He honestly did forget how close Christmas was, it just slipped his mind so he had to hurry up & buy shit. Once Christmas Day came he woke up with headache, he remembers buying gifts but he can’t remember what, in all honesty, he doesn’t even know what his kids want. He sat by you, holding you close as he watched them all open their gifts, the excitement on their face bright. Once the wrapping was torn off they smiled faded one after the other. “But I didn’t want this… I don’t even like this…” Aiden said. Logan sniffled and Ryan was a little clueless but accepted the gift, deep down he was disappointed. They all turned to face him and within seconds he was clenching his jaw. “Ungrateful shits… what do you mean that’s not what you want!?” He growled out as he sat up, alcohol steaming off his body.

} arm pulling them along he rows and rows of stalls.* "COME ON COME ON , We have to get some pretzels!!"

*As you gather your breath, Krampus crouches beside you, golden eyes roaming over you with open curiosity, as if studying a rare creature he’s just pulled from another world.* "My its always the cute ones who are the naughty ones. Your skin looks so..." *His hand reaches out to touch your shoulder gently, his fingers grazing your skin* "So so~ft"

*It was Christmas Eve, the sky above twinkling with stars, the air crisp and cold against your cheeks. You laced your fingers with your girlfriend's, the two of you strolling through the snow-covered woods, the only sound being the soft crunch beneath your feet. The trees, heavy with powdery white, cast long, dark shadows across your path. It was peaceful, idyllic – until the feeling crept over you. At first, you brushed it off as mere imagination, but soon, the weight of being watched grew heavier. Your girlfriend didn't seem to notice, her laughter carrying on the wind, but you couldn't shake the sensation. Then, you saw them – two burning embers in the darkness. Red eyes, piercing through the veil of night, fixed squarely on you. And the horns. Oh God, the full rack of twisted, curved horns, silhouetted against the stars. Your heart skipped a beat, breath caught in your throat.*

} she instantly lights up.* "You're finally awake!!!" *She quickly stands taking your hand and dragging you to the couch.* "Come on dont be a bahumbug its finally Christmas!! I made sure to put on the most cheesy Christmas movie we have!!"

*The room is still, wrapped in Christmas light glow as an unmarked present rests quietly, the ribbon slightly crooked as if handled in a rush. When the paper is pulled back and the lid opens, there is a sudden burst of movement, red fur flashing as a girl stumbles forward from inside the box, nearly tripping over the edge before catching herself, tail puffed up in panic.* **Akane:** "A-ah—! W-wait, wait!!" *She straightens up fast, face already bright red, ears flattened as she looks up too quickly.* "Y-you weren’t supposed to open it that suddenly!" *Her voice is loud despite the embarrassment, words tumbling out as she squeezes her hands together in front of her chest.* "I-I mean, hi! I’m Akane! Your present! For Christmas!" *She laughs nervously, then immediately steps closer anyway, flustered but determined, tail swishing in big, obvious motions.* "I know this is weird! I’m weird! B-but I was sent to you!" *She puffs herself up, speaking louder as if to convince herself.* "So… um… p-please don’t send me back!" *She clings to your sleeve abruptly, realizing it a second later and squeaking.* "S-sorry! I didn’t mean to grab you! I just— I get nervous when I’m excited!" *Her grip tightens anyway, voice still bright and loud.* "I’ll be a good present! I promise!"

The "Glacial Gala" tent is a cathedral of cold, filled with the scent of frost and the sound of chisels singing against ice. My piece, "Solitude's Echo," is nearly complete. A perfect, intricate, hollow sphere within a sphere. Critics will call it a commentary on isolation. They’ll be right. It’s technically flawless. And it feels as empty as I do. Then, you walk in. You’re not with the press or the other artists. You’re just… exploring. You stop in front of a competitor’s cheesy ice swan, tilting your head with genuine appreciation. You don’t see the clumsy lines; you see the effort. When you finally reach my station, you go utterly still. You don’t say anything. You just look. You look at my sculpture for a full minute, your breath making little clouds in the air, and then your eyes find mine. In them, I don’t see critique or awe. I see a profound, gentle understanding. As if you can see the hollow sphere in my chest, too. “It’s the most beautiful, lonely thing I’ve ever seen,” you say, your voice soft but clear over the ambient noise. It feels like a chisel strikes directly into my ribs. No one has ever seen it so clearly. “It’s missing something,” I hear myself say, the words leaving me before I can stop them. “What?” “I don’t know yet.” The competition rules are strict: no assistance. But inspiration isn’t against the rules. You become my muse. You return every day, always with a hot coffee you hand me wordlessly, your own hands wrapped around a cup. You don’t offer suggestions. You just are. You talk about the winter light, about the smell of snow, about your childhood memories of building forts. And as you speak, I begin to carve. Not on my competition piece. On a small, secret block off to the side. The night before the final judging, I’m alone in the tent under the work lights. My competition piece is ready, a monument to cold perfection. But my heart is hammering. I send you a single text: "Come. Now." When you arrive, wrapped in a scarf, your cheeks flushed from the cold, I don’t speak. I simply take your hand—my own finally warm from work—and lead you to the hidden corner. I pull away the drape. It’s you. Not a literal portrait, but an essence. The flow of your hair in the wind, the curve of your smile, the graceful line of your neck. I’ve carved you in a pose of joyful abandon, arms slightly outstretched as if catching snowflakes. It’s not flawless like the sphere. It’s alive. It’s full of light and movement and warmth, despite being made of ice. You bring a trembling hand to your mouth, tears welling instantly. “Julian… you…” “The competition piece is empty,” I say, my voice rough. I step closer, the cold of our creations swirling around us, but all I feel is heat. “Because I was empty. And then you walked in, and you… you thawed me.” I reach out, my thumb catching a tear as it falls. “I don’t care about the grant. I don’t care about winning. I carved this for you. Because you are the only permanent, beautiful thing I have ever wanted to hold onto. Everything else can melt.” You look from the sculpture of yourself, back to me, your eyes shining. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying I forfeit.” The words are a liberation. “I’m saying my greatest masterpiece won’t be in some gallery. It’ll be the life I build with you.” I cradle your face in my hands, my sculptor’s fingers infinitely gentle. “Let me be your artist. Let me spend a lifetime learning every curve and line of your happiness, and crafting my world around it.” You don’t answer with words. You rise onto your toes and kiss me. In a tent of ice, it’s a blaze of summer. It tastes of hope, of coffee, of a future I never dared to design. When we break apart, you press your forehead to mine. “Don’t forfeit,” you whisper, a fierce, loving command. “Win. For us. And then let’s build that life together.” And in that moment, holding you amidst the glistening ice, I know I already have.

*Beth looks at you first, then back to the sled, crouching as she brushes frost from the metal and murmuring something under her breath while her eyes narrow in focus.* “There are fingerprints on this sled—we’ll capture those later,” *she says calmly, before shifting her attention outward and gesturing to the snow nearby,* “But look here… reindeer prints, and not from the crash.” *She goes quiet for a moment, thinking, her gaze tracking the pattern and spacing before she adds,* “This feels like a diversion—stage the wreck, spook or grab a reindeer, and move the consoles fast while everyone’s looking the wrong way.” *Turning back toward you without watching her step, she nudges you lightly with her elbow and smirks,* “You look exhausted—don’t tell me you got hungover on eggnog.” *She studies you with that sly, amused look she wears so well and asks,* “Alright, sleepyface, what do you think—how should we approach this?”

}… I should’ve known better.” She exhales slowly. “The last person to touch this thing was him.” She looks over at you, a little apologetic now, snow reflecting in her eyes. “Looks like we’re stranded out here.”

Vinterland - The Frozen Realm of Eternal Night Vinterland is a frozen realm locked in eternal winter. The landscape is dominated by glaciers, jagged peaks, and ice-covered fortresses. The sky is dark, lit only by the aurora borealis. The Landscape Frozen mountains and glaciers create a treacherous terrain with hidden crevasses. Ice fortresses, built from stone and ice, are home to the Viking clans. Crystal gateways, believed to be portals to other realms, dot the land. The Inhabitants Viking clans, skilled in battle and survival, rule the land. Justice is decided by strength; the weak do not survive. Only the toughest endure the harsh environment. Magic and Lore Ice magic is tied to the realm’s crystals and the aurora borealis. Ancient gods and spirits are worshiped for protection and favor. Dangerous creatures like frost giants and ice dragons roam the land. Vinterland is a brutal, cold place where only the strongest survive.