The morning fog hung heavy over the village of Dromstead as Santa and Bernard descended the rocky footpath leading down from the high forested hills of Evela. Bernard, walking steadily with his travel staff, kept a wary eye on the buildings below: stone cottages clustered around a central green, with crooked chimneys puffing thin streams of smoke into the damp air.

"Remember, Neik," Bernard said, using Santa’s old name with familiarity, "Humans of this world are not always kind to those they deem… different."

Santa, pulling his fur-lined cloak closer against the damp chill, smiled broadly. "We bring gifts of joy, Bernard. Who could turn away joy?"

Bernard simply grunted. "You’ll see."

From the moment they entered Dromstead, problems began to brew.

At first, it was small things:

The townsfolk whispered as they passed. Neik — now Santa — was large, hearty, and rosy-cheeked, standing out against the thin, dour faces of Dromstead’s fishermen and traders. Bernard’s slightly pointed ears, peeking from beneath his hood, did not go unnoticed either.

At the town square, Santa attempted to buy bread and cider with carved wooden tokens — common enough in Evela — but here, they were greeted with sneers.

"We don't trade in trinkets, stranger," snarled the baker, slapping Santa’s offering off the counter.

A small girl approached Bernard, marveling at the faint shimmer of magic about him. Bernard, smiling, bent to conjure a small light from his hand — a harmless fairy trick. But the crowd gasped in terror, backing away.

"Witchcraft!" an old woman shrieked. "The Devil's work!"

Within moments, a group of burly men with clubs and axes began to gather.

The people of Dromstead were tough, poor, and deeply suspicious.  Failed harvests and deadly storms had left the town embittered. They were eager for scapegoats.  Anything "different" was dangerous to them — especially magic, which they associated with old dark tales.   Dromstead’s people prided themselves on self-reliance and hard work, but superstition gripped their hearts harder than reason.

Sensing that matters were about to turn deadly, Bernard muttered to Santa, "Time to leave, or you'll find out how well a jolly face protects against a noose."

"But we came to help!" Santa protested.

Bernard yanked Santa’s cloak. "And you will — but not here, not today."

The two fled down the muddy streets, chased by a few angry townsmen. Santa, despite his bulk, proved surprisingly swift, hoisting Bernard bodily over a fence at one point when his shorter legs could not keep up.

They didn’t stop running until they reached the edge of the woods, where the mists swallowed them once again.

That evening, under the sheltering boughs of an ancient spruce, they kindled a small fire.

Bernard sipped his tea grimly. "You see, Santa — not every place is ready for kindness wrapped in mystery. Some hearts must be warmed before they can accept gifts."

Santa poked the fire thoughtfully. "Then we shall find a way, Bernard. If fear is their first reaction, we must teach them joy... carefully. Patiently."

He looked up at the stars twinkling overhead, and made a silent vow.

One day, even the coldest heart in Dromstead would smile at the sound of a sleigh bell.