christmas

by Linda Tiepelman

Whispers of the Winter Sprite

In the heart of the Arctic wilderness, where the sky dances with vibrant hues of green and pink, the legend of Aeliana, the Winter Sprite, was born. Clad in a gown woven from the very essence of winter itself, trimmed with the softest white fur from creatures that roamed the tundra, Aeliana was the embodiment of the season’s stark beauty. Her wings, massive and majestic, mirrored the evergreen boughs of the ancient pines, each needle glistening with a touch of frost that caught the ethereal light of the aurora borealis.The villagers nestled in the valley below held tales of Aeliana passed down through generations, a spirit of the solstice, both revered and whispered about in hushed tones during the long winter nights. Children would press their faces against cold windows, eyes wide in the hope of catching a glimpse of her serene visage, as she glided silently over the snow-laden forests.On the eve of the Winter Solstice, as the auroras swirled overhead in a symphony of light, Aeliana’s presence was felt strongest. The animals of the wild—wolves, foxes, and even the stoic owls—paused in their nocturnal pursuits, drawn to the clearing where she descended. Her arrival was always silent, a descent as soft as the snowflakes that accompanied her.The sprite's touch brought harmony to the wilderness; where her feet touched, the ice would sparkle brighter, and the pines stood a little taller, their branches heavy with the weight of winter’s bounty. Even the air seemed to hush in anticipation of her yearly vigil.Aeliana’s task was one of great importance. With her evergreen wings, she embraced the forest, protecting the slumbering life that lay dormant beneath the ice. Her song, a melody that resonated with the whispered secrets of the earth, carried the promise of renewal and growth. It was an ancient magic, a cycle of life, death, and rebirth that she nurtured with her very being.As the longest night stretched its shadows across the land, Aeliana would raise her arms to the sky, her fingers tracing the arcs of the Northern Lights. Each movement was a note in the silent music that orchestrated the transition from the dark of winter to the light of spring.As dawn approached, with the first light of the sun threatening to peek over the horizon, Aeliana’s form would begin to fade, her work for the season coming to an end. She left behind a trail of glittering frost, a sign of her passing and a promise that she would return.The villagers would emerge from their homes, hearts warmed by the magic of the night. They knew that Aeliana, the guardian of winter’s majesty, had once again ensured the balance of nature. And as the seasons turned, they waited, knowing that when the winter’s curtain once again fell upon the land, Aeliana would be there, whispering life into the silence of the snow, her legacy as enduring as the stars above.

by Bill Tiepelman

The Guardian of the Northern Myst

In the heart of the eternal winter, beneath the celestial ballet of the aurora borealis, rests a forgotten realm where time whispers through the frost-laden trees, and the very air is steeped in enchantment. This is the domain of Sorenthar the Ageless, the venerable guardian of the Northern Myst—a mysterious expanse veiled in secrets as old as the cosmos itself.Sorenthar, clad in armor wrought from the essence of winter’s might, stands as a sentinel, his presence as unyielding as the mountains that cradle the horizon. He is the keeper of tales untold, a warrior cloaked in the silence of snow, his eyes reflecting the depth of ancient wisdom. His realm is a tapestry of legends, where the trees murmur in forgotten tongues and the ground remembers the footsteps of gods.Perched with noble grace behind him is Drathenor, the magnificent dragon, his scales shimmering with the aurora’s glow. The dragon’s wings, vast and powerful, are rumored to have been crafted in the heavens, kissed by the northern lights and woven with the threads of night. Drathenor’s breath, a tempest of ice and wind, wields the power to reshape the very fabric of reality.As darkness shrouds the land, Sorenthar takes his watch, the Frostsword in hand. The ancient blade, encased in eternal frost, holds a core of winter’s fiercest chill, its edge a sliver of the night’s piercing cold. The sword's haunting luminescence pierces the shadowed wilderness, a beacon for any who dare to traverse the frozen wastes.The legends speak of Sorenthar and Drathenor as the guardians at the gateway to a realm of boundless magic, where the spirits of the woods sing in harmony with the raw elements of nature. Adventurers and seekers of arcane knowledge have long been lured by the promise of the Northern Myst’s hidden powers, yet none have returned to tell the tale, their fates entwined with the very mysteries they sought to unveil.On this fateful night, the aurora swells to a resplendent crescendo, painting the sky with vibrant hues of an otherworldly storm. Sorenthar senses a profound shift in the air, a prelude to the awakening of an age-old prophecy. The winds carry whispers of destiny, and the guardian steadies himself for the unfurling of events foretold in epochs past.With Drathenor at his flank, Sorenthar stands not merely as a protector but as a beacon of constancy against the tides of time. Here, beneath the stars’ eternal gaze, each snowflake carries a tale of yore, each gust of wind an echo of the past, and each shimmering light a harbinger of the mystic unknown. Together, they wait, the guardian and the dragon, for the prophecy to manifest, ready to defend the Northern Myst or to embrace the dawn of a new era written in the annals of the ancient winter sky.