regret. So, with her wings fluffed, talons sharpened, and bow freshly fluffed, Snuggle Scales grabbed her emotional support mushroom (don’t judge), did a dramatic stretch for the imaginary audience, and waddled confidently toward the portal tree. Which, of course, had a “Wet Bark” sign hanging from it. “You have GOT to be kidding me,” she muttered, tapping the wood like a suspicious landlord. “I swear, if I get moss on my tail again, I’m suing the forest.” And with one last eye-roll at the overly fragrant breeze, Snuggle Scales stepped through the tree, into a world of chaos, caffeine, and, as she would soon discover, feral toddlers at birthday parties. Caffeine, Cupcakes, and Catastrophic Bounce Houses The Human Realm was not what Snuggle Scales expected. She had envisioned grand towers, mysterious music, and possibly a ritualistic offering of snacks. Instead, she crash-landed in the middle of a suburban park — face-first into a pink plastic picnic table covered in unicorn napkins and half-eaten cupcakes. A small human screamed. Then another. Then several. Within seconds, she was surrounded by a battalion of sticky-fingered, frosting-smeared toddlers — the terrifying kind that ask “Why?” five hundred times and think personal space is a myth. “LOOK! A LIZARD!” one of them shrieked, pointing at her with a sparkly wand that smelled like raspberry sanitizer and poor decisions. “She’s a DINOSAUR!” said another, already attempting to mount her tail like a pony ride. Snuggle Scales was two seconds away from turning this party into a fiery lesson in boundaries, but just then — she locked eyes with the ringleader. A tiny human queen in a glitter crown and a tutu the size of a small planet. “You’re invited,” the girl said solemnly, offering her a cupcake with the confidence of someone who had never been denied anything in her life. “You’re my special guest now.” Snuggle Scales blinked. The cupcake was vanilla. It had edible glitter. And more importantly, it was presented without any adult supervision. With great dignity (and minor frosting inhalation), she accepted. Two hours later, Snuggle Scales was inexplicably wearing a Hello Kitty sticker on her snout, had adopted the name “Miss Wiggles,” and had somehow agreed to be the grand finale in a game called *Pin the Sparkle on the Reptile.* “This is a new low,” she muttered, glancing sideways at a balloon animal that looked like a depressed goat. “I used to be feared. I used to be majestic.” “You used to be lonely,” said a tiny voice from under the cupcake table. It was the birthday girl, now minus the crown and frosting but plus a surprisingly sharp sense of emotional timing. Snuggle Scales looked at her — really looked at her. She had that messy, defiant, beautiful chaos that reminded the dragon of spring mornings in the glade. Of imperfect gnome poetry. Of soft petals on scales and snorting laughter during daffodil charades. And for the first time since she'd crossed into this sugar-coated world, something inside her softened. “Do you... want to pet my toe beans?” she offered, lifting a foot. The child gasped in reverent delight. “YES.” And just like that, an unspoken contract was sealed: the girl would never tell anyone that Miss Wiggles had accidentally belched glitter mid-yawn, and Snuggle Scales would never admit that she now owned a friendship bracelet made of licorice string and rainbow beads. “You’re magic,” the girl whispered, curling up beside her under the shade of the party tent. “Can you stay forever?” Snuggle Scales hesitated. Forever was a long time. Long enough for more birthdays. More cupcakes. More of this squishy, imperfect chaos that somehow made her scales feel warmer. And maybe… just maybe… long enough to teach these tiny humans how to properly use wing glitter. She looked up at the sky, half-expecting a portal to yank her back. But nothing came. Just a breeze carrying the scent of sugar, grass, and potential. “We’ll see,” she said, smirking. “But only if I get my own bounce house next time.” “Deal,” the girl said. “And a tiara.” Snuggle Scales snorted. “Obviously.” And so, the rest of the party unfolded in a blur of squeals, sprinkles, and unlicensed dragon rides. Somewhere between her second slice of confetti cake and a dance-off with a toddler DJ, Snuggle Scales forgot entirely why she ever thought she was too big, too bold, or too weird for a little human joy. Turns out, she wasn’t the only creature who’d needed rescuing that day. Of Glittering Goodbyes and Slightly Illegal Tiara Smuggling Monday morning hit the human realm like a caffeinated squirrel. The park was empty. The balloons had deflated into sad rubber pancakes, the frosting had turned crusty in the sun, and someone had stolen the bounce house (probably Gary from next door — he looked shady). Snuggle Scales sat in the middle of the battlefield — I mean, playground — still wearing her licorice friendship bracelet and a flower crown made of dandelions, which she had not agreed to but now kind of loved. She’d stayed the night curled up under a picnic table, half-watching the stars, half-listening to the little girl breathe in her sleep beside her. She hadn’t slept. Dragons didn’t sleep during soul shifts. Because something was shifting. Back in Whifflewood, the seasons were changing. The trees would be gossiping. The gnomes would be filing a formal “Where Is Our Dramatic Baby?” complaint. And Dr. Gloomp was probably sending passive-aggressive mushrooms through the portal. The forest wanted her back. But… did she want back? “You’re still here,” said a sleepy voice beside her. The girl sat up, hair wild, tutu wrinkled, eyes soft. “I thought maybe you were a dream.” Snuggle Scales sighed, releasing a small puff of glitter-smoke. “I mean, I’m adorable enough to be. But no. Real dragon. Still technically fierce. Now 37% cupcake.” The girl giggled, then got serious in that intense child way that feels like an emotional ambush. “You don’t look like you want to go home.” “Home is... complicated,” Snuggle said. “It’s full of expectations. Rituals. Very clingy gnomes. I’m supposed to be majestic. Breathe fire on command. Pretend I’m not obsessed with sparkles.” “But you can breathe sparkles now,” the girl pointed out. “And you’re so majestic when you do a dance spin before sneezing.” Snuggle blinked. “You mean... my patented Glitter Twirl Sneeze™?” “That one,” the girl whispered reverently. “It changed me.” They sat in silence, the kind that only exists when two odd souls have found an unexpected alignment. Then — the wind shifted. “Uh oh,” said Snuggle Scales. The portal tree was humming behind them, its bark glowing with that “ancient magic plus low battery warning” vibe. If she didn’t return soon, it might close. Permanently. “If I go now,” she said slowly, “I’ll be stuck there until next spring. And honestly, gnome karaoke season starts soon. It’s a nightmare.” The girl stood up, walked to the tree, and did something astonishing. She *hugged it.* “You can come visit her,” she said to the tree like it was an ex-boyfriend who still had good books. “But you don’t get to trap her.” The portal shimmered. Flickered. Then… waited. Snuggle Scales blinked. That had never happened before. Trees didn’t negotiate. But maybe — just maybe — it wasn’t the tree deciding anymore. “You’re magic,” she whispered to the girl, her voice caught between a sob and a snort. “I know,” the girl replied. “But don’t tell anyone. They’ll make me run the PTA.” They hugged, long and fierce. Dragon claws against glitter-stained hands. Old magic meeting new. Snuggle Scales stepped into the portal. Just one foot. Just enough to keep the door open. And then, before anyone could stop her, she turned around and tossed the flower crown to the girl. “If you ever need me,” she said, “just light a vanilla cupcake and whisper, ‘Slay, Miss Wiggles.’ I’ll come running.” The portal closed with a pop. And far away, back in the glade, the gnomes gasped in horror — because their baby dragon had returned wearing a homemade tiara, toe polish in four different colors, and an attitude that would not be contained. Spring had come. And Snuggle Scales? She had bloomed. And heaven help the next elf who tried to paint her scales without permission.     Love Snuggle Scales as much as she loves toe polish and rebellion? Bring home the magic — and a little cheeky dragon charm — with these delightful products inspired by our sassiest hatchling yet: Framed Print — Perfect for nurseries, nooks, or any wall that needs a little sparkle and sass. Acrylic Print — A bold, vivid statement piece with magical gloss and mythical attitude. Jigsaw Puzzle — Because nothing says “cozy chaos” like piecing together a dragon’s glitter sneeze in 500 bits. Greeting Card — Send someone a snuggly fire-breath of joy (and maybe a tiara). Whether you hang her on your wall, piece her together on a cozy afternoon, or send her to a friend who needs a giggle — Snuggle Scales is ready to bring whimsy, warmth, and just the right amount of dragon drama to your world.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Juicy Guardian

A Dragonling with Too Much Juice Long before kingdoms rose and fell, and even before humanity figured out how to weaponize wine into bad karaoke, there existed a lush orchard where fruits reigned supreme. Mangos glistened in the early sun like golden gems, pineapples stood tall like spiky fortresses, and watermelons lay across the grass as if they had been plucked straight from a fruit god’s imagination. In the middle of this overripe paradise lived a creature no one expected, a dragonling so cheeky and unruly that even the bananas tried to peel themselves just to get away from his speeches. He was known, in a title he gave himself after exactly zero votes, as The Juicy Guardian. This dragonling was small by dragon standards—hardly bigger than a beach ball—but he compensated with attitude. His scales shimmered in shifting tones of citrus orange and leafy green, and his stubby wings flapped like a drunken butterfly when he was excited. His horns were tiny, more like decorative ice cream cones than menacing spikes, but don’t tell him that unless you’re ready to be pelted with lime wedges at alarming velocity. Worst of all—or best, depending on how much chaos you enjoy—was his tongue. Long, wiggly, and constantly flopping out of his mouth, it was the sort of tongue that made you wonder if evolution had overcorrected somewhere around the amphibian era. “Hear me, peasants of the orchard!” the dragonling declared one morning, climbing atop a pineapple with the solemn dignity of a child trying to wear their dad’s oversized shoes. His stubby claws gripped the spiky surface like it was a throne built just for him. “From this day forth, no kiwi shall be stolen, no mango bruised, and no watermelon sliced without my express permission. I am the sacred defender of juice, pulp, and fruity honor!” The audience of fruits was, naturally, silent. But the villagers who worked the orchard had gathered at a distance, pretending to be busy with baskets, all while trying not to choke on their own laughter. The Juicy Guardian, undeterred, believed they were basking in awe. He puffed out his tiny chest until his scales squeaked and stuck his tongue out in what he believed was an intimidating display. It was not. It was adorable in a way that made grown men giggle and women mutter, “Oh my gods, I want ten of him in my kitchen.” Now, here’s the thing about The Juicy Guardian: he wasn’t exactly a fire-breather. In fact, he had tried once, and the result had been a mild burp that caramelized half an orange and singed his own eyebrows. From that day on, he embraced his true talent—what he called “fruit-based combat.” If you threatened the orchard, he’d sneeze pulp into your eyes with sniper-like precision. If you dared to insult pineapples (his favorite fruit, obviously, since he used them as makeshift thrones), he would waggle his sticky tongue until you were so grossed out you left voluntarily. And if you really pushed your luck, well, let’s just say the last raccoon who underestimated him was still finding tangerine seeds in uncomfortable places. “Oi, dragonling!” shouted one villager from behind a basket of mangos. “Why should we let you guard the fruit? All you do is slobber on it!” The Guardian didn’t even flinch. He tilted his head, narrowed one massive eye, and replied with the bravado only a creature under a foot tall could muster: “Because no one else can guard fruit with this level of flair.” He struck a pose, wings flared, tongue dangling proudly, drooling nectar onto the pineapple he was standing on. The villagers groaned in unison. He took it as applause. Obviously. The truth was, most of the villagers tolerated him. Some even liked him. The kids adored his antics, cheering whenever he declared yet another “sacred fruit law” like: All grapes must be eaten in even numbers, lest the gods get indigestion, or Banana bread is holy, and hoarding it is punishable by public tickling. Others found him insufferable, swearing under their breath that if they had to hear one more proclamation about “the divine juiciness of melons,” they’d pickle him alive and serve him with onions. But the dragonling, blissfully oblivious, strutted around as if he were the king of tropical chaos, which—let’s be honest—he kind of was. It was during one particularly loud morning announcement that things took a turn. The Juicy Guardian was mid-speech—something about enforcing a fruit tax payable in smoothies—when the orchard fell strangely quiet. Even the cicadas stopped buzzing. A massive shadow rolled over the grove, blotting out the warm sunlight. The fruits themselves seemed to shiver, and the villagers froze mid-basket, staring upward. The Guardian, tongue wagging dramatically, froze in place. His pineapple crown tilted sideways like a drunk sailor’s hat. “Oh, great,” he muttered under his breath, his smugness cracking into genuine irritation. “If that’s another oversized banana slug trying to eat my melons, I swear I’m moving to the desert.” His wings twitched nervously, his tiny claws digging into the pineapple throne. The villagers gasped as the shadow grew larger and darker, spilling across the watermelon patch and swallowing the rows of citrus. Something huge was coming, something that didn’t care about fruit laws, smoothie taxes, or sticky tongues. The Juicy Guardian narrowed his one open eye, gave the shadow a wobbly salute with his tongue, and whispered, “Alright then… come and get juicy.” The Shadow Over the Orchard The shadow slithered across the grove like a spilled smoothie, blotting out the juicy glow of the morning sun. Villagers scattered, clutching baskets of fruit to their chests like they were rescuing sacred relics. A few less committed villagers shrugged, dropped their harvest, and ran—better to lose a few lemons than their heads. Only one tiny figure did not flinch: The Juicy Guardian. Perched atop his pineapple, he tilted his oversized head, narrowed his cartoonishly large eye, and let his tongue dangle defiantly like a warrior waving a very pink, very gooey flag of battle. “Alright, you oversized mood-killer,” he called out, his little voice carrying farther than anyone expected, “who dares trespass on my orchard? State your business! If it involves melons, I want a cut. Literally. I’ll take the middle slice.” The villagers gasped. A few of them muttered that the dragonling had finally lost the last marble he never had to begin with. But then the source of the shadow revealed itself: a massive airship, creaking like a wooden whale, descending with ropes and sails flapping. Painted along its hull were crude depictions of swords, grapes, and—for reasons no one could explain—a suggestive-looking carrot. The flag snapping above it read, in bold letters: “The Order of the Fruit Bandits.” “Oh, come on,” groaned The Juicy Guardian, dragging his claws down his snout. “Fruit bandits? Really? Is this my life? I wanted epic battles with knights and treasure hoards, not… organic theft on a flying salad bowl.” The airship docked itself awkwardly on the edge of the orchard, crushing three lemon trees and half a papaya grove. Out tumbled a ragtag crew of bandits, each dressed in patchwork armor and fruit-themed bandanas. One had a banana painted across his chest, another had kiwi seeds tattooed across his forehead, and the apparent leader—tall, muscular, with a jaw that could crack coconuts—strode forward carrying a watermelon-shaped mace. “I am Captain Citrullus,” he bellowed, flexing as if auditioning for a very sweaty poster. “We are here to claim this orchard in the name of the Fruit Bandits! Hand over the harvest, or face the consequences!” The Juicy Guardian tilted his pineapple throne back slightly, waggled his tongue, and muttered loud enough for the villagers to hear: “Captain Citrullus? Really? That’s Latin for watermelon. Congratulations, pal, you just named yourself Captain Melon. How threatening. I feel so intimidated. Somebody call the salad bar police.” The villagers tried not to laugh. The bandits scowled. The Captain stomped forward, pointing his mace at the dragonling. “And who are you, little lizard? A mascot? Do the villagers dress you up and parade you around like a pet?” “Excuse me,” the Guardian snapped, hopping down from his pineapple to strut across the grass with the exaggerated swagger of someone six times his size. “I am not a mascot. I am not a pet. I am the divinely appointed, absolutely fabulous, disgustingly powerful Juicy Guardian! Protector of fruit, ruler of pulp, and wielder of the most dangerous tongue this side of the tropics!” He flicked his tongue dramatically, slapping one bandit across the cheek with a wet slorp. The man yelped and stumbled backward, smelling faintly of citrus for the rest of his life. The villagers erupted into laughter. The bandits, however, were not amused. “Get him!” Captain Citrullus roared, charging forward with his fruit-mace raised high. The bandits surged after him, swords glinting, nets waving, baskets ready to scoop up melons. The Guardian’s wings buzzed nervously, but he didn’t flee. No—he grinned. A bratty, self-satisfied grin. Because if there was one thing this dragonling loved, it was attention. Preferably the dangerous, dramatic kind. “Alright, boys and girls,” he said to himself, rolling his shoulders like a boxer about to step into the ring, “time to make a mess.” The first bandit lunged, swinging a net. The Guardian ducked, darted under his legs, and whipped his tongue around like a whip, snagging an orange from a nearby branch. With a flick, he launched it straight into the bandit’s face. Splurt! Juice and pulp exploded everywhere. The man staggered, blinded, shrieking, “It burns! IT BURNS!” “That’s vitamin C, sweetheart,” the Guardian called after him, “the ‘C’ stands for cry harder.” Another bandit swung a sword down at him. The blade hit the ground, sending sparks into the grass. The Guardian leapt onto the flat of the sword like it was a seesaw, bounced high into the air, and belly-flopped directly onto the attacker’s helmet. With his claws gripping the man’s face and his tongue slapping against his visor, the dragonling cackled, “Surprise smooch, helmet-boy!” before hopping off, leaving the bandit dizzy and smelling faintly of pineapple. The villagers were screaming, cheering, and throwing fruit of their own at the invaders. It wasn’t every day you saw a tiny dragon wage war with produce, and they weren’t going to waste the chance to hurl a few grapefruits. One old woman in particular launched a mango so hard it knocked out a bandit’s front tooth. “I’ve still got it!” she cackled, high-fiving the Guardian as he zipped past. But the tide began to shift. Captain Citrullus waded through the chaos, his melon-mace smashing aside fruit like it was made of air. He stomped toward the Guardian, his face red with rage. “Enough games, lizard. Your fruit is mine. Your orchard is mine. And your tongue—” he pointed the mace straight at him—“is going to be my trophy.” The Juicy Guardian licked his own eyeball slowly, just to make a point, and muttered, “Buddy, if you want this tongue, you better be ready for the stickiest fight of your life.” The villagers fell silent. Even the fruit seemed to hold its breath. The bratty little dragon, dripping pulp and sass, squared off against the massive bandit captain. One small, one huge. One wielding a tongue, the other a melon-mace. And in that moment, everyone knew: this was going to get very, very messy. Pulpocalypse Now The orchard stood still, every mango, lime, and papaya trembling as the two champions squared off. On one side, Captain Citrullus, a towering slab of muscle and melon obsession, hefting his watermelon-shaped mace like it was forged from pure intimidation. On the other, The Juicy Guardian: a stubby, bratty little dragonling with wings too small for dignity, a pineapple crown slipping over one eye, and a tongue dripping nectar like a faucet in desperate need of repair. The villagers formed a loose circle, wide-eyed, clutching fruit baskets like improvised shields. Everyone knew something legendary was about to happen. “Final chance, lizard,” Captain Citrullus growled, stomping forward so hard the ground shook, dislodging a peach. “Hand over the orchard, or I pulp you myself.” The Guardian tilted his head, tongue dangling, then let out the most obnoxious laugh anyone had ever heard—a high-pitched, nasal cackle that made even the parrots flee the trees. “Oh, honey,” he wheezed between gasps of laughter, “you think you can pulp me? Sweetie, I am the pulp. I’m the juice in your veins. I’m the sticky spot on your kitchen counter that you can never, ever scrub clean.” The villagers gasped. One man dropped an entire basket of figs. Captain Citrullus turned purple with rage—part fury, part embarrassment at being out-sassed by what was essentially a lizard toddler. With a roar, he swung his mace down in a crushing arc. The Guardian darted sideways just in time, the melon weapon smashing into the ground and exploding in a shower of watermelon chunks. Seeds sprayed everywhere, pelting villagers like fruity shrapnel. One farmer caught a seed in the nostril and sneezed for the next five minutes straight. “Missed me!” the Guardian taunted, sticking his tongue out so far it smacked Citrullus across the shin. “And ew, you taste like overripe cantaloupe. Gross. Get some better lotion.” What followed could only be described as fruit warfare on steroids. The Guardian zipped around the battlefield like a sticky orange bullet, launching citrus grenades, slapping people with his tongue, and sneezing mango pulp directly into the eyes of anyone foolish enough to get close. Bandits flailed and slipped on fruit guts, falling over one another like bowling pins coated in guava jelly. Villagers joined in with gusto, weaponizing every edible thing they could grab. Papayas flew like cannonballs. Limes were hurled like grenades. Someone even unleashed a barrage of grapes via slingshot, which was less effective as a weapon and more as an impromptu snack for the Guardian mid-battle. “For the orchard!” bellowed one elderly woman, dual-wielding pineapples as clubs. She bludgeoned a bandit so hard he dropped his sword, then stole his bandana and wore it as a victory sash. The villagers cheered wildly, as if centuries of repressed fruit-related rage had finally found release. But Captain Citrullus would not be undone so easily. He charged at the Guardian again, swinging his melon-mace in wide arcs, knocking aside bananas and terrified villagers alike. “You’re nothing but a snack, dragon!” he roared. “When I’m done with you, I’ll pickle your tongue and drink it with gin!” The Guardian froze for half a second. Then his face contorted into pure bratty offense. “Excuse me? You’re gonna what? Oh, honey, NO ONE pickles this tongue. This tongue is a national treasure. UNESCO should protect it.” He puffed his tiny chest and added with a glare, “Also, gin? Really? At least use rum. What are you, a monster?” And with that, the fight escalated from silly to mythic chaos. The Guardian launched himself into the air, stubby wings flapping furiously, and wrapped his tongue around Citrullus’s mace mid-swing. The sticky appendage clung like sap, yanking the weapon out of the captain’s hands. “Mine now!” the Guardian squealed, spinning in midair with the mace dangling from his tongue. “Look, Mom, I’m jousting!” He swung the mace clumsily, knocking three bandits flat and accidentally smashing a melon cart into oblivion. Villagers roared in laughter, chanting, “Juicy! Juicy! Juicy!” as their ridiculous protector rode the chaos like a carnival act gone horribly right. Citrullus lunged after him, fists clenched, but the Guardian wasn’t done. He dropped the mace, spun in the air, and unleashed his most secret, most dreaded weapon: The Citrus Cyclone. It began as a sniffle. Then a cough. Then the dragonling sneezed with such violent force that a hurricane of pulp, juice, and shredded citrus peels erupted from his snout. Oranges whirled like comets, limes spun like buzzsaws, and a lemon wedge smacked a bandit so hard he re-evaluated all his life choices. The orchard became a storm of sticky, acidic chaos. Villagers ducked, bandits screamed, and even Captain Citrullus staggered under the onslaught of pure vitamin C. “Taste the rainbow, you salad-flavored meatloaf!” the Guardian shrieked through the storm, eyes wild, tongue flapping like a battle flag. When the cyclone finally subsided, the orchard looked like a battlefield after a smoothie blender explosion. Fruits lay smashed, juice ran in sticky rivers, and the villagers were covered head to toe in pulp. The bandits lay groaning on the ground, their weapons lost, their dignity even more so. Captain Citrullus stumbled, dripping with mango mush, his once-proud melon-mace now just a soggy rind. The Guardian swaggered forward, tongue dragging in the juice-soaked grass. He hopped onto Citrullus’s chest, puffed out his tiny chest, and bellowed, “Let this be a lesson, melon-boy! No one messes with The Juicy Guardian. Not you, not banana slugs, not even the smoothie bar at that overpriced yoga retreat. This orchard is under MY protection. The fruit is safe, the villagers are safe, and most importantly—my tongue remains unpickled.” The villagers erupted into cheers, hurling pineapples into the air like fireworks. The bandits, defeated and embarrassed, scrambled back to their airship, slipping on orange rinds and tripping over mangos. Captain Citrullus, humiliated and sticky, swore revenge but was too busy trying to get papaya seeds out of his hair to sound convincing. Within minutes, the ship lifted off, wobbling into the sky like a drunken balloon, leaving behind only pulp, shame, and a faint smell of overripe cantaloupe. The Juicy Guardian stood tall atop his pineapple throne, juice dripping from his scales, tongue wagging proudly. “Another day, another fruit saved,” he announced with dramatic flair. “You’re welcome, peasants. Long live juice!” The villagers groaned at his arrogance, but they also clapped, laughed, and toasted him with fresh coconuts. Because deep down, they all knew: as bratty, goofy, and insufferable as he was, this tiny dragonling had defended them with sticky, ridiculous glory. He wasn’t just their guardian. He was their legend. And somewhere in the distance, parrots repeated his chant in perfect unison: “Juicy! Juicy! Juicy!” echoing across the tropics like the world’s silliest war cry.     The Juicy Guardian Lives On The villagers may have wiped pulp out of their hair for weeks, but the legend of The Juicy Guardian grew juicier with every retelling. His tongue became myth, his pineapple throne a symbol of sass and stickiness, and his battle cry echoed through markets, taverns, and the occasional smoothie stand. And as with all legends worth savoring, people wanted more than just the story—they wanted to bring a little piece of the fruity chaos home. For those bold enough to let a bratty dragonling guard their own space, you can capture his juicy glory in stunning metal prints and sleek acrylic prints—perfect for giving any wall a splash of tropical whimsy. For a softer touch, the Guardian is equally happy lounging across a colorful throw pillow, ready to sass up your couch. If your home craves a statement as bold as his fruit-fueled battles, nothing says “long live juice” quite like a full-sized shower curtain. And for those who simply want to spread his sticky legend everywhere, a cheeky sticker makes the perfect sidekick for laptops, bottles, or anywhere that could use a splash of dragonling attitude. The Juicy Guardian may have been born of pulp and sass, but his story is far from over—because now, he can live wherever you dare to let him. 🍍🐉✨

par Bill Tiepelman

How to Lose a Dragon in 10 Hugs

The Hug Heard 'Round the Forest There once lived a gnome named Brambletug who had two core beliefs: that all creatures secretly longed for his affection, and that personal space was a myth perpetuated by introverts and elves. He wore a hat the color of fermented cherries, a smile that bordered on litigation, and had the emotional intelligence of a wet rock. One fine morning — the kind where the sun peeks through the trees just enough to blind you and a squirrel poops on your head for luck — Brambletug set out to do something noble. “Today,” he declared to absolutely no one, “I shall befriend a dragon.” He even brought a friendship starter pack: a pinecone (gift-wrapped in moss), a cinnamon-scented hug, and three wildly outdated knock-knock jokes. Meanwhile, not far from where Brambletug was rehearsing his icebreakers, lurked a dragon. Not a fire-breathing, village-burning sort of dragon. No, this one was more... emotionally scorched. His name was Krivven, and he had the perpetual expression of someone who just discovered oat milk in their coffee after asking for cream. He had scales the color of swamp envy, horns that curved like a passive-aggressive eyebrow, and the aura of a grumpy librarian who was denied tenure. Krivven wasn’t *technically* evil — just very, very tired. He’d moved to the quiet forest glade after centuries of babysitting unstable sorcerers and being summoned by teenagers with bad Latin and worse tattoos. All he wanted now was to sulk in peace and maybe binge-watch the sun setting through the trees. Alone. Unhugged. So when Brambletug crept into his clearing, arms wide and teeth bared in what was legally considered a smile, Krivven knew — with a deep, resigned exhale — that his day had just gone to hell. “GREETINGS!” Brambletug hollered, as if the dragon were hard of hearing or hard of tolerating nonsense. “My name is Brambletug Bartholomew Bramblewhack the Third, and you, sir, are my destined bestie.” Krivven blinked. Once. Slowly. In a tone that could curdle sap, he responded, “No.” “A classic!” Brambletug giggled. “You're funny! That’s good. Friendships should be built on humor. Also: hugging. Prepare yourself.” Before Krivven could retract into his sulky little safe space (read: three perfectly arranged rocks and a Do Not Disturb sign carved into a tree), Brambletug lunged like a caffeinated chipmunk on a sugar bender and latched onto his scaly midsection. And there it was — the first hug. Krivven’s soul sighed. Birds scattered. Somewhere, a butterfly died out of secondhand embarrassment. “You smell like toasted anxiety,” Brambletug whispered, delighted. “We’re going to be *so* good for each other.” Krivven began counting backward from ten. And then forward. And then in Elvish. None of it helped. Of Singed Moss and Questionable Boundaries Krivven, to his credit, didn’t immediately immolate Brambletug. It was a close call — his nostrils flared, a single puff of smoke leaked out, and he did momentarily imagine the gnome roasting like a festive meatball — but ultimately, he decided against it. Not out of mercy, mind you. He simply didn’t want to get gnome stench in his nostril vents. Again. “You are... still here,” the dragon said, half observation, half prayer for this to be a hallucination caused by expired toadstools. “Of course I’m still here! Hugging is not a one-time event. It’s a lifestyle,” Brambletug chirped, still firmly attached to Krivven’s side like a burr with daddy issues. Krivven sighed and attempted to peel the gnome off. Unfortunately, Brambletug had the cling strength of a raccoon on Adderall. “We are not friends,” Krivven growled. “Oh Krivvy,” the gnome said with a wink so aggressive it should’ve come with a warning label, “that’s just your trauma talking.” The dragon’s left eye twitched. “My what?” “Don’t worry,” Brambletug said, patting Krivven’s chest like he was a wounded house cat, “I read a scroll once about emotional baggage. I’m basically your life coach now.” It was around this time Krivven made a mental list of potential witnesses, legal consequences, and whether gnome meat counted as poultry. The math didn’t add up in his favor. Yet. Over the next three days, Brambletug launched a full-scale, unsolicited friendship offensive. He moved into Krivven’s territory with all the subtlety of a bard in heat. First came the *"snack bonding."* Brambletug brought marshmallows, mushrooms, and something he called “squirrel crack”—a suspiciously crunchy trail mix that made Krivven mildly paranoid. The gnome insisted they roast things together “like real adventuring bros.” “I do not eat marshmallows,” Krivven said, as Brambletug jammed one onto the tip of his horn like a skewered confection of shame. “Not yet you don’t!” the gnome chirped. “But give it time. You’ll be licking caramel off your claws and asking for seconds, Krivvy-doodle.” “Never call me that again.” “Okay, Krivster.” Krivven's eye twitched again. Harder. The marshmallow did, against his better instincts, catch fire — spectacularly. Brambletug squealed with glee and shouted, “YES! CHARRED OUTSIDE, GOOEY SOUL. Just like you!” Krivven, too stunned to reply, simply watched as Brambletug proceeded to eat the flaming lump directly from his claw, singing his tongue and squealing, “PAIN IS JUST SPICY FRIENDSHIP.” Then came the *"trust-building games,"* which included: falling backward off a log while expecting Krivven to catch him (“It builds vulnerability!”), shadow puppets in the firelight (“Look, it’s you... being sad!”), and a roleplaying exercise where Brambletug played a “sad forest orphan” and Krivven was expected to “adopt him emotionally.” Krivven, staring blankly, responded, “I am this close to developing a new hobby that involves gnome launch velocity and trebuchets.” “Awwwwww! You’re thinking of crafts! That’s progress!” One night, Brambletug declared they needed a **Friendship Manifesto**, and tried to tattoo it on a tree using Krivven’s claw while the dragon was asleep. Krivven woke to find the word “CUDDLEPACT” etched into bark and Brambletug humming what suspiciously sounded like a duet. From both parts. “Are you... singing with yourself?” “No, I’m harmonizing with your inner child,” Brambletug said, deadpan. Krivven reconsidered his moral stance on gnome-flicking. Hard. Despite all this, something bizarre began to happen. A shift. A crack — not in Krivven’s emotional carapace (that thing was still fortified like a dwarven panic room), but in his routine. He was... less bored. More annoyed, yes. But that was technically a form of engagement. And every now and then — between the monologues, the unsolicited riddles, and the horrifying “hug sneak attacks” — Brambletug would say something... almost profound. Like the time they watched a snail cross the path for 45 minutes and Brambletug said, “You know, we’re all just goo-filled meat tubes pretending we have direction.” Or when he sat on Krivven’s tail and whispered, “Everyone wants to be a dragon, but no one wants to be misunderstood.” It was annoying. It was invasive. It was kind of true. And now, Krivven couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just *maybe*, this annoying, clingy, wildly codependent fuzzball... wasn’t trying to change him. Just... annoy him into healing. Which was worse, really. And then, on the fourth day, Brambletug said the most horrifying thing yet: “I’ve planned a group picnic. For your social skills.” Krivven froze. “A what.” “I invited some unicorns, a banshee, two dryads, and a sentient puddle named Dave. It’s going to be adorable.” The dragon began to quake. “There will be snacks,” Brambletug added, “and a group activity called ‘Affirmation Volleyball.’” Krivven’s left eye twitched so hard it dislocated a horn ridge. Somewhere in the forest, birds paused in terror. Somewhere else, Dave the puddle prepared emotionally for volleyball. The Picnic of the Damned (and Slightly Moist) Krivven tried to flee. Not metaphorically. Literally. He spread his wings, launched six feet into the air, and was immediately tackled mid-lift-off by a gnome clutching a wicker basket full of “snack bonding opportunities.” “WE HAVE TO MAKE AN ENTRANCE TOGETHER,” Brambletug yelled, riding him like a therapy gremlin. “LIKE A POWER COUPLE. YOU'RE THE GRUMPY ONE, I’M THE CHAOTIC OPTIMIST. IT’S OUR BRAND!” “This is a hostage situation,” Krivven muttered as they crash-landed beside a checkered blanket and a crowd of creatures who looked like they deeply regretted RSVPing ‘yes’ to the tiny scroll that had been left under their respective mossy doorsteps. The picnic was a fever dream. A banshee in a sunhat handed out herbal tea and screamed compliments at everyone. The dryads brought “root-based tapas” and spent twenty minutes arguing about whether hummus had ethical implications. Dave the sentient puddle kept trying to infiltrate the fruit bowl and flirted openly with Krivven’s tail. Unicorns — plural — stood off to the side, quietly judging everything with the passive-aggressive elegance of wine moms at a PTA meeting. One wore horn glitter. Another smoked something suspicious and kept muttering about “manifesting stable energy.” “This,” Krivven hissed, “is social terrorism.” “This,” Brambletug corrected, “is growth.” The nightmare crescendoed with **Affirmation Volleyball**, a team sport in which you could only spike the ball after shouting a compliment at someone across the field. If the compliment was “lazy,” the ball turned to custard. (That was Dave’s rule. Don’t ask.) Krivven was cornered, emotionally and literally, as Brambletug served him a volleyball and screamed, “YOUR EMOTIONAL WALLS ARE JUST A SIGN OF VULNERABILITY MASKED AS STRENGTH!” The ball hit Krivven in the snout. No custard. Which meant the compliment was, by this game’s logic, valid. He stared down at it, then at Brambletug, who beamed like the world’s most self-satisfied anxiety demon. And for one fleeting moment — just a flicker — Krivven... almost smiled. Not a full smile, of course. It was more of a muscle spasm. But it terrified the unicorns and made Dave do a sexy ripple. Progress! The picnic eventually dissolved into chaos. The banshee got wine drunk and started singing breakup ballads from the cliffside. One of the dryads turned into a shrub and refused to leave. The unicorns gentrified the nearest field. Dave split into three smaller puddles and declared himself a commune. Amidst it all, Brambletug sat next to Krivven, gnawing contentedly on a cookie shaped like a dragon butt. “So... what did we learn today?” he asked, crumbs flaking down his tunic like snow from a cursed bakery. Krivven exhaled — not a sigh, not smoke, just... air. “I learned that hugs are a form of magical assault,” he said flatly. “And?” “...That sometimes being annoyed is better than being alone.” “BOOM!” Brambletug shouted, launching himself into Krivven’s lap. “THAT, MY SCALY DUDE, IS CHARACTER ARC.” Krivven did not incinerate him. Instead, with a noise that was not a growl but could pass for one at parties, he muttered, “You may continue... existing. In my vicinity.” Brambletug gasped. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me! Quick! Someone write it on a mug!” And from that day on — against every law of nature and common sense — the gnome and the dragon became companions. Not friends. Not exactly. But... tolerable cohabitants with joint custody of a cursed picnic blanket and a banshee who now slept on their porch. Every few days, Brambletug would initiate a new hug, call it “installment number whatever,” and Krivven would groan and accept it with all the grace of a barbed-wire hug vest. He’d never admit it, but by the tenth hug — the one with the extra sparkles and a sarcastic unicorn DJ playing Enya — Krivven actually leaned in for half a second. Not long. Just enough. And Brambletug, bless his deranged heart, whispered, “See? Told you I’d wear you down.” Krivven rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.” “And yet... hugged.” The moral of the story? If you ever find yourself emotionally constipated in a forest, just wait. A gnome will show up eventually. Probably uninvited. Definitely holding marshmallows. And absolutely ready to violate your boundaries into emotional progress.     Need a daily reminder that unsolicited gnome affection is the purest form of emotional growth? Bring Brambletug and Krivven’s chaotic friendship to your own world with beautifully crafted collectibles from the Unfocussed shop. Whether you're decorating your lair, scribbling questionable poetry, or just want to send a passive-aggressive greeting to your favorite introvert, we've got you covered: Metal Print: Give your walls the grumpy, glossy dragon energy they never knew they needed. Framed Print: Because every magical forest disaster deserves a place of honor in your home gallery. Greeting Card: Perfect for birthdays, breakups, and emotionally unavailable cryptids. Spiral Notebook: Jot down your trauma, sketch your inner gnome, or track your personal hug quota. Shop the full lineup now and carry a little enchanted chaos wherever you go. Brambletug approved. Krivven… tolerated.

par Bill Tiepelman

Sass Meets Scales

How Not to Kidnap a Dragon It all started on a perfectly average Tuesday—which in Twizzlethorn Wood meant mushroom hail, upside-down rain, and a raccoon wearing a monocle selling bootleg love potions out of a canoe. The forest was, as usual, minding its own business. Unfortunately, Calliope Thistlewhip was not. Calliope was a fairy, though not one of those syrupy types who weep glitter and tend flowers with a song. No, she was more the "accidentally-on-purpose" type. She once caused a diplomatic incident between the pixies and the mole folk by replacing a peace treaty with a drawing of a very explicit toad. Her wings shimmered gold, her smirk had been legally declared a menace, and she had a plan. A very bad one. "I need a dragon," she announced to no one in particular, hands on hips, standing atop a tree stump like it owed her rent. From a nearby bramble, a squirrel peeked out and immediately retreated. Even they knew not to get involved. The target of her latest scheme? A surly, fire-breathing recluse named Barnaby, who spent his days avoiding social interaction and his nights sighing heavily while staring at lakes. Dragons weren’t rare in Twizzlethorn, but dragons with boundaries were. And Barnaby had them—firm ones, wrapped in sarcasm and dragon-scale therapy journals. Calliope's approach to boundaries was simple: break them like a piñata and hope for candy. With a lasso made of sugared vine and a face full of audacity, she set out to find her new unwilling bestie. “You look like you hate everything,” Calliope beamed as she emerged from behind a tree, already mid-stride toward Barnaby, who was sitting in the mud next to a boulder, sipping melancholia like it was tea. “I was hoping that would ward off strangers,” he replied without looking up. “Clearly, not strong enough.” “Perfect! You’re gonna be my plus-one for the Fairy Queen’s ‘Fire and Fizz’ party this weekend. It's BYOB. And I don’t mean bottle.” She winked. “No,” Barnaby said flatly. Calliope tilted her head. “You say that like it’s an option.” It wasn’t, as it turned out. She hugged him like a glittered barnacle, ignoring the growl vibrating his ribcage. One might assume she had a death wish. One would be wrong. Calliope simply had the unshakeable belief that everyone secretly adored her. Including dragons. Especially dragons. Even if their eyebrows were stuck in a permanent state of ‘judging you.’ “I have anxiety and a very specific skincare routine that doesn’t allow for fairy entanglement,” Barnaby mumbled, mostly into his claw. “You have texture, darling,” she cooed, clinging tighter. “You’ll be the belle of the volcano.” He exhaled. Smoke drifted lazily out of his nose like the sigh of someone who knew exactly how bad things were about to get—and how entirely powerless he was to stop it. Thus began the unholy alliance of sparkle and sulk. Of cheek and scale. Of one fairy who knew no shame and one dragon who no longer had the energy to resist it. Somewhere deep in Twizzlethorn, a butterfly flapped its wings and whispered, “What the actual hell?” The Volcano Gala Disaster (And Other Socially Traumatic Events) In the days that followed, Barnaby the dragon endured what can only be described as a glitter-based hostage situation. Calliope had turned his peaceful lair—previously decorated with ash, moss, and deeply repressed feelings—into something resembling a bedazzled disaster zone. Gold tulle hung from stalactites. Fairy lights—actual shrieking fairies trapped in jars—blazed like disco strobes. His lava pool now featured floating candles and confetti. The ambiance was… deeply upsetting. “You’ve desecrated my sacred brooding zone,” Barnaby groaned, staring at a pink velvet pillow that had somehow ended up embroidered with the words ‘Slay, Don’t Spray’. “You mean improved it,” Calliope chirped, strutting past in a sequined robe and gladiator sandals. “You are now ready for society, darling.” “I hate society.” “Which is exactly why you’ll be the most interesting guest at the Queen’s Gala. Everyone loves a moody icon. You’re practically trending already.” Barnaby attempted to crawl under a boulder and fake his own death, but Calliope had already bedazzled it with hot glue and rhinestones. “Please let me die with dignity,” he mumbled. “Dignity is for people who didn’t agree to be my plus-one.” “I never agreed.” She didn’t hear him over the sound of a marching band made entirely of beetles playing a triumphant entrance tune. The day of the gala arrived like a punch to the face. The Fairy Queen’s infamous Fire and Fizz Volcano Gala was a high-pressure, low-sanity affair where creatures from every corner of the magical realm gathered to sip sparkling nettle wine, judge each other’s plumage, and start emotionally devastating rumors in the punch line. Calliope arrived on Barnaby’s back like a warlord of sass. She wore a golden jumpsuit that defied physics and eyebrows that could slice glass. Barnaby had been brushed, buffed, and begrudgingly sprinkled with “volcanic shimmer dust,” which he later discovered was just crushed mica and lies. “Smile,” she hissed through clenched teeth as they made their entrance. “I am,” he replied, deadpan. “On the inside. Very deep inside. So deep it’s imaginary.” The room went silent as they descended the obsidian steps. Elves paused mid-gossip. Satyrs spilled wine. One particularly sensitive unicorn fainted directly into a cheese fountain. Calliope held her head high. “Behold! The last emotionally available dragon in the entire kingdom!” Barnaby muttered, “I’m not emotionally available. I’m emotionally on airplane mode.” The Fairy Queen, a six-foot-tall hummingbird in a dress made entirely of spider silk and compliments she didn’t mean, fluttered over. “Darling Calliope. And… whatever this is. I assume it breathes fire and hates itself?” “Accurate,” Barnaby said, blinking slowly. “Perfect. Do stay away from the tapestry room; the last dragon set it on fire with his trauma.” The night devolved quickly. First, Barnaby was cornered by a gnome with a podcast. “What’s it like being exploited as a metaphor for untamed masculinity in children’s literature?” Then someone tried to ride him like a party pony. There was glitter in places glitter should never be. Calliope, meanwhile, was in her element—crashing conversations, starting rumors (“Did you know that elf is 412 and still lives with his goblin mom?”), and turning every social slight into a dramatic one-act play. But it wasn’t until Barnaby overheard a dryad whisper, “Is he her pet, or her plus-one? Unclear,” that he hit his limit. “I am not her pet,” he roared, accidentally singeing the punch table. “And I have a name! Barnaby Thistlebane the Seventeenth! Slayer of Existential Dread and Collector of Rejected Tea Mugs!” The room went still. Calliope blinked. “Well. Someone finally found his roar. Took you long enough.” Barnaby narrowed his eyes. “You did this on purpose.” She smirked. “Of course. Nothing gets a dragon’s scales flaring like a little public humiliation.” He looked around at the stunned party guests. “I feel... weirdly alive. Also slightly aroused. Is that normal?” “For a Tuesday? Absolutely.” And just like that, something shifted. Not in the air—there were still rumors hanging like mist—but in Barnaby. Somewhere between the dryad shade and the third attempted selfie, he stopped caring quite so much about what everyone thought. He was a dragon. He was weird. And maybe, just maybe, he had fun tonight. Though he’d never admit that out loud, obviously. As they exited the volcano—Calliope riding sidesaddle, sipping leftover punch from a stolen goblet—she leaned against his neck. “You know,” she said, “you make a halfway decent social monster.” “And you make a better parasite than most.” She grinned. “We’re gonna be best friends forever.” He didn’t disagree. But he did quietly burp up a fireball that scorched the Queen’s rose garden. And it felt amazing. The Accidental Rodeo and the Weaponized Hug Three days after the Volcano Gala incident (officially dubbed "The Event That Singed Lady Brambleton's Eyebrows"), Calliope and Barnaby were fugitives. Not serious fugitives, mind you. Just the whimsical kind. The kind who are banned from royal gardens, three reputable taverns, and one very particular cheese emporium where Barnaby may or may not have sat on the gouda wheel. He claimed it was a tactical retreat. Calliope claimed she was proud of him. Both were true. But trouble, as always, was Calliope’s favorite breakfast cereal. So naturally, she dragged Barnaby to the Twizzlethorn Midnight Rodeo of Unlicensed Creatures, an underground fairy event so illegal it was technically held inside the stomach of a sentient tree. You had to whisper the password—“moist glitter pickles”—into a fungus and then backflip into a hollow knot while swearing on a legally questionable wombat. “Why are we here?” Barnaby asked, hovering reluctantly near the tree’s gaping maw. “To compete, obviously,” Calliope grinned, tightening her ponytail like she was about to punch fate in the face. “There’s a cash prize, bragging rights, and a cursed toaster oven up for grabs.” “...You had me at toaster oven.” Inside, the scene was chaos dipped in glitter and fried in outlaw vibes. Glowshrooms lit the arena. Banshees sold snacks. Pixies in leather rode miniature manticores into walls while betting on which organ would rupture first. It was beautiful. Calliope signed them up for the main event: Wrangle and Ride the Wild Emotion Beast. “That’s not a real event,” Barnaby said, as a goblin stapled a number to his tail. “It is now.” What followed was a tornado of feelings, sparkles, and mild brain injury. Barnaby was forced to lasso a literal manifestation of fear—which looked like a cloud of black licorice with teeth—while Calliope rode rage, a squealing, flaming piglet with hooves made of passive-aggression. They failed spectacularly. Calliope was ejected into a cotton candy stand. Barnaby crashed through a wall of enchanted beanbags. The crowd went bananas. Later, bruised and inexplicably covered in peanut butter, they sat on a log behind the arena while fairy paramedics offered unhelpful brochures like “So You Got Emotionally Gored!” and “Glitter Rash and You.” Calliope leaned her chin on her knees, still smiling through split lip gloss. “That was the most fun I’ve had since I swapped the Queen’s shampoo with truth serum.” Barnaby didn’t reply. Not right away. “You ever think…” he started, then trailed off, staring into the middle distance like a dragon with unresolved poetry. Calliope turned to him. “What? Think what?” He took a breath. “Maybe I don’t hate everything. Just most things. Except you. And maybe rodeo snacks. And when people stop pretending they're not a complete mess.” She blinked. “Well damn, Thistlebane. That’s dangerously close to a real feeling. You okay?” “No. I think I’ve been emotionally compromised.” Calliope smirked, then softly, dramatically, like she was starring in a musical only she could hear, opened her arms. “Bring it in, big guy.” He hesitated. Then sighed. Then, with the reluctant grace of a creature born to nap alone in dark caves, Barnaby leaned in for what became known (and feared) as the Weaponized Hug. It lasted approximately six seconds. At second four, someone exploded in the background. At second five, Barnaby let out a tiny, happy growl. And at second six, Calliope whispered, “See? You love me.” He pulled back. “I tolerate you with less resistance than most.” “Same thing.” They stood up, brushed off the dirt, and limped toward the cursed toaster oven prize they did not technically win, but no one felt like stopping them from stealing. The crowd parted. Someone slow clapped. Somewhere, a unicorn wept into a corn dog. Back at Barnaby’s lair—still half bedazzled, still home—Calliope sprawled across a beanbag and declared, “We should write a book. ‘How to Befriend a Dragon Without Dying or Getting Sued.’” “No one would believe it,” Barnaby said, curling his tail around a mug that read, “World’s Least Enthusiastic Snuggle Beast.” “That’s the beauty of it.” And so, in the land of Twizzlethorn, where logic curled up and died ages ago, a fairy and a dragon built something inexplicable: a friendship forged in sass, sarcasm, rodeo trauma, and absolutely no personal boundaries. It was loud. It was messy. It was surprisingly healing. And for reasons no one could explain, it actually worked.     Want to take the chaos home? Celebrate the delightfully dysfunctional duo of Calliope and Barnaby with framed art prints worthy of your sassiest wall, or snag a metal print that radiates fairy mischief and dragon moodiness. Need a portable dose of snark? Grab a spiral notebook for your own terrible ideas, or a sticker to slap on whatever needs more attitude. It’s not just art—it’s emotional support glitter, scaled and ready for adventure.

par Bill Tiepelman

Don't Make Me Puff

In the deepest corner of the Mistwillow Woods — somewhere between the Glade of Passive-Aggressive Mushrooms and the Barking Fern Grove — sat a dragon. Not just any dragon. He was small, like... "fits-in-your-knapsack-but-will-burn-your-hair-off-if-you-zip-it" small. His name? Snortles the Indignant. Perched with great ceremony on a tree branch that had survived five tantrums and at least one accidental flamethrower moment, Snortles squinted at the forest floor below. His wings, no bigger than a pair of angry toast slices, twitched in irritation. A dandelion seed had floated into his line of sight — and worse — into his personal airspace. "Rude," he grumbled, swiping at it with one stubby claw like a diva brushing off a paparazzi fly. "I did not approve your flight path." The dandelion puff bobbed innocently, completely unaware of the fiery fury it had just flirted with. Snortles glared harder, puffing out his cheeks like a kettle about to go full Wagner. But instead of smoke or flame, he let out an itty-bitty sneeze that sent the puff sailing away in dramatic, slow-motion style. His tail thudded against the branch. "Ugh. Weak sneeze. That was supposed to be my villain origin story." From below, a squirrel cackled. “Nice puff, scale-butt.” Snortles froze. Slowly, dangerously, his snout turned to the offending rodent, eyes narrowed like a toddler denied a snack. “Say that again, nut hoarder. I dare you.” But the squirrel was already gone, leaving only the sound of bouncing acorns and smugness in its wake. “You mock me now,” Snortles muttered, hopping down from the branch with all the grace of a disgruntled potato, “but soon, the skies shall tremble beneath my wings! The forest shall whisper my name in reverent fear! The chipmunks will write ballads about my rage!” He tripped over a moss tuft mid-monologue. “Ow.” He glared at the ground like it owed him money. “I’m fine. I meant to do that. It was a dominance roll.” And thus began the terribly important, poorly planned rise of Snortles the Indignant, Bringer of Mild Inconvenience and Unapologetic Pouting. Snortles the Indignant stomped through the moss-laden underbrush with the tenacity of a toddler who had just been told “no” for the first time. He kicked a pinecone. It didn’t go far. The pinecone bounced once, rolled into a spiderweb, and was instantly wrapped in silken judgment. Even the arachnids had more presence than him today. “This forest,” he declared to no one in particular, “is a conspiracy of allergens and underestimation.” Somewhere in the canopy above, a blue jay chuckled — a throaty, smug little cackle. Snortles glanced upward and hissed. The bird immediately dropped a poop on a toadstool nearby, purely out of spiteful amusement. “I see,” Snortles muttered. “A hostile ecosystem. You’ll all regret this when I’m Supreme Wing Commander of Charred Woodland Affairs.” He marched on. That is, until he accidentally walked head-first into the backside of a badger named Truffle. Truffle was not just any badger — he was the unofficial therapist of the forest, self-appointed and almost entirely unqualified. “Snortles!” Truffle exclaimed, turning with a gentle smile and a slightly burnt nose. “Still trying to declare war on nature?” “I’m not declaring war,” Snortles said dramatically. “I’m issuing a series of unreciprocated ultimatums.” Truffle patted the small dragon’s head. “That’s adorable, dear. Want a hug?” Snortles recoiled as if he’d been offered a bath. “Absolutely not. My fury does not accept cuddles.” “Oh no,” Truffle sighed. “You’re at Stage Three.” “Stage Three of what?” Snortles asked suspiciously. “The Five Stages of Miniature Dragon Angst,” Truffle explained. “Stage One is huffing. Stage Two is pouting. Stage Three is wandering the forest making monologues to small animals who honestly just want to poop in peace.” “I am NOT angsting,” Snortles snapped, though his tail was curled in the universal symbol of Petulant Rebellion. “I am building a legacy.” Just then, a very old toad wearing spectacles and a monocle (yes, both) slurped out from under a fern. He gazed at Snortles with all the benevolent patience of a wizard who has seen too many prophecies ruined by tiny protagonists. “Young Snortles,” the toad croaked, “the Council of the Slightly Magical Beasts has convened and decided to offer you guidance.” Snortles brightened instantly. “Finally! A council! Excellent. How many legions do I get?” “None,” said the toad. “We’re giving you an internship.” Snortles blinked. “An... intern-ship?” “Yes. You’ll assist Madame Thistle in the Dandelion Archives. She’s looking for a seasonal flame source to warm her tea kettle. You’ll also be sweeping spores off scrolls and gently threatening beetles that chew on ancient paper.” “That is NOT conquest!” Snortles shouted, wings flapping wildly in betrayal. “No,” the toad said serenely. “It’s character development.” Truffle handed Snortles a tiny broom. “It’s a magical learning opportunity!” Snortles glared. He turned to the toad. “Fine. But I’m only doing this to infiltrate the system and incite revolution from within.” The toad nodded. “Very good, young incendiary. Be sure to file your timesheet weekly.” And that’s how Snortles, Devourer of Dreams (self-titled), became the part-time intern of an elderly dryad who alphabetized wind-sent whispers and drank a suspicious amount of chamomile tea. The job was boring. The kettle only needed a puff or two of flame a day. The scrolls, while ancient, were mostly filled with passive-aggressive notes about gnome drama and one rather explicit ballad about mushroom courtship. Snortles read all of it. He also practiced glaring at teacups and lighting only the correct corners of letters on fire. It wasn’t war. It wasn’t glory. It was... tolerable. Kind of. In a “this is beneath me and yet I’m very good at it” sort of way. And while no one admitted it aloud, Snortles was... dare we say... thriving. One afternoon, Madame Thistle looked over her glasses at him and said, “You’ve improved. You almost look responsible.” Snortles looked horrified. “Take it back.” “Oh, absolutely not,” she said. “You’re a brat, but you’re a useful one. I might even recommend you to the Council for field work.” “Field work?” he echoed, suspicious. “Yes,” she said. “We’ve had reports of... disturbances. Something’s moving in the northern grove. Something bigger. Perhaps you’re ready.” Snortles’s wings twitched. His nostrils flared. His spines bristled like a porcupine with ambition. “Finally,” he whispered. “An actual chance to be important.” He left that night, tail high, confidence higher. The dandelion puffs bobbed along in the moonlight as he passed through the forest once more. This time, they did not mock. This time, they looked... worried. Something was coming. And it might actually be worse than Snortles. Snortles the Indignant stomped through the dew-drenched northern grove, heart ablaze with purpose, claws flexing like he’d rehearsed this moment for months — which, in fairness, he had. Mostly in front of a puddle he insisted was a scrying pool. He imagined the forest would dim around him. He expected ominous rustling. He was ready for a showdown. Instead, he tripped on a toad. “Excuse me,” the toad croaked, completely unfazed. “You stepped on my existential crisis.” Snortles gave him a withering glance. “I’m here to investigate a terrible threat to the forest. I do not have time for philosophical amphibians.” “Suit yourself,” the toad muttered, sliding back into the moss. “But you’re headed right into it.” “Good,” Snortles growled. “It’s time someone witnessed my glory.” And then... he saw it. Rising between the trees was a shape — bulbous, furry, and massive. It pulsed with some kind of unnatural static, like a thousand socks rubbed on a thousand carpets. Snortles narrowed his eyes, brain desperately flipping through his mental field guide. It was... a rabbit. No, not just a rabbit. This was Brog the Boundless, a magical hare of enormous size and questionable hygiene, cursed decades ago by a bored wizard with a thing for overcompensating familiars. Brog’s long ears twitched like antennae scanning for sass, and his eyes sparkled with a kind of feral boredom that spelled danger. Snortles stepped forward. “I am Snortles the Indignant, Forest Intern of the Archives and Unofficial Bringer of Minor Chaos. I’ve come to—” “BROG HUNGRY,” bellowed the hare, lurching forward and devouring an entire tree stump like a carrot stick. Snortles took an involuntary step back. “Oh,” he said. “You’re... that kind of threat.” Brog bounded forward, slobber trailing, eyes locked on Snortles with unhinged snack-seeking focus. Somewhere in the distance, a group of dryads screamed and fled into the underbrush. The ferns curled in terror. A mushroom spontaneously combusted. It was go time. Snortles flared his wings, lifted his chin, and bellowed, “I HAVE ONE VERY SPECIFIC SKILL!” He puffed. A burst of flame roared from his nostrils — well, a polite gout really, more flambé than inferno — but it was enough. Brog reared back, stunned, his whiskers singed just so. The big rabbit blinked. Then hiccuped. Then sat down, very abruptly, like someone had unplugged him. “Was it... the spice?” Brog mumbled. Snortles stood in silence, chest heaving, wings twitching. He’d done it. He’d brattled the beast. He hadn’t burned down the forest (only two shrubs). He hadn’t fainted. He had... puffed. The next morning, the Council of Slightly Magical Beasts convened on a mossy log, grumpy and half-caffeinated. The toad in spectacles nodded solemnly. “Snortles,” he said, “you have successfully completed your probationary field assignment. You are hereby promoted to... Assistant Junior Forest Custodian Third Class.” Snortles frowned. “That sounds made up.” “Oh, it is,” said the toad. “But it comes with a badge.” Snortles looked at the tiny golden acorn pin and grinned. “Do I get to assign tasks to others?” “No.” “Can I file a complaint about that?” “Also no.” “Can I puff at anyone who disagrees with me?” The toad paused. “We... strongly discourage that.” “So that’s a ‘maybe,’” Snortles said smugly, pinning the badge to his chest scale. And so the legend of Snortles grew — slowly, unevenly, full of accidental victories and overly dramatic tantrums. But the forest changed that day. Because somewhere out there was a dragon so small he could fit in your hat, but so full of fire, sass, and wildly mismanaged ambition... that even Brog the Boundless had learned to walk the long way around his mossy log. The dandelions still danced in the breeze. But none of them dared puff in Snortles’s direction anymore. He had puffed once — and that was enough.     Love this bratty little firecracker? You can bring Snortles the Indignant home (with minimal singeing) as a framed art print for your lair, a bold wood print that screams “tiny dragon, big attitude,” or a gloriously sassy tapestry perfect for walls in need of whimsical menace. Want to warn your friends you’re one puff away from chaos? Send them a greeting card that says it all — with wings, scales, and a side-eye that won’t quit. Each piece captures the hyper-realistic textures, rich fantasy tones, and cheeky charm of our favorite pocket-sized pyro. Perfect for lovers of bratty dragons, whimsical fantasy creatures, and magical mischief-makers.

par Bill Tiepelman

My Dragon Bestie

How to Accidentally Befriend a Fire Hazard Everyone knows toddlers have a knack for chaos. Sticky fingers, permanent marker tattoos on the dog, mysterious stains that science has yet to classify — it’s all part of their magic. But no one warned Ellie and Mark that their son Max, age two and a half and already proficient in diplomacy by fruit snack barter, would bring home a dragon. “It’s probably a lizard,” Mark had muttered when Max toddled in from the backyard cradling something green and suspiciously scaly. “A big, weird-eyed lizard. Like, emotionally unstable gecko weird.” But lizards, as a rule, do not belch smoke rings the size of frisbees when they burp. Nor do they respond to the name “Snuggleflame,” which Max insisted upon with the determined fury of a child who’s missed his nap. And certainly no lizard has ever attempted to toast a grilled cheese with its nostrils. The dragon — because that’s what it undeniably was — stood about knee-high with chunky feet, chubby cheeks, and the sort of wings that looked decorative until they weren’t. Its expression was equal parts devilish and delighted, like it knew a thousand secrets and none of them involved nap time. Max and Snuggleflame became inseparable within hours. They shared snacks (Max’s), secrets (mostly babbled gibberish), and bath time (a questionable decision). At night, the dragon curled around Max’s toddler bed like a living plush toy, radiating warmth and purring like a chainsaw on Xanax. Of course, Ellie and Mark tried to be rational about it. “It’s probably a metaphor,” Ellie suggested, sipping wine and watching their child cuddle a creature capable of combustion. “Like an emotional support hallucination. Freud would have loved this.” “Freud didn’t live in a ranch house with flammable drapes,” Mark replied, ducking as Snuggleflame sneezed a puff of glittery soot toward the ceiling fan. They called Animal Control. Animal Control politely suggested Animal Exorcism. They called the pediatrician. The pediatrician offered a therapist. The therapist asked if the dragon was billing under Max’s name or as a dependent. So they gave up. Because the dragon wasn’t going anywhere. And to be honest, after Snuggleflame roasted the neighbor’s leaf pile into the most efficient compost bin the HOA had ever seen, things got easier. Even the dog had stopped hiding in the washing machine. Mostly. But then, just as life started to feel bizarrely normal — Max drawing crayon murals of "Dragonopolis", Ellie fireproofing the furniture, Mark learning to say “Don't flame that” like it was a regular household rule — something changed. Snuggleflame’s eyes got wider. His wings got stretchier. And one morning, with a sound somewhere between a kazoo and a wind tunnel, he looked at Max, belched out a compass, and said — in perfect toddler-accented English — “We has to go home now.” Max blinked. “You mean my room?” The dragon grinned, fanged and wild. “Nope. Dragonland.” Ellie dropped her coffee mug. Mark cursed so hard the baby monitor censored him. Max? He simply smiled, eyes shining with the unshakable faith of a child whose best friend just turned into a mythical Uber. And that, dear reader, is how a suburban family accidentally agreed to a magical relocation clause… led by a dragon and a preschooler in Velcro shoes. To be continued in Part Two: “The TSA Does Not Approve of Dragons” The TSA Does Not Approve of Dragons Ellie hadn’t flown since Max was born. She remembered airports as stressful, overpriced food courts with occasional opportunities to be strip-searched by someone named Doug. But nothing — and I mean nothing — prepares you for trying to check a fire-breathing emotional support lizard through security. “Is that… an animal?” the TSA agent asked, in the same tone one might use for discovering a ferret operating a forklift. Her badge read “Karen B.” and her emotional aura screamed “no nonsense, no dragons, not today.” “He’s more of a plus-one,” Ellie said. “He breathes fire, but he doesn’t vape, if that helps.” Snuggleflame, for his part, was wearing Max’s old hoodie and a pair of aviator sunglasses. It did not help. He also carried a satchel with snacks, three crayons, a plastic tiara, and a glowing orb that had started whispering in Latin sometime around the baggage check. “He’s house-trained,” Max chimed in, proudly. “He only toasts things on purpose now.” Mark, who had been silently calculating how many times they could be banned from federal airspace before it counted as a felony, handed over the dragon’s ‘passport.’ It was a laminated construction paper booklet titled OFFISHUL DRAGON ID with a crayon drawing of Snuggleflame smiling next to a stick figure family and the helpful note: I AINT MEAN. Somehow, whether by charm, chaos, or sheer clerical burnout, they got through. There were compromises. Snuggleflame had to ride in cargo. The orb was confiscated by a guy who swore it tried to "reveal his destiny." Max cried for ten minutes until Snuggleflame sent smoke signals through the air vents spelling “I OK.” They landed in Iceland. “Why Iceland?” Mark asked for the fifth time, rubbing his temples with the slow desperation of a man whose toddler had commandeered an ancient being and a boarding gate. “Because it’s the place where the veil between worlds is thinnest,” Ellie replied, reading from a brochure she found in the airport titled Dragons, Gnomes, and You: A Practical Guide to Fae-Proofing Your Backyard. “Also,” Max piped up, “Snuggleflame said the portal smells like marshmallows here.” That, apparently, was that. They checked into a small hostel in a village so picturesque it made Hallmark movies feel insecure. The townspeople were polite in the way that implied they’d seen weirder. No one even blinked when Snuggleflame roasted a whole salmon with a hiccup or when Max used a stick to draw magical glyphs in the frost. The dragon led them into the wilderness at dawn. The terrain was a rugged postcard of mossy hills, icy streams, and a sky that looked like a Nordic mood ring. They hiked for hours — Max carried by turns on Mark’s shoulders or floating slightly above ground courtesy of Snuggleflame’s "hover hugs." Finally, they reached it: a clearing with a stone arch carved with symbols that pulsed faintly. A ring of mushrooms marked the threshold. The air buzzed with a scent that was part cinnamon toast, part ozone, and part “you’re about to make a decision that rewires your life forever.” Snuggleflame turned solemn. “Once we go through… you might never come back. Not the same way. You sure, little buddy?” Max, without hesitation, said, “Only if Mommy and Daddy come too.” Ellie and Mark looked at each other. She shrugged. “You know what? Normal was overrated.” “My office just assigned me to a committee about optimizing spreadsheet color-coding. Let’s roll,” Mark said. With a deep, echoing whoosh, Snuggleflame reared up and breathed a ribbon of blue fire into the arch. The stones glowed. The mushrooms danced. The veil between worlds sighed like an overworked barista and opened. The family stepped through together, hand in claw in hand. They landed in Dragonland. Not a metaphor. Not a theme park. A place where the skies shimmered like soap bubbles on steroids and the trees had opinions. Everything sparkled — aggressively so. It was like Lisa Frank had binge-watched Game of Thrones while microdosing peyote and then built a kingdom. The inhabitants greeted Max as though he were royalty. Turns out, he kind of was. Through a series of absolutely legitimate dream-based contracts, prophecy pancakes, and interpretive dance rituals, Max had been appointed "The Snuggle-Chosen." A hero foretold to bring emotional maturity and sticker-based communication to an otherwise flame-obsessed society. Snuggleflame became a full-sized dragon within days. He was magnificent — sleek, winged, capable of lifting minivans, and still perfectly willing to let Max ride on his back wearing nothing but dinosaur pajamas and a bike helmet. Ellie opened a fireproof preschool. Mark started a podcast called "Corporate Survival for the Newly Magical." They built a cottage next to a talking creek that offered life advice in the form of passive-aggressive haikus. Things were weird. They were also perfect. And no one — not a single soul — ever said, “You’re being childish,” because in Dragonland, the childish ran the place. To be continued in Part Three: “Civic Responsibility and the Ethical Use of Dragon Farts” Civic Responsibility and the Ethical Use of Dragon Farts Life in Dragonland was never boring. In fact, it was never even quiet. Between Snuggleflame’s daily aerial dance routines (featuring synchronized spark sneezes) and the enchanted jellybean geyser behind the house, “peaceful” was something they left behind at the airport. Still, the family had settled into something resembling a routine. Max, now the de facto ambassador of Human-Toddler Relations, spent his mornings finger-painting treaties and leading compassion exercises for the dragon hatchlings. His leadership style could best be described as “chaotic benevolence with juice breaks.” Ellie ran a successful daycare for magical creatures with behavioral issues. The tagline: “We Hug First, Ask Questions Later.” She had mastered the art of calming down a tantruming gnome with a glow stick and learned exactly how many glitter-bombs it took to distract a tantrum-prone unicorn with boundary issues (three and a half). Mark, meanwhile, had been elected to the Dragonland Council under the “reluctantly competent human” clause. His campaign platform included phrases like “Let’s stop setting fire to the mail” and “Fiscal responsibility: it’s not just for wizards.” Against all odds, it worked. He now chaired the Committee on Ethical Flame Use, where he spent most of his time writing policy to prevent dragons from using their farts as tactical weather devices. “We had a drought last month,” Mark muttered at the kitchen table one morning, scribbling on a parchment. “And instead of summoning rain, Glork farted a cloud the size of Cleveland into existence. It snowed pickles, Ellie. For twelve hours.” “They were delicious, though,” Max chirped, chewing one casually like it was a normal Tuesday. Then came The Incident. One sunny morning, Max and Snuggleflame were doing their usual stunt flights over the Glitter Dunes when Max accidentally dropped his lunch — a peanut butter sandwich enchanted with a happiness charm. The sandwich fell directly onto the ceremonial altar of the Grumblebeards, a cranky race of lava goblins with sensitive noses and no sense of humor. They declared war. On whom, exactly, was unclear — the child, the sandwich, the very concept of joy — but war was declared nonetheless. The Dragonland Council convened an emergency summit. Mark put on his “serious” robe (which featured fewer bedazzled stars than the casual one), Ellie brought her crisis glitter, and Max… brought Snuggleflame. “We’ll negotiate,” said Mark. “We’ll dazzle them,” said Ellie. “We’ll weaponize cuteness,” said Max, his eyes practically sparkling with tactical whimsy. And so they did. After three hours of increasingly confusing diplomacy, several emotional monologues about peanut allergies, and a full toddler-led puppet show reenacting “How Sandwiches Are Made With Love,” the Grumblebeards agreed to a ceasefire… if Snuggleflame could fart a cloud shaped like their ancestral totem: a slightly melting lava cat named Shlorp. Snuggleflame, after three helpings of spicy moonberries and a dramatic tail stretch, delivered. The resulting cloud was magnificent. It purred. It glowed. It made fart sounds in four-part harmony. The Grumblebeards wept openly and handed over a peace contract written in crayon. Dragonland was saved. Max was promoted to Supreme Hugmaster of the Inter-Mythical Council. Ellie received the Glitterheart Medal for Emotional Conflict Resolution. Mark was finally allowed to install smoke detectors without being called a “buzzkill.” Years passed. Max grew. So did Snuggleflame — who now sported a monocle, a saddle, and an unshakeable fondness for dad jokes. They became living legends, flying between dimensions, solving magical disputes, spreading laughter, and occasionally dropping enchanted sandwiches onto unsuspecting picnic-goers. But every year, on the anniversary of The Incident, they returned home to that very same stone arch in Iceland. They’d share stories, toast marshmallows on Snuggleflame’s backdraft, and watch the skies together, wondering who else might need a little more magic… or a cuddle-powered ceasefire. And for anyone who asks if it really happened — the dragons, the portals, the diplomacy powered by hugs — Max has just one answer: “You ever seen a toddler lie about a dragon bestie with that much confidence? Didn’t think so.” The End. (Or maybe just the beginning.)     Take a Piece of Dragonland Home 🐉 If “My Dragon Bestie” made your inner child do a little happy dance (or snort-laugh into your coffee), you can bring that magical mischief into your real world! Whether you want to cozy up with a fleece blanket that’s as warm as Snuggleflame’s belly, or add some whimsical fire-breathing flair to your space with a metal print or framed wall art, we’ve got you covered. Send a smile (and maybe a giggle-snort) with a greeting card, or go big and bold with a storytelling centerpiece like our vibrant tapestry. Every item features the high-detail, whimsical world of “My Dragon Bestie” — a perfect way to bring fantasy, fun, and fireproof friendship into your home or to share with the dragon-lover in your life.

par Bill Tiepelman

Tongues and Talons

Of Eggs, Egos, and Explosions Burlap Tinklestump never planned to be a father. He could barely manage adult gnomehood, what with the ale debts, magical gardening fines, and one unresolved beef with the local frog choir. But destiny—or more precisely, a slightly intoxicated hedgehog named Fergus—had other ideas. It began, as these things often do, with a dare. “Lick it,” Fergus slurred, pointing at a cracked, iridescent egg nestled in the roots of a fireberry tree. “Betcha won’t.” “Bet I will,” Burlap shot back, without even asking what species it belonged to. He’d just finished chugging a fermented root beer so strong it could strip bark. His judgment was, generously, compromised. And so, with a tongue that had already survived three chili-eating contests and one unfortunate bee spell, Burlap gave the egg a full, slobbery swipe. It cracked. It hissed. It combusted. Out hatched a baby dragon—tiny, green, and already pissed off. The newborn let out a screech like a kettle having an existential crisis, flared its wings, and promptly bit Burlap on the nose. Sparks flew. Burlap screamed. Fergus passed out in a daffodil patch. “Well,” Burlap wheezed, prying the tiny jaws off his face, “guess that’s parenting now.” He named the dragon Singe, partly for the way it charred everything it sneezed on, and partly because it had already reduced his favorite pants to ashes. Singe, for his part, adopted Burlap in that aloof, vaguely threatening way that only dragons and cats truly master. He rode around on the gnome’s shoulder, hissed at authority figures, and developed a taste for roasted insects and sarcasm. Within weeks, the two became inseparable—and entirely insufferable. Together they perfected the art of mischief in the Dinglethorn Wilds: lacing faerie tea with fireball elixirs, redirecting squirrel migration routes with enchanted nut decoys, and once swapping the Wishing Pond’s coins with shiny goblin poker chips. The forest folk tried to reason with them. That failed. They tried to bribe them with mushroom pies. That almost worked. But it wasn’t until Burlap used Singe to light a ceremonial elvish tapestry—during a wedding, no less—that real consequences came knocking. The Elvish Postal Authority, a guild feared even by trolls, issued a notice of severe misconduct, public disruption, and ‘unauthorized flame-based object alteration’. It arrived via flaming pigeon. “We have to go underground,” Burlap declared. “Or up. Higher ground. Strategic advantage. Less paperwork.” And that’s when he discovered the Mushroom. It was colossal—an ancient, towering toadstool rumored to be sentient and mildly perverted. Burlap moved in immediately. He carved a spiral staircase up the stalk, installed a hammock made of recycled spider silk, and nailed a crooked sign to the cap: The High Fungus Consulate – Diplomatic Immunity & Spores for All. “We live here now,” he told Singe, who replied by incinerating a squirrel who’d asked for rent. The gnome nodded in approval. “Good. They’ll respect us.” Respect, as it turned out, was not the first reaction. The Forest Council called an emergency tribunal. Queen Glimmer sent an ambassador. The owlfolk drafted sanctions. And the elvish inspector returned—this time with a flamethrower of his own and a 67-count indictment scroll. Burlap, wearing a ceremonial robe made of moss and buttons, greeted him with a manic grin. “Tell your queen I demand recognition. Also, I licked the tax form. It’s legally mine now.” The inspector opened his mouth to reply—just as Singe sneezed a fireball the size of a cantaloupe into his boots. Chaos had only just begun. Fire, Fungi, and the Fall of Forest Law Three days after the incident with the flaming boots, Burlap and Singe stood trial in the Grand Glade Tribunal—an ancient patch of sacred forest converted into a courthouse by some very judgmental birches. The crowd was massive. Pixies with protest signs, dryads holding petitions, a group of anarchist hedgehogs chanting “NO SHROOM WITHOUT REPRESENTATION!” and at least one confused centaur who thought this was an herbalist expo. Burlap, in a robe made from stitched-together leaves and sandwich wrappers, sat perched atop a velvet mushroom throne he'd smuggled in from his “consulate.” Singe, now the size of a medium turkey and infinitely more combustible, sat curled on the gnome’s lap with a smug expression that only a creature born of fire and entitlement could maintain. Queen Glimmer presided. Her silver wings fluttered with restrained fury as she read the charges: “Unlawful dragon domestication. Unauthorized toadstool expansion. Misuse of enchanted flatulence. And one count of insulting a tree priest with interpretive dance.” “That last one was art,” Burlap muttered. “You can’t charge for expression.” “You danced on his altar while yelling ‘SPORE THIS!’” “He started it.” As the trial went on, things unraveled fast. The badger militia presented charred evidence, including half a mailbox and a wedding veil. Burlap called a raccoon named Dave as a character witness, who mostly tried to steal the bailiff’s pocket watch. Singe testified in the form of smoke puffs and mild arson. And then, as tensions peaked, Burlap unveiled his trump card: a magically binding diplomatic document written in ancient fungal script. “Behold!” he shouted, slapping the scroll onto the stump of testimony. “The Spores of Sanctuary Accord! Signed by the Fungus King himself—may his gills ever flourish.” Everyone gasped. Mostly because it smelled awful. Queen Glimmer read it carefully. “This... this is a menu from a questionable mushroom bar in the Marshes of Meh.” “Still binding,” Burlap replied. “It’s laminated.” In the chaos that followed—wherein a squirrel delegate threw a nut bomb, a pixie went rogue with glitter-based spells, and Singe decided the time was ripe for his first true roar—the trial collapsed into something more closely resembling a music festival run by toddlers with matches. And Burlap, never one to miss a dramatic exit, whistled for his getaway plan: a flying wheelbarrow powered by fermented gnome gas and old firework enchantments. He climbed aboard with Singe, gave a two-finger salute to the crowd, and shouted, “The High Fungus Consulate shall rise again! Preferably on Tuesdays!” They vanished in a trail of smoke, fire, and what smelled suspiciously like roasted garlic and regret. Weeks later, the Mushroom Embassy was declared a public hazard and burned down—though some claim it grew back overnight, taller, weirder, and faintly humming jazz. Burlap and Singe were never captured. They became legends. Myths. The kind whispered by tavern bards who smirk when the lute chords go slightly off tune. Some say they live in the Outer Bramble now, where law fears to tread and gnomes make their own constitutions. Others claim they opened a food truck specializing in spicy mushroom tacos and dragon-brewed cider. But one thing’s clear: Wherever there’s laughter, smoke, and a mushroom slightly out of place… Burlap Tinklestump and Singe are probably nearby, plotting their next ridiculous rebellion against authority, order, and pants. The forest forgives many things—but it never forgets a well-cooked elvish tax scroll.     EPILOGUE – The Gnome, the Dragon, and the Whispering Spores Years passed in the Dinglethorn Wilds, though “years” is a fuzzy term in a forest where time bends politely around mushroom rings and the moon occasionally takes Tuesdays off. The tale of Burlap Tinklestump and Singe grew roots and wings, mutating with every retelling. Some said they overthrew a goblin mayor. Others swore they built a fortress made entirely of stolen doorbells. One rumor claimed Singe fathered an entire generation of spicy-tempered wyvernlings, all with a flair for interpretive fire dancing. The truth was, as usual, far stranger. Burlap and Singe lived free, nomadic, and joyfully unaccountable. They wandered from glade to glade, stirring trouble like a spoon in a bubbling pot. They crashed fae garden parties, rewrote troll toll policies with sock puppets, and opened a short-lived consulting firm called Gnomebody’s Business, which specialized in diplomatic sabotage and mushroom real estate. They were kicked out of seventeen realms. Burlap framed each eviction notice and hung them with pride in whatever hollow log or enchanted gazebo they currently squatted in. Singe grew stronger, wiser, and no less chaotic. By adulthood, he could torch a beanstalk mid-air while spelling out rude words in smoke. He’d developed an affinity for jazz flute, enchanted bacon, and sneezing contests. And through it all, he remained perched—either on Burlap’s shoulder, his head, or on the nearest flammable object. Burlap aged only in theory. His beard got longer. His pranks got crueler. But his laugh—oh, that full-bodied, giddy cackle—echoed through the forest like a mischievous anthem. Even the trees began to lean in when he passed, eager to hear what idiocy he’d utter next. Eventually, they disappeared entirely. No sightings. No fire trails. Just silence… and mushrooms. Glowing, tall, gnarled mushrooms appeared wherever they’d once been—often with singe marks, bite impressions, and, occasionally, indecent graffiti. The High Fungus Consulate, it seems, had simply gone... airborne. To this day, if you enter the Dinglethorn at twilight and tell a lie with a grin, you might hear a chuckle on the wind. And if you leave behind a pie, a bad poem, or a political pamphlet soaked in brandy—well, let’s just say that pie might come back flaming, annotated, and demanding a seat at the council table. Because Burlap and Singe weren’t just legends. They were a warning wrapped in laughter, tied with fire, and sealed with a mushroom stamp.     Bring the Mischief Home – Shop "Tongues and Talons" Collectibles Feeling the itch to cause some magical mayhem of your own? Invite Burlap and Singe into your world with our exclusive Tongues and Talons collection — crafted for rebels, dreamers, and mushroom-loving firestarters. 🔥 Metal Print: Bold, gleaming, and built to withstand even a dragon sneeze — this metal print captures every detail of the gnome-dragon duo’s chaotic charm in razor-sharp resolution. 🖼️ Canvas Print: Add a splash of whimsy and fire to your walls with this stunning canvas print. It’s storytelling, texture, and toadstool glory all in one frame-worthy piece. 🛋️ Throw Pillow: Need a cozy companion for your next mischief-filled nap? Our Tongues and Talons throw pillow is the softest way to keep dragon energy on your couch — no scorch marks included. 👜 Tote Bag: Whether you're hauling forbidden scrolls, enchanted snacks, or questionable diplomatic documents, this tote bag has your back with sturdy style and spellbinding flair. Shop now and carry a little bit of chaos, laughter, and legendary fungus with you — wherever your next adventure leads.