Your temporary hostess (Patreon)

perches daintily upon a stool and opens the book.

"Let's see what we have here: 'How Adler Saved Kringlemas, by Typeandkey (with meddling from Tegerio.)' Ooh pog, aren't they the chaps who wrote that Netflix series about the talking pumpkin? I don't care what the critics said; I thought it was good. They didn't give it a fair chance, canceling it after only one episode like that. A pity, honestly, but I suppose that's show business for you. Right then, are you all sitting comfortably? Then let's begin."

...

One moment Adler lounged in velvet chair,

Recounting tales of plague and old despair;

The next, a swirl of snow and candy scent,

And then, unwillingly, away he went.

He stood in Frostheim’s heart, all red and green,

Where tinsel gleamed with menace yet unseen.

His stripes went stiff, his tail puffed out in dread:

“I’ve been good this year! I should be home in bed!”

From minty shadows stepped a yew-man dame,

Kathy-Slough Drew, of capture-renown fame.

“Relax, Your Majesty,” she said with cheer,

“You’re on the Nice List, crystal-clear this year.”

Adler’s ears perked, then drooped in fresh appeal—

“If I’m not here to toil, then what’s the deal?”

“Far worse than toys,” she answered, grim and low,

“The boss himself will tell you—come now, go.”

Through halls of holly, with nutcracker guards,

Past wreaths that watched like prison courtyard wards,

Each twinkling light a threat in Adler’s sight,

Each Kringle-baum a terror dressed in white.

At last they reached a door of frosted pine;

Within, the air was thick with cough and brine.

There lay the Kringle, red suit limp and stained,

His mighty belly heaving, white beard pained.

A cookie crumb still clung beside his lip,

Yet poison slow had stolen all his zip.

“Someone,” he rasped, “laced milk and cookies deep

With venom meant to fell me in my sleep.

It took a year to work its wicked art—

By Christmas Eve I’ll lack the strength to start.

I’ll live, I think… but cannot ride the sky

To bring good lowfolk children joy thereby.”

Adler thought, unsure quite what to say,

“I’m… sorry. Sure you'll pull through, come what may.”

The Kringle fixed him with a fevered stare,

Then spoke the words that chilled the very air:

“Adler Young, white skunk of plague and throne,

I did not bring you here to mope and moan.

This night I place my trust in you, alas:

Emperor of Elves… you must save Kringlemas.”

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