gnome

par Bill Tiepelman

Hoppy Hour Hideaway

The Gnome, the Beer, and the Basement of Broken Dreams There are gnomes, and then there's Stigmund Ferndingle—a retired mischief-maker turned full-time beer philosopher. While most garden gnomes settle for standing around birdbaths and silently judging your lack of weeding, Stig had different aspirations. He was done with the ceramic life. He wanted hops. He wanted barley. He wanted to forget the Great Hedge Trimmer Massacre of ’98, one Heineken at a time. He set up shop in what used to be the damp, haunted corner of an old farmhouse basement—now lovingly renamed “The Hideaway.” With cracked plaster walls and a cooler older than most midlife crises, it was everything he never dreamed of and settled for anyway. He even had a sign, crudely etched in bark, that read: "No Elves, No Fairies, No Bullshit." Stigmund wasn’t picky, just jaded. Life had smacked him with one too many acorns. He didn’t trust anyone under four feet tall or sober enough to recite a riddle. His days were spent squatting by the cooler, sipping warm beer because the electricity had been shut off ever since he tried to wire the fridge using copper from a neighbor’s wind chime. “It hummed,” he’d say. “That’s technical enough.” One Tuesday—though it could’ve been a Thursday, time’s a blur when you're drunk and immortal—Stig cracked open his last bottle of Heineken. He tilted it toward the gods of barley with a solemn toast: “To broken promises, expired coupons, and the complete absence of meaningful tax reform.” Then, from the shadows, came a voice. Gravelly, thick with regret and sausage grease. “That better be the cold one you owe me, Ferndingle.” Stig didn’t look up. He knew that voice. He’d hoped it had choked on a chicken bone and floated off into the realm of forgotten side characters. But no. Throg the Drunken Troll had found him again. “Jesus, Throg. I thought you were banned from every basement in the county after the 'Incident with the Flamethrower and the Garden Salsa.'” “I got a pardon. Said it was an art installation gone wrong. You know, cultural expression and all that crap.” Stig rolled his eyes so hard he nearly sprained a socket. He took another sip of his beer, the last precious drop of liquid sanity in a world gone mad with elves trying to unionize and hobbits opening artisanal bakeries. “Well,” he said with a burp that rattled the paint chips off the wall, “if you’re here to drink, bring your own bottle. This one’s mine, and I’m too old to share or care.” Throg grunted, dropped a cooler that clanked suspiciously, and pulled out a mysterious green bottle labeled simply “Experimental – Do Not Consume”. Stig stared at it, then slowly grinned. “...Pour me a glass, you ugly bastard.” Experimental Brews and Unforgivable Flatulence Throg poured the liquid, which fizzed like it had opinions and regrets. The smell hit first—like fermented onions wrapped in gym socks and betrayal. Stig took a whiff and immediately questioned every decision that led him here, starting with the one where he *trusted a troll with a chemistry hobby.* “What the hell’s in this?” he croaked, holding the glass like it might bite. “Bit of this, bit of that,” Throg shrugged. “Mostly swamp hops, fermented fairy tears, and something I scraped off the underside of a kobold’s armpit.” “So... brunch?” They clinked glasses, a sound not unlike two gravestones making out, and drank. The reaction was instantaneous. Stig’s beard twitched. Throg’s left eye started vibrating. Somewhere in the room, the wallpaper peeled itself off and whispered, “Nope.” “Hot DAMN,” Stig choked, eyes watering. “That tastes like regret with a lemon twist.” “You’ll get used to it,” said Throg, just before he hiccuped and briefly turned invisible, only to reappear halfway through the floorboards. “Side effect. Temporarily phased into the ethereal plane. Don’t worry, it’s mostly boring in there.” After the third glass, they were both feeling bold. Stig attempted to do a dance called the “Root Stomp of the Ancients”, which mostly involved him tripping over a nail and blaming it on a cursed floorboard. Throg, ever the artist, tried to juggle beer bottles while reciting a poem about dwarven plumbing. It ended, as these things often do, in shattered glass and someone farting loud enough to scare off a raccoon in the vents. Hours passed. The cooler emptied. The air filled with tales of failed love affairs with mushroom witches, unsuccessful startups involving enchanted bidets, and a half-formed business idea called “Brew & Doom”—a tavern that doubled as a survival obstacle course. Eventually, as twilight crept through the basement grates and the hangover fairies circled overhead like tiny, winged harbingers of doom, Stig leaned back against the cooler and sighed. “You know, Throg... for a smelly, emotionally-stunted, swamp-dwelling ex-con—I don’t entirely hate drinking with you.” Throg, now half-asleep and softly humming the troll anthem (which was mostly guttural noises and the phrase “Don’t Touch My Meat”), gave a lazy thumbs-up. “Right back atcha, ya old piss goblin.” And thus, the night ended like most nights in the Hoppy Hour Hideaway—boozy, weird, and just shy of a fire hazard. But if you listen closely on lonely nights, past the creak of old pipes and the occasional beer burp echo, you might still hear the toast: “To broken dreams, bad decisions, and the brew that made it all tolerable.”     Epilogue: The Morning After and Other Catastrophes When Stigmund awoke, he was spooning the cooler. Not romantically—more like clinging to it for emotional support as one might do with a trusted bucket during a three-day ale bender. His hat had migrated halfway across the room, and somehow his beard had acquired a mysterious braid with a tiny rubber duck tied into it. His pants were intact, but his dignity had clearly fled during the second bottle of “Experimental.” Throg was upside down in a flowerpot, snoring through one nostril while the other whistled a haunting tune. There was a crude tattoo on his belly that read “TAP THAT” with an arrow pointing downward. Whether it was ink, soot, or regret was unclear. On the wall, in green Sharpie and misspelled Old Elvish, someone had scrawled: “Here Drank Legends. And They Were... Meh.” The hangover was biblical. The kind of headache that made you question your life choices, your gods, and whether fermented fairy tears should really be FDA-approved. Stig muttered dark gnomish curses under his breath and reached for his last piece of bread, which turned out to be a coaster. He ate it anyway. Eventually, Throg stirred, farted without apology, and sat up with the grace of a walrus falling down stairs. “You got any eggs?” he croaked. “Do I look like a breakfast buffet?” Stig snapped, scratching under his beard where something small and possibly sentient had taken refuge. “Get out of my hideaway. I’ve got three days of silence scheduled and I intend to use all of them to forget last night.” Throg grinned, wiped beer foam from his eyebrow, and stood. “You say that now, but I’ll be back Friday. You’re the only gnome I know who can hold their booze and insult my mother with such poetic flair.” “Damn right,” Stig muttered, already rooting around for a clean glass and a less cursed bottle. And so the cycle would begin again—one gnome, one troll, and the questionable sanctity of the Hoppy Hour Hideaway, where the beer is warm, the insults fly freely, and magic doesn’t stand a damn chance against fermented stupidity.     Take the Hideaway Home Want to bring the beer-soaked brilliance of Stig and Throg into your own questionable life choices? We've got you covered—whether you're sobering up, blacking out, or just need to explain why your tote bag smells like hops and regret. Wood Print – Rustic, sturdy, and perfect for hanging above your bar... or over that hole you punched in the drywall during karaoke. Framed Print – Add a touch of class to your chaos. Guaranteed to start conversations, or at least halt them awkwardly. Tote Bag – Holds groceries, spellbooks, or six cans of questionable troll brew. Durable and judgment-free. Spiral Notebook – Jot down beer recipes, bad ideas, or angry letters to the HOA. Gnome-tested, troll-approved. Beach Towel – For when you pass out poolside, beer in hand, and need something soft to cushion the shame. Disclaimer: No actual trolls were harmed in the production of these fine goods. Emotionally? Maybe. But they’ll get over it.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Easter Gnome's Secret Stash

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

par Bill Tiepelman

The Nightlight Watcher

Of Gnomes and Nocturnal Duties Once upon a time—or at least some time after the invention of indoor plumbing—there lived a gnome named Wimbley Plopfoot. He wasn't your average garden-variety gnome with a fishing rod and a beer gut carved into ceramic. No, Wimbley was different. He had a job. A real one. He was the Official Nightlight Watcher of the Greater Underbed Region. Each night, as soon as the humans upstairs had done whatever it is humans do before bed (some combination of teeth brushing, doomscrolling, and wondering if that leftover cheese was still good), Wimbley would shuffle into place. His soft floral nightcap drooped charmingly over one eye. His matching pajamas whispered of lavender fields and accidental fashion. And in his arms, he carried Bartholomew the Bear, a stuffed animal with a suspiciously judgmental expression. "Ready?" Wimbley would ask each night, though Bartholomew never replied. He wasn’t enchanted or alive or magical. He was just there. Judging. Like most bears, to be honest. The ritual was simple: sit beside the child’s bed, hold the sign that said GOOD NIGHT, and exude an aura of safety, warmth, and vaguely herbal overtones. But on one particularly unremarkable Tuesday, something went wrong. Wimbley blinked slowly and noticed the glow from the nightlight was... flickering. "Oh no," he muttered, his gnomish voice the auditory equivalent of chamomile tea. "Not again." The last time a nightlight malfunctioned, the kid dreamt of sentient broccoli staging a coup in the kitchen. It took three dreamcatchers, a whispering incense stick, and a sock puppet therapist to undo the trauma. Wimbley waddled over to the outlet, groaning like only someone with knees older than democracy can groan. He tugged on the plug, then tapped the nightlight. Nothing. He blew on it. Still nothing. Bartholomew watched silently, probably judging Wimbley’s technique. "Guess I’m going in," Wimbley sighed, lifting up a loose floorboard to reveal a swirling, glittery tunnel labeled ‘Electrical Realm: Authorized Gnomes Only’. With a resigned pat to Bartholomew’s plush head, he dove in. The world twisted. The smell of burnt toast and old batteries filled his nostrils. The tunnel spun like a glittery toilet flush until he landed with a loud plop in a place that looked suspiciously like the inside of a lava lamp factory run by raccoons. “Alright,” Wimbley muttered. “Let’s fix a nightlight before reality unravels.” The Glowening Wimbley adjusted his pajama collar—a ridiculous move given that he had just nose-dived into an interdimensional subspace powered by toddler anxieties and expired batteries. The realm was brighter than he liked and smelled vaguely of ozone, dryer sheets, and existential dread. “Welcome to the Department of Glow Maintenance,” said a chipper, floating orb with a clipboard and tiny reading glasses balanced somehow on what could only be described as ‘eyelid energy.’ Wimbley squinted. “You again?” The orb blinked. “Ah, yes, Mister Plopfoot. You’ve been flagged before for ‘unauthorized screwdriver use’ and ‘insulting a power surge.’” “That surge started it,” Wimbley grumbled. “It zapped me. Twice.” The orb made a noncommittal whirring sound and summoned a translucent doorway that shimmered with neon labels: “Filament Forest,” “Circuit Swamp,” “Lightbulb Graveyard,” and—Wimbley’s destination—“Low-Glow Repair Intake.” He stepped through the archway, which instantly deposited him in a massive glowing cavern filled with floating fuses and a suspicious number of traffic cones. Gnome engineers in tiny hardhats shouted about wattage while sipping glow-stick martinis. “Oi, Wimbley!” called a scraggly figure with a clipboard larger than himself. “Yer here about the shimmer drop in Sector Snore-Alpha?” “Yes, it’s flickering like a caffeinated firefly,” Wimbley said, brushing lint off his beard. “That’s not right. Nightlight shimmer should be smooth—like pudding with ambition.” “Exactly.” The two gnomes exchanged nods and dove into the technical talk: amperage, dream-consistency thresholds, and a very heated debate about whether a teddy bear should count as an emotional stabilizer or a distraction-based sedative. Finally, they found the issue. A single pixel-sized microfuse had been corrupted by a forgotten nightmare from 2006. A common occurrence, apparently. Wimbley replaced it using a tweezers made from solidified bedtime stories and sighed in relief as the glow returned to buttery-soft normalcy. “Tell Bartholomew he still owes me five hugs,” said the scraggly gnome, tipping his hat. Wimbley smiled and stepped back into the tunnel, feeling the warmth of restored luminescence pulse through the air like a lullaby hummed by an overworked celestial intern. He landed back in the child’s bedroom with a puff of glitter. The nightlight glowed strong and steady. The child slept peacefully, one leg somehow entirely out of the blanket (a move that still terrified demons). Bartholomew remained exactly where Wimbley left him—arms open, judgmental gaze unchanged. “Mission complete,” Wimbley whispered, settling into his usual post and lifting the GOOD NIGHT sign once more. The room was safe. The glow was perfect. And somewhere deep beneath the floorboards, a raccoon technician filed another complaint against unauthorized glitter leakage. Wimbley didn't care. His job was done. Until tomorrow night… Fade to dreams.     Epilogue: Glow On, You Little Weirdo Years passed—or maybe just three minutes, depending on how time works when you’re shaped like a novelty lawn ornament and run on ambient moonlight. Wimbley Plopfoot, now promoted to Senior Glow Liaison, still kept his post beneath the bed of the now slightly older child (who occasionally referred to him as “that weird bedtime elf” in her diary). Bartholomew? Still judging. Still plush. Still undefeated in every staring contest known to plushdom. The nightlight, fully operational thanks to advanced gnome engineering and perhaps a little illegal wizard glue, shone on like a beacon of soft defiance against the creeping chaos of bedtime fears. Monsters had long since relocated—something about zoning permits and gluten-free snack shortages. Wimbley didn’t mind. He had everything he needed: a slightly crinkled bedtime schedule, a suspiciously sentient robe, and the unspoken admiration of the underbed community, who once voted him “Most Likely to Stop a Panic Dream with Only a Side-Eye.” And every night, as the stars blinked on and parents exhaled over baby monitors, Wimbley held up his sign with one simple message: GOOD NIGHT And if you happened to peek beneath your bed and see a tiny figure with a beard longer than your to-do list—just smile. He’s got this. You can sleep now. Glow on, dreamers. Glow on.     Bring a Little Glow Home If you felt a spark of warmth (or sheer gnomish absurdity) from The Nightlight Watcher, you can now bring that same cozy magic into your real-life bedtime ritual. Whether you're decorating a nursery, leveling up your nap nook, or just need a judgmental teddy on fabric—there’s a dreamy little something for you: 🧵 Wall Tapestry – Transform any room with a soft, storytelling glow. 🛏️ Throw Pillow – Snuggle into dreamland with a gnome-approved cushion. 🧸 Fleece Blanket – The official blanket of Bartholomew’s emotional support protocols. 🌙 Duvet Cover – Gnome-certified for maximum bedtime enchantment. Shop the full collection and let Wimbley Plopfoot stand guard over your dreams—no batteries or bureaucratic raccoons required.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Elder of the Enchanted Path

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

par Bill Tiepelman

Floral Mischief and Bearded Smiles

Thistlewhump the Gnome was not your average garden variety gnome. While others spent their days polishing mushrooms or napping behind tulip stems, Thistlewhump was a known floral deviant—a collector of rare petals, hoarder of pollen sparkle, and self-declared Minister of Mischief in the Bloomborough Hollow. Spring had just cracked open its golden shell, and Thistlewhump was already knee-deep in his seasonal rituals: rearranging the faerie ring alphabetically, filling birds’ nests with glitter, and most controversially, “borrowing” blooms from Mrs. Mumbletoes’ garden. It wasn’t theft if you left a button in return, right? On the morning in question, sunlight filtered through the forest like melted butter over toast, and Thistlewhump stood atop his wobble-legged stool, eyeing a fresh patch of purplebells with the intensity of a pastry chef inspecting an éclair. Basket in one hand, beard flowing like spun cloud, he plucked the flowers with theatrical flair. “This one shall be named Petunia von Sassypants,” he declared, twirling a violet petal between his fingers, “and this... Sir Bloomalot.” Behind him, a potted explosion of wildflowers shimmered as if snickering in delight, the fae whispers swirling in the warm air. Thistlewhump leaned in to sniff a bloom and immediately sneezed glitter. “That’s what I get for sweet-talking a sneezeweed,” he muttered, wiping fairy dust from his nose with a mushroom cap. But there was something different in the air that day—not just the usual scent of chlorophyll and mischief. No, something—or someone—was watching him. Hidden behind the larger-than-life bouquet was a shadow. A giggle. Possibly the rustle of a wing or the hiccup of a pixie with hayfever. Thistlewhump narrowed his eyes. “If that’s you again, Spriggle, I swear on my beard trimmer—” He paused. The flowers behind him trembled. His stool creaked. A petal fell. And from somewhere within the blossoms came a whisper: "Not Spriggle. Worse."     Thistlewhump froze mid-pose, one foot on his stool and the other dangling dramatically in midair like he was auditioning for a woodland ballet he never rehearsed. His nose twitched. His beard fluffed out in defensive formation. He turned slowly, theatrically, as gnomes are prone to do when drama calls. “Worse?” he echoed, eyes darting through the explosion of pinks and purples behind him. “Don’t tell me the Hydrangea Council finally traced my root-snipping incident…” But it wasn’t the Hydrangeas. Out of the petals burst a small figure—two inches tall, armed with a daffodil stem like a fencing foil and glitter streaming from her ears. “Daisy Flitterbottom!” Thistlewhump groaned. “You absolute menace!” “You stole my sparklebush cuttings,” Daisy accused, mid-air, wings vibrating like a caffeine-soaked hummingbird. “And you repotted them. In a clay mug. With no drainage.” Thistlewhump held up his basket as a peace offering, though it only contained three slightly crushed blossoms and a lint-covered gumdrop. “I was... experimenting,” he offered. “It was for science. Art. Interpretive horticulture.” Daisy wasn’t convinced. She dive-bombed his hat, knocking loose a cluster of sequins. “You called that art? It looked like a mossy sock with commitment issues!” What followed can only be described as an aggressively polite garden brawl. Thistlewhump flailed with a trowel he named “Daisy Negotiator,” while Daisy zigzagged like an angry firefly, knocking over his flowerpot in mid-hover. Petals flew. Glitter exploded. A passing bee did a U-turn in existential confusion. Eventually, both collapsed—Thistlewhump into a pile of overturned violets, and Daisy into a half-eaten macaroon someone had left on the railing. They panted, sweaty and pollen-covered, staring at the sky as though it owed them both an apology. “Truce?” Daisy mumbled through crumbs. “Only if you promise not to weaponize peonies again,” Thistlewhump wheezed. “I’m still finding petals in my underpants from last time.” She giggled. He grinned. The flowers slowly stopped trembling, and a single blue bloom stretched lazily toward the sun as if clapping with a petal. And as the sun dipped low and the bokeh haze of springtime glowed gold around them, Thistlewhump sat back on his stool (now slightly broken), sipped a warm chamomile from an acorn cup, and declared with a smile, “Ah, yes. Just another peaceful day in Bloomborough.” Somewhere nearby, a peony shuddered.     🌼 Garden Giggle Rhyme 🌼 In a garden where the posies pout,And bees wear boots to buzz about,Lives a gnome with a beard so wide,He sweeps the tulips when he slides. He steals your blooms, he swaps your socks,He talks to snails, he pranks the rocks.He brews his tea with petals bold,And sniffs the sun like it’s pure gold. So if you see your daisies grinning,Or catch your rosebush gently spinning—Don’t panic, dear, it’s just old Thump,The gnome who gardens with a bump. He’ll leave you laughs, some glitter, cheer,And possibly... a flowered rear.     🌷 Take the Mischief Home 🌷 If Thistlewhump and his flower-fueled chaos stole your heart (and maybe your socks), bring a bit of that blooming whimsy into your world! Whether you’re dressing up your space, lounging in comfort, or toting garden goodies, Floral Mischief and Bearded Smiles is available in a variety of delightful products: 🧵 Whimsical Wall Tapestry – Hang the gnome magic on your wall and let the floral laughter bloom. 🛋️ Throw Pillow – Perfect for garden naps and accidental glitter naps. 🛏️ Duvet Cover – Sleep like a gnome, dream like a petal. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry blooms, mischief, and snacks wherever you wander. 🏖️ Round Beach Towel – Because nothing says spring mischief like lounging in circular style. Each item features the richly detailed artwork of Bill and Linda Tiepelman, bringing joy, charm, and just a pinch of gnome-fueled madness to your everyday life.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Quilted Egg Keeper

Of Eggs, Ego, and Exile Deep in the buttercream-scented meadows of Spring Hollow, far beyond the reach of grocery store egg dye kits and mass-produced chocolate bunnies, there lived a gnome named Gnorbert. Not just any gnome — *the* Gnorbert. The Quilted Egg Keeper. The legend, the myth, the mildly intoxicated seasonal icon whose job it was to guard the most sacred artifact of Easter: The First Egg. Capital F. Capital E. No pressure. His egg — more Fabergé than farm-fresh — was stitched together from enchanted scraps of long-forgotten springtime festivals. Panels of floral velvet, sunbeam-woven silk, and even one suspicious square that may have been repurposed from Mrs. Springlebottom’s old curtain set. It shimmered in the sunlight like a Lisa Frank fever dream, and it was Gnorbert’s pride and joy. That, and his hat. Oh gods, the hat. Spiraled like a unicorn’s horn and dyed in hues not even Crayola had the nerve to name, it loomed over him like a rainbow tornado. Gnorbert insisted it was necessary “to maintain the mystical equilibrium of seasonal joy,” but everyone in the Hollow knew it was just to hide the fact he hadn’t washed his hair since the Great Tulip Debacle of 2017. Every year, just as the last winter icicle packed its snowy bags and slinked back into the shadows, Gnorbert emerged from his quilted abode like a deranged jack-in-the-box, ready to coordinate the Great Egg Launch. It was part ceremony, part fashion show, and entirely unnecessary — but Spring Hollow wouldn’t have it any other way. This year, however, there was… tension. The kind of tension that smells like scorched marshmallow peeps and passive aggression. “You forgot to paint the anti-rot runes again, Gnorbert,” hissed Petalwick the Bunny Cleric, ears twitching with disapproval. “I did no such thing,” Gnorbert replied, elbow-deep in a mug of mead-laced carrot cider. “They’re invisible. That’s why they’re effective.” “They’re not invisible. You used invisible ink. That’s not how magic works, you glitter-soaked garden gnome.” Gnorbert blinked. “You say that like it’s an insult.” Petalwick sighed the sigh of someone who once saw a squirrel outwit a spell circle and still hasn’t recovered. “If this egg cracks before the ceremonial sunrise roll, we’ll have seven years of ugly crocus blooms and emotionally unavailable ducks.” “Better than last year’s pandemic of pastel moths and unseasoned deviled eggs,” Gnorbert muttered. “That was your spell, wasn’t it?” “That was your recipe book.” The two stared each other down while a trio of flower fairies took bets behind a daffodil. Gnorbert, still smug, patted his precious quilted egg, which gave a suspicious squish. His confidence faltered. Just a bit. “...That’s probably just the humidity,” he said. The egg squelched again. This, Gnorbert thought, might be a problem. Crack Me Up and Call It Spring The egg was sweating. Not metaphorically — no, Gnorbert had long since moved past poetic delusions and into the cold, damp reality of egg sweat. It glistened along the velvet petals like nervous dew on prom night. Gnorbert tried to casually rotate the egg, hoping maybe the wet patch was just—what? Condensation? Condemnation? “Petalwick,” he hissed through a forced smile, “did you... happen to cast a fertility amplification charm near the egg this year?” “Only in your general direction, as a curse,” Petalwick replied without missing a beat. “Why?” Gnorbert swallowed. “Because I think... it’s hatching.” A moment passed. The air thickened like expired marshmallow fluff. “It’s not that kind of egg,” Petalwick whispered, slowly backing away like a bunny who’d just realized the grass it was nibbling might actually be someone's vintage crochet centerpiece. But oh, it was exactly that kind of egg now. A faint chirping sound echoed from within — the kind of chirp that said, “Hi, I’m sentient, I’m confused, and I’m probably about to imprint on the first unstable gnome I see.” “YOU PUT A PHOENIX SPARK IN THE QUILT!” Petalwick shrieked. “I THOUGHT IT WAS A SPARKLY BUTTON!” Gnorbert bellowed back, arms flailing with glitter and denial. The egg began to glow. Vibrate. Hum like a sentient kazoo. And then, with the dramatic flair only an Easter phoenix chick could muster, it burst from the patchwork casing in a slow-motion explosion of lace, flower petals, and existential horror. The chick was... fabulous. Like Elton John had been reincarnated as a sentient marshmallow peep. Feathers of gold, eyes like disco balls, and an aura that screamed “I have arrived and I demand brunch.” “You magnificent disaster,” Petalwick muttered, shielding his eyes from the chick’s aggressive fabulousness. “I didn’t mean to incubate god,” Gnorbert whispered, which honestly, wasn’t the weirdest thing anyone had said that week. The chick locked eyes with Gnorbert. A bond was formed. A terrible, sparkly bond of destiny and regret. “You’re my mommy now,” the chick chirped, voice dripping with mischief and diva energy. “Of course I am,” Gnorbert said, deadpan, already regretting everything that led him to this moment. “Because the universe has a sense of humor, and apparently, I’m the punchline.” And so, Spring Hollow got a new tradition: the Great Hatching. Every year, gnomes from across the land came to witness the rebirth of the sparkly phoenix chick, who had somehow unionized the bunnies, taken over the flower scheduling committee, and demanded that all egg hunts include at least one drag performance and a cheese platter. Gnorbert? He stayed close to the egg. Mostly because he had to. The chick, now known as Glitterflame the Rejuvenator, had separation anxiety and a mean left peck. But also, deep down, Gnorbert kind of liked being the accidental godparent of Easter’s weirdest mascot. He even washed his hair. Once. And on quiet nights, when the chick was asleep and the air smelled faintly of jellybeans and slightly scorched dignity, Gnorbert would sip his carrot cider and murmur to no one in particular, “It was a good egg. Until it wasn’t.” And the flowers nodded, and the hat twitched, and the patchwork shimmered in the moonlight, waiting — always — for next spring’s chaos to begin again. Fin.     Bring Gnorbert Home If you're now emotionally entangled with a fabulous Easter chick and a mildly unhinged gnome, you're not alone. Luckily, you don’t have to wait until next spring to relive the chaos. The Quilted Egg Keeper is available in all its patchwork glory across a magical collection of merch that even Glitterflame approves of (after much dramatic flapping). ✨ Transform your walls with the Tapestry 🖼️ Give your gallery wall a gnome-sized glow-up with the Framed Print 🛋️ Cuddle chaos with a Throw Pillow that’s 100% eggplosion-proof 💌 Send joy (and maybe a warning) with a Greeting Card 🥚 Stick some seasonal sass anywhere with the official Sticker Shop now and celebrate the season with a little extra sparkle, sass, and stitchwork. Gnorbert would want you to. Glitterflame demands it.

par Bill Tiepelman

A Trio of Springtime Mischief

The Great Bloom Heist Spring had arrived in the Enchanted Grove, and with it came the annual Cherry Blossom Festival—a time when the air smelled like honeyed petals, and even the grumpiest trolls cracked a smile (albeit begrudgingly). The festival was a sacred event, marked by a grand ceremony where the first bloom of the season was plucked and turned into the legendary Nectar of Eternal Delight, a potion so potent that one sip could make a banshee giggle. At the heart of this festival stood three very particular gnomes: Pip, Poppy, and Gus. They were known throughout the Grove not for their wisdom or generosity, but for their unrivaled talent in causing mayhem. Where there was trouble, there was a gnome-shaped footprint leading to it. “This year, we’re going to be legendary,” Pip declared, adjusting his oversized, rose-colored hat adorned with embroidered daisies. “We’re going to steal the First Bloom!” Poppy, the mastermind of the group, twirled her white beard thoughtfully. “The Blossom Keepers will be watching the tree all night. We’ll need a flawless plan.” Gus, who was currently stuffing his face with honeyed acorn pastries, raised a sticky finger. “What if we... bribe them?” Pip sighed. “Gus, we do not have enough pastries to bribe an entire guild of Keepers.” Poppy grinned. “But what if we make them think they’re needed elsewhere?” That was all it took. With a gleam in their eyes, the gnomes set their plan in motion. The Plan (Which Was Definitely Not Foolproof) At midnight, the Cherry Blossom tree stood tall and resplendent, its petals glowing faintly under the moonlight. The Blossom Keepers, clad in their ceremonial robes (which honestly looked suspiciously like oversized pajamas), stood at attention. No squirrel, fairy, or gnome would get past them. Or so they thought. Phase One: Distraction. Gus, wearing an absurdly large cloak that made him look like a sentient pile of fabric, waddled up to the Keepers. “I have urgent news!” he gasped dramatically. The eldest Keeper peered down. “What news, little one?” “The Moon Moths are revolting! They’re demanding better working conditions and have threatened to, uh, boycott the night sky!” The Keepers blinked. “That... doesn’t sound real.” “Oh, it’s VERY real,” Gus continued, summoning every ounce of fake sincerity he could muster. “Just imagine—no shimmering wings, no graceful moonlit dances. Just an empty sky, like a sad, forgotten soup bowl.” The Keepers exchanged nervous glances. They couldn’t risk a celestial labor strike. With a hurried nod, they rushed off to investigate, leaving the sacred First Bloom unguarded. Phase Two: The Heist With the Keepers gone, Pip and Poppy sprang into action. Pip climbed onto Poppy’s shoulders, teetering dangerously as he reached for the blossom. “Almost... got it...” Just as his fingers brushed the delicate petals, a gust of wind sent him toppling off Poppy’s shoulders and straight into the tree, where he clung like an oversized, panicked squirrel. Poppy, trying to be helpful, grabbed a stick and poked at him. “Just let go, Pip. I’ll catch you.” “That is an unbelievable lie, Poppy.” “Fair enough. Just—” Before she could finish, Pip lost his grip. With a dramatic yelp, he plummeted, bounced off a lower branch, and landed with a soft poof into Gus’s fluffy hat. They sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then Poppy grinned and held up the First Bloom, which had fallen neatly into her hands. “Would you look at that?” Victory! But just as they were about to celebrate, a shadow loomed over them. It was the Head Keeper. And he did not look pleased. “Well, well, well,” the Keeper said, arms crossed. “If it isn’t the Blossom Bandits.” Pip swallowed hard. “We prefer ‘Mischievous Floral Enthusiasts.’” The Keeper narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any idea what kind of punishment is in store for thieves like you?” Silence. Then Gus, ever the opportunist, cleared his throat. “Would you, uh, accept a bribe?” The Keeper raised an eyebrow. “Go on.” Gus pulled a slightly smushed acorn pastry from his pocket and held it out with a hopeful grin. And that was when the real trouble began. The Trouble with Bribes The Head Keeper eyed the smushed acorn pastry in Gus’s outstretched hand. The gnome trio held their breath. For a moment, it seemed like the Keeper might accept the bribe. His fingers twitched. His nostrils flared ever so slightly, catching the scent of honeyed nuts. But then, with a sigh, he crossed his arms. “I’m allergic to acorns,” he said flatly. Gus gasped in horror. “But they’re a superfood!” “For you, perhaps,” the Keeper said. “For me, they’re a death sentence. Now—” He snatched the First Bloom from Poppy’s hands. “You three are in a world of trouble.” The Trial of the Gnomes By dawn, Pip, Poppy, and Gus found themselves standing before the Grand Council of the Enchanted Grove—a collection of elders who looked very wise but also, conveniently, quite sleepy. Apparently, holding a trial at sunrise wasn’t an especially popular idea. “Gnomes Pip, Poppy, and Gus,” droned the eldest Council member, a wrinkled elf named Elder Thimblewick. “You have been charged with grand floral larceny, Keeper deception, and—” he squinted at the scroll in his hands, “—‘reckless tree climbing without a permit.’ How do you plead?” Pip glanced at his friends, then puffed up his chest. “Not guilty, on account of technicality.” Thimblewick frowned. “What technicality?” “The First Bloom fell into Poppy’s hands. Gravity did the real stealing.” The Council murmured amongst themselves. It was, admittedly, a solid point. The Head Keeper, still seething, stepped forward. “I demand justice! They plotted this crime! They tricked the Keepers and endangered the sacred blossom!” Gus cleared his throat. “To be fair, you abandoned your post because of a made-up moth strike. That’s on you.” “Silence!” the Keeper snapped. The Council exchanged glances. Finally, Elder Thimblewick sighed. “This is a mess. But a crime was committed. A punishment is required.” The Unusual Punishment The gnomes braced themselves. Banishment? Hard labor? Were they about to be sentenced to a life of unpaid squirrel-wrangling? Thimblewick cleared his throat. “For your crimes against the Enchanted Grove, your punishment is thus: You must personally assist in the Cherry Blossom Festival preparations.” The gnomes stared. “That’s it?” Pip asked. “You want us to—what—hang banners and sprinkle flower petals?” “Among other things,” Thimblewick said. “You will also oversee the nectar-making process and act as official greeters for every guest.” Poppy groaned. “Ugh. That means smiling, doesn’t it?” Thimblewick nodded. “Oh yes. And wearing matching festive gnome tunics.” At this, Gus let out a horrified gasp. “You mean—uniforms?” “Precisely,” the elder said with a smirk. “Pink ones. With ruffles.” The gnomes shuddered. The Worst Day of Their Lives Thus began the worst—and most humiliating—day in Pip, Poppy, and Gus’s mischievous little lives. First, they were forced into the most frilly, lace-covered, pastel-pink tunics imaginable. Gus nearly fainted. Poppy cursed under her breath. Pip, always the optimist, tried to convince himself they were wearing “intimidation garments.” They were not. Then came the endless festival preparations. They spent the morning filling nectar jugs, which was dull enough—until Gus accidentally fell into a vat of the sacred liquid and had to be fished out with a broom. By noon, they were tasked with handing out floral garlands to visitors. This part should have been easy, except that Pip got carried away and turned it into a competitive sport, aggressively throwing garlands at unsuspecting guests. “YOU GET A WREATH! YOU GET A WREATH!” Pip shouted, pelting a confused centaur in the face with a ring of daisies. By evening, they were utterly exhausted. They slumped against a cherry tree, their once-vibrant tunics now covered in flower petals, spilled nectar, and Gus’s dignity. “I can’t believe we got caught,” Poppy groaned. “We had such a solid plan.” Pip sighed. “Maybe we should retire from crime.” They sat in silence for a long moment. Then Gus snorted. “Nah.” They burst into laughter. Mischief, after all, was in their blood. As the festival continued around them, the three gnomes made a silent pact: Next year, they wouldn’t just steal the First Bloom. They’d steal the whole tree. But for now? They’d suffer through the ruffled tunics, hand out garlands, and bide their time. The gnome way.     Bring the Magic Home Love the mischievous charm of Pip, Poppy, and Gus? Now you can bring their whimsical world into your home! Whether you want to cozy up with a stunning tapestry, add a touch of enchantment with a canvas print, or challenge yourself with a delightful puzzle, there's a perfect way to keep the gnome mischief alive. Looking for a charming gift? Send a magical message with a beautiful greeting card featuring this playful trio! Embrace the whimsy—shop the collection today!

par Bill Tiepelman

Melodies of the Woodland Mystic

Deep in the heart of the Everwhimsy Forest, where the trees whispered riddles and the mushrooms hummed in harmony, lived a peculiar fellow known as Bartholomew Bumblesnuff. He wasn’t a wizard, though his beard often housed stray fireflies that made him look the part. Nor was he an elf, though his fingers danced on the strings of his guitar like they knew secrets the wind had forgotten. Bartholomew was, quite simply, a mystic. Not the kind that charged absurd fees for vague prophecies, but the sort who understood that the universe was best unraveled through music, tea, and the occasional well-placed “hmm.” The Troubled Mushroom Council One evening, as he was composing a new song about the philosophical implications of buttered toast, a frantic delegation of sentient mushrooms appeared. These were no ordinary fungi; they were the esteemed Mushroom Council of Sporeston, known for their solemn debates on subjects such as “What Even Is Time?” and “Should We Outlaw the Word ‘Moist’?” “Oh wise and melodic one!” cried Chairman Portobello, adjusting his tiny spectacles. “We have a crisis most dire!” “Is it existential?” Bartholomew asked, taking a contemplative sip of his chamomile tea. “It is worse,” the mushroom trembled. “The Toad of Many Problems has returned!” The Toad of Many Problems The Toad of Many Problems was a well-known local menace. He had an extraordinary ability to complain about absolutely everything, at all times, without stopping for breath. He once ranted for three days about a single missing sock. Bartholomew nodded. “What, uh… what seems to be his problem now?” “He says,” Chairman Portobello gulped, “that the moon is looking at him funny.” Bartholomew strummed a few thoughtful chords. “Mmm. A tricky one.” Negotiating with a Toad The next day, Bartholomew strolled to the Toad of Many Problems’ favorite complaining spot, a mossy rock beside the babbling brook (which he had previously accused of “gossiping”). “Oh, hello,” the toad huffed. “Let me tell you. The moon? Completely judging me. Just up there. Looming.” Bartholomew nodded sagely. “Have you considered that the moon is just… existing?” The toad blinked. “What, like, without a motive?!” “Mmm,” hummed Bartholomew. He plucked his guitar, sending a lazy ripple through the air. “You know, everything just is, my warty friend. The moon shines, the river flows, you complain. It’s all very natural.” The toad frowned. “Are you saying I’m part of the great cosmic balance?” “Without you, who would point out the things others ignore? The moon needs you, my friend. Otherwise, it would have no one to keep it humble.” The toad gasped. “You’re right. I provide a service!” “Mmm,” Bartholomew hummed again. The Song That Saved the Forest That night, under a sky freckled with stars, Bartholomew composed a song inspired by the toad’s plight. It was a melody of acceptance, a ballad of embracing the weirdness of existence. As he strummed, the fireflies blinked in rhythm, the trees swayed approvingly, and the mushrooms sighed with deep fungal satisfaction. The Toad of Many Problems, sitting proudly on his mossy rock, nodded along. “You know,” he murmured, “maybe the moon and I can coexist after all.” And so, for the first time in centuries, the Everwhimsy Forest experienced a rare and beautiful thing: peace. At least until the toad discovered that someone had rearranged his pebbles. But that, dear reader, is another story.     Looking for a piece of whimsical magic to add to your space? "Melodies of the Woodland Mystic" is available for prints, downloads, and licensing in our Image Archive. Bring the charm of this musical sage into your home or creative projects! 👉 View in the Archive 🎶✨

par Bill Tiepelman

Guardian of the Golden Clover

Deep in the heart of the Emerald Glade, nestled between the Wobbly Hills and the River of Regrettable Decisions, lived Fergus O’Twinkleboots, the self-proclaimed Guardian of the Golden Clover. No one had asked him to be the guardian. No one particularly wanted him to be the guardian. But Fergus had appointed himself to the position, made himself a badge out of melted gold coins, and spent most of his days drinking, yelling at passersby, and setting up ridiculously impractical security measures. Fergus was a rare breed—a gnome-leprechaun hybrid, possessing both the fiery stubbornness of gnomes and the chaotic mischief of leprechauns. He was about two feet tall, with a beard so curly it could double as a bird’s nest, eyes that sparkled like freshly poured whiskey, and a green coat that was covered in so much gold embroidery, it looked like a dragon had sneezed on him. His hat was an architectural masterpiece—so curled and floppy that it required structural support (provided by a network of enchanted twigs). A Guardian’s Responsibilities (or Lack Thereof) The Golden Clover was no ordinary plant. It was said to be the luckiest of all clovers, granting limitless fortune to whoever touched it. Naturally, this meant that Fergus had exactly three responsibilities: Keep the Golden Clover safe. Make sure nobody stole it. Drink enough ale to forget about responsibilities one and two. He excelled at the third one. To deter thieves, Fergus had set up a variety of highly sophisticated booby traps, including: A set of enchanted bagpipes that played off-key sea shanties when stepped on. A squad of attack squirrels trained in aerial acrobatics (though they mostly just stole his snacks). A badger named Nigel who could scream at such a high frequency that people momentarily forgot their own names. A fake map labeled “Secret Shortcut to the Clover” that actually led adventurers into the Pit of Existential Dread, where a magical voice would whisper, “Why do you even want luck? Isn’t happiness the true goal?” Needless to say, the traps were effective. For years, Fergus remained undefeated. The Great Heist (And The Even Greater Hangover) One fateful night, Fergus found himself in his favorite drinking establishment, The Tipsy Goblin, engaged in an intense drinking competition against a particularly shady-looking elf named Darius the Dubiously Employed. “Ye think ye can outdrink me?” Fergus slurred, slamming down his 12th mug of clover ale. Darius smirked. “I don’t think, Fergus. I know.” This was, of course, a blatant lie. Nobody could outdrink Fergus O’Twinkleboots. However, Darius had a plan: get Fergus so spectacularly drunk that he passed out, allowing Darius’ team of thieves to steal the Golden Clover. It was, as plans went, quite solid. It also backfired spectacularly. The Heist Begins At precisely 2:43 AM, Darius’ crew tiptoed into the glade, confident that their leader had successfully incapacitated the Guardian. They were wrong. Fergus, despite his intoxicated state, had muscle memory. The moment his enchanted “Thief-Detection Alarm” (Nigel the Badger) let out an ear-piercing screech, Fergus reacted. With the grace of a drunken ballerina, he leapt out of bed, donned his hat (upside down, but still), and pressed the hidden button beneath his left boot, activating The Oh No Ye Don’t Mechanism. What followed was a series of escalating disasters: A trapdoor opened beneath the thieves, dumping them into the “Pit of Mild Inconvenience,” where they were immediately tangled in enchanted laundry lines. The attack squirrels (who had been bribed with walnuts earlier) betrayed Fergus and stole his cheese collection instead. The bagpipes began blaring an off-key rendition of “Danny Boy,” causing one thief to voluntarily surrender out of sheer emotional distress. Finally, the Final Defense System was activated—a giant boot on a spring, which launched the remaining thieves directly into the River of Regrettable Decisions. By the time Fergus had stumbled to the clearing, the only sign of the attempted robbery was a single abandoned shoe and the distant sound of a thief cursing as he floated downstream. “HA! That’s what ye GET, ye gobdaws!” Fergus shouted, swaying slightly. Then he promptly passed out in a bush. The Aftermath When Fergus awoke the next morning, head pounding like a drum at a goblin wedding, he found himself surrounded by several concerned villagers. “Fergus… did ye fight off an entire gang of thieves while drunk?” one asked. Fergus groaned. “Aye. But don’t worry. I took care of ‘em.” “How?” Fergus grinned, pointing a thumb at Nigel, who was now wearing one of the thieves’ hats. “With me secret weapon.” From that day forward, Fergus became a local legend. His exploits were sung in taverns, his traps became the stuff of adventurers' nightmares, and Nigel the Badger was promoted to Chief of Security, a title he took very seriously. And as for Fergus? Well, he went right back to drinking, yelling at tourists, and perfecting his latest trap: The Catapult of Shame, which launched particularly persistent thieves directly into their childhood homes. After all, a Guardian’s work is never done.     Love the mischievous magic of Fergus O’Twinkleboots? You can own a piece of his legendary tale! This whimsical artwork, Guardian of the Golden Clover, is available for prints, downloads, and licensing in our Image Archive. Click below to explore: View & Purchase the Artwork

par Bill Tiepelman

Warden Gnomes of the Mystic Grove

A tale of adventure, mystery, and three grumpy, battle-hardened gnomes who are really just trying to mind their own business. Part One: A Fool’s Errand “You hear that?” Gorrim, the tallest (by an impressive half-inch) of the Warden Gnomes, tilted his head toward the distant crunch of twigs underfoot. He narrowed his eyes beneath his heavy, rune-stitched hat, gripping the pommel of his sword. “Someone’s coming.” “Oh, fantastic,” huffed Baelin, the most cantankerous of the three. “Another dimwit thinking they can plunder our forest for ‘hidden treasures’ or some other nonsense.” He adjusted his ornate battle axe and leaned against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak. “I say we scare ‘em off. Let’s go full ‘ominous guardian’ routine. Maybe some spooky chanting.” “We did that last time,” Ollo, the youngest (a mere 312 years old), pointed out. “They just screamed and ran in circles until they fell into the bog.” Baelin grinned. “Exactly.” Gorrim sighed, rubbing his temples. “Let’s at least see what kind of idiot we’re dealing with before we start traumatizing them.” The three gnomes peered through the underbrush as a figure stumbled into view—a lanky, wide-eyed human man dressed in what could only be described as ‘fashionably impractical adventuring gear.’ His boots were too clean, his tunic too crisp, and his belt held far too many shiny trinkets for someone who had actually faced any real danger. “Oh, sweet mushroom spirits, he’s a noble,” Ollo muttered. “You can smell the entitlement from here.” “Good evening, fair woodland creatures!” the man announced with an exaggerated flourish. “I am Lord Percival Ravenshade, intrepid explorer, seeker of lost relics, and—” “—and first-place winner of ‘Who’s Most Likely to Get Eaten by a Bear,’” Baelin cut in. Percival blinked. “I—what?” “State your business, long-legs,” Gorrim said, his voice edged with patience that was rapidly wearing thin. “This is protected land.” Percival puffed up his chest. “Ah! But I seek something of great importance! The fabled Gem of Eldertree, said to be hidden within this very forest! Surely, noble gnome-folk such as yourselves would be delighted to assist a humble scholar such as myself!” The gnomes exchanged a look. “Oh, this is gonna be fun,” Ollo murmured. Baelin scratched his beard. “You mean the Gem of Eldertree?” “Yes!” Percival’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “The very same Gem of Eldertree that’s guarded by a bloodthirsty, soul-devouring, absolutely massive spirit-beast?” Percival’s confidence wavered. “…Yes?” Gorrim nodded solemnly. “The one that’s cursed to drive treasure hunters insane with whispering voices until they wander into a nest of venomous shadow-vipers?” Percival hesitated. “…Possibly?” Ollo leaned in conspiratorially. “The same gem that once turned a man’s entire skeleton inside out just for touching it?” Percival gulped. “That one?” Baelin grinned. “Yep.” The nobleman took a deep breath, then squared his shoulders. “No matter the danger, I shall face it with honor! Besides, legends say a trio of wise gnomes knows the way to the gem.” “Hah! Wise gnomes.” Ollo snorted. “Good one.” Gorrim crossed his arms. “And if we do know the way, what makes you think we’d help you?” “Gold!” Percival said brightly, jingling a pouch. “Plenty of it! And fame! Your names will be sung in the halls of kings!” “Oh yes, because that worked out so well for the last guy who came through here,” Baelin muttered. Gorrim sighed deeply. “Against my better judgment… I say we take him.” Baelin stared. “You what?” Ollo clapped his hands together. “Ohhh, this is going to be hilarious.” Gorrim smirked. “We take him… and make sure he fully appreciates the horrors of this forest before we even get close to the gem.” Baelin’s face broke into a wicked grin. “Oh, I like it.” Percival, oblivious, beamed. “Wonderful! Lead the way, my good gnomes!” “Oh, we will,” Ollo muttered as they began their trek into the dark heart of the Mystic Grove. “We most certainly will.”     The Scenic Route to Certain Doom Percival strutted confidently behind the three gnomes, his boots crunching against the damp forest floor. The deeper they went into the Mystic Grove, the darker and more twisted the trees became, their branches curling overhead like skeletal fingers. A faint, eerie whispering echoed through the air—though whether it was the wind or something far more sinister was up for debate. “You know,” Baelin mused, nudging Ollo, “I give him twenty minutes before he cries.” “Ten,” Ollo countered. “Did you see how he flinched when that squirrel sneezed?” Gorrim, ever the responsible one, ignored them. “Alright, Percival. If you really want the Gem of Eldertree, there are some… shall we say… precautionary measures we need to take.” Percival, ever eager, nodded. “Ah, of course! Some kind of magical rite? Perhaps a test of my courage?” Baelin grinned. “Oh, it’s a test all right. First, we need to check if you’re… resistant to the Wailing Mushrooms of Despair.” Percival blinked. “The what now?” “Very dangerous,” Ollo said gravely. “If you hear their cries, you could be overwhelmed with such unbearable existential dread that you forget how to breathe.” Percival paled. “That’s a thing that happens?” Baelin nodded solemnly. “Tragic, really. Just last month, a guy collapsed on the spot. One moment, determined explorer. Next moment, curled up in a fetal position sobbing about how time is a meaningless construct.” Percival looked around nervously. “H-how do I know if I’m… resistant?” Ollo shrugged. “Oh, we’ll know.” They led him to a cluster of large, pulsing fungi with bioluminescent blue caps. Gorrim gave one a light poke, and it released a long, eerie wail that sounded suspiciously like an elderly man muttering, “What’s the point of it all?” Percival yelped and took several steps back. “By the gods! That’s unnatural!” “Hmm.” Ollo stroked his beard. “He didn’t immediately collapse into an existential crisis. That’s promising.” Baelin leaned in. “Think we should tell him they’re just regular mushrooms and the wailing sound is Gorrim throwing his voice?” “Not yet,” Ollo whispered back. “Let’s see how much more we can get away with.” Gorrim cleared his throat. “Alright, Percival. You’ve passed the first test. But the path ahead is dangerous.” Percival straightened up, puffing out his chest again. “I’m ready for anything!” Baelin smirked. “Good. Because the next part of the journey involves the Bridge of Certain Peril.” “Certain… peril?” Percival repeated warily. “Oh, yes,” Ollo said, nodding seriously. “A rickety, ancient bridge stretched across a bottomless chasm. So old, so fragile, that even a slight gust of wind could send a man plummeting into the abyss below.” Percival’s confidence wavered. “I… see.” Moments later, they arrived at said bridge. It was, in reality, a very sturdy, well-maintained stone bridge. The kind you could probably drive a fully armored war elephant across without so much as a wobble. But Percival didn’t need to know that. “There it is,” Baelin said, making his voice tremble just enough to sell the drama. “The most treacherous bridge in all the land.” Percival took one look at it and visibly paled. “It looks… uh… sturdier than I expected.” “That’s what it wants you to think,” Ollo said darkly. “It’s the cursed winds you have to worry about.” “Cursed winds?!” “Oh, yes,” Gorrim said with a straight face. “Unpredictable. Invisible. The moment you least expect it—whoosh! Gone.” Percival gulped. “Right. Yes. Of course.” Taking a deep breath, he stepped cautiously onto the bridge. Baelin, grinning like a madman, subtly cupped his hands and let out a low, ominous whoooooosh. Percival let out a shriek and flung himself flat against the stone, gripping it as if he might be flung into the abyss at any moment. Ollo wiped a tear from his eye. “I’m going to miss him when the forest eats him.” Gorrim sighed. “Alright, enough. Let’s get him to the ruins before he has a heart attack.” Percival, still visibly shaken, scrambled to his feet and hurried to the other side of the bridge, panting heavily. “H-ha! I conquered the Bridge of Certain Peril! That wasn’t so bad!” Baelin slapped him on the back. “Atta boy! Now just one last thing before we reach the temple.” Percival hesitated. “I swear, if it’s another test—” “Oh, no test,” Ollo assured him. “We just need to wake up the guardian.” “The… guardian?” “Yeah,” Baelin said, waving a hand dismissively. “The spirit-beast of Eldertree. Giant, angry, breathes fire, maybe eats souls? Honestly, it’s been a while.” Percival went rigid. “You weren’t… joking about that?” Gorrim smirked. “Oh no. That part’s real.” The trees ahead trembled. A deep, guttural growl echoed through the forest. Baelin grinned. “Welp. You first, brave adventurer.” Percival turned slowly toward them, his expression caught somewhere between utter horror and regret. “Oh,” Ollo whispered. “He’s definitely gonna cry.” To be continued… maybe.     Bring the Magic Home! Love the world of the Warden Gnomes? Now you can bring a piece of their mischievous, mystical adventure into your own space! Whether you want to decorate your walls, challenge yourself with a puzzle, or send a whimsical greeting, we’ve got you covered. ✨ Tapestry – Transform your space with enchanting artwork that captures the magic of the Mystic Grove. 🖼️ Canvas Print – A high-quality piece to add an air of fantasy to any room. 🧩 Puzzle – Test your wits and patience just like our dear Percival. 💌 Greeting Card – Send a message with a touch of fantasy and mischief. Click the links above to grab your favorite magical keepsake and support the artistic adventures of the Warden Gnomes!

par Bill Tiepelman

Heartlight of the Enchanted Grove

Deep within the Whisperwood Forest, where the air shimmered with laughter and even the mushrooms had opinions, there existed a peculiar tradition among the fae and gnomes. It was called the Heartlight Offering—a mischievous, flirtatious game of magic and wit, where one had to steal, trick, or otherwise acquire the glowing heart of another. It was not theft, per se, but an invitation… a challenge… a game of delightful chaos. On the eve of the Moonlit Revel, a particularly devious fae named Sylwen danced her way into the domain of Bramblebeard, the gnome king. Sylwen, with her golden curls and wicked grin, had long decided that she would claim his heartlight this year—not just for the fun of it, but because, much to her irritation, she had grown inexplicably fond of the grumpy old gnome. A Game of Stolen Hearts Bramblebeard was no fool. He had spent centuries dodging trickster fae, and he was determined that this year, his heartlight would remain safely tucked away. His enchanted beard—an entity of its own, really—twitched in suspicion as Sylwen approached, her blue gown trailing behind her, floral crown glowing softly. “Sylwen,” he rumbled, his voice as rich as the earth. “I see you creeping. You can’t fool these old eyes.” “Creeping? Me? Oh, Bramble, you wound me.” Sylwen twirled dramatically, knocking over a very offended toadstool. The gnome squinted. “You’re here for my heartlight, aren’t you?” She gasped, clutching her chest in mock horror. “How dare you accuse me of such treachery! I only came to… to admire your beard.” His beard, traitorous as ever, preened at the compliment. “Flattery won’t work, lass.” Sylwen pouted. “Then what will?” Bramblebeard huffed, crossing his arms. “Not a thing! My heartlight is mine. You’ll not trick me into handing it over.” “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of tricking you.” Sylwen grinned and, in a blur of motion, flicked her fingers. A puff of shimmering dust engulfed Bramblebeard’s face. For a moment, the old gnome simply stood there. Then, quite abruptly, he sneezed so hard that his hat nearly flew off. Unfortunately for him, that moment of distraction was all Sylwen needed. When the glittering dust cleared, she was already holding his heartlight—a golden, glowing orb pulsing warmly in her hands. Of Stubborn Gnomes and Sly Fae “Ha!” Sylwen spun on her heels, cradling the heartlight. “I win! I own your heart now, Bramblebeard!” “Blasted fae trickery!” He stomped a foot, causing a nearby mushroom to mutter something rude. “Oh, hush.” Sylwen held up the orb, watching it flicker like a captured star. “Mmm, feels warm. And… oh dear, is that affection I sense?” She gasped, eyes twinkling. “Do you fancy me, Bramble?” The gnome turned a shade of red that rivaled his hat. “That’s none of your business!” “It is now, considering I’m literally holding your heart.” She smirked. “And it’s positively glowing for me.” Bramblebeard groaned. “You fae and your dramatics.” “Oh, come now, Bramble.” Sylwen stepped closer, placing the glowing heartlight against his chest. “Would it really be so terrible… to let someone hold your heart for a while?” Magic, Mischief, and Something More Silence stretched between them, the playful energy between fae and gnome shifting into something softer. The lanterns above flickered, the fireflies paused their flight, and even the cheeky mushrooms stopped gossiping. Bramblebeard sighed. “You’re an absolute menace.” Sylwen beamed. “That’s not a no.” The gnome grumbled, but there was no real bite to it. “Fine. But only because you cheated so spectacularly.” “Spectacular cheating is still winning.” She handed his heartlight back—but not before giving it a mischievous squeeze. “And don’t think I didn’t see you let me win.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His beard twitched suspiciously. As the Moonlit Revel began, the two wandered into the heart of the festivities, their banter never ceasing. But every so often, when he thought she wasn’t looking, Bramblebeard’s heartlight flickered a little brighter in her presence. And Sylwen? Well, she was already planning how she’d steal it again next year.     Take a Piece of Magic Home The enchantment of the Heartlight Offering doesn’t have to stay within the pages of a tale. Bring the whimsy and warmth of Heartlight of the Enchanted Grove into your own world with stunning prints, tapestries, and more! ✨ Wrap yourself in magic with a soft and enchanting tapestry. 🖼️ Adorn your walls with the glow of fae and gnome love with a beautiful canvas print. 🧩 Get lost in the magic, piece by piece, with a whimsical puzzle. 💌 Send a little stardust to someone special with a charming greeting card. Whether for yourself or as a gift for a fellow dreamer, these treasures bring the magic of the Whisperwood Forest into your home. Let the heartlight glow on!

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

Emerald Majesty and the Cheerful Rider

“How many damn carrots does one dragon need?” shouted Grizzle Thimbletwig, his scrunched-up nose nearly glowing red beneath his ridiculous floppy hat. The gnome tugged at the dragon’s reins—not that they worked, because Scorchbutt wasn’t the kind of dragon that obeyed reins or any sort of authority. The massive emerald-scaled beast merely snorted, blowing a gust of hot breath that nearly singed Grizzle’s beloved beard. “Oi, watch it! This beard is older than your great-great-grandmother’s scales!” Scorchbutt responded by farting. Loudly. The flatulent blast rattled the nearby trees, sent a flock of birds scattering, and left Grizzle choking on sulfurous air. “That’s it, you flying gasbag! One more toot like that and I’m cooking gnome stew—with dragon wings as garnish!” he hollered, though they both knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Grizzle was perched precariously on the dragon’s back, as Scorchbutt's wings stretched wide and prepared for another jaunt into the skies above. Grizzle grumbled and braced himself. The last ride had nearly unseated him—damn near got him tangled in his own underpants when Scorchbutt decided to show off with a barrel roll mid-air. A Gnome with Big Dreams It all started when Grizzle decided he’d had enough of gnome society. Too many rules. Too much bureaucracy. And far too many mandatory potlucks. “Bring a casserole,” they’d say. “Don’t spike the cider,” they’d demand. Bah! Where was the fun in that? So one fine morning—fine, if you ignored the dragon dung steaming in the fields—Grizzle packed up his meager belongings, grabbed his trusty pipe, and went out to find some adventure. And what did he find? Scorchbutt. Or rather, Scorchbutt found him, roasting an entire sheep in the middle of the forest. Grizzle, to his credit, didn’t run. He just threw a turnip at the dragon’s head and said, “You missed a spot, ya lazy lizard.” To Grizzle’s utter shock, the dragon didn’t eat him. Instead, Scorchbutt let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, though it was accompanied by smoke and a small flame. Somehow, the two had clicked. Grizzle had finally found someone—or something—that appreciated his irreverent sense of humor and complete lack of respect for authority. The Mischievous Duo Now, the gnome and the dragon were infamous. Farmers complained about missing cows. Tavern keepers swore they’d seen a tiny man and a dragon drinking ale out of barrels. And let’s not forget the incident at the Duchess’s garden party, where Scorchbutt had sneezed mid-air, torching three rose bushes and a very elaborate hat. Grizzle had laughed so hard he’d fallen off the dragon and landed in the punch bowl. “We’ve got a reputation to uphold, ol’ Scorchy,” Grizzle said, patting the dragon’s scaly neck as they soared over rolling green hills. Below them, a group of shepherds pointed and screamed something unintelligible about missing sheep. “Relax, it’s just a little creative redistribution of livestock. They’ll thank us when they have fewer mouths to feed!” Scorchbutt let out another of his rumbling chuckles, then dived low, snagging a sack of potatoes from an unsuspecting farmer. “We’ll make potato stew tonight, eh?” Grizzle said, holding on tight as the dragon spiraled upwards again. “And by stew, I mean vodka. Gotta keep warm somehow!” Chaos at the King’s Banquet Their latest adventure had led them to a new target: the royal palace. Grizzle had heard rumors of a grand banquet being held for the King’s birthday, complete with golden goblets, roasted pheasants, and desserts so decadent they’d make a unicorn blush. Naturally, he couldn’t resist. “Now listen here, Scorchy,” Grizzle said as they landed just outside the palace gates. “We’re not here to burn the place down. Just... mildly inconvenience them.” Scorchbutt tilted his head, one glowing emerald eye fixed on the gnome. Grizzle rolled his eyes. “Fine. You can roast a little bit. But don’t overdo it, alright?” The banquet was in full swing when the dragon burst through the stained glass windows, sending shards raining down on horrified nobles. Grizzle leapt off Scorchbutt’s back and landed on the King’s table, scattering plates and sending a roasted pig tumbling to the floor. “Good evening, esteemed jerks and fancy pants!” he announced, grabbing a goblet of wine. “I’ll be your entertainment tonight. And by entertainment, I mean thief. Now hand over the cake and no one gets torched!” The nobles shrieked as Scorchbutt let out a mighty roar, blowing out half the candles in the room. The King stood up, red-faced and trembling. “How dare you!” he bellowed. “Seize that gnome!” “Oh no, they’re seizing me!” Grizzle said in mock terror, taking a huge bite out of the nearest drumstick. “Whatever will I—Scorchy, NOW!” The dragon unleashed a fiery sneeze, sending guards diving for cover as Grizzle grabbed the cake—an enormous tower of chocolate and cream—and clambered back onto Scorchbutt’s back. “Thanks for the hospitality! We’ll be back next year!” he shouted as they blasted through the ceiling, leaving a charred hole and a very angry King behind. Home Sweet Chaos Back at their makeshift lair—a cozy cave littered with stolen goods and half-burned treasure—Grizzle kicked back with a slice of cake and a mug of potato vodka. Scorchbutt curled up nearby, his massive body radiating warmth. “Another successful mission,” Grizzle said, raising his mug in a toast. “To chaos, cake, and Scorchy’s gassy arse.” Scorchbutt let out a low rumble that could have been a purr—or another fart. Grizzle waved a hand in front of his nose. “Bloody hell, Scorchy. I’ve been meaning to say this: you really need to lay off the sheep.” And with that, the gnome and the dragon settled in for another night of mischief, ready to dream up whatever shenanigans tomorrow might bring. The End… or is it?     Bring the Adventure Home Love the mischief and magic of Emerald Majesty and the Cheerful Rider? Now you can own a piece of this whimsical world! Explore our exclusive collection of products featuring this vibrant artwork, perfect for fans of fantasy and quirky storytelling. Tapestries: Transform your space with the bold and colorful adventure of Grizzle and Scorchbutt. Canvas Prints: Bring this tale to life on your walls with museum-quality prints. Puzzles: Piece together the magic with a fun and challenging puzzle featuring the Emerald Majesty. Greeting Cards: Share the adventure with friends and family through beautifully crafted cards. Shop now and bring a touch of whimsy to your life!

par Bill Tiepelman

Heartfelt Whimsy in Bloom

Under the glow of a heart-shaped luminescence deep within the Enchanted Briarwoods, a pair of gnomes sat together on a mossy log, their hands almost—but not quite—touching. Bimble, a rosy-cheeked gnome with a beard as wild as the tangled roots beneath their feet, nervously tugged at his embroidered vest. Beside him, Thistle, radiant in her petal-laden hat, giggled softly, her floral perfume mingling with the earthy scent of the garden. She knew mischief when she saw it, and Bimble was practically oozing with it tonight. "You’re plotting something, aren’t you?" Thistle asked, her voice like the tinkling of wind chimes. "Don’t even try to deny it, Bimble Butterbur." Bimble’s face turned an even deeper shade of pink. "Plotting? Me? What an accusation!" he exclaimed, clutching his chest as though wounded. "Can a gnome not simply bask in the beauty of his lady fair without his honor being questioned?" Thistle rolled her eyes but smiled. "The last time you said that, I ended up on a goose chasing me through the meadow because you ‘accidentally’ swapped my hat for a breadcrumb crown." "An honest mix-up!" Bimble protested, though the corners of his mouth twitched with suppressed laughter. "Anyway, this time I’ve planned something much grander." He gestured grandly toward the glowing flowers that surrounded them. "Behold! The Grand Gnome-aissance of Romance!" Thistle arched an eyebrow, intrigued despite herself. "Go on." A Mischievous Courtship Bimble hopped off the log, his boots squishing softly against the moss as he fumbled in his satchel. From it, he withdrew a tiny golden vial. With a flourish, he sprinkled its shimmering contents into the air. The glow of the heart-shaped light intensified, casting the clearing in a soft golden hue, and the flowers began to sway as though caught in a gentle breeze. "I may have… borrowed some fairy dust," Bimble admitted sheepishly, "to create a night you’d never forget." Thistle gasped. "Bimble! Borrowed? Or stolen?" "Does it matter?" he said, waving a hand dismissively. "I’ve only used a smidgen. Besides, I thought you liked it when I was a bit… roguish." "I like it when you don’t get us cursed by the Fair Folk," she replied, though her smile betrayed her amusement. As if summoned by her words, a tiny, high-pitched voice rang out from the shadows. "Bimble Butterbur, you scoundrel!" A flickering figure emerged, a diminutive fairy clad in a gown made of cobwebs and dew. Her iridescent wings fluttered angrily. "You think you can just pilfer our dust and go about your merry way?" The Bargain Bimble froze, his eyes darting to Thistle, who was now openly laughing. "See? I told you," she said between giggles. "You always take things a step too far." "Lady Fizzlewisp," Bimble began, bowing so low his hat nearly touched the ground, "it was merely a harmless—" "Harmless?" Fizzlewisp shrieked. "Do you know how much fairy dust costs on the black market? If I had a silver mushroom for every time a gnome stole from me, I’d own the whole forest!" Bimble opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted by Thistle, who stepped forward gracefully. "Lady Fizzlewisp," she said, curtsying with an elegance that even the fairy couldn’t ignore, "my dear companion was only trying to woo me. It’s a bit clumsy, I admit, but his intentions were pure." Fizzlewisp eyed Thistle suspiciously. "And you’re okay with this bumbling buffoon as your suitor?" "He grows on you," Thistle replied with a wink. The fairy sighed dramatically. "Fine. I’ll let this one slide, but only if he promises to pay me back." "Of course!" Bimble said eagerly. "Anything! Just name your price." Fizzlewisp’s eyes glinted mischievously. "You’ll cater the Fairy Ball next week." "Cater?!" Bimble squeaked. "But I can’t even bake a mud pie without setting it on fire!" "That’s your problem," Fizzlewisp replied with a grin. "See you in seven days!" With a puff of glitter, she vanished. The Dance of Delight Once the fairy was gone, Thistle burst into laughter. "You’ve really done it now, Bimble." Bimble groaned, sinking back onto the log. "I was just trying to impress you." "And you did," she said, sitting beside him. She reached over and took his hand, her touch warm and reassuring. "But you’re going to need my help if we’re going to pull this off." "You mean you’ll help me bake for the ball?" he asked, hope lighting up his face. "Bake? Oh no, you’ll be baking," she said with a smirk. "I’ll supervise." For the rest of the evening, the two gnomes planned their culinary adventure, surrounded by glowing flowers and the soft hum of the forest. Mischief might have gotten Bimble into trouble, but it was love—and a little fairy dust—that made it all worthwhile. And as the heart-shaped glow dimmed, the Enchanted Briarwoods echoed with laughter and the promise of a chaotic, yet unforgettable, adventure.     Bring the Enchantment Home Fall in love with the whimsical charm of "Heartfelt Whimsy in Bloom". Celebrate the mischievous romance of Bimble and Thistle with stunning products that bring this enchanting world into your home: Tapestries: Transform any space with the magical glow of this storybook scene. Canvas Prints: A timeless way to showcase the romance and whimsy of the Enchanted Briarwoods. Throw Pillows: Add a touch of cozy charm to your home with these beautifully designed accents. Duvet Covers: Drift off to a magical dreamland with the perfect bedding for any fantasy lover. Discover these products and more in our shop to keep the magic of "Heartfelt Whimsy in Bloom" alive in your everyday life.

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.

par Bill Tiepelman

Les festivités du Nouvel An d'un gnome

Le gnome qui n'en avait rien à foutre du Nouvel An C'était un réveillon du Nouvel An enneigé au milieu de nulle part, exactement comme le gnome l'aimait. Son nom ? Peu importe. Appelons-le simplement « ce gnome ». Il n'était pas le genre de gnome mignon qu'on met dans un jardin. Non, celui-ci était un peu brut de décoffrage, avec un long chapeau bouclé qui criait : « Je suis festif, mais ne me touchez pas non plus. » Ce gnome était perché sur une souche en bois, entouré de bric-à-brac scintillants qui feraient vomir Martha Stewart. Un sapin de Noël, décoré de tant d'or qu'on aurait cru qu'une Kardashian l'avait touché, se dressait derrière lui. À ses pieds, des bouteilles de champagne étaient éparpillées comme des victimes du champ de bataille, leurs bouchons depuis longtemps sautés, leur contenu pétillant à moitié vidé. « Et c'est reparti », murmura-t-il en regardant les feux d'artifice qui illuminaient le ciel enneigé de la forêt. « Une autre année, une autre pile de résolutions que personne ne tiendra. Santé aux mensonges et aux abonnements à la salle de sport ! » Il attrapa son verre de champagne, mais pas avant de renverser un cadeau parfaitement emballé. « Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça ? Des chaussettes ? Encore des putains de chaussettes ? Je vis dans les bois ! Quelle partie du mot « pratique » vous ne comprenez pas ? » Il soupira dramatiquement et but une gorgée. Les bulles brûlèrent juste comme il faut. Il le regretterait certainement demain, mais c'était le problème de demain. La fête à laquelle personne n'a été invité Malgré son air grincheux, ce gnome avait créé une ambiance particulière. Les bougies vacillaient, projetant une lueur chaleureuse sur la clairière de la forêt. Des ornements dorés pendaient des arbres voisins, scintillant à la lumière du feu. Une horloge, dont le tic-tac menaçant jusqu'à minuit, était posée sur une table de fortune. Il l'avait volée à un randonneur de passage des mois auparavant. Il appelait ça du recyclage. « Plus que dix minutes avant minuit », grommela-t-il en regardant l’horloge. « Juste assez de temps pour regretter tout ce que j’ai mangé cette semaine et me rappeler que le chou frisé est toujours de la merde. » Il s'adossa contre la souche, regardant le monde célébrer à travers ses petits yeux pleins de jugement. Quelque part, les gens chantaient « Auld Lang Syne », se tenaient la main et faisaient comme s'ils n'allaient pas faire taire la moitié des personnes présentes dans cette salle d'ici février. Folie de minuit Le compte à rebours commença et ce gnome gémit de façon audible. « Dix… neuf… bla, bla, bla, » se moqua-t-il alors que les feux d’artifice commençaient à monter en flèche au-dessus de nos têtes. « Trois… deux… un… oh, regardez ! C’est une autre année où je dois faire semblant de m’en soucier ! » L'horloge sonna minuit et la forêt explosa de lumière et de bruit. Les feux d'artifice crépitèrent, l'arbre scintilla et ce gnome leva son verre. « Santé à toi, 2025. Voyons si tu peux être un peu moins nul que l'année dernière. Mais, sachant comment fonctionne ce monde, je ne retiens pas mon souffle. » Il vida son verre d'un trait et jeta la flûte dans la neige. « Ça y est ! La fête est finie. Rentrez chez vous, bande de perdants ! » cria-t-il sans que personne ne s'en aperçoive. Il était, après tout, complètement seul. Résolution ? Ne retenez pas votre souffle Au moment où les feux d’artifice s’éteignirent et que les bouteilles de champagne furent vides, ce gnome s’était évanoui dans la neige, ronflant bruyamment. Son chapeau bouclé retombait de façon comique sur son visage et sa barbe était couverte de paillettes à cause d’un accident de champagne. Quelque part dans son cerveau imbibé d’alcool, il marmonna : « L’année prochaine, je ferai plus d’efforts. Je plaisante, je m’en fous. » Et il était là, le petit gnome le plus festif et le plus grincheux de la forêt, rêvant d'un monde où les gens renonceraient à toute cette mascarade du « Nouvel An, nouveau moi ». En ce qui le concernait, les résolutions du Nouvel An étaient pour les imbéciles, et le champagne était la seule chose qui valait la peine d'être célébrée. Alors, voici ce Gnome : le héros que nous n'avons pas demandé, mais celui que nous sommes tous en secret. Que votre nouvelle année soit pleine de sarcasme, d'impertinence et de juste assez de champagne pour la rendre supportable. Achetez le look Vous aimez l'ambiance festive de ce petit gnome grincheux ? Apportez un peu de cette touche festive dans votre maison ou votre garde-robe avec ces produits étonnants : Achetez cette scène comme une tapisserie – Parfait pour couvrir ce mur ennuyeux que vous aviez l’intention de réparer. Impression sur toile – Parce que votre salon mérite la touche de sarcasme d’un gnome. Coussin décoratif – Un endroit doux pour se reposer pendant que vous réfléchissez à votre prochaine fausse résolution. Sac fourre-tout – Pour transporter votre champagne et vos collations à la prochaine fête à laquelle vous regretterez d'avoir assisté. Commencez l'année avec du rire et du style ! Cliquez sur les liens ci-dessus pour acheter maintenant.

par Bill Tiepelman

Lumière de la lanterne et délice du houx

Le lendemain de Noël : Les Chroniques des Gnomes Le lendemain de Noël, le temps était froid et amer. La neige s'accrochait encore aux branches de pin à l'extérieur de la cabane du gnome, mais à l'intérieur, il y avait une odeur de regret, de lait de poule alcoolisé et une légère odeur de pain d'épices brûlé. Notre héros, le gnome des fêtes - connu dans certains cercles sous le nom de Gary - était assis à sa table en bois, soignant une gueule de bois aussi longue que la liste des vilains du Père Noël. Gary plissa les yeux en voyant le désordre qui l'entourait. Les décorations brisées scintillaient comme des confettis honteux, et les aiguilles de pin sur le sol avaient moins l'air festives et ressemblaient davantage à une scène de crime. Sa lanterne vacillait sur la table, conservant à peine sa dignité. « Pourquoi diable ai-je pris des shots avec ces maudits elfes ? » grommela Gary en se frottant les tempes. « Ces petits salopards sont comme des frères de fraternité avec des oreilles pointues. » La nuit d'avant Tout avait commencé de façon assez innocente. La veille de Noël avait été parfaite : la neige tombait, les chanteurs de Noël chantaient et Gary avait réussi à éviter le repas de Noël avec des rennes (il avait un vague soupçon sur ce que signifiait vraiment « surprise de chevreuil »). Mais le soir de Noël, les elfes se présentèrent à sa cabane avec « un peu de joie », qui se révéla être un tonneau, un jeu de cartes douteux et suffisamment de lait de poule pour endormir un élan. Gary avait prévu de rester dans la classe, en sirotant son lait de coco et en grignotant des biscuits. Mais Elroy, le chef des elfes, sortit le schnaps à la menthe poivrée. « Un seul verre ne te tuera pas, G-Man ! » avait-il gazouillé, souriant comme le diable dans un pull de Noël. Ce fut le début de la fin. Trois heures plus tard, Gary portait son bonnet rouge comme une toge et chantait des versions inappropriées de chants de Noël. « Décorez les couloirs avec des branches de houx – fa-la-la-la-*rot* ! La-la-la-rien à foutre ! » Il se souvenait à peine de la conga des elfes, mais il se rappelait distinctement avoir perdu un pari qui consistait à danser sur du gui. Des regrets (et un renne en colère) Maintenant, dans la lumière crue du jour suivant, Gary faisait face aux conséquences. Sa salopette était tachée de glaçage suite à une bataille de cupcakes malavisée, et ses bottes avaient complètement disparu. Il soupçonnait les elfes de les avoir volées pour faire une blague. Pour couronner le tout, il y avait un tas de crottes de rennes devant sa porte d'entrée, ce qui suggérait qu'il avait mis en colère un membre de la flotte du Père Noël. Encore une fois. Il gémit en voyant son téléphone clignoter sur la table. Un message d'Elroy disait : « Fête légendaire, mec ! Et je pense que tu dois des excuses à Prancer. » Gary fronça les sourcils. Qu’avait-il bien pu faire à Prancer ? Le souvenir était flou, mais des flashs de lui essayant de monter un renne comme un cow-boy ivre me revinrent à l’esprit. « Bon sang, marmonna-t-il. Cela explique la marque de sabot sur mon cul. » Le nettoyage Il passa le reste de la matinée à nettoyer le carnage. Les planches de bois recouvertes de neige à l'extérieur de sa cabane étaient jonchées de bouteilles à moitié vides et d'éclats de sucre d'orge. Il retrouva ses bottes perdues sous un buisson, inexplicablement attachées ensemble avec des guirlandes. Quant aux crottes de rennes, il les mit dans un sac étiqueté « Retour à l'envoyeur » et les laissa près de l'atelier des elfes. À midi, Gary avait rétabli un semblant d'ordre, même si sa dignité lui faisait encore défaut. Il se prépara une bonne tasse de café (piquant, bien sûr) et s'assit pour réfléchir à ses choix. La vie de gnome n'était pas facile : vivre dans les bois, gérer les touristes qui prenaient des selfies et maintenant, apparemment, repousser les groupes d'elfes sauvages. Mais tandis que Gary était assis là, regardant la neige tomber doucement dehors, il ressentit un sentiment de fierté à contrecœur. Bien sûr, il avait pris des décisions douteuses. Oui, il serait probablement sur la liste noire de Prancer pendant un certain temps. Mais n'était-ce pas le but des vacances ? La joie, le rire et une cuite occasionnelle au schnaps à la menthe poivrée ? La résolution Gary leva sa tasse pour porter un toast à lui-même. « À une nouvelle année de chaos festif », déclara-t-il, ignorant le fait qu'il portait toujours une canne à sucre coincée dans sa barbe. « L'année prochaine, je doublerai la quantité de rhum. » Alors que le gnome s'installait pour une sieste bien méritée, un léger coup retentit à la porte. Il ouvrit et découvrit un renne, l'air peu amusé, tenant une note dans sa bouche. Il y était écrit : « Prancer n'est pas amusé. Attendez-vous à du charbon. » Gary soupira, attrapa une bouteille de schnaps et murmura : « Eh bien, le charbon fait de bons barbecues. » Et sur ce, il ferma la porte à Noël et jura de survivre à la nouvelle année. Achetez le look Apportez le charme festif de « Lantern Light and Holly Delight » dans votre maison avec ces produits phares : Tapisserie Impression sur toile Coussin décoratif Sac fourre-tout Décorez vos halls avec ces délices festifs et gardez l’esprit des fêtes vivant toute l’année !

par Bill Tiepelman

Chevaucher le colibri arc-en-ciel

Au cœur de la Forêt Enchantée, là où la lumière du soleil filtrait à travers la canopée dense comme du sirop doré et où l'air était chargé du bourdonnement d'une magie invisible, un certain gnome nommé Grimble Fizzwhistle manigançait des choses mauvaises. Encore une fois. « Tiens-toi tranquille, espèce de poulet étincelant ! » hurla Grimble en agrippant les rênes de son destrier très douteux, un colibri géant et irisé nommé Zuzu. Zuzu, pour sa part, n’était pas ravie d’avoir un jockey de la taille d’un gnome essayant de diriger ses manœuvres aériennes. Elle bourdonnait furieusement, ses ailes n’étaient plus qu’un flou scintillant, menaçant d’éjecter Grimble de son dos de plumes. « Je te jure, Zuzu, » marmonna Grimble dans sa barbe, « si tu me jettes encore dans un champ de ces orties urticantes, je vais… eh bien, je vais… probablement pleurer à nouveau. » Malgré ses grognements, Grimble s'accrocha fermement, ses petites mains agrippant les rênes tressées en soie d'araignée avec une ténacité surprenante. Le plan (ou son absence) Grimble avait une mission à accomplir. Du moins, c'est ce qu'il se répétait sans cesse. En vérité, il n'avait aucune idée de l'endroit où il allait ni de la raison de sa venue. Tout ce qu'il savait, c'est qu'il avait fait un pari légèrement ivre avec son vieil ennemi, Tibbles Nockbottom, à la taverne des Toadstools rieurs la veille au soir. Tibbles lui avait parié un mois d'hydromel que Grimble ne parviendrait pas à trouver le mythique Nectar d'or, un élixir légendaire censé conférer au buveur une jeunesse éternelle et une voix de chant impeccable. Grimble avait, naturellement, accepté le défi sans hésitation. Principalement parce qu'il avait déjà bu trois pintes et qu'il pensait que la jeunesse éternelle était un excellent moyen d'éviter de payer ses impôts impayés. Alors qu'il planait au-dessus de la forêt, agrippant les rênes de Zuzu et essayant de ne pas regarder la chute vertigineuse en contrebas, il commençait à remettre en question ses choix de vie. « Très bien, Zuzu », dit-il en lui tapotant le cou d'une main tremblante. « Trouvons rapidement ce nectar doré, et nous pourrons tous les deux rentrer à la maison et faire comme si rien de tout cela ne s'était jamais produit. D'accord ? » Zuzu pépia en réponse, ce que Grimble choisit d'interpréter comme un accord à contrecœur. En réalité, Zuzu planifiait le chemin le plus rapide vers le champ d'orchidées sauvages le plus proche, où elle pourrait se débarrasser de Grimble et grignoter du nectar en toute tranquillité. Entrez les bandits à plumes Alors que Grimble commençait à se sentir un peu plus en sécurité sur sa selle, un croassement strident perturba la tranquillité de la forêt. Il leva les yeux et vit une bande de pies fondre sur eux, leurs yeux perçants brillants de malice. Le chef, un spécimen particulièrement grand et débraillé avec une plume de queue manquante, poussa un cri strident. « Hé ! Quel bel oiseau tu as là, gnome ! Donne-la-moi et nous te laisserons peut-être garder ton chapeau ! » « Sur mon cadavre ! » hurla Grimble en agitant un petit poing. « Ce chapeau m'a coûté une semaine de culture de navets ! » Les pies n'avaient pas l'air impressionnées. Elles se jetèrent en masse sur lui, leurs ailes battant comme un millier de morceaux de parchemin en colère. Zuzu, sentant le danger, émit un cri indigné et vira brusquement à gauche, évitant de justesse les oiseaux qui plongeaient en piqué. Grimble s'accrocha pour sauver sa vie, son chapeau s'envolant dans le processus. « Pas le chapeau ! » hurla-t-il en le regardant s’envoler vers la forêt en contrebas. « C’était mon chapeau porte-bonheur ! » « On dirait que tu n'as pas de chance, mon petit ! » gloussa le chef des pies en saisissant le chapeau en plein vol. « Maintenant, dégage, ou on va te dégarnir ! » Zuzu, visiblement offensée par le manque de décorum des pies, décida de prendre les choses en main. D'un coup de vitesse, elle s'élança droit dans le ciel, laissant les pies patauger dans son sillage. Grimble poussa un cri de joie, puis avala rapidement un insecte. « Maudite forêt, toussa-t-il. Pourquoi tout ici est-il là pour m'avoir ? » Le nectar d'or (en quelque sorte) Après ce qui leur sembla être des heures de vol effréné et plusieurs expériences de mort imminente, Zuzu les arrêta finalement dans une clairière isolée. Au centre de la clairière se dressait un seul arbre ancien aux feuilles dorées chatoyantes. À sa base se trouvait une mare de liquide semblable à du miel qui scintillait au soleil. « Le nectar doré ! » s'exclama Grimble en se laissant glisser du dos de Zuzu et en courant vers la piscine. Il tomba à genoux et ramassa une poignée de liquide, ses yeux brillants de triomphe. « Tibbles va manger son stupide chapeau quand il verra ça ! » Il porta le nectar à ses lèvres, mais avant qu’il ait pu en prendre une gorgée, une voix grave et grondante résonna dans la clairière. « Qui ose perturber mon bassin sacré ? » Grimble se figea. Lentement, il se retourna pour voir un énorme crapaud à l'air grincheux assis sur un rocher à proximité. Les yeux du crapaud brillaient d'une lumière surnaturelle et sa peau verruqueuse scintillait de taches dorées. « Euh… bonjour », dit Grimble, cachant la poignée de nectar derrière son dos. « Nous avons un temps magnifique, n'est-ce pas ? » « Pars, » entonna le crapaud, « ou affronte ma colère. » « D'accord, d'accord, bien sûr », dit Grimble en reculant. « Pas besoin de me mettre en colère. Je vais juste, euh, m'en aller… » Avant que le crapaud ne puisse répondre, Zuzu fondit sur lui, attrapa Grimble par le dos de sa tunique et le souleva dans les airs. « Hé ! » protesta Grimble. « Je n'avais pas encore fini de ramper ! » Les conséquences Quand ils revinrent à la taverne du Champignon Gloussant, Grimble était épuisé, sans chapeau et complètement sans nectar. Tibbles lui jeta un coup d'œil et éclata de rire. « Eh bien, eh bien, eh bien », dit-il en faisant tinter sa chope d'hydromel contre celle vide de Grimble. « On dirait que quelqu'un me doit un mois de boissons ! » Grimble gémit. « La prochaine fois, marmonna-t-il, je parie sur quelque chose de sensé. Comme une course d'escargots. » Mais en jetant un coup d'œil à Zuzu, perché sur le bar et sirotant joyeusement un verre de nectar, il ne put s'empêcher de sourire. Après tout, ce n'était pas tous les jours qu'on pouvait monter sur un colibri arc-en-ciel. Ramenez la magie à la maison Si l'aventure espiègle de Grimble et les ailes éblouissantes de Zuzu ont apporté un peu de merveille à votre journée, pourquoi ne pas en faire un élément permanent de votre espace ? Découvrez notre collection d'impressions de haute qualité mettant en vedette ce moment magique : Impressions sur toile : Parfaites pour apporter chaleur et fantaisie à vos murs. Impressions métalliques : pour un affichage élégant et moderne de couleurs vives et de détails. Impressions acryliques : une finition brillante pour faire vraiment ressortir l'iridescence de Zuzu. Tapisseries : Ajoutez une touche chaleureuse et magique à n'importe quelle pièce. Commencez votre collection dès aujourd'hui et laissez l'histoire de Grimble et Zuzu inspirer vos propres aventures !

par Bill Tiepelman

Le porteur d'étoile de la joie des fêtes

La légende du porteur d'étoiles Au cœur du solstice d'hiver, alors que les nuits étaient longues et que le monde semblait enveloppé d'un manteau de neige sans fin, vivait un gnome particulier connu sous le nom de Jorvick Starbearer. Jorvick n'était pas un gnome ordinaire qui s'occupait des jardins ou qui cueillait des champignons ; il était le gardien de la joie, le gardien du rire et le dispensateur de lumière même dans les recoins les plus sombres du pays. Mais son histoire n'est pas que joie étincelante. Elle commence, comme la plupart des bonnes histoires, par une terrible erreur. Un gnome au destin improbable Jorvick n’avait pas toujours été destiné à la grandeur. En fait, pendant une grande partie de sa vie, il fut ce que ses pairs appelaient un « gnome décorateur ». Tandis que d’autres s’occupaient à fabriquer des outils ou à garder des animaux de la forêt, Jorvick passait son temps à broder de manière obsessionnelle ses robes et à polir son énorme bâton surmonté d’une étoile. « Le village n’a pas besoin de chapeaux fantaisie, Jorvick ! » aboya un jour son aîné. « Nous avons besoin de bois de chauffage ! » Mais Jorvick avait toujours cru qu’une touche de beauté pouvait réchauffer l’âme plus que le feu. Mais un hiver fatidique, les choses prirent une autre tournure. Alors que le village se préparait pour son festival annuel des lumières, une tradition destinée à éloigner les esprits redoutés de la nuit, Jorvick fit accidentellement tomber la torche cérémonielle dans la rivière. La flamme s'éteignit, et avec elle, l'espoir du village s'éteignit. Sans lumière, les villageois croyaient que les esprits descendraient, apportant la misère et un hiver sans fin. « C’est ça », marmonna Jorvick, en voyant les villageois le regarder avec horreur. « Ils vont me faire garder des écureuils pour l’éternité. » Mais au lieu de le bannir, le doyen du village lui tendit une petite lanterne éteinte. « Si tu penses que la beauté peut nous sauver », dit le doyen avec un sourire narquois, « alors tu trouveras la lumière qui ravivera notre espoir. » La quête de la lumière Avec pour seul bagage son manteau aux broderies raffinées, son chapeau adoré et le bâton d'or qu'il avait taillé dans un vieil arbre, Jorvick s'enfonça dans la nuit. Il n'avait pas de plan, mais il savait une chose : s'il ne trouvait pas la lumière, le village et sa réputation seraient condamnés. Tandis qu'il errait dans la forêt, la neige tombant de plus en plus épaisse, Jorvick commença à entendre des murmures. Et ce n'étaient pas des murmures amicaux. C'étaient les lutins des ténèbres, des fauteurs de troubles qui se nourrissaient du doute et du désespoir. « Tu ne le trouveras jamais, petit gnome ridicule ! » siffla l'un d'eux. « Ton manteau de fantaisie ne te sauvera pas maintenant ! » Jorvick, à son honneur, était bien trop têtu pour se laisser intimider par une voix qui ne prenait même pas la peine de se montrer. « Oh, tais-toi, dit-il en agitant son bâton comme pour chasser les mouches. J'ai une mission à accomplir et, franchement, tu me distrais. » Après des heures d’errance, il trébucha dans une clairière où se dressait un énorme pin. Ses branches scintillaient de givre et à son sommet se dressait une étoile unique et brillante. Elle ne ressemblait à rien de ce que Jorvick avait jamais vu – plus brillante que le feu, plus chaude que la lumière du soleil et vibrant d’une énergie qui semblait bourdonner de rires. « Ça fera l’affaire », murmura Jorvick en ajustant son chapeau. Une solution très gnomique L'étoile, cependant, n'avait aucune intention de se laisser prendre. Alors que Jorvick grimpait dans l'arbre, elle commença à le narguer. « Toi, un gnome, tu penses mériter ma lumière ? » se moqua-t-elle. « Tu n'as même pas pu garder une torche allumée ! » « Écoute-moi bien, toi, ornement lumineux, » grogna Jorvick en se laissant glisser sur une branche. « J'ai eu une longue nuit et, franchement, je ne partirai pas sans toi. Alors, on peut faire ça de manière simple, ou à la manière des gnomes. » « À la manière des gnomes ? » demanda l’étoile, intriguée. « À la manière des gnomes », dit Jorvick en souriant. « Cela implique de la broderie et de l’entêtement. » D'une certaine manière, son absurde confiance en soi amusait l'étoile. « D'accord, dit-elle, mais seulement si tu promets de partager ma lumière avec d'autres personnes que ton village. Le monde aurait besoin d'un peu de joie, tu ne crois pas ? » « Marché conclu », a déclaré Jorvick, enveloppant l’étoile dans son manteau comme un bijou précieux. La naissance d'une tradition Lorsque Jorvick revint au village, la lumière de l’étoile illumina toute la vallée, faisant fondre la neige et chassant les esprits des ténèbres. Les villageois applaudirent, mais Jorvick n’en avait pas fini. Il plaça l’étoile au sommet du plus grand pin, déclarant que sa lumière appartenait à tout le monde. « La beauté », dit-il, « est un feu qu’aucune rivière ne peut éteindre. » À partir de ce jour, Jorvick est devenu connu sous le nom de Starbearer, un gnome dont l'héritage n'était pas celui d'outils ou de bois de chauffage, mais de joie, de rire et de la croyance que même le plus petit d'entre nous peut apporter de la lumière dans les endroits les plus sombres. Et ainsi, chaque hiver, lorsque les nuits se font longues, les gens décorent leurs arbres d'étoiles, non pas pour éloigner les esprits mais pour se souvenir d'un petit gnome têtu qui a prouvé qu'une touche de beauté et une pincée d'humour pouvaient sauver le monde. La fin... ou le début ? Et si vous vous promenez un jour dans les bois par une nuit enneigée, ne soyez pas surpris d'entendre le léger tintement du chapeau d'un gnome ou d'apercevoir une étoile brillante. Après tout, Jorvick est toujours là, rappelant à tout le monde que même dans les hivers les plus froids, la joie n'est jamais hors de portée. Ramenez le porteur d'étoiles à la maison Inspiré du conte fantaisiste de Jorvick Starbearer, vous pouvez apporter la magie et la joie de ce gnome festif dans votre propre maison. Découvrez notre collection de produits exclusifs mettant en vedette « Le porteur d'étoiles de la joie des fêtes » pour ajouter une touche d'enchantement des fêtes à votre espace : Tapisserie – Parfait pour créer une toile de fond chaleureuse et festive dans votre maison. Impression sur toile – Une œuvre d’art intemporelle pour mettre en valeur la magie du Starbearer. Puzzle – Réunissez la famille avec cette délicieuse activité de vacances. Carte de vœux – Partagez la joie avec vos proches grâce à cette carte magnifiquement illustrée. Chaque produit est soigneusement conçu pour capturer l'esprit du conte de Jorvick, répandant la lumière, le rire et un peu de malice festive partout où ils vont. Découvrez la collection complète ici .

par Bill Tiepelman

Le gnome et le cerf couronné de la moisson

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

par Bill Tiepelman

Chevaucher l'Aile de Feu à travers l'automne

Au cœur de la forêt de Braise, où les feuilles brûlaient plus fort que le coucher du soleil et où l'air sentait la cannelle et la malice, vivait un gnome nommé Bramble Knickerbocker. Surnommé le « vaurien des séquoias », le passe-temps favori de Bramble était de trouver de nouvelles façons de pimenter la forêt déjà chaotique. Aujourd'hui, cependant, il ne travaillait pas seul. Il avait une arme secrète : un petit dragon de feuilles ardent nommé Flamewing. « Très bien, Flamey », dit Bramble en ajustant ses lunettes alors qu'il grimpait sur le dos du dragon. « Aujourd'hui, nous allons mettre cette forêt sens dessus dessous. Imagine : des écureuils qui grouillent, des glands qui volent et moi, le roi incontesté des farces d'automne ! » Flamewing renifla, une bouffée d'étincelles dorées s'échappant de ses narines. Il agita sa queue, dispersant une rafale de feuilles d'érable derrière lui. Bramble prit cela pour un oui. « Bon garçon », dit-il en tapotant les écailles brillantes du dragon, semblables à des feuilles. « Maintenant, mettons-nous au travail ! » Le Plan La première étape sur la liste de Bramble était le festival de la récolte des glands, un événement très apprécié où les créatures des bois rivalisaient pour voir qui pouvait récolter le plus de glands. C'était une affaire sérieuse, trop sérieuse au goût de Bramble. « On va égayer un peu les choses, d'accord ? » dit-il en dirigeant Flamewing vers la clairière où la compétition battait son plein. Les écureuils s'élançaient entre les arbres, se bourrant les joues de glands, tandis que les blaireaux et les renards traînaient des paniers débordant de noix. Bramble fouilla dans son sac et en sortit une poignée de glands enchantés qu'il avait « empruntés » à un sorcier particulièrement crédule. « Ces bébés feront pousser des champignons dansants lorsqu'ils toucheront le sol », expliqua-t-il à Flamewing. « Hilarant, non ? » Avant que le dragon ne puisse protester, Bramble lança les glands dans la clairière. Ils atterrirent avec un bruit sourd et, en quelques secondes, des champignons orange vif apparurent, se balançant et tournoyant au rythme d'une mélodie invisible. Les écureuils se figèrent en plein milieu de la mastication, les yeux écarquillés. Puis les champignons se mirent à chanter... très fort. « 🎵 Des glands, des glands, savoureux et ronds, plantez-nous ici et nous danserons sur le sol ! 🎵 » Le chaos s'est installé. Les écureuils ont crié et abandonné leurs trésors. Un blaireau a trébuché sur son panier, dispersant des glands partout, tandis qu'un renard a tenté de mordre un des champignons, mais a reculé d'horreur en chantant un solo faux. « C'est de l'or ! » gloussa Bramble en tenant le cou de Flamewing alors que le dragon planait au-dessus de la scène. « Voyons voir le conseil couronner ça pour le divertissement ! » L'incendie d'automne L’étape suivante était le concours de sculpture de feuilles, une tradition où les artistes forestiers transformaient des feuilles mortes en œuvres d’art complexes. Bramble avait toujours trouvé cela un peu ennuyeux – trop de concentration, pas assez de chaos. Naturellement, il avait un plan pour remédier à cela. Flamewing atterrit doucement près du concours, ses ailes dispersant une pluie de feuilles brillantes. Les concurrents levèrent les yeux, brièvement distraits par l'entrée radieuse du dragon. « Ne faites pas attention à nous », appela Bramble en soulevant son chapeau. « Je ne fais que passer ! » Alors que les sculpteurs retournaient à leur travail, Bramble fouilla de nouveau dans son sac et en sortit une petite fiole de « poussière tourbillonnante ». Avec un sourire malicieux, il déboucha la fiole et jeta le contenu dans les airs. Une rafale de vent souffla à travers la clairière, envoyant des feuilles – et des sculptures à moitié terminées – en spirale dans le ciel. « Mon chef-d’œuvre ! » s’écria un hérisson en sautant après une feuille de chêne particulièrement élaborée. Un raton laveur s’accrochait à sa table, tentant de protéger son œuvre de la mini-tornade, tandis qu’une biche regardait dans un silence résigné toute sa collection emportée. « C'est peut-être mon meilleur travail jusqu'à présent », dit Bramble en regardant le chaos se dérouler. Aile de Flamme, cependant, était moins impressionné. Il frappa Bramble avec sa queue, le faisant presque tomber de la selle. « D'accord, d'accord, » marmonna Bramble en se frottant le flanc. « Je vais ralentir. Tu es content maintenant ? » La grande finale La dernière étape de leur tournée chaotique fut le Grand Festin d'Emberwood, un grand pique-nique où chaque créature apportait ses plus belles spécialités d'automne. Bramble n'avait aucune intention de gâcher le festin - il n'était pas un monstre - mais il ne put résister à l'envie d'y ajouter un peu de fantaisie. « Regarde et apprends, Flamey », dit-il en sortant un pot d’« épices pétillantes », un assaisonnement inoffensif (mais très spectaculaire) qui faisait briller les aliments et émettait de minuscules feux d’artifice. Il en saupoudra les tartes, les soupes et les noix grillées pendant que les convives étaient distraits par une troupe de tamias chantants. Lorsque le premier renard mordit dans la tarte à la citrouille il écarquilla les yeux de surprise. Une explosion de petits feux d'artifice jaillit de sa bouche, illuminant la table. Bientôt, le festin tout entier devint un spectacle étincelant et crépitant. Les rires emplirent la clairière tandis que les créatures goûtaient les plats enchantés, ravies par ce spectacle inattendu. « Voilà », dit Bramble en se penchant en arrière sur la selle, « comment terminer une journée de bêtises. » Les conséquences Alors que le soleil se couchait sur Emberwood, Bramble et Flamewing se prélassaient sur une colline couverte de mousse, regardant la lumière dorée disparaître dans le crépuscule. « Tu dois admettre », dit Bramble en lançant à Flamewing un gland confit, « que c'était une journée assez spectaculaire. » Le dragon croqua pensivement le gland, puis laissa échapper une bouffée de fumée que Bramble choisit d'interpréter comme une approbation. « Tu vois ? » dit Bramble en souriant. « Tu commences à apprécier mon génie. » À ce moment-là, une voix familière résonna dans la forêt. « BRAMBLE KNICKERBOCKER ! » C’était Elder Maple, la cheffe du conseil forestier, et elle n’avait pas l’air ravie. « Il est temps d'y aller ! » dit Bramble en sautant sur le dos de Flamewing. Le dragon s'envola, ses ailes de feu dispersant des feuilles dans toutes les directions. Alors qu'ils s'élevaient dans la nuit, Bramble ne put s'empêcher de rire. De la malice, de la magie et une touche de chaos : que demander de plus pour un gnome ? Apportez la magie de l'automne à la maison Vous aimez l'aventure automnale espiègle de Bramble et Flamewing ? Faites entrer l'esprit vibrant de leur histoire dans votre maison avec notre collection exclusive de produits époustouflants : Tapisseries : Ajoutez de la chaleur et de la fantaisie à vos murs avec ce design d'automne radieux. Impressions métalliques : parfaites pour mettre en valeur l'éclat de Bramble et Flamewing dans un style élégant et moderne. Puzzles : Reconstituez la magie de cette escapade d'automne avec un puzzle amusant et familial. Couvertures polaires : Installez-vous confortablement cet automne avec une couverture douce et vibrante inspirée de cette scène enchanteresse. Commencez votre collection dès aujourd'hui et laissez l'aventure enflammée de Bramble et Flamewing apporter une touche de magie à votre espace !

par Bill Tiepelman

Pétales, farces et petites aventures

Au cœur de la forêt des Fleurs Sauvages, où l'air scintillait de pollen doré et où les champignons poussaient aussi dodus que des oreillers, vivait un gnome nommé Wibble Thistlewhisker. Connu comme le fauteur de troubles de la forêt, Wibble manigançait toujours quelque chose, généralement quelque chose de ridicule. Aujourd'hui, cependant, il s'était surpassé. Il avait recruté un faon nommé Pétale, dont les pas délicats et les bois couronnés de fleurs faisaient d'elle l'image même de l'élégance des bois. Wibble, bien sûr, avait d'autres plans. « Très bien, Pétale », dit Wibble en ajustant son chapeau rouge et en grimpant sur son dos. « Aujourd'hui, nous allons faire une farce au conseil de la forêt et prouver que les bêtises et les fleurs peuvent cohabiter à merveille ! » Petal cligna de ses énormes yeux, comme pour demander : « Es-tu sûre de vouloir faire ça ? » Mais Wibble était déjà occupé à attacher une guirlande de fleurs sauvages à sa queue, en riant tout seul. « Attends juste qu'ils voient ce chef-d'œuvre », dit-il. « Ce sera légendaire ! » Le Plan Le conseil forestier, un groupe sévère de lapins, de blaireaux et d’un hibou très grincheux nommé Hoarfrost, s’était réuni à son endroit habituel sous le Grand Chêne. Ils étaient en pleine réunion annuelle, discutant de sujets sérieux comme les vols d’écureuils et la taxe sur les champignons. Wibble avait entendu leurs plans plus tôt et avait décidé que c’était l’occasion idéale pour une « intervention créative ». « Nous ferons notre entrée lors des « annonces importantes », expliqua Wibble à Petal alors qu'ils approchaient de la réunion. « Je prononcerai mon « discours surprise », et toi… tu les éblouiras avec ton pouvoir floral. » Petal agita les oreilles, peu convaincue. « Ne t'inquiète pas », dit Wibble. « J'ai tout prévu. » L'entrée Tandis que Hoarfrost parlait sans cesse de la pénurie de mousse, une explosion de pétales envahit soudain la clairière. Le conseil leva les yeux, confus, lorsque Wibble et Petal sortirent du sous-bois, ses bois couronnés de roses et sa queue traînant une guirlande de marguerites. « Voici ! » cria Wibble, debout fièrement sur le dos de Pétale. « Le Roi des Fleurs est arrivé pour vous honorer de sa sagesse ! » Le conseil resta bouche bée. Hoarfrost plissa les yeux. « Que veut dire tout ça ? » hurla-t-il. « Nous sommes au milieu d'une discussion sérieuse ! » « Les discussions sérieuses sont surfaites », répondit Wibble en souriant. « Ce dont cette forêt a besoin, c'est d'un peu de fantaisie ! Un peu… d'excitation ! » Il frappa des mains et la guirlande attachée à la queue de Petal libéra dans l'air une rafale de pollen enchanté. En quelques instants, les lapins commencèrent à éternuer de manière incontrôlable et la fourrure des blaireaux devint rose vif. « WIBBLE ! » hurla Hoarfrost en battant des ailes. « Qu'as-tu fait ?! » Le chaos Pétale, effrayée par le tumulte soudain, s'enfuit. Wibble s'accrocha à son dos tandis qu'elle sautait par-dessus les champignons et se faufilait entre les arbres, dispersant pétales et pollen dans son sillage. Derrière eux, le conseil s'efforçait de rétablir l'ordre. Les lapins éternuèrent dans un tas de pissenlits, et les blaireaux poursuivirent leurs reflets roses dans un ruisseau voisin. Le givre s'envola dans l'air, les plumes ébouriffées et furieuses. « Ce n'est pas ce que je voulais dire par « éblouir », Pétale ! » cria Wibble alors qu'ils galopaient à travers la forêt. Pétale l'ignora, trop occupée à fuir le chaos qu'elle avait involontairement provoqué. Derrière eux, la voix de Hoarfrost résonna à travers les arbres. « Reviens ici, espèce de menace indiscrète ! » La grande finale Finalement, Petal s'arrêta en glissant dans une prairie baignée de soleil doré. Wibble glissa sur son dos, étourdie mais euphorique. « Eh bien », dit-il en repoussant les pétales de sa tunique, « ça aurait pu mieux se passer. Mais as-tu vu l'expression de leurs visages ? C'est inestimable ! » Petal lui lança un regard méprisant et agita sa queue sans guirlande vers lui. « Ne sois pas comme ça », dit Wibble en souriant. « Tu étais la star du spectacle ! Tout le monde va en parler pendant des semaines ! » À ce moment-là, Hoarfrost s'abattit sur toi, ses plumes encore couvertes de pollen scintillant. « Toi », grogna-t-il en pointant une serre vers Wibble, « tu es banni de toutes les futures réunions du conseil ! » « Quelle tragédie », a répondu Wibble avec une sincérité feinte. « J’attendais avec impatience le rapport d’inventaire des mousses de l’année prochaine. » Hoarfrost le regarda fixement pendant un long moment avant de retourner vers le Grand Chêne. « Ne dis pas que je ne t'ai pas prévenu ! » cria-t-il par-dessus son épaule. Les conséquences Alors que la forêt revenait peu à peu à la normale, Wibble et Petal se prélassaient dans la prairie, regardant les papillons voletant parmi les fleurs. « Tu sais, dit Wibble, nous formons une assez bonne équipe. Espièglerie et élégance, qui l'aurait cru ? » Petal grignota un bout de trèfle, visiblement peu impressionnée. « Très bien, très bien, dit Wibble. La prochaine fois, je te laisserai choisir la farce. D'accord ? » Petal agita son oreille, ce que Wibble choisit d'interpréter comme un accord. Alors qu'ils retournaient au village, Wibble ne put s'empêcher de sourire. La vie dans les bois de Wildflower n'était jamais ennuyeuse, surtout quand on avait un partenaire aussi élégant que Petal. Apportez la fantaisie à la maison Vous aimez l'aventure espiègle de Wibble et Petal ? Apportez le charme et la magie de leur histoire dans votre maison avec notre collection exclusive de produits fantaisistes : Tapisseries : Ajoutez une touche de fantaisie et de couleur à vos murs avec ce motif boisé enchanteur. Impressions sur toile : parfaites pour mettre en valeur le duo magique avec des détails vibrants et de haute qualité. Puzzles : Reconstituez le plaisir et la beauté de l'aventure de Wibble et Petal avec ce délicieux puzzle. Autocollants : Ajoutez une touche fantaisiste à vos articles préférés avec des autocollants adorables et de haute qualité. Commencez votre collection dès aujourd'hui et laissez Wibble et Petal apporter un peu de malice et de magie dans votre vie !

par Bill Tiepelman

Les bêtises des fêtes avec le cavalier de rennes

Au cœur de la forêt de perce-neige, où les glaçons scintillaient comme des lustres et où les flocons de neige tombaient aussi doucement que des murmures, le festival annuel des bois de cerf battait son plein. Chaque hiver, les rennes se rassemblaient pour montrer leurs décorations les plus éblouissantes, des guirlandes dorées aux boules scintillantes. Pour les habitants de la forêt, c'était le point culminant de la saison. Pour Burlap Tinseltoes, le gnome réputé pour ses facéties, c'était une occasion irrésistible. « Cette année, annonça Burlap en ajustant son chapeau rouge surdimensionné saupoudré de neige, je vais voler la vedette, littéralement. » Il se tenait devant son fidèle destrier, un renne nommé Jinglehoof, qui n’avait pas l’air ravi. « Avec tes bois et mon génie, nous serons le sujet de conversation du festival. Il ne nous manque plus que quelques… ajustements. » Jinglehoof émit un grognement résigné tandis que Burlap sortait un sac de son traîneau. À l’intérieur se trouvaient un assortiment de décorations, de guirlandes et quelque chose portant l’inscription sinistre « poudre phosphorescente ». « Fais-moi confiance », dit Burlap avec un clin d’œil. « Ça va être spectaculaire. » Le désastre de la décoration Alors que le soleil se couchait, Burlap commença son chef-d’œuvre. Il tissa des guirlandes de lumières scintillantes dans les bois de Jinglehoof, accrocha des ornements rouges et dorés brillants à chaque branche disponible et attacha une cloche scintillante à la queue du renne. Pour la grande finale, il répandit la poudre lumineuse sur tout. « C’est enchanté », expliqua Burlap tandis que Jinglehoof secouait les paillettes de sa fourrure. « Quand la lumière de la lune le frappera, tu scintilleras comme les aurores boréales ! » Les rennes des stalles voisines regardaient avec un mélange d’admiration et d’embarras indirect. « Vous me remercierez plus tard », dit Burlap, reculant pour admirer son œuvre. Jinglehoof ressemblait maintenant à un croisement entre un arbre de Noël et un feu d’artifice. « La perfection ! » déclara Burlap. « Maintenant, faisons une entrée. » Le festival commence Le Festival des bois de cerf s'est tenu dans une clairière enneigée éclairée par des lanternes lumineuses. Des rennes ont défilé dans la foule, leurs bois ornés de rubans, de guirlandes et d'autres décorations festives. Les habitants de la forêt ont applaudi et acclamé, émerveillés par la créativité des participants. Puis Burlap et Jinglehoof arrivèrent. Ou, plus précisément, Burlap arriva à toute vitesse, ondulant comme un fou tandis que Jinglehoof galopait à contrecœur dans la clairière. Les bois des rennes s'illuminèrent comme une boule à facettes, dispersant des faisceaux de lumière multicolore sur la neige. La foule haleta, puis éclata de rire et d'applaudissements. « Mesdames et mesdames, messieurs les créatures ! » annonça Burlap, debout sur le dos de Jinglehoof et manquant de tomber. « Contemplez le spectacle le plus éblouissant de l'histoire du Festival ! Régalez vos yeux de Jinglehoof, le renne de l'éclat ! » La foule a éclaté de rire et d’acclamations, mais tout le monde n’a pas été impressionné. Elder Hollyhorn, la juge en chef du festival, s’est avancée, ses bois dégoulinant de glaçons. « C’est très peu conventionnel », a-t-elle reniflé en regardant Burlap. « Et… est-ce que ce sont des paillettes ? » « Pas seulement des paillettes », dit Burlap avec un sourire. « Des paillettes magiquement améliorées. » Il claqua des doigts et la poudre lumineuse s'activa. Les bois de Jinglehoof scintillèrent si fort qu'ils pouvaient être vus depuis le village voisin. La foule fit des « oooh » et des « aaah » tandis que l'aîné Hollyhorn plissa les yeux en signe de désapprobation. L'accident Alors que Burlap savourait son triomphe, un écureuil capricieux, hypnotisé par les bois scintillants, sauta sur la tête de Jinglehoof. Le renne se cabra de surprise, envoyant Burlap tomber dans une congère. L'écureuil, maintenant accroché aux bois, paniquait et déclencha accidentellement la cloche sur la queue de Jinglehoof. La cloche enchantée lança un carillon puissant et retentissant qui fit sursauter tous les rennes de la clairière. Le chaos éclata. Les rennes se précipitèrent dans toutes les directions, leurs décorations s'envolant comme des éclats d'obus festifs. Un renard portant une guirlande tenta de calmer la foule mais finit par s'emmêler dans une guirlande lumineuse. Elder Hollyhorn fut presque piétiné par une bousculade de faons vêtus de cannes à sucre. Burlap sortit la tête de la neige juste à temps pour voir Jinglehoof courir vers la forêt, toujours aussi brillant qu'un météore. « Reviens ! » cria Burlap en se remettant sur pied. « Nous n'avons même pas encore fait notre tour d'honneur ! » Les conséquences Il fallut une heure pour rassembler les rennes en fuite, et lorsque Jinglehoof fut récupéré, ses décorations étaient de travers, et Burlap fut interdit d’entrée au Festival « pour un avenir prévisible ». L’aînée Hollyhorn lui tendit un balai et lui désigna la clairière couverte de paillettes. « Commence à balayer », dit-elle d’un ton sévère. Burlap soupira mais ne put réprimer un sourire en regardant la foule bavarder avec enthousiasme sur les événements de la soirée. Bien sûr, tout ne s'était pas passé exactement comme prévu, mais il avait réussi à rendre le Festival inoubliable. « Pas mal pour un gnome avec un sac de paillettes », marmonna-t-il en balayant un tas de poudre phosphorescente. Jinglehoof lui donna un petit coup de nez, l’air à la fois fatigué et amusé. Burlap caressa ses bois luisants. « À la même période l’année prochaine ? » demanda-t-il. Le renne grogna, ce que Burlap prit pour un oui. Alors qu'il rentrait chez lui dans la neige, Burlap réfléchissait déjà à sa prochaine grande idée. Après tout, les vacances n'étaient pas synonymes de perfection, mais de plaisir, de rires et d'un peu de chaos. Ramenez la magie des fêtes à la maison Vous aimez les farces festives de Burlap et Jinglehoof ? Apportez la joie et le rire de leur aventure de vacances dans votre maison avec notre collection exclusive de produits fantaisistes : Tapisseries : Ajoutez une touche de charme festif à vos murs avec cette scène hivernale magique. Coussins : Installez-vous confortablement avec les espiègleries de Burlap et les bois lumineux de Jinglehoof sur un coussin de vacances confortable. Puzzles : Reconstituez le plaisir avec un délicieux puzzle mettant en vedette ce duo fantaisiste. Cartes de vœux : Partagez le rire et l'esprit festif avec vos amis et votre famille grâce à ces charmantes cartes de vœux. Commencez votre collection dès aujourd'hui et laissez Burlap et Jinglehoof apporter la magie des fêtes dans votre maison !

par Bill Tiepelman

Aventures effrayantes avec le dragon de glace

L'hiver était arrivé dans le Nord enchanté, recouvrant la forêt d'un givre étincelant et transformant même les gnomes les plus grincheux en enthousiastes aux joues roses. Enfin, presque tous les gnomes. Gusbert Frostwhisker, connu localement sous le nom de « Blizzard Puffoon », n'était pas intéressé par la luge, les batailles de boules de neige ou la dégustation de cidre chaud au coin du feu. Non, Gusbert avait une réputation à défendre : une réputation de farces scandaleuses et de plans insensés. « Cette année, annonça Gusbert à personne en particulier, alors qu'il se tenait dans sa cour recouverte de neige, je vais réaliser le tour de passe-passe hivernal par excellence. Quelque chose de si magnifique, de si ridicule, qu'on ne m'appellera plus jamais Bouffon ! » À cet instant, une ombre énorme et cristalline passa au-dessus de sa tête. Gusbert leva les yeux et vit le dragon de glace, une créature magnifique aux écailles scintillantes et aux ailes couvertes de givre, s’élancer dans le ciel pâle de l’hiver. Un sourire malicieux se dessina sur son visage barbu. « Parfait, murmura-t-il. Ce dragon est exactement le partenaire qu’il me faut. » Le Plan Gusbert n'avait pas beaucoup de charme, mais il avait le don de convaincre les créatures de se joindre à ses plans (généralement en leur promettant des collations). Armé d'un sac de baies congelées et de son meilleur sourire persuasif, Gusbert se rendit à Frostpeak Ridge, où le dragon de glace avait établi son repaire. Il trouva la grande bête allongée sur un glacier, en train de grignoter des glaçons. « Salutations, ô glacial ! » commença Gusbert en s’inclinant de manière théâtrale. Le dragon cligna des yeux, des éclats de glace scintillant dans ses yeux bleus brillants. « Je viens avec une proposition ! Un partenariat, si tu veux. Ensemble, nous allons déclencher la plus grande farce hivernale que cette forêt ait jamais connue ! » Le dragon inclina la tête, peu impressionné. Gusbert leva le sac de baies et le secoua de manière séduisante. « Il y a encore plus de choses à faire là-bas », dit-il. « Pensez-y : un chaos de boules de neige, des tanières d'écureuils givrées, peut-être même un concours de sculpture de flocons de neige en plein vol ! Les possibilités sont infinies ! » Le dragon grogna, envoyant une petite rafale de neige au visage de Gusbert, mais finit par tendre une griffe scintillante. Gusbert la serra avec empressement. « Excellent choix, mon camarade de glace. Maintenant, mettons-nous au travail ! » L'exécution La première cible de Gusbert fut les toujours agaçants renards Jinglebell, qui se targuaient de leurs chants de Noël parfaitement synchronisés. Perché sur le dos du dragon, Gusbert survola leur tanière enneigée et déclencha son arme secrète : des boules de neige enchantées qui, à l'impact, faisaient hoqueter de manière incontrôlable le destinataire. Le temps que les renards parviennent à se regrouper, leurs chants de Noël ressemblaient à un chœur de boîtes à musique défectueuses. « Hic-jingle ! Hic-jingle ! Hic-jingle jusqu'au bout ! » hurla l'un d'eux, pour le plus grand plaisir de Gusbert. L'étape suivante fut la parade hivernale des cerfs, un événement digne où les cerfs locaux se sont parés de houx et de guirlandes. Gusbert s'est précipité sur le dragon de glace et a saupoudré le parcours du défilé de givre enchanté qui a fait briller les bois d'un rose fluo. Les cerfs dignes n'étaient pas très amusés, mais les spectateurs ont éclaté de rire. « Oh, c'est trop beau ! » gloussa Gusbert, guidant le dragon vers leur grande finale : le concours annuel de sculptures sur neige du Conseil des Gnomes. Le conseil était connu pour prendre ses sculptures bien trop au sérieux, son chef, Grimpus, déclarant un jour qu'un nez de carotte sur un bonhomme de neige était « une abomination artistique ». La grande finale Gusbert surveillait la scène en survolant la compétition. Grimpus et ses camarades aînés construisaient minutieusement un château de glace élaboré. « Il est temps de pimenter les choses », dit Gusbert en jetant une poignée de flocons de neige enchantés sur la sculpture. Quelques instants plus tard, le château explosa dans une cacophonie de paillettes et de glace, se transformant en une réplique gigantesque et glacée du visage grincheux de Grimpus. La foule applaudit, mais Grimpus fut moins impressionné. « Qui ose toucher à mon chef-d'œuvre ?! » hurla-t-il en levant le poing vers le ciel. Gusbert fit un signe de la main joyeux tandis que le dragon de glace exécutait un tonneau gracieux, dispersant encore plus de paillettes sur la compétition. Malheureusement pour Gusbert, Grimpus avait l'œil vif. « C'est ce maudit Frostwhisker ! rugit-il. Attrapez-le ! » L'évasion « Il est temps d’y aller ! » cria Gusbert, poussant le dragon à plonger. Le couple fila à travers la forêt enneigée, poursuivi par une bande de renards, de cerfs et de gnomes en colère armés de raquettes. Le dragon de glace, lui, s’amusait comme un fou. À chaque battement puissant de ses ailes, il envoyait des vagues de givre scintillant en cascade sur ses poursuivants, les ralentissant juste assez pour que Gusbert puisse s’échapper. Quand ils atterrirent enfin à Frostpeak Ridge, Gusbert glissa du dos du dragon et s'effondra dans la neige, riant de manière incontrôlable. « Tu as vu leurs visages ? » siffla-t-il. « C'est inestimable ! » Le dragon émit un ronronnement d'approbation avant de se recroqueviller sur son glacier. Gusbert lui lança le reste des baies congelées en guise de remerciement. « Tu es un véritable artiste, mon ami givré », dit-il. « À la même époque l'année prochaine ? » Le dragon renifla doucement, ce que Gusbert choisit d'interpréter comme un oui retentissant. Alors qu'il retournait péniblement à son chalet, Gusbert avait hâte de commencer à planifier sa prochaine grande farce. Après tout, l'hiver était long et le Nord enchanté avait besoin de quelqu'un pour rendre les choses intéressantes. Ramenez la magie de l'hiver à la maison Vous aimez les méfaits glacés de Gusbert et du dragon de glace ? Capturez la magie et la fantaisie de leurs aventures effrayantes avec notre collection exclusive de produits époustouflants : Tapisseries : Ajoutez une touche de charme givré à vos murs avec ce design enchanteur. Impressions sur toile : parfaites pour mettre en valeur la balade hivernale magique avec des détails éclatants. Puzzles : Reconstituez l'éclat glacé avec un puzzle ludique et éblouissant. Cartes de vœux : Partagez la magie glaciale avec vos proches grâce à ces charmantes cartes. Commencez votre collection dès aujourd'hui et laissez Gusbert et son dragon scintillant apporter l'esprit des merveilles hivernales dans votre vie !