Dark fantasy humor

par Bill Tiepelman

Ritualist of the Forgotten Forge

The Circle No One Sweeps The village had long since stopped asking why their forge was haunted. Honestly, it was easier to pretend that the glowing sigil carved into the soot-stained floor was just “decorative rustic lighting.” Everyone knew better, of course. They whispered about the little figure who appeared only at midnight: a gnome, pale as moonlight, with chains jingling around his tattered boots. He had the kind of beard that screamed, “I’ve got secrets,” and eyes that glowed as though he’d mainlined battery acid. They called him the Ritualist, though behind closed doors they also called him less flattering things—like “that cranky little goth garden statue reject.” No one dared sweep the forge anymore. The glowing circle on the ground? Untouched. The puddle of neon goo dripping endlessly from nowhere? Nobody even mopped. It was simply understood that those were the Ritualist’s toys, and tampering with them meant your cows went dry or your husband suddenly started reciting poetry about toenail fungus. The Ritualist didn’t mess around with subtle curses. He went straight for the weird and humiliating. Some swore he had once been a smith—back when the forge actually forged, before it became a paranormal Airbnb for things with too many teeth. They said he hammered armor so sharp it sliced shadows, swords that bled smoke, and helmets that whispered to their owners at night, telling them secrets about who farted in the tavern. But that was centuries ago. Now he sat in the dust, crouched low, muttering over runes that pulsed in colors even the rainbow didn’t claim. The strangest part wasn’t his magic, though. It was his attitude. The Ritualist wasn’t your solemn, robe-wrapped mystic. He was snark incarnate. Villagers swore they’d heard him heckle wandering spirits. “Boo? Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” he’d sneer, or worse, “Wow, Casper, I’m shaking in my boots—oh wait, those are YOUR boots, nice try.” His reputation as the village’s resident paranormal troll was both feared and begrudgingly respected. No ghost dared linger, no demon dared pout—he roasted them harder than the forge’s old flames. Yet, beneath all the eye-rolling bravado, there was something else. A mystery thicker than his beard oils. Why did he keep that circle glowing? Why did he never leave the forge, never step into daylight? And why—on that particular midnight—did he look up from the circle with an expression that wasn’t snarky at all, but genuinely… afraid? Forge Gossip, Bad Omens, and a Gnome Who Knows Too Much Midnight again, and the forge was already humming like a drunk monk chanting off-key. The sigil burned hotter, violet sparks shooting into the air like the world’s most pretentious fireworks display. The Ritualist crouched at its center, muttering in a language that sounded half like incantation and half like he was trying to beatbox with bronchitis. His beard swayed with each whispered syllable, and the chains on his boots rattled in rhythm, giving him the vibe of an off-brand gothic metronome. What no villager ever knew—because they valued their lives too much to peek—was that the Ritualist didn’t just sit there looking spooky for kicks. He was working. Sort of. Every night he argued with the circle. Yes, argued. The runes hissed at him, the neon goo sloshed with disapproval, and occasionally a voice would bubble up from beneath the floor with the passive-aggressive tone of someone’s dead aunt. “You should have cleaned up better when you had the chance,” the voice would say. “You were always so lazy.” The Ritualist would snarl back, “Oh, put a rune in it, Agnes. Your casseroles were terrible.” He wasn’t entirely wrong—the runes were haunted. Each stroke of glowing script was an IOU signed in blood and sass centuries ago. The Forgotten Forge had been the playground of entities that thought blacksmiths were the best kind of pen pals: they sent anvils in exchange for souls, hammers for promises, tongs for secrets. And the Ritualist? He was the last smith standing. He kept the debts balanced—or at least juggled them long enough to keep the forge from imploding into an interdimensional sinkhole. Glamorous, it was not. And yet, for someone whose job was essentially to babysit eldritch graffiti, he had style. He leaned into the goth aesthetic so hard it practically squeaked. Black leather jacket stitched with runes no one could read? Check. Tall, pointed hat that looked like it could stab a squirrel at twenty paces? Double check. Boots heavy enough to stomp through the bones of the damned? Triple check, plus steel toes. The Ritualist didn’t half-ass his look, not even when summoning things that could liquify him faster than an overripe tomato in a blender. On this night, however, the look wasn’t enough to hide the twitch in his eye. The circle was glowing wrong. Too bright. Too… needy. Like a cat at 3 a.m. demanding snacks. He could feel the forge floor thrumming under his palms, the metal veins in the stone vibrating as though something beneath was stretching after a long nap. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one damn bit. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, squinting at the neon goo now bubbling like a pot of suspicious soup. “Not tonight. I’ve got things to do. I’ve got beard oil to apply, curses to polish. Do you even realize how much unpaid overtime I’ve got stacked up?” The circle hissed louder, like a chorus of angry snakes. Sparks showered the air, scorching little burn marks into the rafters. A shadow slithered along the forge walls, longer than it should’ve been, sharper, hungrier. The Ritualist pulled a jagged little knife from his belt and pointed it lazily, like he was too tired for this nonsense but still willing to stab something if it ruined his evening. “Don’t test me,” he growled. “You know I’m cranky after midnight. You wouldn’t like me when I’m cranky.” But the thing did test him. From the circle rose a figure: not demon, not ghost, but something worse—the village gossip. Or, more precisely, the spirit of every bit of gossip the village had ever spewed. The thing formed from whispers and rumors, stitched together with petty envy and judgmental eyebrow raises. It oozed into shape like smoke made of disapproving sighs. It was hideous. It was relentless. It was the kind of entity that didn’t just eat souls—it ate your self-esteem. “Oh look at you,” the whisper-spirit crooned in a thousand voices. “All alone. Playing witch-doctor with chalk scribbles. Not even a real gnome—more like a washed-up lawn ornament with a hot topic gift card.” The Ritualist snarled, jabbing his knife at the thing. “Say that again, you whispering pile of mildew.” “Oh, we’ll say more,” it hissed, circling him. “We’ll say everything. We’ll tell them you’re scared. That you’re failing. That the forge is breaking, and you’re too busy being dramatic to fix it. We’ll tell them you wear eyeliner in the dark even though no one’s watching.” He squinted. “First off, eyeliner is a mood, not an audience event. Second—” He slashed the knife through the air, sending a spark of violet lightning across the circle. The gossip-wraith recoiled, shrieking in overlapping voices. But it didn’t vanish. Not yet. The Ritualist stood straighter now, his pale skin aglow with the circle’s fire, his beard practically sparkling with static. “Listen, you pile of spectral trash,” he said, voice dripping with mockery. “I’ve dealt with banshees who sang off-key, revenants with bad breath, and one very angry ghost donkey. Do you think a walking pile of rumor-mill nonsense is going to rattle me?” He grinned, baring teeth too sharp for a gnome. “Newsflash: I am the rumor. I am the punchline. And I’m not afraid to burn your little whispering ass back to whatever cosmic sewing circle you crawled out of.” The wraith hissed again, but the forge itself shook this time—rafters groaning, iron chains rattling, embers bursting like fireworks. The Ritualist’s grin faltered. Just a little. Because behind the gossip-thing, something bigger was pressing against the circle, something too large for words, too old for jokes. And for the first time in a very long while, his sarcasm didn’t feel like enough. The Forge Throws a Tantrum The gossip-wraith shimmered like static, circling the Ritualist with the smugness of a cat that just knocked over your last glass of wine. It was annoying enough, but the real problem was what was happening behind it. The forge floor was cracking. The neon sigil pulsed like a diseased heartbeat, veins of glowing violet spiderwebbing through the stone. Whatever was pressing from below was no polite house spirit—it was old, it was hungry, and it was stretching like it hadn’t had a snack since the Dark Ages. “Well,” the Ritualist muttered, shoving his knife back into its sheath, “this is officially above my pay grade. And I don’t even get paid. You’d think babysitting a haunted forge would come with benefits. Dental? A retirement plan? Hell, I’d settle for a beer tab.” The gossip-wraith cackled in overlapping voices. “You’re slipping. They’ll see it. They’ll whisper it. They’ll laugh.” He scowled, then jabbed a finger at it. “Do me a favor and choke on your own smug. I’ve got bigger problems than your commentary track.” That’s when the floor gave out. A crack split the circle wide open, neon goo splattering like someone tipped over a vat of radioactive jam. From the fissure rose a claw—gnarled, metallic, dripping molten sparks. Then another. Then something enormous heaved itself halfway out of the earth, forcing the rafters to quake and the iron beams to groan. It was like the forge itself had decided it was done being a workplace and wanted to be a boss monster instead. And what emerged wasn’t exactly a demon. Or a ghost. Or even something describable in polite company. It was all of them, a mashup of nightmare tropes rolled into one hideous, jaw-dropping monstrosity. Think dragon made out of chainmail and resentment, stitched together with the bad attitude of every villain who ever monologued too long. Its eyes blazed with the light of exploding suns. Its teeth looked like they’d flossed with barbed wire. And its voice—when it opened its maw—sounded like a garbage disposal trying to sing opera. “Well, shit,” said the Ritualist, dusting off his hands. “Guess I’m working overtime.” The gossip-wraith, now reduced to a shadow clinging to the forge wall, squeaked, “You can’t stop it!” “Oh honey,” the Ritualist drawled, pulling a jagged black hammer from behind the anvil, “I don’t need to stop it. I just need to piss it off enough that it leaves me alone for another hundred years.” The hammer wasn’t just a hammer—it was the hammer. The last artifact of the Forgotten Forge, etched with runes so ancient even the gossip-thing shut up for a moment. When he swung it, it didn’t just hit metal. It hit concepts. You could bash someone’s hope with it. You could smash irony across the jaw. Once, legend said, he had flattened an entire bureaucracy just by tapping their paperwork with it. True story. The Ritualist raised the hammer as the monstrous thing hauled itself higher, its claws gouging trenches into the floor. “Alright, Stretch,” he called out, voice sharp as a whip. “You woke up on the wrong side of the apocalypse. I get it. But here’s the deal—this is my forge. My circle. My neon goo puddle. And if you think you’re going to waltz in here like you own the place, well…” He smirked, baring sharp teeth. “You’re about to get hammered.” The fight that followed would’ve made the gods lean in with popcorn. The creature lunged, jaws snapping, molten spit sizzling on the stone. The Ritualist swung, hammer connecting with a roar that rippled through dimensions. Sparks flew, each one a memory burned into existence, each one stinging like sarcasm flung at the wrong time. The monster reeled back, screeching. The circle pulsed harder, trying to contain the chaos, but cracks spread wider, glowing brighter, like a rave held by tectonic plates. “You can’t win!” the gossip-wraith shrieked. “You’re just one cranky gnome with eyeliner!” “Correction,” the Ritualist snarled, dodging a claw swipe that nearly took his hat, “I’m the crankiest gnome with eyeliner, and that makes me unstoppable.” Another swing of the hammer cracked one of the beast’s claws clean off. It hit the floor with a clang, rattling the rafters. The monster screamed, retaliating with a wave of molten sparks that lit the forge in blinding firelight. Shadows danced across the walls, and for a moment the Ritualist looked less like a gnome and more like a god—a tiny, furious god in black boots, standing defiant against something ten times his size. The villagers outside woke to the sound of explosions, groaning metal, and one very loud gnome screaming things like, “I SAID NO TRESPASSING!” and “GET YOUR OVERGROWN ASS OUT OF MY CIRCLE!” Windows rattled. Cows panicked. Someone tried to pray, but their words got drowned out by a particularly nasty clang followed by the monster’s howl of defeat. By dawn, the forge was quiet again. The villagers crept up, peeking from behind fences, half-expecting to find nothing but rubble. Instead, they found the forge intact, glowing faintly. The Ritualist sat in the middle of it all, cross-legged, hammer resting across his lap, beard singed at the edges, boots steaming. His hat was crooked, his jacket torn, and his glare dared anyone to ask questions. “What happened?” one brave idiot finally asked. The Ritualist looked up slowly, eyes glowing with leftover fire. “What happened,” he said dryly, “is that you owe me a beer. Actually, three. No, make it five. And if anyone so much as thinks about sweeping this forge, I swear I’ll curse your entire family tree with flatulence until the seventh generation.” And that was that. The forge remained standing, the circle glowing. The villagers never asked again. Because they knew better. The Ritualist of the Forgotten Forge wasn’t just a guardian. He was a professional problem, and sometimes—just sometimes—he was the only thing standing between their little world and complete annihilation. With sarcasm as sharp as his hammer, and eyeliner dark enough to shame the night, he would keep the circle burning, one snarky midnight at a time.     Epilogue: Beard Oil and Beer Tabs Days passed, and the villagers noticed something odd. The forge wasn’t just glowing anymore—it was purring. A low, steady hum, like the sound of a very smug cat that had eaten its fill of eldritch horrors. The Ritualist himself was seen less often, mostly because he spent more time napping in the forge with his hammer across his chest like a gnome-sized guard dog. When questioned, he’d wave them off with a grunt. “Circle’s fine. Big ugly went back to sleep. Don’t touch my goo puddle. That’s all you need to know.” The gossip-wraith? Still lurking in the rafters, but quieter now. Occasionally it would whisper mean things, but the Ritualist had perfected the art of flipping it off without even opening his eyes. He claimed he’d “domesticated it,” like one might with a raccoon or a very rude parrot. Nobody wanted to test him on that. Legend spread. Children dared each other to peek at the forge windows at night, hoping to see sparks of violet lightning or hear the gnome muttering insults at unseen enemies. Merchants made jokes about bottling the neon goo as a tonic—though no one had the guts to try. The Ritualist, meanwhile, enjoyed the attention only in the sense that it annoyed him. “Great,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m a tourist attraction now. Next thing you know, you’ll want to put me on a damn postcard.” And yet, every night at midnight, he still crouched over the circle. Still muttered his strange half-incantations, half-insults. Still kept the balance. Because deep down—even beneath the eyeliner, the sarcasm, and the layers of cranky attitude—he knew what the villagers would never admit: that without him, their world would’ve cracked open long ago. He didn’t need their gratitude. He just needed their beer. And maybe, on a good day, someone to bring him a new bottle of beard oil. So the forge burned, the circle glowed, and the Ritualist endured—snark, curses, neon goo puddle and all. Because sometimes the world doesn’t need a hero. Sometimes it just needs a goth gnome with attitude and a hammer that can smack concepts in the teeth.   Bring the Ritual Home If the Ritualist of the Forgotten Forge made you laugh, cringe, or secretly wish you had your own goo puddle of eldritch neon power, you can bring a piece of his world into yours. Whether you want a bold statement for your walls, a cozy snark-filled blanket, or even a notebook to scribble your own questionable runes, we’ve got you covered. Hang the Ritualist’s midnight snarl in your living room with a Framed Print, or go sleek and modern with a fiery Metal Print. Need a sidekick for your ideas (or curses)? Grab the Spiral Notebook and jot down every sarcastic prophecy that pops into your head. For those who like their goth gnomes portable, slap him anywhere with a Sticker—on your laptop, your water bottle, or straight onto your neighbor’s broom (no judgment). And when the night grows long, curl up under the dark comfort of a Fleece Blanket glowing with his mysterious energy. Because sometimes the world doesn’t need a hero. It just needs a goth gnome with an attitude—and now, so do you.

par Bill Tiepelman

Midnight Clutch

The Transaction It started with a bet—because it always does. A bar too loud for conscience and too dim for decency, a stranger in a velvet hood, and a wager scribbled on a napkin: “If you win, you get what I caught. If you lose, I take your voice.” She laughed then, because she always did. “What the hell does that mean?” she’d asked, swirling her drink, blood-red and twice as toxic. The stranger didn’t answer. He just held out a deck of cards that smelled faintly of sulfur and old leather. She cut the deck, felt a zap under her fingertips, like licking a battery—but she was half-lit, halfway gone, and too proud to pull back. Three hands later, she won. Technically. She expected a bag of weird drugs. Maybe a wriggling thing in a jar. What she got was… warm. Alive. And looking at her like it already hated her guts. “You’re kidding,” she said, staring at the demon no bigger than a housecat, curled in the stranger’s black-gloved palm like a spoiled reptile. Its skin was wet, slick with blood or something trying to be it, and its teeth were small but too many. Its eyes were older than rules. It blinked—slow and smug. “He’s yours now,” the stranger said, voice like gravel in honey. “Don't name him. Don’t feed him after midnight. Don’t masturbate while he’s watching.” She choked on her drink. “Wait, what?” But the stranger was already fading into shadow, melting into the cigarette smoke and regret that passed for air in that place. All that was left was the creature in her lap, blinking its oily eyes and dragging a claw down her thigh like it was mapping her for later consumption. She didn’t name it. She called it “Dude.” “You better not piss on anything important,” she muttered, already regretting everything but the free drinks. The thing purred. Which was worse than any snarl. By sunrise, her apartment smelled like scorched leather and strange flowers. “Dude” had taken up residence in her lingerie drawer, hissed at her vibrator, and made three of her plants wilt just by looking at them. She watched him perch in her hand like some Satanic chihuahua, wings twitching, tail wrapped tight around her middle finger. That’s when she noticed: her thumb nail—bare just yesterday—was now painted crimson and sharp. Like it had grown that way. She stared at it. Then at the demon. “Dude,” she said, voice low and unsure, “are you doing... nail art?” He smiled. It was all teeth and bad news. And that’s when the scratching started. From inside the walls. The Claw That Feeds By the third night, Dude had claimed dominance over the television, her bedroom, and—possibly—her soul. She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him: curled up like a grotesque fetus in the glow of the lamp, wings twitching, muttering in a language made entirely of consonants and war crimes. He smelled like brimstone, black licorice, and regret. Her cat had moved out. Her neighbors started leaving butcher paper on her doorstep. No one had explained why. Worse, the nail thing had escalated. All ten fingers now gleamed with blood-red lacquer, sharp enough to open envelopes or jugulars. She’d broken a mug just holding it. Her touch left scorch marks. A guy on Tinder said he was into “witchy girls” and ended up sobbing in a fetal position after she touched his thigh. “Dude,” she hissed, watching the little bastard lick something off her phone charger, “I need my life back.” He burped. It smelled like ozone and roasted anxiety. She Googled “how to reverse demonic contract” and ended up on a blog run by a guy named Craig who lived in a bunker and sold artisanal salt circles. She bought two, just in case. They did nothing. Dude pissed in one and it screamed. The scratching in the walls had turned into whispering. Sometimes it said her name. Sometimes it just recited Yelp reviews in a dead language. Once it tried to sell her life insurance. She tried holy water. Dude drank it like wine, then offered her a sip. She blacked out and woke up on her bathroom floor with her mirror cracked and her teeth cleaner than they’d ever been. Her breath smelled like cinnamon and sin. “I don’t remember giving consent to any of this,” she muttered. Dude winked. It was awful. By week two, her landlord knocked. “There’ve been complaints,” he said, squinting past her at the flickering hallway behind her. “Someone said you’re running a cult or a TikTok house.” She blinked. “I work in HR.” Behind her, Dude appeared in the shadows, eating a Pop-Tart and making intense eye contact with the landlord. The man turned white, left a notice, and moved to Colorado the next day. At some point—she’s not sure when—her reflection started moving slower than she did. It smiled sometimes. When she wasn’t. Then came the night of the knock. Not on the door—on the window. Seventh floor. No balcony. She opened it. Because of course she did. The velvet-hooded stranger was there again, hovering just outside, suspended by logic-defying darkness. His gloved hand was extended, the red nails glinting in the moonlight. “You’ve kept him well,” he said, voice like a slow drag over gravel. “And now the second half of the deal.” “There was a second half?” she asked, already regretting every drink she’d ever accepted from strangers. “He chose you. That means... promotion.” Behind her, Dude fluttered up, perched on her shoulder like the worst shoulder devil in a sitcom gone to hell. He whispered something in her ear that made her eyes roll back and her feet lift off the ground. The room trembled. The walls began bleeding down the drywall like melting crayon. Her toenails turned crimson. Her Wi-Fi signal improved. Her laughter—dry, cracked, and unstoppable—filled the air like static. When the world stopped shaking, she stood taller, eyes rimmed in black fire, her body laced in dark silk that hadn’t been there before. “Well,” she said, smirking at her clawed hand, “at least the nails are killer.” The stranger nodded. “Welcome to management.” And just like that, she vanished into shadow, taking Dude, the Pop-Tart crumbs, and the lingering smell of sin with her. The apartment was empty when the cleaning crew arrived. Except for a single note scrawled on the mirror: “Midnight Clutch: Hold tight, or be held.”     🩶 Take It Home — Midnight Clutch Lives On If you’ve fallen for the twisted charm of “Midnight Clutch,” you can now summon the darkness into your space. Bring this demonic vision to life with Canvas Prints, cast it across your lair with an epic Tapestry, or carry your sins in style with a Tote Bag. Want to snuggle the madness? Yeah, we’ve got a Throw Pillow for that. Clutch it. Display it. Offer it to your weirdest friend. Just don’t feed it after midnight.

par Bill Tiepelman

Aged Like Fine Wine and Dark Magic

The problem with being an immortal fae wasn’t the magic, the wings, or even the centuries of unpaid taxes. No, the real issue was the hangovers. The kind that lasted decades. Madra of the Withered Vale had once been a sprightly little thing, flitting through the moonlit woods, enchanting mushrooms, cursing ex-boyfriends, and generally making a nuisance of herself. That was a long time ago. Now, she was what the younger fae rudely referred to as “vintage,” and she had no patience for their nonsense. She took a long, deliberate sip from her goblet of Deepwood Red, a cursed wine so potent it had ended kingdoms. The glass was chipped, but so was she. “You’re staring again,” she muttered. There was, of course, no one around. Except for a particularly nosy squirrel perched nearby, watching her with its beady little eyes. It had been doing this for weeks. “I swear, if you don’t scram, I’ll turn you into an acorn. Permanently.” The squirrel chittered something obscene and darted up a tree. Good. She had enough problems without dealing with judgmental rodents. The Golden Age of Poor Decisions Once upon a time (which, in fae terms, meant somewhere between fifty years and five hundred, she had stopped counting), Madra had been at the center of every enchanted revelry. She had danced on tables, cast spells of questionable legality, and made absolutely terrible choices involving attractive strangers who later turned out to be cursed frogs. Or worse—princes. Then one fateful evening, she had challenged the wrong elf to a drinking contest. Elves, being the smug little tree-huggers they were, rarely drank anything stronger than honeyed mead. But this one had been different. He had a wicked grin, a suspiciously high alcohol tolerance, and the kind of bone structure that suggested he’d never known true hardship. “I bet I can drink you under the table,” she had declared. “I bet you can’t,” he had replied. Madra had won. And lost. Because the elf, in a spectacularly petty move, had cast a drunken curse upon her before passing out in a puddle of his own hubris. She would never, ever be able to get properly drunk again. “May your tolerance be eternal,” he had slurred. “May your liver be unbreakable.” And that was that. Decades of drinking and nothing. She could chug a bottle of fae whiskey without so much as a dizzy spell. All the joy, all the chaos, all the questionable decision-making? Gone. And now she sat here, on her usual branch, drinking out of pure spite. Visitors are the Worst She was midway through her fourth glass of sulk-wine when she heard the distinct sound of footsteps. Not the light, careful steps of an animal or the sneaky little scurrying of goblins trying to steal her socks. No, this was a person. She groaned. Loudly. “If you’re here to ask for a love potion, the answer is no,” she called out. “If you’re here to complain about a love potion, the answer is still no. And if you’re here to steal my wine, I’ll turn your kneecaps into mushrooms.” There was a pause. Then a voice, deep and annoyingly smooth, called back. “I assure you, I have no interest in your wine.” “Then you’re an idiot.” The owner of the voice stepped into view. Tall. Dark hair. The kind of smirk that suggested he either had a death wish or was a professional seducer. “Madra of the Withered Vale,” he said, with the kind of dramatic flair that made her want to throw her goblet at his head. “I have come to seek your wisdom.” Madra sighed and took another sip. “Oh, stars help me.” She had a feeling this was about to be one of those days.     Some People Just Don’t Listen Madra stared at the mysterious visitor over the rim of her goblet, debating whether she was sober enough to deal with this nonsense. Unfortunately, thanks to the elf’s curse, she was always sober enough. “Listen, Pretty Boy,” she said, swirling her wine in a way that suggested she was this close to throwing it at him. “I don’t do ‘wisdom.’ I do sarcasm, mild threats, and occasionally, revenge-fueled spellcraft. If you’re looking for a wise old fae to give you a heartwarming prophecy, try the next forest over.” “You wound me,” he said, placing a hand on his chest like some kind of tragic bard. “Not yet, but I’m seriously considering it.” He chuckled, entirely too at ease for a man standing in front of a clearly irritated fae with questionable morals. “I need your help.” “Oh, for the love of the Moon.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. What exactly do you want?” He stepped closer, and Madra immediately pointed a clawed finger at him. “If you’re about to ask for a love spell, I swear—” “No love spells,” he said, holding up his hands. “I need something much more serious. There’s a dragon.” She sighed so hard it rattled the leaves. “There’s always a dragon.” Why is it Always a Dragon? Madra took a long, slow sip of her wine, staring at him over the rim of her goblet. “Let me guess. You need a magic sword. A fireproof cloak. A blessing from an ancient fae so you can fulfill some ridiculous prophecy about slaying the beast and reclaiming your lost honor.” He blinked. “...No.” “Oh. Well, that’s disappointing.” He shifted on his feet. “I need to steal something from the dragon.” She snorted. “So, what you’re saying is, you don’t just want to get yourself killed—you want to do it in the most spectacularly bad way possible.” “Exactly.” “I like you.” She took another sip. “You’re an idiot.” “Thank you.” Madra sighed and finally set down her goblet. “Alright, fine. I’ll help. But not because I care. It’s just been a while since I’ve watched someone make absolutely terrible decisions, and frankly, I miss it.” Bad Plans and Worse Ideas “First things first,” she said, sliding off the branch with surprising grace for someone who looked like she’d been through at least three wars and a questionable marriage. “What, exactly, are you trying to steal?” He hesitated. “Oh, no.” She pointed a gnarled finger at him. “If you say ‘the dragon’s heart’ or some other romantic nonsense, I am leaving.” “It’s… uh… a bottle.” She narrowed her eyes. “A bottle of what?” He cleared his throat. “A very old, very magical bottle of enchanted liquor.” Madra went completely still. “You mean to tell me,” she said, voice dangerously low, “that there exists a drink strong enough to be locked away in a dragon’s hoard, and I have been suffering through this for centuries?” She waved at herself, meaning the curse, her sobriety, and possibly her entire life. “...Yes?” Madra’s wings twitched. “Alright,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “New plan. We’re stealing that bottle, and you are my new favorite human.” He grinned. “So, you’ll help?” She grabbed her staff, took a final sip of wine, and flashed a wicked, too-sharp smile. “Darling, I’ll do more than help. I’ll make sure we don’t just survive this—we’ll make it look good.” And with that, Madra of the Withered Vale set off to do what she did best. Cause absolute, spectacular chaos.     Take a Piece of the Magic Home Did Madra’s snarky wisdom and thirst for chaos resonate with you? Perhaps you, too, appreciate a fine wine, a terrible decision, or the idea of an ancient fae who’s just so over it. If so, you can bring a little of her enchanted, slightly tipsy magic into your own world! 🏰 Enchant Your Walls with a Tapestry – Let Madra’s unimpressed gaze remind you daily that life is short, but wine is forever. 🌲 A Rustic Wood Print for Your Lair – The perfect addition to any home, office, or mysterious forest dwelling. 🧩 A Puzzle for the Cursed and the Cunning – Because assembling a thousand tiny pieces is still easier than dealing with adventurers before coffee. 💌 A Greeting Card for Fellow Mischief Makers – Share Madra’s unimpressed expression with friends and let them know you care—just, you know, in a fae kind of way. Whether you're decorating your walls, sending a snarky note, or testing your patience with a puzzle, these magical creations are the perfect way to celebrate fae mischief and questionable life choices. Shop the collection now and bring a little enchanted attitude into your world. Just... don’t challenge an elf to a drinking contest. Trust us.