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Description
In the middle of the icy wastes there stood an evergreen tree. Through the years it had strove to grow where nothing else would, obstinately battling the harsh, howling winds and frigid temperature, anchoring its roots deep down where the snow could not get at it, pushing its trunk ever upward in a valiant attempt to thrive in spite of circumstances.

This was now sadly undermined by the string of antlered creatures draped precariously on its sagging branches.

[That was not the only indignity the tree was made to suffer: Upon its crown also rested a big floppy red hat; a little further down, its large-bellied, red-coated owner lay insensible upon more branches that very likely were not going to remain part of the tree for long.]

Not far from the evergreen, beside a red wooden sleigh that had ploughed into the snow, huddled two figures over a sputtering lantern. One was a blond, bearded knight sporting a thoroughly inadequate – though handsome – cloak with a fur lined hood. The other was a diminutive red dragon with a surly disposition and unbecomingly pink wings. They were yelling at each other. This, if the reader is not already aware, is entirely normal behavior in their company.

This was what the knight was shouting: "Of all the stupid things I’ve seen you do, you gorbellied wretch of a dragon–"

"For the last time, it’s not my fault!" insisted the dragon hotly. "I saw a red glow in the distance, and assumed-" "-Assumed!!" – "that they were embers; and then there were all those branches, so I thought we’d reached a town –"

"In the middle of the sky?" demanded the knight – Sir Aidan the Horseless as the people knew him – making a violent gesture at the darkened heavens. "And you just decided to dive right down into it? Gargoyle’s withered wings! Do you not remember the last time you attempted such a foolhardy stunt, you ridiculous beast, and they came at us with flaming brands and pitchforks? – And branches, what rot! those are antlers! Have maggots eaten your brain and dulled your eyes, Wilbur?"

"I don’t know what those are," Wilbur said petulantly. "And I don’t care what they’re called; they look like branches to me." [Conveniently forgetting that he had recently, mistakenly, eaten two of Farmer Hyrum’s deer and his prize bull, all three of which sprouted similarly pointy things on their heads.] "And I don’t see why I should take the blame, anyway, when you’re the one in possession of that strange box with the floating needle, that you obtained from that trader back in Fairweather."

Sir Aidan rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I told you, the water froze. Without it we’re cast adrift in the darkness."

Wilbur wisely chose not to press the point, and instead cast a furtive glance at the bizarrely festooned fir. "Who was that we just collided with, anyway?"

"Him?" Now the knight looked worried; his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I cannot say for certain, but rumours are abound that out here in these wastes there is an ice castle, in which dwells a mysterious old man with glabrous head and flowing beard. It is said that he is served by strange looking folk no taller than children, and that when the nights grow long he dons a red coat and cape and soars through the skies, driven by beasts of burden. I know not what manner of man be he; but one who can make deer fly in the air like birds must be a wizard, and a dark one at that."

He shuddered involuntarily. "If we were not hopelessly lost, I would recommend that we flee immediately, lest he practice his vile brand of maleficium upon us and turn us into something miserable. As it is, we must risk making camp, and settle until dawn." He shivered again. "This lantern won’t stay alight for long. Now if only you could breathe fire –"

"You do it, if you think it’s so easy," Wilbur growled crossly, "and anyway, it’s not as if we have wood to burn… except for that one tree with the animals in it.” He suddenly looked hopeful. “Hey, look – perhaps, if some of those beasts have died, maybe we could… eat a few?"

Sir Aidan sighed. "If we are to be cursed, we might as well be well-nourished first," he said resignedly. "Just not that one with the glowing nose; it looks positively pestilential."

As if on cue, the old corpulent man on the tree began to stir. "Oh," he moaned pitifully, clutching his bald head, "Oh, oh, oh."

---------------------

Murphy's Law: If something can go wrong, Wilbur and Sir Aidan will find a way to do it.

I know, I know. There have been no sightings of the pair for the longest time, you'd think I'd forgotten about them. Only I haven't, have I?

Merry Christmas (or Season's Tidings, whichever you prefer) to all my viewers!

Sir Aidan christened by `DragonWinter . All characters depicted here are the property of Farlander.

If you have no idea who Sir Aidan and Wilbur are, check out Knight , Alcohol , Shineslug Juice , or Egg .

Description
In the middle of the icy wastes there stood an evergreen tree. Through the years it had strove to grow where nothing else would, obstinately battling the harsh, howling winds and frigid temperature, anchoring its roots deep down where the snow could not get at it, pushing its trunk ever upward in a valiant attempt to thrive in spite of circumstances.

This was now sadly undermined by the string of antlered creatures draped precariously on its sagging branches.

[That was not the only indignity the tree was made to suffer: Upon its crown also rested a big floppy red hat; a little further down, its large-bellied, red-coated owner lay insensible upon more branches that very likely were not going to remain part of the tree for long.]

Not far from the evergreen, beside a red wooden sleigh that had ploughed into the snow, huddled two figures over a sputtering lantern. One was a blond, bearded knight sporting a thoroughly inadequate – though handsome – cloak with a fur lined hood. The other was a diminutive red dragon with a surly disposition and unbecomingly pink wings. They were yelling at each other. This, if the reader is not already aware, is entirely normal behavior in their company.

This was what the knight was shouting: "Of all the stupid things I’ve seen you do, you gorbellied wretch of a dragon–"

"For the last time, it’s not my fault!" insisted the dragon hotly. "I saw a red glow in the distance, and assumed-" "-Assumed!!" – "that they were embers; and then there were all those branches, so I thought we’d reached a town –"

"In the middle of the sky?" demanded the knight – Sir Aidan the Horseless as the people knew him – making a violent gesture at the darkened heavens. "And you just decided to dive right down into it? Gargoyle’s withered wings! Do you not remember the last time you attempted such a foolhardy stunt, you ridiculous beast, and they came at us with flaming brands and pitchforks? – And branches, what rot! those are antlers! Have maggots eaten your brain and dulled your eyes, Wilbur?"

"I don’t know what those are," Wilbur said petulantly. "And I don’t care what they’re called; they look like branches to me." [Conveniently forgetting that he had recently, mistakenly, eaten two of Farmer Hyrum’s deer and his prize bull, all three of which sprouted similarly pointy things on their heads.] "And I don’t see why I should take the blame, anyway, when you’re the one in possession of that strange box with the floating needle, that you obtained from that trader back in Fairweather."

Sir Aidan rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I told you, the water froze. Without it we’re cast adrift in the darkness."

Wilbur wisely chose not to press the point, and instead cast a furtive glance at the bizarrely festooned fir. "Who was that we just collided with, anyway?"

"Him?" Now the knight looked worried; his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I cannot say for certain, but rumours are abound that out here in these wastes there is an ice castle, in which dwells a mysterious old man with glabrous head and flowing beard. It is said that he is served by strange looking folk no taller than children, and that when the nights grow long he dons a red coat and cape and soars through the skies, driven by beasts of burden. I know not what manner of man be he; but one who can make deer fly in the air like birds must be a wizard, and a dark one at that."

He shuddered involuntarily. "If we were not hopelessly lost, I would recommend that we flee immediately, lest he practice his vile brand of maleficium upon us and turn us into something miserable. As it is, we must risk making camp, and settle until dawn." He shivered again. "This lantern won’t stay alight for long. Now if only you could breathe fire –"

"You do it, if you think it’s so easy," Wilbur growled crossly, "and anyway, it’s not as if we have wood to burn… except for that one tree with the animals in it.” He suddenly looked hopeful. “Hey, look – perhaps, if some of those beasts have died, maybe we could… eat a few?"

Sir Aidan sighed. "If we are to be cursed, we might as well be well-nourished first," he said resignedly. "Just not that one with the glowing nose; it looks positively pestilential."

As if on cue, the old corpulent man on the tree began to stir. "Oh," he moaned pitifully, clutching his bald head, "Oh, oh, oh."

---------------------

Murphy's Law: If something can go wrong, Wilbur and Sir Aidan will find a way to do it.

I know, I know. There have been no sightings of the pair for the longest time, you'd think I'd forgotten about them. Only I haven't, have I?

Merry Christmas (or Season's Tidings, whichever you prefer) to all my viewers!

Sir Aidan christened by `DragonWinter . All characters depicted here are the property of Farlander.

If you have no idea who Sir Aidan and Wilbur are, check out Knight , Alcohol , Shineslug Juice , or Egg .