Foundations in the Snow
The North Pole of Dondavar - November 1508
The journey to the center of Evela was grueling.
As the company left the Reindeer Fields behind, the soft greens and golds of late autumn faded into a bleak and barren white. Rolling hills became sharp ridges. The fields gave way to icy plains where nothing moved but the wind, which grew fiercer by the hour. It howled across the open land like a living thing, carrying the sting of snow and the scent of something ancient — a crisp, still magic that hung beneath the clouds.
Even the hardy Elves began to slow. Their cloaks flapped violently in the gale, and their breath rose like pale ribbons of steam in the freezing air. Mera wrapped a scarf around her nose and mouth, while Lira tucked small packets of warming herbs into the mittens of those who had begun to shiver.
Santa — still known as Neik to some of them — marched at the front, his red cloak cinched tight. His beard was now flecked with frost, and his cheeks were redder than ever, but he showed no sign of slowing. “This wind,” he said between steps, “has opinions!”
Bernard grunted in reply. “It doesn’t like visitors.”
On the fifth morning, just after sunrise — though the sun barely peeked above the horizon anymore — they crested a long, snow-swept ridge. Below them stretched a wide basin: flat, glittering white, ringed by low hills like a crown of frost. The sky above was slate gray, but for a moment, a shaft of light broke through the clouds and lit the land below.
It was empty. Untouched. Fiercely cold.
But something about it stirred the soul.
“This,” Santa said, planting his boots into the crusted snow, “feels right.”
Bernard scanned the horizon. “It feels cold.”
Santa laughed and clapped him on the back. “Then let’s build something warm.”
They set to work at once.
Lira, ever the organizer, took charge of shelter construction. Using techniques passed down through generations of Elven crafters, she wove together long branches of spruce and pine, then packed snow tightly into the walls for insulation. The shelters were small and dome-like — cozy rather than grand. But they held firm, even when the wind shrieked across the plain.
Fenril vanished into the wilds and returned with a bounty of game: hares, ptarmigans, and once, miraculously, a pair of caribou antlers — shed naturally, he said, from a herd that had passed nearby. These he strung over the main shelter entrance like a symbol of blessing.
Mera found herbs tucked beneath frozen moss and brewed them into teas that warmed the bones. She also prepared salves for cracked skin and frostbite, muttering about how stubborn some of the men were about wearing gloves.
Bernard found a long, fallen log near the edge of a frozen stream and repurposed it into a carving bench. He set up a central fire ring, surrounded by stones, and kept it burning day and night with scavenged wood and dried peat.
Santa moved constantly between projects — hauling stone, stacking snow, carving beams. His hands were never idle. When one of the shelters collapsed halfway through construction, he was the first to leap into the snow and rebuild it from scratch. "Good foundation work!" he declared. "Now let’s do it again, this time without the part where it falls on Bernard."
They laughed often. Even when their hands ached. Even when the cold crept into their boots.
The heart of the camp — a natural hollow between two hills — soon became the site of their first permanent structure: a workshop.
It began as a simple windbreak, but quickly took shape under Lira’s guidance. Planks of scavenged wood were laid across snow-packed earth. Stones from nearby ridges were fitted into a half-circle hearth. Bits of colored cloth were strung above the entrance like banners. Inside, the walls were soon hung with tools, paints, and scraps of cloth and wood.
The workshop buzzed with life.
Lira carved spinning tops, small horses, dolls, and flutes. She worked swiftly but with great care, etching details into every creation.
Bernard fashioned mittens, hats, and scarves from scraps of wool and leftover cloth — all salvaged or gifted by Elves of Lone Pine. He stitched colorful patterns into the hems: stars, bells, evergreens, and reindeer.
Fenril, though quiet, forged simple tools at a stone-lined forge pit he built himself. Hatchets, fishhooks, hammers, and awls. Not beautiful, but strong. Reliable.
Santa, at his bench, made things that were a little of everything: carved figures, whistles, puzzle boxes, sled miniatures. Each was carefully sanded smooth, then painted with natural berry dyes and pine pitch for gloss. His favorite was a snowbird with wings that flapped when you pulled a string.
They worked long into the night, often singing to keep warm. Songs from the human towns. Ballads from the Elven woods. Even a few tunes Santa made up on the spot.
Then came the first great snowstorm.
It rolled in from the west, swallowing the stars and shaking the walls of their shelters. Snow piled against the doors. The wind whistled like a thousand tiny flutes.
But inside the workshop, it was warm. The fire burned bright. Laughter filled the air. And as the storm raged outside, something strange began to happen.
The snow outside began to shimmer.
Not just sparkle, but glow faintly — a soft, silvery hue that danced like starlight on fresh snow. The fire seemed warmer than it should be. And the air… the air held a softness, like the world itself was listening.
Mera said it best, as she set a pot of tea on the hearth. “You are not just building a village,” she whispered to Santa. “You are awakening the heart of Evela itself.”
They didn’t speak after that — not for a moment. Just listened to the storm, and the silence underneath it.
By the end of the month, they had crafted several dozen gifts — not just trinkets, but treasures of real use and beauty.
Woolen scarves and hats, stitched with bright thread.
Carved toys for children: wooden sheep, painted boats, jointed dolls with berry-blush cheeks.
Tools for farmers and fishermen: hammers, lures, knives.
Herbal bundles, healing salves, firewood tied with braided ivy.
And each one bore no name. No price. No message of ownership.
Just a simple symbol carved into the corner of every gift:
🌟 A five-pointed star in a circle — the Star of Giving, designed by Santa himself.
One evening, as the aurora danced across the sky like green fire, Santa gathered his companions around the fire.
“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice steady and full of hope, “we travel south.”
“We will leave these gifts quietly, at the edge of Dromstead. No boasts. No explanations. Just… wonder.”
Bernard raised an eyebrow. “You think a few toys and mittens will thaw those frozen hearts?”
Santa grinned. “Not all at once. But it’s a beginning.”
And around him, the Elves nodded — even Calindor, the sternest among them.
The Christmas Spirit had taken root.
And soon… it would bloom.