gnome romance

par Bill Tiepelman

The Howling Hat of Hooten Hollow

The Hat That Bit Back By the time Glumbella Fernwhistle turned ninety-seven-and-a-half, she’d stopped pretending her hat wasn’t alive. It gurgled when she yawned, belched when she ate lentils, and once slapped a squirrel clean out of a tree for looking at her mushrooms the wrong way. And not metaphorical mushrooms, mind you—actual fungi sprouting from the side of her floppy, overgrown headpiece. She called it Carl. Carl the Hat. Carl did not approve of sobriety, shame, or squirrels. This suited Glumbella just fine. She lived in a cobbled mushroom cottage on the edge of Hooten Hollow, a place so full of mischief that the trees had mood swings and the moss had opinions. Glumbella was the kind of gnome you didn’t visit unless you brought both a bottle and an apology—for what, you weren’t always sure. She had a cackle like a goat in therapy and a tongue so frequently stuck out it had developed a tan. But what really made Glumbella infamous was the night she made the moon blush. It started, as most regrettable triumphs do, with a dare. Her neighbor, Tildy Grizzleblum—renowned inventor of the self-stirring gravy cauldron—bet Glumbella ten copper buttons she couldn’t seduce the moon. Glumbella, three elderberry wines in and barefoot, had climbed to the top of Flasher’s Bluff, bared one spectacularly unfiltered grin, and shouted, “OI! MOON! You big glowing tease! Show us yer craters!” The moon, previously considered emotionally distant, turned pink for the first time in recorded history. Tildy never paid up. Claimed the blush was atmospheric disturbance. Glumbella hexed her gravy to taste like regret for a week. It was the talk of the Hollow until the time Glumbella accidentally married a toad. But that’s a whole other issue involving a cursed wedding veil and a case of mistaken identity during mating season. Still, nothing in her long, outrageously inappropriate life prepared her for the arrival of HIM. A forest path, a suspicious breeze, and one very disheveled male gnome with eyes like drunken chestnuts. She could smell trouble. And a hint of old socks. Her favorite combination. “You lost, sweetcheeks?” she asked, lips curled, Carl twitching with interest. He didn’t blink. Just grinned with a mouth full of crooked charm and said, “Only if you say no.” And just like that, the Hollow was no longer the weirdest thing in Glumbella’s life. He was. Spells, Sass, and One Regrettable Pickle He called himself Bramble. No last name. Just Bramble. Which was, of course, either suspicious or sexy. Possibly both. Glumbella squinted at him the way one examines mold on cheese—trying to decide if it added flavor or would cause hallucinations. Carl the Hat drooped slightly in what might’ve been approval. Or gas. No one could ever tell with Carl. “So,” Glumbella said, leaning against a crooked fencepost with all the grace of a drunk poetry critic, “you show up here with those boots—muddy, charming, criminally well-worn—and that beard that’s clearly never met a comb, and expect me not to ask where you’re hiding your motives?” Bramble chuckled, a low, gravel-smooth sound that tickled her mossy instincts. “I’m just a wanderer,” he said, “looking for trouble.” “You found it,” she grinned. “And she bites.” They traded words like potions—some bubbling with innuendo, others fizzing with sarcasm. The gnomes of Hooten Hollow weren’t known for subtlety, but even Glumbella’s porch toad stopped sunbathing to observe the sparks flying. Within the hour, Bramble had accepted an invitation into her kitchen, where the mugs were mismatched, the wine was elderberry and defiant, and every single piece of furniture had at least one embarrassing story attached to it. “That chair over there,” she said, pointing with a ladle, “once hosted an orgy of pixies during a midsummer moon rave. Still smells like glitter and fermented rose hips.” Bramble sat in it without hesitation. “Now I’m even more comfortable.” Carl let out a low hum. The hat was always a little jealous. It had once hexed a suitor’s beard into a nest for furious hummingbirds. But Carl… Carl liked Bramble. Not trust, not yet. But interest. Carl only drooled on things he wanted to keep. Bramble got drooled on. A lot. As the wine flowed, the conversation turned slippery. Spells were swapped like dirty jokes. Glumbella showed off her prized collection of cursed socks—each one stolen from mysterious laundry disappearances across dimensions. Bramble, in turn, revealed a tattoo on his hip that could whisper insults in seventeen languages. “Say something in Gobbledygroan,” she purred. “It just called you a ‘shimmer-skulled minx with wild cabbage energy.’” She nearly choked on her wine. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this decade.” Their evening escalated into potion pong (she won), a one-on-one broom jousting match (she also won, but he looked great falling), and a heated debate over whether moonlight was better for hexes or skinny-dipping (jury's still out). At some point, Bramble dared her to let Carl cast a spell unsupervised. “Are you mad?” she cried. “Carl once tried to turn a goose into a loaf of bread and ended up with a squawking baguette that still haunts my pantry.” “I live dangerously,” Bramble grinned. “And you’re obviously into chaos.” “Well,” she said, standing dramatically and knocking over a bottle of sparkle tonic, “I suppose it’s not a proper Tuesday until something catches fire or someone gets kissed.” And that was how Bramble ended up stuck to the ceiling. Carl, in a rare mood of cooperation, had tried to conjure a “romantic levitation spell.” It worked. Too well. Bramble hovered upside down, flailing, one sock falling off while Glumbella roared with laughter and took notes on a napkin titled “future foreplay ideas.” “How long does this last?” Bramble asked from above, spinning slowly. “Oh, I’d guess until the hat gets bored or until you compliment my knees,” she smirked. He eyed her legs. “Sturdy as a spellbound oak and twice as enchanting.” With a dramatic “fwoomp,” he fell directly into her arms. She dropped him, naturally, because she was built for insults and wine, not bridal carries. They landed in a heap of limbs, lace, and one rather smug hat who casually slithered off Glumbella’s head to claim the wine bottle for itself. “Carl’s gone rogue,” she muttered. “Does this mean the date’s going well?” Bramble asked, breathless. “Sweetcheeks,” she said, brushing leaf confetti from his beard, “if this were going badly, you’d already be a frog wearing a tutu and begging for flies.” And just like that, a new kind of trouble rooted itself in Hooten Hollow—a mischievous, magnetic, absolutely inadvisable connection between a gnome witch with no filter and a rogue wanderer who smiled like he knew how to start fires with compliments. Toads began gossiping. The trees leaned closer. Carl sharpened his brim. The Hangover, The Hex, and The Honeymoon (Not Necessarily In That Order) The next morning smelled like regret, roasted acorns, and singed beard hair. Bramble awoke dangling upside-down in a hammock made entirely of enchanted laundry, his left eyebrow missing and his right one twitching in Morse code. Carl was perched beside him with an empty flask and a threatening gleam in his brim. “Good morning, you rakish woodland degenerate,” Glumbella chirped from the garden, dressed in a scandalously mossy robe and wielding a trowel like a sword. “You shrieked in your sleep. Either you were dreaming of tax audits or you’re allergic to flirtation.” “I dreamed I was a zucchini,” he groaned. “Being judged. By squirrels.” She cackled so hard a tomato blushed. “Then we’re progressing nicely.” The Hollow was in full gossip bloom. Gnomelings whispered of a courtship forged in chaos. The Elder Council sent Glumbella a strongly worded scroll urging “discretion, decency, and pants.” She framed it above her loo. Bramble, now semi-resident and fully shirtless 60% of the time, fit into the ecosystem like a charming virus. Plants leaned toward him. Crickets composed sonnets about his butt. Carl hissed when they kissed, but only out of habit. And then came the Pickle Incident. It started with a potion. Always does. Glumbella had been experimenting with a “Love Me, Loathe Me, Lick Me” elixir—allegedly a mild flirtation enhancer. She left it on the kitchen shelf labeled Not For Bramble, which of course ensured that Bramble would absolutely drink it by accident while trying to pickle beets. The result? He fell desperately, dramatically in love with a jar of fermented cucumbers. “She understands me,” he declared, cradling the jar, eyes misty. “She’s complex. Salty. A little spicy.” Glumbella responded with a hex so potent it briefly turned him into a sentient sandwich. He still has nightmares about mayonnaise therapy. Once the elixir wore off (with the help of two sarcastic fairies, one slap from Carl, and a kiss so aggressive it startled a flock of crows), Bramble regained his senses. He apologized by crafting her a love letter out of enchanted leaves that screamed compliments when read aloud. The neighbors complained. Glumbella cried once—silently, while pouring wine into her boots. Eventually, the Hollow began to accept the duo as a necessary evil. Like seasonal flooding or emotionally unstable hedgehogs. The town bakery started selling “Carl Crust” sourdough. The local tavern offered a cocktail called the “Witch’s Whiplash”—two parts elderberry brandy, one part seductive regret. Tourists wandered into the woods hoping to see the infamous hat-witch and her dangerously handsome consort. Most of them got lost. One married a tree. It happens. But Glumbella and Bramble? They simply… thrived. Like fungus in a damp drawer. They didn’t marry in any traditional sense. There were no doves or rings or solemn declarations. Instead, one foggy morning, Glumbella woke to find Bramble had carved their initials into the moon using a stolen weather spell and a goat with anxiety issues. The moon blinked twice. Carl sang a sea shanty. And that was that. They celebrated by getting drunk in a treehouse, racing leaf-boats in the river, and aggressively ignoring the concept of monogamy for six months straight. It was perfect. Some say their laughter still echoes through the Hollow. Others claim Carl runs a poker game on Wednesdays and cheats with his brim. One thing’s for certain: if you ever find yourself lost in Hooten Hollow and stumble upon a wild-haired witch with a wicked grin and a man beside her who looks like he just kissed a tornado, you’ve found them. Don’t stare. Don’t judge. And absolutely do not touch the hat. It bites.     Bring the Magic Home If Glumbella’s sass, Bramble’s charm, and Carl’s unpredictable brim made you laugh, blush, or consider abandoning your career for a life of enchanted chaos—why not invite their mischief into your space? Explore a range of beautifully printed keepsakes inspired by The Howling Hat of Hooten Hollow—each crafted with care to bring a touch of forest whimsy and gnomish delight into your everyday world: Tapestry – Transform any room with this richly detailed woven tapestry featuring Glumbella in all her wild glory. Wood Print – Add rustic charm to your walls with this vibrant artwork printed on smooth wood grain—just like Carl would want (assuming he approved). Framed Print – A classic option for lovers of fantasy art and chaotic gnome energy—framed, ready to hang, and guaranteed to make guests ask questions. Fleece Blanket – Cozy up with a blanket that captures the warmth, whimsy, and low-key seduction of a magical night in Hooten Hollow. Greeting Card – Send a giggle, a wink, or a mild hex in the mail with a card featuring this unforgettable scene. Each item is perfect for fans of whimsical fantasy, mischievous storytelling, and the kind of art that feels alive (possibly sentient, definitely opinionated). Find your favorite at shop.unfocussed.com and let the spirit of Hooten Hollow haunt your heart—and maybe your guest room.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Woodland Wisecracker

The Bark Behind the Giggle Deep in the rustling bowels of Elderbark Woods—where the ferns gossip louder than the crows and the mushrooms have cliques—there lives a gnome with a laugh like a strangled squirrel and a tongue quicker than a squirrel on mead. His name? No one really knows. Most call him “That Damned Gnome” or, more respectfully, The Woodland Wisecracker. He’s ancient in gnome years, which is already saying something, because gnomes start sprouting gray whiskers before they’re out of diapers. But this one’s been around long enough to prank a dryad’s sacred tree, live to tell about it, and then prank it again just because he didn’t like the sap tone she used when she caught him the first time. His hat is a collage of past indiscretions—berries he stole from witch-purses, mushrooms “borrowed” from faerie circles, and a tuft of dire squirrel tail he claims was won in a poker game (no one believes him, especially not the squirrels). His days are a tapestry of mischief. Today, he had rigged a family of tree frogs to croak in unison every time someone passed the old cedar latrine. Yesterday, he spelled the badger’s burrow to smell like elderflower perfume—an incident still being litigated in the unofficial woodland court of “WTF Did You Just Do, Gary?” But it wasn’t always like this. The Wisecracker had once been a promising woodland historian, with impeccable footnotes and a genuine fondness for moss classification. That was until the Great Incident—a scholarly disagreement over whether blue moss was just green moss with sass. It ended with a symposium ruined by glitterbombs, an angry dryad boycott, and one furious troll with sparkles in places no troll should sparkle. Since then, the Wisecracker had chosen a more... recreational route through life. He lived in a hollowed-out stump stacked with scrolls, frog jokes, and an ever-replenishing jar of fermented beet liquor. Nobody knew where it came from. It was just there. Like his opinions. Loud. Uninvited. And usually followed by a prank involving slippery root polish or magically animated underpants. It was on a bright, dew-fresh morning—one of those disgustingly poetic ones that inspires woodland critters to hum showtunes—that the Wisecracker decided it was time to raise the stakes. The forest had gotten too cozy. Too polite. Even the weasels were organizing book clubs. “Unacceptable,” he muttered to his toadstool seat, scratching his chin with a twig he’d sharpened purely for dramatic effect. “If they want wholesome... I’ll give them wholesome. With a side of explosive berry jam.” And so began the Grand Forest Prank War of the Season—a campaign destined to scandalize nymphs, enrage beetles, and firmly cement the Wisecracker’s legacy as the most unrepentant little bastard the woodland had ever loved to hate. Of Pranks, Pheromones, and Poorly Timed Potion Eruptions The Wisecracker, being a gnome of refined nonsense, knew the key to a truly memorable prank wasn’t mere humiliation—it was poetic humiliation. There had to be timing. Artistry. A dramatic arc. Ideally, pantslessness. And so, the first phase of the Grand Forest Prank War of the Season began at dawn... with a basket of enchanted berries and a pheromone spell so potent it could make a rock pine for a cuddle. He left the basket at the foot of the Council Glade, where forestfolk gathered for their weekly “Mediation and Mutual Squeaking” circle. Inside were berries infused with giggleleaf oil, tickle spores, and just a pinch of something he called “pixie pheroblaster”—a substance banned in at least seven counties and one very traumatized fairy convent. By noon, the glade had descended into full chaos. An elderly squirrel began slow-dancing with a pinecone. Two wood nymphs started a vigorous debate on the ethics of licking tree sap straight from the bark—with full demonstration. And one unfortunate owl began hooting at its own reflection in a puddle, proclaiming it “the only bird who understands me.” When the Council tried to investigate, they found nothing but a calling card left under the basket: a crude drawing of a gnome mooning a pine tree with “KISS THIS, TREE-HUGGERS” written in aggressive mushroom ink. “It’s him again,” groaned Elder Wyrmbark, a centuries-old talking stump with the patience of a Buddhist snail and the libido of a very lonely log. “The Wisecracker’s struck again.” As expected, the forest community was split. Half declared war. The other half requested recipe tips. Meanwhile, the gnome himself was busy working on Phase Two: Operation Hot-Buns. This involved rerouting the fae hot spring using a system of enchanted hoses (which he had borrowed—permanently—from a disgraced water elemental with intimacy issues). By midafternoon, the pixies’ annual Full Moon Tan-athon was a steamy, bubbling geyser of screeches and rapidly evaporating modesty. “They were this close to inventing bikini lines,” he whispered proudly to a nearby beetle, who stared back with the thousand-yard gaze of someone who’d seen things no beetle should. But not every scheme went perfectly. Take, for instance, the romantic detour. You see, the Wisecracker had a complicated relationship with one Miss Bramblevine—a half-sprite, half-briar bush enchantress who had once kissed him, slapped him, then enchanted his eyebrows to grow in reverse. He still hadn’t forgiven her. Or stopped writing letters he never sent. One evening, he found her in a clearing, muttering incantations and plucking suspiciously romantic-sounding harp chords. She was conjuring a love aura for woodland speed dating. Naturally, he couldn’t let this travesty of intimacy unfold un-messed-with. He approached her with his usual charm—wearing nothing but a smile, a leaf thong, and one boot (the other was being used by a family of hedgehogs for tax reasons). “Fancy seeing you here,” he winked, leaning seductively against a log that immediately crumbled. “Care to sample a little homemade ‘gnomebrew’? It’s got notes of regret and wild raspberry.” “Still trying to seduce the entire underbrush with your fermented nonsense?” she smirked, but took the flask. She sniffed, gagged, and downed it in one swig. “Still tastes like broken promises and bat piss.” “You always said I was consistent.” There was a moment. A dangerous, sparkling, “should-we-or-should-we-not-do-this-again” kind of moment. Then her hair caught fire. Gently. Softly. Because the gnome had, regrettably, spiced the batch with firefern for “zest.” “DID YOU JUST—” “I panicked! It was supposed to be seductive! Do NOT explode the frogs again!” It was too late. Her rage spell detonated the decorative frog choir he’d hidden in the nearby bush. The explosion scattered musical amphibians across the glade. One of them croaked the opening bars of a Barry White song before going silent forever. The Wisecracker fled, his one boot flapping, hair full of harp strings, heart beating to the tempo of his own mischief. He’d have to lay low—maybe in the badger tunnels. Maybe in Bramblevine’s heart. Maybe both. He liked it complicated. And yet, the forest was now alive with energy. Pranks were spreading like spores in springtime. Hedgehog street art. Raccoon rap battles. A mysterious new trend where squirrels wore tiny mustaches and conducted acorn inspections. The Wisecracker’s influence was seeping through the roots themselves. It wasn’t just about giggles anymore. It was an uprising. A forest-wide movement of snark and subversion. And at the center of it all, the little gnome with the too-wide grin, a dangerously overstocked arsenal of practical jokes, and absolutely no sense of when to stop. He climbed atop his mossy throne that night, arms wide to the stars, and bellowed into the canopy: “LET THE THIRD PHASE COMMENCE!” Somewhere in the dark, an owl pooped itself. A frog sang again. And the trees braced themselves for what came next. Mayhem, Moss, and the Moonlit Tribunal of Shenanigans The forest had reached critical silliness. The squirrels had unionized. The frogs had formed a jazz trio. A fox began charging admission to watch a raccoon and a badger fight in interpretive dance. Everywhere, everywhere, the Wisecracker’s influence oozed like glittery tree sap—mischief, whimsy, chaos, and just a splash of low-grade arson. It was time. Not for another prank. No. This was beyond mischief. This was legacy. This... was The Final Gag. But first, he needed a diversion. And so he called upon his most loyal allies: the Truffle Dancers—a group of rotund, semi-retired badgers who owed him a favor from that one time he helped hide their mushroom moonshine still from the ranger fauns. “I need you to stage a performance,” he said, adjusting his ceremonial prank hat (a regular hat, but covered in feathers, jam stains, and live beetles trained to spell rude words). “Interpretive?” asked Bunt, the lead badger, already oiling his hip joints with pine resin. “Explosive,” said the gnome. “There will be glitter. There will be jazz. There may be screams.” By twilight, the clearing behind the Elderbark Grove was filled with an audience of questionable sobriety and wildly varying consent levels. Bramblevine was there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, already holding a small fireball in one hand and a healing salve in the other. Duality. The performance began. Fog. Dramatic torchlight. Bunt spinning like an angry cinnamon roll. The badgers twerked. A ferret wept. Somewhere, a crow squawked the Wilhelm scream. But just as the grand finale began—with a chorus of frogs launching bottle rockets from their mouths—everything froze. A thunderclap echoed across the forest. The glade went dead silent. Even the beetles spelling out “FLAPSACK” paused mid-A. From the sky descended a giant pair of moss-covered sandals, attached to the spectral form of Grandfather Spriggan, the ancient forest spirit and reluctant enforcer of natural order (and, regrettably, trousers). “ENOUGH,” the spirit bellowed, voice like thunder wrapped in nettles. “THE BALANCE HAS BEEN UNPRANKED.” The forest tribunal convened on the spot. Spectators transformed into a jury of woodland peers: a stork, three indignant squirrels, one disapproving mole with bifocals, and a toad who seemed entirely too into the drama. The charge? Crimes against quietude, reckless charm, unauthorized enchantment of raccoon tail accessories, and the willful violation of Article 7B of the Woodland Code: “Thou shalt not install fart noises in sacred glens.” The Wisecracker stood accused. Shirtless. Glorious. Holding a bottle of homemade sparkling bogwater and still slightly singed from a previous glitter incident. “How do you plead?” asked the Grandfather, his sandals creaking ominously. “I plead... absolutely fabulous,” the gnome said, performing a pirouette and releasing a smoke bomb shaped like a duck. The duck quacked. Dramatically. Gasps echoed through the clearing. Somewhere, a pinecone fainted. The tribunal descended into chaos. The jury broke into argument. The squirrels wanted exile. The mole demanded public shaming. The toad proposed something involving marmalade and a haunted bidet. Bramblevine watched it all with a look that blended admiration and homicidal irritation. But then... silence. The Grandfather raised one hand. “Let the accused make a final statement.” The Wisecracker took the stand—a stump with a suspiciously familiar frog perched on it—and cleared his throat. “Friends. Foes. Sap-suckers of all types. I do not deny my pranks. I embrace them. I curate them. This forest was growing dull. The squirrels were starting to quote Plato. The moss had formed a jazz quartet called 'Soft & Moist.' We were becoming... tasteful.” He shuddered. So did the jazz moss. “Yes, I spiced your spring festivals with nude raccoons and enchanted whistles. Yes, I bewitched an entire weasel choir to sing bawdy limericks in front of the Sacred Hollow. But I did it because I love this forest. And because I’m just the right kind of emotionally stunted chaos goblin to think it’s funny.” A pause. A silence thicker than badger gravy. Then... the toad applauded. Slowly. Then maniacally. The crowd followed. A frog exploded in joy (literally—he was part balloon). Even Grandfather Spriggan cracked what might have been a mossy smirk. “Very well,” the old spirit said. “Your punishment... is to continue.” “...Wait, what?” said the gnome. “You are hereby appointed the Official Prank Warden of Elderbark Woods. You will balance mischief with magic. Bring chaos where there is order. And order where there is too much bean stew. You shall report directly to me—and to Bramblevine, because someone has to keep you from dying in a frog-related accident.” “I accept,” the gnome said, straightening his beetle-feather hat with surprising gravity. Then he turned to Bramblevine. “So... drinks?” She rolled her eyes. “One. But if your flask smells like regret again, I’m setting your left nipple on fire.” “Deal.” And so it was that the Woodland Wisecracker ascended—not to glory, but to legend. A gnome of gags, a prophet of prankery, a messiah of magical mischief whose deeds would echo through the roots and leaves for ages. The frogs would sing songs. The beetles would spell tributes. And somewhere, in the warm belly of the woods, a badger would shake its hips... just for him. Long live the Wisecracker.     Bring the mischief home! If the antics of the Woodland Wisecracker made you snort, chuckle, or question the life choices of certain amphibians, you can now immortalize his chaos in your own realm. Whether you’re decorating a den worthy of enchanted badgers or searching for the perfect gift for that lovable troublemaker in your life, we’ve got you covered: Adorn your walls with a vibrant tapestry that captures his gnomey glory in full chaotic bloom, or go bold with a glossy metal print or dazzling acrylic display worthy of a tribunal hall. For cozy nights of mischief planning (or regretful introspection), wrap yourself in our luxuriously soft fleece blanket. And don’t forget to send someone a laugh (or a gentle warning) with our delightfully irreverent greeting card featuring the Wisecracker himself. Claim a piece of the prankster’s legacy—and let your decor cackle with character.

par Bill Tiepelman

He Who Walks with Wind & She Who Sings to Stones

Of Beards, Boots, and Bad Decisions Long before the forest whispered their names into the moss, He Who Walks with Wind was just a humble (and slightly scruffy) gnome with a spectacularly oversized feathered headdress — the sort of thing that made squirrels pause mid-acorn. His boots were too big, his beard was too wild, and his sense of direction was... well... wind-dependent. His friends in the woods often joked that he had the charm of a river rock — hard to hold onto and prone to vanishing downstream after a bottle of pineberry wine. But everything changed the day he stumbled (quite literally) into She Who Sings to Stones. Now, she was no ordinary forest maiden. No sir. This was a woman who could calm a thunderstorm with a side-eye and convince even the crankiest badger to hand over his last berry tart. She wore a headdress of feathers softer than secrets and robes woven from mountain twilight. And worst of all (for him)... she caught him singing to his own reflection in a puddle. "Nice voice," she said, her words like warm honey but with the sharpness of a pebble in your shoe. "Do you serenade yourself often, or am I just lucky today?" And just like that — he was doomed. In the best, most embarrassing way possible. From that moment on, they became the forest’s worst-kept secret. The loudest whisper. The odd couple that critters gossiped about endlessly. He brought clumsy poems carved into sticks. She responded with mossy hearts on his walking path. He accidentally wooed her with terrible fishing skills. She let him believe he was mysterious (he wasn’t). And thus began their legendary love story — one filled with mishaps, stolen kisses behind pine trees, and enough awkward glances to fill a hollow log. View His Collection | View Her Collection Of Stones, Songs, and Stolen Things It didn’t take long for the forest to realize that He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones were absolutely terrible at keeping things casual. For one, their “chance encounters” were happening so often that even the mushrooms started rolling their eyes. After all, how many times can two gnomes “accidentally” meet at the same mossy log at the exact same twilight hour without the universe winking suspiciously? But there was something about her that unraveled him. Maybe it was the way her voice floated between tree roots like a lullaby only rocks understood. Or the way her smile could disarm even the sharpest thorn bush. Or — and he would never admit this aloud — the way she stole things. Oh yes. She Who Sings to Stones was a notorious thief. Not of valuables — no. Her crimes were far worse. She stole moments. She stole his awkward pauses mid-sentence and replaced them with knowing glances. She stole the roughness from his voice with every quiet laugh. She even stole his lucky acorn — the one he swore protected him from wandering skunks (it didn’t). He found it days later tucked beneath his pillow with a note: "Protection only works if you believe in something bigger than your beard. —S" But he wasn’t innocent either. He Who Walks with Wind was a collector too — of her songs. At night, when the forest hummed low and the stars yawned above the treetops, he would follow the soft echoes of her voice. Never too close. Never letting her see. Just close enough to catch pieces of melody drifting like dandelion seeds — fragile, weightless, impossibly precious. He began carving her words into stones. Not fancy stones. Not polished gemstones. Just regular forest rocks — the kind most gnomes kick absentmindedly. But to him, these were sacred. Each carried one word of her songs: “Patience” “Kindness” “Wild” “Enough” He placed them like breadcrumbs through the forest — a map only she could read. And of course... she found them. One by one. Because she was the sort of woman who always found what was meant for her. One morning, after a night of restless dreams about her laughter echoing in the hills, he woke to find a perfect circle of stones outside his door. His stones. His words. Returned — but now surrounded by tiny wildflowers and mossy hearts. The message was clear: "If you want me — walk the path you’ve started." And so, for the first time in his rambling, wandering life... he walked with purpose. Not with the wind. But toward her. This was no longer a story of solitude. This was a story of two souls circling each other — stubborn, playful, fierce — until the forest itself held its breath. Of Forest Gossip, Awkward Kisses, and the Very Bad Squirrel Incident The thing about forest creatures is — they talk. Not just the whispery, rustle-in-the-leaves kind of talk. No. Full-blown, scandal-hungry, gossip-mongering chatter that would put any village marketplace to shame. And when the subject was He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones... well, let’s just say the squirrels were holding meetings. “Did you see him trip over his own staff yesterday trying to look heroic?” “She smiled at him again. That’s the third time this week. It’s basically a marriage proposal.” “I give it two more days before he tries to build her a house made entirely of sticks and regret.” Even the owls — who usually prided themselves on dignified silence — were side-eyeing from the treetops. But despite the forest-wide commentary, their story kept weaving itself in unexpected ways. Take, for example, the Very Bad Squirrel Incident. It all started when he — in a misguided attempt at romance — decided to gather her favorite forest berries for a surprise breakfast. What he didn’t know was that those particular berries were under the jealous watch of the local squirrel matriarch — a wiry old beast known as Grumbletail. The moment his clumsy hands reached for the berries, the squirrels launched a coordinated attack with the kind of ferocity usually reserved for territorial foxes and bad poetry readings. He arrived at her cottage hours later — scratched, tangled, missing one boot, and carrying exactly one sad little berry in his dirt-covered palm. She blinked at him, standing there like a wind-blown scarecrow of embarrassment. “You absolute fool,” she whispered. But her eyes — stars above, her eyes — were sparkling with something wild and dangerous and impossibly soft. And then — because the forest gods have a twisted sense of humor — it happened. The First Kiss. It wasn’t elegant. There was nothing poetic about it. He leaned in at the exact moment she turned her head to laugh and the whole thing ended with a bumped nose, an awkward tangle of beard, and her muffled giggle against his chest. But when their lips finally met — really met — it was like every stone he’d ever carved, every word he’d ever stolen from her songs, every ridiculous misstep... finally made sense. The wind forgot to blow. The trees leaned in closer. Even Grumbletail — watching from a safe distance — begrudgingly approved. Afterwards, sitting beneath a crooked old pine, they laughed until their sides ached. Not because it was funny (though it absolutely was) — but because that’s what love felt like for them: Messy. Ridiculous. Beautifully imperfect. As the sun melted into the horizon, she poked him gently with her finger. “If you ever steal berries from Grumbletail again, I’m not saving you,” she teased. “Worth it,” he grinned, pulling her close. And just like that — two souls who had spent a lifetime walking alone... began learning how to stay. Of Vows, Feathers, and Forever Things The forest had been waiting for this day for longer than it would ever admit. Word had spread faster than a startled rabbit — He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones were getting married. And let me tell you — no one throws a celebration like woodland creatures with too much time and too many opinions. The Preparations Were... Something The owls insisted on handling the invitations (delivered in tiny scrolls tied with fern ribbons). The badgers argued for three days about what type of moss made the best aisle runner. Grumbletail the Squirrel — yes, that Grumbletail — shockingly volunteered to oversee security, muttering something about "keeping things civilized." The ceremony location? The Heartstone Clearing — a sacred, wildly overgrown circle deep in the woods where stones hummed if you listened close enough... and where countless gnome love stories were rumored to have begun (and ended, often with dramatic flair). The Bride Was Magic She Who Sings to Stones wore a gown stitched from twilight — soft greys, rich earth tones, and wildflowers braided through her long silver hair. Her headdress was adorned not just with feathers, but with tiny carved stones — each one gifted to her by him over their impossible journey together. She looked like a song made visible. The kind of song that quiets storms and stirs ancient roots. The Groom Was... Trying His Best He Who Walks with Wind was absolutely, hopelessly nervous. He’d polished his boots (which promptly got muddy). He’d combed his beard (which immediately tangled in a rogue twig). His headdress was slightly crooked. But his eyes... his eyes never left her. As she stepped into the clearing, every creature — from the smallest beetle to the loftiest owl — felt it: This wasn’t just love. This was home. The Vows (Improvised, Of Course) He cleared his throat (twice). "I never knew the wind could lead me somewhere worth staying. But you... you are my stone. My song. My forever place." She smiled — that maddening, beautiful, secret smile. "And I never knew stones could dance... until you tripped over every single one on your way to me." Laughter echoed through the clearing — loud, wild, utterly perfect. The Forest Rejoiced The celebration that followed was the stuff of legend. The rabbits organized an impromptu berry feast. The foxes provided slightly questionable musical entertainment (there was howling). The squirrels, begrudgingly, allowed dancing beneath their favorite trees. And the stars? Oh, the stars stayed out far later than usual — winking knowingly over two gnomes who had somehow turned awkward missteps and stolen glances into something breathtakingly permanent. And As The Night Faded... They sat together, tangled in each other, surrounded by stones and feathers and laughter that would echo in the woods for generations. "Home," he whispered into her hair. She nodded. "Always." And So Their Story Lives On... In the stones that hum when the wind passes through. In the feathers caught in the branches long after they’ve gone to bed. And in every ridiculous, wonderful, perfectly imperfect love story waiting to happen just beyond the trees.     Bring His Story Home Some stories aren’t just meant to be read — they’re meant to be lived with. He Who Walks with Wind carries with him a spirit of wild adventure, quiet romance, and the kind of humor only found in the heart of the woods. Now, you can bring his legendary presence into your space — a daily reminder that love, laughter, and a little bit of mischief belong in every corner of your life. Metal Print — Sleek, bold, and perfect for a space that echoes with adventure. Canvas Print — Rustic charm meets timeless storytelling for your walls. Tapestry — Let the wind tell his story across fabric flowing with forest magic. Fleece Blanket — Curl up in cozy folklore and daydream of distant woods. Throw Pillow — A soft landing for tired adventurers and dreamers alike. Every Piece Tells a Story Let his quiet strength, mischievous spirit, and legendary heart become part of your everyday world. Whether on your walls, your couch, or wrapped around your shoulders — his journey is ready to continue with you. Explore the Full Collection →     Let Her Quiet Magic Find You She Who Sings to Stones doesn’t shout her wisdom — she leaves it tucked in corners, resting on shelves, and humming softly beside you in moments of stillness. Her story is one of grace, patience, and secret strength — and now her spirit can dwell in your space in beautifully crafted ways. Acrylic Print — Sleek clarity capturing her timeless quiet beauty. Framed Print — A classic heirloom piece for a heart-centered home. Tote Bag — Carry her story with you — to markets, to forests, or wherever you wander. Greeting Card — Send a small, powerful blessing into someone else's world. Sticker — A tiny, mischievous reminder to listen for the quiet songs in life. Her Presence Lingers Long After the Song Whether decorating your favorite reading nook, becoming a cherished gift, or adding a whisper of magic to your day — her story is ready to walk beside yours. Explore the Full Collection →     Epilogue: And the Forest Just Kept Smiling Years later — deep in that same wild forest where it all began — they are still there. He Who Walks with Wind still gets lost on purpose sometimes. (Old habits, old boots.) He still carves her words into stones when he thinks she isn’t looking. And yes — he still sings badly to puddles on quiet mornings... because now she sings along. She Who Sings to Stones still listens for stories the wind forgets to tell. She still leaves him tiny gifts in strange places — feathers braided with wildflower threads tucked into his coat pocket, small heart-shaped stones placed along his wandering paths, notes scrawled with things like: "Don’t forget berries (Grumbletail is watching)." They built a home together — if you can call it that. Part cottage, part moss-covered miracle, part falling-apart-on-purpose. It smells of pine needles, old books, and laughter that never learned how to be quiet. The forest watches them — still — with that old, knowing smile. And the Animals? The squirrels still gossip (they always will). The owls still judge. The rabbits still host awkwardly loud dinners near their porch. But ask anyone — ask even the grumpiest badger — and they’ll tell you: This is how the best stories end. Not with grand adventures. Not with epic quests. But with two foolish souls who chose to stay — tangled together in feathers, stones, and all the wonderfully ordinary magic of forever. And Somewhere... Right Now... She’s humming. He’s tripping over a tree root. And the forest? Still smiling. Shop His Story → | Shop Her Story →

par Bill Tiepelman

A Lantern, A Frog, and A Thousand Laughs

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

par Bill Tiepelman

Blossoms, Beards, and Forever

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