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He Who Walks with Wind & She Who Sings to Stones

par Bill Tiepelman

He Who Walks with Wind & She Who Sings to Stones

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

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Laughing with Dragons: A Gnome's Joyful Moment

par Bill Tiepelman

Rire avec les dragons : le moment de joie d'un gnome

Dans une forêt où les arbres ne cessent de bavarder et où les champignons poussent aussi haut que votre égo, vivait un gnome nommé Grimble Bottomsworth. Grimble n'était pas un gnome ordinaire - oh non, c'était le gnome qui pouvait rire plus qu'une banshee, boire plus qu'un troll et flirter plus qu'une nymphe des arbres (ce qui n'est pas que les nymphes apprécient). Assis au sommet de son champignon géant préféré, il était en train de faire l'une de ses célèbres crises de rire. Mais cette fois, il avait un nouveau partenaire de crime : un bébé dragon nommé Snarky. Snarky n'était pas un dragon comme les autres. Pour commencer, il avait à peu près la taille d'un chat domestique et ne crachait pas de feu, mais il rotait parfois quelque chose qui sentait pire que l'aisselle d'un ogre. Snarky battait ses petites ailes, perché dans la main sale de Grimble, gonflant sa poitrine comme s'il était le roi de cette jungle absurdement colorée. Grimble gloussa. « Regardez-moi ce petit salopard ! Il se croit féroce ! Ha ! Vous ne pourriez pas faire griller une guimauve même si elle vous le demandait, n'est-ce pas, Snarky ? » Snarky, sentant l'insulte (ou peut-être simplement en réponse à l'odeur constante de bière et de ragoût de champignons de Grimble), laissa échapper une petite flamme, mais étonnamment vive, qui brûla un peu la barbe de Grimble. Le gnome s'arrêta, cligna des yeux, puis éclata de rire si fort qu'un écureuil à proximité laissa tomber son gland sous le choc. « Hé ! C'est le meilleur que tu aies ? L'haleine de ma grand-mère est plus chaude que ça, et elle est morte depuis quarante ans ! » Grimble frappa son genou, manquant de faire tomber le champignon tandis que ses bottes de cuir pendaient dans les airs. « Putain, génial ! » L'incident malheureux du champignon vénéneux Alors que Grimble continuait de rire, son trône en forme de champignon émit un faible gémissement. Vous voyez, les champignons ne sont pas vraiment faits pour supporter le poids d'un gnome qui a passé la majeure partie de sa vie à se gaver de tartes et à boire de l'hydromel. Avec un bruit plutôt sans cérémonie, le champignon céda, s'effondrant sous le derrière rondouillard de Grimble avec un bruit de pet qui résonna dans la forêt. « Eh bien, qu'on me foute sur le côté ! » s'exclama Grimble en se retrouvant allongé sur le dos, entouré des restes de ce qui était autrefois son cher siège champignon. « Ce champignon n'avait aucune chance, n'est-ce pas ? Trop de bière et... eh bien, disons simplement que j'ai mangé quelques tartes de plus que je n'aurais dû. » Snarky émit un ricanement, un son étrange venant d'un dragon, mais qui semblait approprié. Le petit dragon battit des ailes, planant juste au-dessus de la barbe de Grimble, qui avait maintenant attrapé quelques morceaux de champignons. « Hé ! Tu te moques de moi, espèce de petit pet écailleux ? » grogna Grimble en s'essuyant les mains sur sa tunique, l'étalant de terre et de morceaux de champignons. « Putain, cet endroit est un vrai désastre. J'ai l'air d'un nain ivre après un festin de mariage. Je ne suis pas non plus très doué pour les mariages... enfin, pas après ce qui s'est passé la dernière fois. » Il s'arrêta, marmonnant quelque chose à propos d'une chèvre et de trop de vin. Un pari malhonnête « Je vais te dire, Snarky », dit Grimble, toujours étendu sur le sol, une jambe drapée sur une tige de champignon cassée, « si tu parviens à brûler ce gros champignon », il désigna un champignon colossal à tête rouge à environ trois mètres de distance, « je te donnerai tous les lapins rôtis que tu pourras avaler. Mais si tu échoues, tu devras nettoyer mes bottes pendant un mois ! Et crois-moi, elles sentent encore pire qu'un troll après une journée au spa. » Snarky plissa les yeux et émit un grognement déterminé qui ressemblait plus à un hoquet. Il se jeta au sol, planta ses petites griffes et gonfla sa poitrine. Avec un reniflement, il libéra une bouffée de fumée pathétique qui se dissipa dans le vent plus vite que le dernier morceau de dignité de Grimble. « Oh, allez ! Ma pisse après une nuit à la taverne est encore plus chaude que ça ! » s'esclaffa Grimble en se retournant et en se tenant le ventre. « On dirait que tu vas lécher mes bottes pour les nettoyer, mon pote ! » Snarky, complètement agacé, se précipita en avant et serra ses petites mâchoires sur le nez de Grimble. Ce n'était pas suffisant pour faire saigner, mais juste assez pour faire hurler le gnome. « Hé ! Espèce de bâtard effronté ! » hurla Grimble, retirant le dragon de son visage et le fusillant du regard, bien que l'effet fût perdu car il riait toujours. « D'accord, d'accord, je vais quand même te donner un lapin, petite merde. » Il se gratta l'arrière de la tête et poussa un profond soupir, le genre de soupir que seule une personne ayant mangé trop de tartes pouvait pousser. Les conséquences Au fil de la journée, Grimble et Snarky s'installèrent dans leur routine habituelle de querelles sans conviction, de destruction de champignons et de chaos général dans la forêt. Malgré leurs insultes et leurs manigances, ils formaient un sacré duo - tous deux excentriques à part entière, unis par leur amour du mal et le fait qu'aucun d'eux ne pouvait prendre la vie (ou l'autre) trop au sérieux. Et ainsi, au cœur de la forêt enchantée, le ventre plein de tarte et la barbe sentant légèrement les champignons brûlés, Grimble Bottomsworth passait ses journées à rire avec les dragons, à péter sur des champignons et à rappeler à tous ceux qui croisaient son chemin que même dans un monde plein de magie, parfois la meilleure chose que l'on puisse faire est de s'asseoir, de rire et de laisser le dragon vous mordre le nez quand on l'a mérité. « À une autre journée de bêtises », dit Grimble en levant sa flasque vers Snarky, « et que tes pets ne soient jamais plus chauds que ton haleine, petit lézard inutile. » Snarky rota en réponse. « Bravo mon garçon. » Apportez la fantaisie à la maison ! Si vous avez aimé les facéties sauvages de Grimble et les malices de Snarky, vous pouvez apporter un morceau de ce monde magique dans le vôtre ! Découvrez ces ravissants produits mettant en vedette « Rire avec les dragons : le moment joyeux d'un gnome » : Puzzle – Parfait pour reconstituer les aventures hilarantes de Grimble tout en s'amusant. Impression acrylique – Rehaussez votre espace avec une impression acrylique vibrante et de haute qualité qui capture chaque rire et chaque pet de champignon avec des détails époustouflants. Carte de vœux – Partagez un peu de la joie de Grimble avec vos amis et votre famille grâce à des cartes de vœux fantaisistes mettant en vedette cette scène fantastique. Ne manquez pas ces objets de collection enchanteurs ! Que vous soyez amateur de puzzles ou que vous cherchiez à égayer la journée de quelqu'un avec une carte, ces produits donnent vie à la magie entre vos mains.

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