Toward Lone Pine
Dromstad - September 1508
After their rough welcome in Dromsad, Neik and Bernard struck northward, leaving behind the misty shores and wary-eyed townsfolk. The path quickly grew wilder as they left the settled lands behind — winding through thick coniferous forests, frost-dusted glades, and open grassy plains that shimmered silver beneath the cold starlight.
By day, they followed animal tracks and forgotten deer paths, their breath steaming in the morning air. By night, they huddled beneath pine boughs or in shallow caves, sipping pine needle tea and roasting root vegetables over smokeless fires. Bernard knew which lichens could be brewed into broth, which bark could be boiled for warmth. Neik, still learning, proved eager and curious — always offering to gather firewood or carry an extra pack.
Sometimes, they spotted reindeer watching from distant knolls — quiet silhouettes with steady eyes and breath like fog. Other times, the flicker of fairy lights danced along the tree trunks, fleeting and distant, like will-o’-the-wisps. But none dared approach. Magic, it seemed, was observing them — cautious but curious.
On the third morning, a frosty breeze swept down from the northern slopes, and the forest began to thin. They crested a low ridge, their boots crunching over frozen moss and flake-crusted stone.
Below lay the Forest of Lone Pine.
Nestled at the edge of the Reindeer Fields, the woodland spread like a deep green quilt, its canopy broken only once — by a single towering pine tree, silvered with age and legend, standing sentinel at the center of the grove. Its trunk was impossibly wide, bark spiraled and scarred with symbols older than language. Branches like outstretched arms brushed the sky, their tips etched with frost.
“There,” Bernard said, pointing toward it. “The Elves of Lone Pine dwell among its roots. They are old and careful — but wise. If anyone in this world will listen, it’s them.”
As they descended into the forest, the temperature dropped, and the silence deepened. The trees whispered with age, and the air held a hush that felt reverent. Then, as if summoned by the weight of intent, slim figures emerged from the undergrowth — silent and swift.
The Elves of Lone Pine wore cloaks the color of bark and moss. They moved with the ease of wind through branches. They were smaller than Bernard — delicate-featured and ageless, their expressions unreadable and their eyes like starlight through green glass.
“You come from the south,” said their leader, a slender Elf with pale braids and a bow slung across his back. His voice held no hostility, only caution. “And you bring magic… or trouble.”
Bernard bowed low in greeting, the tip of his staff touching the mossy ground. “We bring an idea,” he said simply.
At first, the Elves were skeptical. They had already heard of the disturbances in Dromstead. Humans, they knew too well, could be quick to judge and slow to understand. And Bernard — though part Elf — was not of their tribe. Neik was something stranger still.
Still, the Elves allowed the travelers to enter the grove and sit beside the central tree. Fires were kindled — low and blue, giving off heat but little smoke. The air smelled of pine and simmered broth. Quietly, conversations began.
Neik offered gifts — simple things carved from the same sea chest that had saved his life: small animals, a curling sleigh, a tiny tree. He shared food from his pack, passing around strips of salted herring and dried apple rings. And when a child dropped a wooden doll, breaking it in two, Neik smiled and repaired it with his carving knife, his fingers deft and gentle.
The gesture did more than fix the toy. It broke the silence.
Lira, a bright-eyed craftswoman among the Elves, leaned forward. “You carved that without magic,” she said. “You shaped it with care.”
“With love,” Neik replied.
Later, under the stars, Neik stood among the gathered Elves and spoke. His voice, deep and warm, carried on the wind like a tale long overdue.
“I have seen what fear does to the heart,” he said, “and I have seen what joy can undo. My dream is to kindle something greater than mere survival or suspicion. I want to bring a spirit to this land — a spirit of giving without expectation, kindness without reason, and wonder without fear.”
He paused, letting the crackle of fire and the rustle of trees fill the space.
“One night each year, we will celebrate this spirit.
We will give gifts, tell stories, sing songs, and light the darkest corners with laughter and light.
Not for gold. Not for glory.
Simply because it is right.”
The grove was quiet. A few Elves exchanged glances — uncertain, but not dismissive. Among them, one or two nodded, slowly.
At last, Calindor, the leader, stepped forward. His gaze was steady. “Your words are noble, stranger. But your spirit will need a home.”
That night, the elders of Lone Pine gathered in council beneath the ancient tree. They spoke in hushed voices, weighed history against hope, and considered what might come of such an idea.
In the end, their decision was cautious but supportive.
“If you seek to bring this spirit to all peoples — Elf, Human, Fairy, or Beast — then it must come from a place unclaimed. A place belonging to none, yet welcoming to all.”
Calindor drew a rough map in the earth with the tip of a polished stick.
“In the center of Evela lies the coldest land. A frozen plain of wind and snow. The ancients called it the North Pole.”
Bernard frowned. “It’s barren. Tundra. No one lives there.”
“Precisely,” Calindor said. “It is untouched. Pure. If you would build a village to carry this Spirit, let it rise from nothing but dreams and dedication.”
Neik’s face lit up, as if an ember deep inside had just been fanned to flame. The light behind his bright blue eyes seemed to catch the firelight and amplify it.
“Then that’s where we’ll go.”
That night, after the council reached its decision, a ceremonial gathering was held beneath the great Lone Pine. The grove glowed with blue firelight as Calindor stepped forward, holding a carved staff wrapped in silver thread.
“Neik Klass,” he said, his voice solemn and clear, “you carry a spirit this land has not yet known — one of giving, warmth, and joy without demand. If you are to walk this path, you must do so with a name that can be spoken in all lands, among all peoples.”
He raised the staff.
“From this night forward, you shall be known as **Santa Claus** — the one who brings light in the dark, and hope where there is none.”
Neik bowed deeply, emotion catching in his throat. “I accept,” he whispered. “And I will not let the name down.”
Calindor turned to Bernard. “And you, Bernard — you will be his guide and assistant until his foundation is strong. Help him learn what must be learned.”
Bernard gave a low bow. “Gladly. He has the heart for it.”
And so, beneath the great tree, the name *Santa Claus* was born — not as a legend, but as a promise.
At dawn, Santa and Bernard set out once more — but not alone.
A small company of Elves joined them, each chosen for their skill and resolve. Calindor, the leader, remained cautious but committed. Lira carried a pack full of tools, patterns, and seeds, already dreaming of buildings and gardens. Fenril, sharp-eyed and silent, was a scout and hunter, his bow always within reach. And Mera, a healer, brought herbs, bandages, and a quiet strength that steadied them all.
Together, they marched north across the Reindeer Fields. The wind tugged at their cloaks, and the tall green-gold grasses rippled like an endless sea beneath the pale sky.
Somewhere ahead, beneath the auroras and drifting snow, lay a land untouched — a place where magic, kindness, and hope could take root.
And so, with every step, they walked not just toward a place… but toward a beginning.
The first foundations of what would someday become Santa's Village — the beating heart of the Christmas Spirit — lay just beyond the next rise.