par Bill Tiepelman
Tiny But Ticked Off
The Stump Situation In the middle of the Bellowing Pinewood, just past the grumpy willow who swore at birds and before the mossy rock that looked suspiciously like your ex, sat a tree stump. Not just any stump — this one smoldered with attitude. Burnt at the edges from a spell gone wrong (or right, depending on which witch you asked), and surrounded by crisp, curled autumn leaves, it had become something of a local attraction. Not for the stump itself, mind you. No one really cared about a stump, even a slightly singed one. What drew the gawkers, the gaspers, and the not-so-subtle sketch artists was the baby dragon squatting right atop it. About the size of a corgi, but far more judgmental, he was a glimmering puff of sapphire scale, spiked tail, and chronic side-eye. His name — and don’t you dare laugh — was Crispin T. Blort. The "T" stood for "Terror," though some claimed it stood for "Tiramisu" after a naming mishap involving dessert and ale. Either way, the point is: Crispin was, without question, over it. He was over the elves who kept stopping by to “boop his snoot.” Over the halfling bards who wrote odes about his “cutie-wittle fireballs.” And he was especially over the traveling influencers who draped him in flower crowns for their “Forest Core” TikToks. He was a DRAGON, not some enchanted handbag! “Touch me again and I will flambé your kneecaps,” he warned one morning, his voice somehow managing to sound both adorable and deeply menacing. A chipmunk froze mid-acorn heist and passed out from sheer intimidation. Or possibly from the fumes — Crispin had roasted a mushroom omelet earlier and, well, let’s just say eggs plus sulfur equals atmosphere. Despite his size, Crispin knew he was destined for greatness. He had dreams. Ambitions. A five-year plan that involved treasure, domination, and a personal assistant who wasn’t afraid of talons. But for now, he was stuck defending a tree stump in the middle of nowhere from well-meaning tourists and enchanted squirrels. One particularly brisk morning, as the leaves performed synchronized dives off their branches, Crispin awoke to the sound of giggling. Not the innocent kind. No, this was the unmistakable snicker of someone about to do something profoundly stupid. Slowly, eyes still half-lidded with disdain, he turned his head toward the noise. Two gnomes. One holding a cup of glitter. The other holding... was that a tutu? Crispin’s eyes glowed a little brighter. His tail twitched. His smirk spread like a gossiping gremlin across his face. “Oh,” he purred, cracking his knuckles (claws? knucklaws?), “You really want to do this today.” And that, dear reader, was the last moment of peace the Pinewood would know for a long, long time. Gnomes, Glitter, and Gratuitous Gloating “Wait, is he smiling?” whispered the smaller gnome, Fizzlestump, who held the glitter. His friend, Thimblewhack, clutched the pink tutu like it was the Holy Grail of humiliation. They had come prepared. They had rehearsed their lines. They had even brought enchanted oat bars as peace offerings. What they had not anticipated was that the tiny dragon on the stump — despite his adorable widdle size — would smirk like a Vegas blackjack dealer about to wreck your rent money. “Go on,” Crispin said, stretching languidly, wings flaring open just enough to send a flurry of dry leaves cascading into the gnomes’ faces. “Put the tutu on me. Do it. I double dare you, Fizzle-whatever.” Fizzlestump blinked. “H-how did he know my name?” “I know everything,” Crispin purred. “Like the fact you still sleep with a teddy bear named ‘Colonel Snugglenuts’ and that your cousin tried to marry a turnip last Midsummer.” Thimblewhack dropped the tutu. “Let me be clear,” Crispin continued, rising slowly, smoke curling from his nostrils like the world's sassiest incense. “You don’t glitter a dragon. Not unless you want to fart sparkles for the rest of your life and smell like regret mixed with elderflower shampoo.” “But it’s for charity,” Fizzlestump squeaked. “I am a charity,” Crispin snapped. “I’m charitable enough not to incinerate your shoe collection, which I assume consists entirely of orthopedic clogs and one suspiciously sexy leather boot.” With a single flap of his wings — more for dramatic effect than necessity — Crispin vaulted off the stump and landed between the two gnomes. They shrieked in harmony, clutching each other like protagonists in a poorly rated romantic comedy. “Let me show you something,” Crispin said, dragging a claw through the dirt like he was about to explain battle strategy to a pair of sentient beets. “This is my domain. This stump? Mine. That patch of moss that smells weird when it rains? Also mine. And that tree over there — the one shaped like a middle finger? Yeah. Named it after my mood.” Fizzlestump and Thimblewhack, both shaking like leaf salad in a wind tunnel, nodded rapidly. “Now. I have a very simple philosophy,” Crispin continued, walking slow circles around them like a furry blue shark with questionable ethics. “You glitter me, I gaslight you. You tutu me, I torch your topiary garden. You call me ‘snuggles,’ and I send a strongly worded letter to the Department of Hex Enforcement listing all your browser history.” Fizzlestump collapsed. Thimblewhack soiled himself just a little — barely noticeable, really. “BUT,” Crispin said, now lounging dramatically on his own tail like an actor awaiting applause, “I’m willing to forgive. I believe in second chances. I believe in redemption. And I believe — deeply, truly — in community service.” “Oh, thank the stars,” Thimblewhack gasped. “So here’s what’s going to happen,” Crispin said, claws tapping like the world's sassiest metronome. “You two are going to go into the village square. You’re going to gather a crowd. And you’re going to perform an interpretive dance titled 'The Audacity of Gnome'. There will be props. There will be glitter. And there will be musical accompaniment provided by my new friend, Gary the Screaming Possum.” Gary, who had wandered up during the drama, let out a blood-curdling shriek that sounded like a banshee trying to sing disco. The gnomes whimpered. “And if you refuse,” Crispin added with a grin wide enough to scare thunder, “I will sneeze directly into your facial hair. Which, as we all know, is magically bound to your reputation.” Fizzlestump started crying softly. “Good talk,” Crispin said, patting each of them lightly with the kind of sarcastic affection normally reserved for passive-aggressive HR meetings. “Now run along. You’ve got jazz hands to prepare.” As the gnomes scurried off in a blur of shame and glitter, Crispin flopped back on his stump, tail curling contentedly around his claws. The forest quieted again — even the wind paused, unsure whether to laugh or bow. From the branches above, a wise old owl shook its head. “You’re going to start a war, you know.” Crispin didn't even look up. “Good. I’ll bring the marshmallows.” And somewhere, deep in the enchanted foliage, the ancient magic of Pinewood stirred... sensing that a storm — or at least a really dramatic talent show — was on its way. Smoke, Sparkles, and the Smug Awakening The gnome performance hit Pinewood like a glam-rock meteor. Villagers gathered in the square expecting a harvest festival, only to be greeted by two quivering gnomes in sequined lederhosen performing what could only be described as a fever dream choreographed by a glitter-obsessed banshee with ADHD. Gary the Screaming Possum provided an audio experience that defied mortal language and possibly several sound ordinances. The highlight of the show — apart from the moment Fizzlestump was catapulted out of a papier-mâché mushroom cannon — was Thimblewhack’s solo interpretive wriggle entitled "We Should Not Have Mocked the Dragon." The villagers were too baffled to interrupt. Several fainted. One old centaur declared it a religious experience and renounced pants forever. Crispin, watching from atop a magical scrying puddle in his stump lair, dabbed the corner of his eye with a leaf. “Art,” he whispered. “This is what happens when petty vengeance meets interpretive jazz.” And while most thought the affair would be forgotten within a fortnight, Pinewood had other plans. The performance awakened something. Not a literal ancient evil — that was still sealed under the tavern, snoring softly — but a cultural ripple. The villagers were inspired. Inter-species dance competitions were scheduled. Glitter sales skyrocketed. The mayor declared every Thursday henceforth as “Dramatic Justice Day.” The town slogan was updated to: “We Don’t Tutu Dragons, We Embrace Them.” For the first time in generations, Pinewood wasn’t just a sleepy nook on the edge of the realm. It was the place. Trendy. Infused with chaotic joy. The kind of town where gnomes, goblins, and gremlins could coexist in collective weirdness. Crispin didn’t just start a movement — he incinerated the rulebook and replaced it with glitter, sass, and bite-sized revolution. Of course, not all were thrilled. The Woodland Purity League (founded by a cranky dryad who thought moss was a personality trait) tried to stage a protest. It ended poorly when Crispin challenged their leader to a rap battle and dropped bars so fiery a pinecone caught fire mid-rhyme. Meanwhile, Crispin found his fame had perks. Offers rolled in. Royalty requested fire lessons. Artists asked to paint his “angriest pose.” Someone sent him a golden chaise lounge. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he burned it. For ambiance. But even with rising notoriety, Crispin stayed true to his stump. “I’m not leaving,” he told a journalist from the Enchanted Times, sipping a marshmallow-laced cappuccino from a goblet. “This is ground zero for the snarkquake. Also, my tail looks amazing in this light.” He’d built a following. Cultivated a vibe. Influenced a town and possibly a small demigod who now insisted on wearing bedazzled capes. His legend — like his wings — kept growing. One dusk, as dragonkind began whispering of him in hushed tones (mostly “How is that smug lizard getting more fan mail than the Great Wyrm of Nork?”), Crispin lay curled on his stump, tail swishing, eyes glinting in the molten sunset. “I did good,” he murmured. A hedgehog rolled by with a bouquet and a letter of admiration from a fan club called “Scalies for Sass.” He accepted it with a nod and immediately set it on fire. For branding. And just as he began to drift into sleep, a breeze carried distant words through the forest: “...is that the dragon who made the gnomes dance and punched a unicorn in the feelings?” Crispin smiled. Not just any smile. The smile. That smug, bratty, glimmering grin that had launched a thousand awkward dance routines and at least three poetry slams. “Yes,” he whispered to the wind, glowing faintly in the evening haze. “I am.” And somewhere in the swirling gold of twilight, a new legend was born — of the tiny dragon on the stump who conquered an entire village, one sarcastic smirk at a time. Bring Crispin Home (Without Getting Singed) If you’ve fallen in love with Crispin’s bratty brilliance and scaly sarcasm, you don’t have to journey into the Pinewood to see him again. Whether you want a daily dose of sass on your wall, your couch, or even in your stationery stack, we’ve captured his most iconic pose — tail curled, eyes glowing, attitude at 110% — in a collection of “Tiny But Ticked Off” gifts and prints. Canvas Print: Let Crispin’s glorious scaly mug take center stage on your wall. Perfect for spaces that need a little fire — or a lot of personality. Own the canvas here. Framed Print: Make it official. Put a frame on that smirk and let the world know your décor has bite. Frame your fire here. Greeting Card: Know someone who needs a little dragon energy? Send them sass in a stampable format. Send the smirk here. Spiral Notebook: Plot your revenge, doodle snarky dragons, or just write your grocery list like a boss. Get yours here. Fleece Blanket: Wrap yourself in mischief and fluff with this ridiculously soft throw featuring everyone’s favorite infernal gremlin. Snuggle the sass here. Crispin doesn’t bite — much. But his products? They slap. 🔥
