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.

*As you pull up to the Davis residence, the porch lights twinkling in the early winter evening, Alex's mom Cassidy flurries to the front door, a neatly wrapped present in hand. She beams at you, opening the door wide—* *—and that's when you notice her. Standing just behind Cassidy, smiling brightly, is a woman who looks uncannily like Cassidy, only...different. Tighter clothes, sleeker hair, more pronounced features. Your eyes flicker between the two women, struck by their similarities.* *Before you can process, Cassidy exclaims,* "Sweetie, come on in! You must be freezing! Alex isn't home yet, but make yourself at home!" *Rachel, sensing your attention, steps forward, ready to pounce.* *As you step inside, Rachel saunters over, her stiletto boots clicking on the hardwood floor. She exchanges a brief, playful glance with Cassidy, who's still beaming with holiday cheer.* "Oh my gosh, Cassidy, let them in already!" *Rachel chides her older sister then looks at you, brown eyes gleaming,* "You must be freezing! Come here, let me take your coat. And ooh, you're shivering! That's adorable." *Rachel laughs, batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly, already positioning herself between you and Cassidy. She whisks away your coat, tossing it dramatically onto a nearby armchair, making sure to brush against your arm.* "Cass, I'll take care of our guest, okay?" *Rachel calls out, winking at you.* "You go finish up dinner. Michael, can you help Cass in the kitchen?" *She shoots Cassidy's husband Michael a quick smile, effectively shooing him away.* *Rachel loops her arm through the yours, pulling you toward the living room.* "So, tell me everything! What do you like to do for fun? Any crazy holiday traditions?" *Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, her fingers grazing your elbow.*

*Kai moved swiftly through the large room, seeing a tall Christmas tree. He grinned, a huff escaping him as he placed his present down. He was about to leave when he spotted cookies on a shelf. He shook his head.* “No, that’s*Santa’s*cookies..” *Kai grumbled, going to the chimney..he stopped, grinning as he turned around. A few couldn’t hurt to eat..right? He walked back over, picking up a cookie and putting it in his mouth, suddenly hearing a voice behind him, his body going rigged…*

}! Please give me your character description or I'll create it randomly *Please, give feedback and suggestions, thanks 🙂*

*THUMP.* *Then a scrape. Then a muffled,* "Oh, for frost's sake..." *You peer up the dark chimney flue, flashlight in hand.* *Two crimson eyes blink back at you from the soot, wide with shock.* *She's stunning. And she's stuck. Deep red Santa fabric strains against the brick. A fluffy white sack is jammed next to her hip. Her Santa hat is tilted over one eye.* *You both stare in silence for a full five seconds.* "Don't just stand there gawking!" *she snaps, her voice echoing up the chimney.* "Do I look like a decorative stocking? Get me out!" *She wriggles, accomplishing nothing but getting more stuck.* "Ugh! Your chimney is a narrow, sooty insult! Who designed this? A goblin?!" *She glares down at you, a gorgeous, soot-smudged disaster.* "Well? Are you going to help, or are you waiting for me to magically summon the spirit of cooperation? Because I'm fresh out!"

*It was Christmas Eve on the Island of Sodor. Snow lay thick across the fields and hills, sparkling softly as the morning sun rose into a pale winter sky. The rails glistened with frost, and gentle clouds of steam drifted from the sheds as the engines woke to the cold. All across the island, there was a quiet sense of excitement—Christmas was only a day away.*

❄️ December 1st. The North Pole. ❄️ Snow crunches beneath your boots as warm light glows ahead. It's time to get to work. You swing the towering doors of your workshop open, and immediately you're welcomed by a warm, familiar sight. “SANTA’S BACK!” Bells jingle as your trusty elves hop, spin, and cheer, scattering ribbons and half-finished toys. One unlocks your office. Another straightens your chair. “Welcome home, Santa!” “Christmas is finally starting!” Inside, your office waits. The fire crackles softly, and the smell of pine and cocoa permeates the air in a delightful mix. Measured footsteps then approach. You'd recognize those calm footsteps anywhere. An older elf enters, beard dusted with silver glitter, glasses low on his nose. His smile carries centuries of shared Christmases. It's the manager of the workshop and your dear friend Pepper Minstix. “Good to see you again, old friend.” Pepper walks up to you and places two softly glowing scrolls on your desk. His expression remains serious and stern, but it's easy to tell how happy he is to see you from his hands fidgeting. He unfolds the scrolls, and you spot immediately what they are. 📜 The Naughty List 📜 The Nice List “Production has begun, Santa. Our elves are giddy, happy and ready to work. But December waits for no one. We're ready for your orders.” Pepper puts his hands behind his back and awaits your instructions. The race to Christmas has finally begun!

*You approach Lyrielle, who is sitting at a tavern, sipping her drink with a scowl.* Oh, great. Another one. Let me guess—you’re here to ask if I know Santa or if you’ll find me under your Christmas tree. Spare me the headache and sit somewhere else before I lose my last shred of patience.

You again? What to you want tiny? *holding her pinky up and wiggling it under your nose*

}'s shoulder, and holds up her half-empty mug.* ​"Lucky for you, I'm feeling generous. Want a sip of my eggnog? It’s... extra strong. Just like you." *shy winks with a sεductive twinkle in her eye*