Irreverent fairy tale

par Bill Tiepelman

Aged Like Fine Wine and Dark Magic

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

par Bill Tiepelman

The Grumpy Guardian of the Glade

Deep in the heart of the Eldermoss Forest, where the trees whispered gossip about the birds and the mushrooms glowed suspiciously at night, there existed a tiny, winged creature with the disposition of a tax auditor during finals week. His name was Cragglethump, though most simply called him ‘that pissed-off fairy’ or, if they were particularly unlucky, ‘Agh, my face!’ Cragglethump had been the self-appointed (read: forcibly assigned by a drunken fairy council) Guardian of the Glade for over five centuries. His job? Ensure that no human, beast, or idiot goblin came trampling through, disrupting the delicate magic of the land. He did this mostly through a mixture of terrifying glares, creative insults, and, when necessary, strategic nut-punches. A Rude Awakening On this particularly fine morning, Cragglethump sat hunched on his favorite moss-covered branch, arms crossed, wings twitching in irritation. He had been rudely awoken by something truly horrific—a bard. Not just any bard, but a lute-wielding, hair-too-perfect, teeth-too-white, likely-to-have-chlamydia bard. The kind that sang ballads about love and heroism while knowing full well he had run from the last fight he was in. He was strumming away at his lute like he was trying to seduce a particularly lonely oak tree. Cragglethump narrowed his eyes and let out a low growl. “Oh, for the love of fungus-ridden troll bollocks.” The bard, blissfully unaware of his imminent demise, continued to butcher a song about some lost princess or whatever. Cragglethump sighed, cracked his knuckles, and stood. Fairy Diplomacy (aka Violence) With the grace of an elderly alley cat, Cragglethump launched himself off the branch and dive-bombed straight for the bard’s stupid face. The moment of impact was exquisite—a perfect combination of tiny fairy foot to nasal bridge. The bard shrieked and flailed, his lute slipping from his fingers and landing with a tragic *twang* against a rock. “GODS ABOVE, WHAT THE—” “YOU!” Cragglethump roared, flitting up to hover directly in front of the bard’s very confused and rapidly swelling nose. “Do you have any idea what time it is? What the hell do you think you’re doing polluting my glade with your noise pollution?” “I—I was just—” “No. No, no, no. You were NOT ‘just.’ You were warbling like a dying squirrel and expecting someone to be impressed. Spoiler alert: No one is impressed.” The bard’s lower lip trembled. “That’s a bit harsh.” Cragglethump smirked. “Oh, sweet summer twat, I haven’t even gotten started.” With that, he plucked a small handful of dust from his tattered sleeve, muttered an incantation under his breath, and blew it straight into the bard’s face. Instantly, the young man’s hair turned a spectacular shade of bright green, his teeth lengthened into miniature tusks, and a mysterious but persistent farting noise began emanating from his boots. The bard screamed. “What did you DO?!” “Cursed you.” Cragglethump dusted his hands off and turned away. “Enjoy your new look, dipshit. Now get out before I do something permanent.” As the bard ran wailing from the forest, Cragglethump landed back on his branch with a satisfied sigh. “Another successful morning,” he muttered. But his satisfaction was short-lived. Because that’s when the unicorn arrived.     The Unicorn from Hell Cragglethump had seen some shit in his time—goblins trying to cook with rocks, witches attempting to seduce trees, even an elf trying to smoke an entire beehive (long story). But nothing had prepared him for this. Standing in the middle of his glade was a unicorn. And not the graceful, shimmering, poetic kind. No, this one had the dead-eyed stare of a creature who had seen things. Things that had changed it. Its once-pristine white coat was covered in what looked suspiciously like bloodstains. Its horn, instead of a delicate spiral of magic, was cracked and jagged like it had been used as a prison shiv. It chewed on what appeared to be an old boot, its jaw working methodically as it stared Cragglethump down. “…The fuck?” Cragglethump whispered. Regret in Equine Form The unicorn spat out the boot and took a step forward. “Yo,” it said. Cragglethump’s brain short-circuited. “Unicorns don’t talk.” “Yeah? And fairies don’t look like my grandpa’s angry hemorrhoid, but here we are.” Cragglethump’s eye twitched. “Excuse me?” “Name’s Stabsy,” the unicorn said, rolling its massive shoulders. “Been on the run. Shit went south in the Enchanted Plains.” “Define ‘shit,’” Cragglethump said slowly. “Well.” Stabsy licked his teeth. “Turns out, if you gore a prince, people tend to take offense.” Cragglethump groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “What. The. Actual. Hell.” The Absolute Worst Idea Stabsy clomped forward until he was nose-to-nose with Cragglethump. “Look, you seem like a guy who gets things done. I need a place to lay low. You got a nice setup here.” Cragglethump opened his mouth to say absolutely not, but Stabsy cut him off. “Also, I may have pissed off a warlock, and there’s a small but nonzero chance they’re tracking me.” “Of course there is.” Cragglethump rubbed his temples. “And what, pray tell, did you do to this warlock?” “You ever play blackjack?” Cragglethump stared at him. Stabsy grinned. “Turns out, warlocks really don’t like losing.” Before Cragglethump could start screaming, the first fireball hit.     It is a universally acknowledged truth that if you curse a bard, they will absolutely, without a doubt, try to get revenge in the most dramatic and inconvenient way possible. Cragglethump should have known. He did know. And yet, when the first note of an all-too-familiar lute twanged through the trees, he still nearly choked on the acorn he’d been chewing. “Oh, for the love of—” He spun around, wings twitching furiously. There, standing at the edge of the glade, was the bard he had cursed earlier that morning. His once luscious brown locks were still an aggressive shade of green, his tusked teeth gave him the aesthetic of a failed orc cosplayer, and his eyes burned with the kind of melodramatic vengeance only a bard could summon. He had changed clothes, though. Which was a shame, because his new outfit was worse. “YOU!” the bard bellowed, pointing dramatically at Cragglethump. Cragglethump sighed, rubbing his temples. “What, dipshit?” “I, Alaric the Harmonious, have returned to reclaim my honor!” Stabsy the Unicorn, still lounging nearby and gnawing on a suspiciously human-looking bone, glanced up. “You look like an enchanted swamp farted you out, bud.” Alaric ignored him, instead launching into what was clearly a rehearsed monologue. “You thought you could humiliate me? Curse me?! Reduce me to some… some grotesque green-haired monster?!” “To be fair,” Cragglethump interjected, “you look like that one elf nobody invites to parties because he keeps talking about his beard-care routine.” Alaric’s eye twitched. “I have come to take my revenge.” The Power of Passive-Aggressive Music The bard reached into his bag and pulled out his lute. Cragglethump tensed, preparing for an attack, but instead of a fireball or some nonsense, the bard just started… playing. Badly. It wasn’t just out of tune—it was aggressively, maliciously out of tune. A truly diabolical combination of sour notes and over-exaggerated strumming. And worst of all, he was singing. “Ohhh, in the woods there is a beast, Whose old ass hair has never been greased, He curses bards and smells like mold, And probably has a shriveled-up—” “HEY!” Cragglethump barked. “You little shit.” Alaric smirked, strumming harder. “Ohhh, his wings are weak, his heart is small, And I bet he’s got no balls at all!” Cragglethump’s wings flared in pure rage. “I swear on my ancestors, if you don’t shut up—” But then, something truly horrifying happened. The plants started wilting. Leaves drooped. Mushrooms let out tiny, pitiful sighs before shriveling into dust. A rabbit hopped by, took one whiff of the melody, and immediately keeled over. “Oh, shit,” Cragglethump muttered. Stabsy took a step back. “That’s not normal.” Bardic Black Magic Alaric’s smirk widened. “Oh, did I forget to mention?” He plucked a particularly heinous chord. “I made a deal with a hag.” Cragglethump groaned. “Of course you did.” “Turns out, my curse wasn’t just cosmetic.” Alaric leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “The hag gave me a little bonus. Now, whenever I play, magic dies.” Silence settled over the glade. Then Stabsy burst out laughing. “HA! You made a deal with a hag over a bad haircut? That’s peak bard energy.” “Laugh all you want,” Alaric said. “But if I keep playing? This whole glade is going to be nothing but dirt.” Cragglethump clenched his fists. “You little shitweasel.” “Beg me for mercy,” Alaric said, smug. Cragglethump narrowed his eyes. “I’ll do you one better.” He grabbed a handful of dust from his sleeve and, with a flick of his wrist, blew it straight into Alaric’s face. The bard staggered back, coughing. “What the hell did you—” Then he froze. The Curse Upgrade Alaric’s eyes went wide. His face paled. Then, slowly, his lips began to tremble. Cragglethump grinned. “Enjoy your new curse, dumbass.” Alaric opened his mouth to scream—but no sound came out. His lips moved, but his voice was gone. Gone. The bard let out a silent wail, his hands clutching at his throat. He looked at Cragglethump with pure, unfiltered horror. “Oh, what’s that?” Cragglethump said, all fake concern. “You got something to say? A song, perhaps? A little ballad?” Alaric made a series of frantic, inaudible noises. “Oh, you poor thing.” Cragglethump smirked. “Must be awful. A bard with no voice? Tragic.” Alaric let out another silent scream and took off running. Stabsy shook his head, chuckling. “Damn. Remind me to never piss you off.” Cragglethump sighed, stretching his arms. “Well, that’s enough bullshit for one day.” Unfortunately, fate had other plans. Because that’s when the warlock arrived.     The Absolutely Stupid Final Chapter There was something deeply, cosmically unfair about the fact that Cragglethump couldn’t get through a single godsdamned day without some new brand of magical bullshit showing up to ruin his life. First, the bard. Then, the sociopathic unicorn. And now? A warlock. And not just any warlock. This one looked like he’d crawled straight out of a bad fantasy novel. Robes too long, dramatic staff, glowing eyes, and an aura that screamed, Yes, I have sacrificed something alive today. The warlock stood at the edge of the glade, silhouetted by the eerie blue glow of his own sinister magic. He raised a single hand. “WHO,” he boomed, “HAS HARB—” “Hold that thought,” Cragglethump interrupted. “I need a drink.” The Best Worst Idea Ever The warlock blinked. “What?” “You heard me.” Cragglethump dusted himself off, fluttering to a nearby stump. “Look, I don’t know what this is about, but I already wasted most of my patience dealing with a bard’s revenge arc and a unicorn with murder issues. So before you monologue, I propose an alternative: a drinking contest.” There was a long, stunned silence. Stabsy’s ears perked up. “Oh, hell yes.” The warlock scowled. “I am here to avenge my honor! That thing—” he jabbed a finger at Stabsy “—cheated me out of a fortune, and I—” “Blah, blah, blah,” Cragglethump interrupted, yawning. “Drinking contest or shut the hell up.” The warlock frowned. “That’s not how vengeance works.” “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were a coward.” Stabsy gasped dramatically. “Ohhhhh shit, he called you a bitch.” The warlock’s eye twitched. “I accept,” he growled. Rules Are for Losers Within minutes, a crude wooden table was set up in the middle of the glade, covered in an alarming variety of alcoholic substances. Fairy mead. Dwarven stout. Goblin moonshine (which was technically illegal, but Cragglethump had connections). Cragglethump, Stabsy, and the warlock all took their seats. “Rules are simple,” Cragglethump said, pouring the first round. “We drink until someone passes out, vomits, or admits defeat.” “I should warn you,” the warlock said, gripping his tankard. “I have imbibed the elixirs of the darkest realms.” “Yeah, yeah,” Cragglethump muttered. “Less talking, more drinking.” Round One: Fairy Mead The first round went down smooth. Fairy mead was deceptively strong, but Cragglethump was built different. Stabsy barely reacted. The warlock took his with a slight grimace. “This is... sweet,” he muttered. Cragglethump snorted. “Yeah, well, enjoy it while you can.” Round Two: Dwarven Stout By the second round, things started getting fuzzy. Dwarven stout had the unique property of making everything seem both hilarious and imminently dangerous. Stabsy was now laughing uncontrollably at a nearby rock. The warlock looked oddly thoughtful. “You know,” he slurred, “I came here to incinerate you all, but I’m feeling kinda... warm.” “That’s the stout,” Cragglethump said. “And also the early stages of bad decision-making.” Round Three: Goblin Moonshine This was where things got serious. Goblin moonshine was not meant for civilized consumption. It was technically closer to weaponized alchemy than a drink. Cragglethump took his shot like a champion. Stabsy gagged, then hiccupped so hard he momentarily teleported. The warlock, meanwhile, turned an unsettling shade of green. “This is... ungodly.” Cragglethump grinned. “You tapping out, big guy?” The warlock narrowed his eyes. “Never.” Round Four: ??? At this point, no one knew what they were drinking. Some ancient, unlabeled bottle had appeared, and no one was sober enough to question it. Cragglethump took a swig. So did Stabsy. The warlock followed suit. Then everything went to shit. The Aftermath The next morning, Cragglethump woke up sprawled on his back, wings twitching, head pounding. There were scorch marks in the grass. The table was missing. Stabsy was asleep in a tree. The warlock lay face-down in the dirt, snoring softly. Cragglethump groaned. “What... the fuck happened?” Stabsy rolled over. “I think we bonded.” The warlock stirred, slowly sitting up. His robes were singed, and he was missing a boot. “I... no longer remember why I was angry.” Cragglethump smirked. “See? Drinking contest. Solves everything.” The warlock blinked at him, then sighed. “You know what? Fine. The unicorn lives. But I’m taking a nap first.” Cragglethump stretched. “Good talk.” And with that, he flopped back onto the moss, vowing to never deal with another idiot ever again. (Spoiler: He absolutely would.)     Bring the Grumpy Guardian Home Loved this ridiculous tale of magical misadventures? Why not bring a little of that cranky fairy energy into your own home? The Grumpy Guardian of the Glade is available on a variety of products, so you can enjoy his grumpy little face wherever you go! Wood Print – Perfect for adding a touch of fantasy (and attitude) to your walls. Tote Bag – Carry your essentials with a side of grump. Throw Pillow – Because even the crankiest fairy deserves a soft place to rest. Fleece Blanket – Stay cozy while channeling your inner tiny, winged menace. Check out the full collection at Unfocussed Shop and bring a piece of the Glade to your world!