Minutes Before the Merry Meltdown
Frostmarket Row always looked best when you were just far enough away not to smell it.
From a distance, it was all twinkling light orbs, garlands, and snow dusted over centuries-old cobblestones like powdered sugar. Up close, it was burnt chestnuts, wet wool, questionable perfume, and that one mulled wine stall that smelled like someone tried to simmer regret with cloves and hoped for the best.
Right in the middle of it all stood the unofficial, uninvited, and entirely unnecessary “Patron Mage of Seasonal Nuisances” himself: Brulk Emberwhisker, the Mulling-Spiced Mage of Frostmarket Row.
His beard was a fully committed fire hazard, wrapped in strings of glowing lights that had been woven through the silver waves so many years in a row that no one remembered what his face looked like without them. Dried orange slices, cinnamon sticks, sprigs of evergreen, and star anise clung to his hat and coat like he’d mugged a wreath and won.
He planted the base of his crooked, ornament-cluttered staff against the stone and squinted smugly down the lane, watching the market finish waking up.
“You can feel it in the air,” he muttered, voice thick as old brandy. “Drama is preheating.”
To the left, the Carolers’ Collective was assembling in front of their little stage: six elves in color-coordinated scarves, their sheet music laminated like they’d seen things. Their leader, Vesperella High-Note, was already doing vocal warmups loud enough to crack icicles.
“Me-me-meeeeeee-EEEEEEEEEEE—”
Three reindeer at the adjacent stall flinched in unison. One dropped a decorative bell. Somewhere a baby started crying. One of the street lanterns flickered like it was reconsidering its existence.
“Still got it,” Vesperella said, smirking, as if she hadn’t just assaulted the atmosphere.
Directly across from them, the Ornamental Guild of Frostmarket fussed over their displays. Rows of glossy baubles, hand-blown glass ornaments, and glitter-saturated atrocities with googly eyes shimmered in the lamplight. Their leader, a gnome with aggressively styled eyebrows named Glinter Fizzhook, stood on a crate with a clipboard.
“Remember, team,” Glinter barked, adjusting his candy-cane spectacles, “our presentation must scream elevated festive opulence, not ‘seasonal clearance bin at the bargain barn.’ If I see one more crooked hook, I swear on my grandmother’s nutcracker collection I will lose it.”
From further down the lane, the third faction trudged into view: the Snow-Sculptors’ Syndicate. A line of bundled-up figures dragged sleds and carts filled with packed snow and chiseled blocks, metal tools clanking with each step. At their head lumbered a massive dwarf named Thrum Snowjaw, wearing a scarf that looked like it had personally strangled winters past.
He took one look at the carolers’ stage and the ornament stalls and grunted.
“Oh good,” Thrum muttered. “The walking migraine choir and the glitter cartel are already here.”
Brulk’s beard lights flickered brighter. He could practically taste the tension.
“Frostmarket Drama League, assemble,” he whispered, grinning. “Papa’s ready.”
The feud, in theory, had started years ago over “creative differences.” In practice, it was over pettiness, ego, and a tragic surplus of free time.
- The Carolers insisted the market needed refined auditory ambiance, not “whatever chaos the rest of you do with your hands.”
- The Ornament Vendors were convinced they were “the backbone of visual holiday joy” and everyone else was set dressing at best.
- The Snow-Sculptors claimed their art was the only thing that would actually be remembered in the morning, because everything else ended up in a bin, a box, or the city’s digestive system after one too many cider tastings.
And in the middle of this, like a raccoon who’d learned magic for the sole purpose of making messes more interesting, lived Brulk.
He didn’t officially belong to any of the three factions. He belonged to the fourth, unofficial one: “Who Gave Him a Staff and Why Is He Still Allowed Here.”
The first spark of the evening arrived early.
Vesperella strutted over to the ornament stalls, scarf perfectly fluffed, sheet music tucked under one arm. Glinter saw her coming and sighed like his soul had a migraine.
“Ah,” he said flatly. “The lungs.”
“Good morning to you too, Glitter-Face,” she shot back sweetly. “We’re doing sound checks in ten. Just a reminder: the first three rows of stalls are in the auditory splash zone, so if you’ve got anything fragile, tacky, or emotionally unstable, might want to move it.”
Glinter blinked. Slowly.
“Everything here is fragile,” he said. “That’s the point. It’s called craftsmanship. You know, something you can’t autotune.”
Brulk snorted so hard one of his beard lights went out for a second.
From behind Glinter, one of the ornament apprentices whispered, “I heard last year she hit a note so high an entire row of snowmen’s heads exploded.”
“Urban legend,” another muttered. “It was only three snowmen.”
At the edge of earshot, Thrum Snowjaw slammed a block of snow down onto his carving table, sending a puff of powder into the air like a frosty smoke bomb.
“Could you two not start the holiday foreplay this early?” he bellowed. “Some of us are trying to work before the market turns into a full-contact choir rehearsal.”
Vesperella whipped around. “Excuse me, Shovel Beard?”
Thrum leaned on his chisel. “You heard me, Treble Trauma.”
Brulk patted his beard, satisfied. The night was developing nicely.
The official Frostmarket Council had tried many things to quell the ongoing feud:
- A shared schedule (“disregarded in under 24 hours”)
- A collaborative performance (“three fights, one broken snowman, zero claps”)
- An official decree that read, ‘Stop being insufferable.’
None of it worked.
So this year, they’d done something desperate: they’d asked Brulk to “serve as an impartial magical mediator.”
Which, in hindsight, was like asking a pyromaniac to manage the fireworks stand and “please not do anything weird.”
Brulk took the role extremely seriously for about nine seconds. Then he realized something: if the carolers, ornament vendors, and snow-sculptors were going to insist on acting like toddlers fighting over a single glitter pen, they might as well be entertaining about it.
Besides, he had a theory.
“Holiday magic,” he liked to say, “burns brightest when people are one passive-aggressive comment away from throwing tinsel.”
He shuffled to the center of the lane and drew a small circle in the air with his staff. Tiny sparks of orange and gold flickered, ringing his beard with an extra halo of light. He spoke a few quiet words, his voice low and wobbly like an old kettle just before it whistles.
The spell was simple. Harmless. Just a little enchantment to ensure that whenever someone in Frostmarket Row was petty, dramatic, or unnecessarily theatrical… the air around them would react.
Nothing terrible. Just a little visual feedback.
A faint shimmer. A glittery pop. Maybe the occasional festive sound effect.
“Just a touch of accountability,” Brulk said, reassuring exactly no one. “With seasonal flair.”
The spell settled over the street like a nearly invisible mist. The lanterns flickered, catching for a heartbeat in amber, then steadying.
No one seemed to notice—at first.
It started when Vesperella turned back toward her chorus and hissed, a little too loudly, “If the snow caveman calls me ‘Treble Trauma’ again, I’m belting ‘O Holy Night’ directly at his ice sculptures until they weep.”
Instantly, the air beside her popped with a small burst of glitter, and a faint jingle of bells chimed above her head.
She froze.
“Did… did you all see that?” she asked.
The elves exchanged looks.
“See what?” said one.
“Nothing,” said another, wiping glitter off their face.
Across the lane, Glinter turned to his apprentice and said under his breath, “Mark my words, if the carolers hit our display with a ‘silent night’ high note, I’m filing a noise complaint with the Council and a fashion complaint with whoever approved her scarf.”
Again, pop. A spray of sparkling orange and red light burst in the air, followed by the sound of a single, judgmental sleigh bell.
Glinter flinched. “Okay, who’s doing that? Is that you, Brulk? Are you live-editing my moods?”
From a bench nearby, Brulk feigned innocence so aggressively it was practically a confession.
“Must be the spirit of the season,” he said, stroking his beard as his lights pulsed in smug rhythm.
By the time the sun dipped behind the buildings and the market lights fully took over, Frostmarket Row looked like a snow globe someone had shaken too hard on purpose.
Carolers tuned. Ornament vendors primped. Snow-sculptors chiseled. And over everything, the mild-mannered drama spell quietly listened for petty thoughts, ready to respond with a glittery “I heard that.”
Brulk waddled to the exact center point between the three factions, planted his staff, and cleared his throat.
“Welcome, welcome, esteemed screamers, glitter-gremlins, and snow-greasers,” he announced. “As your official Magical Mediator and Unpaid Chaos Consultant, I’m here to ensure that tonight’s festivities are memorable.”
Thrum Snowjaw frowned. “Is it just me, or did ‘memorable’ sound like a threat?”
“It’s never just you,” Vesperella muttered.
Pop. A cascade of glitter fell between them.
Brulk smiled slowly, beard lights glowing brighter, reflecting in every ornament, icicle, and snowflake.
“Oh,” he said under his breath, “this is going to be beautifully messy.”
And as the first official song, first snow sculpture, and first ornament demonstration of the evening all prepared to launch at the same time, Frostmarket Row had no idea it was standing on the brink of the inaugural meeting of the Frostmarket Holiday Drama League.
They were about to find out.
The Evening the Drama Spell Hit Puberty
Night settled over Frostmarket Row like a velvet curtain — a curtain that, let's be honest, someone had definitely spilled mulled wine on last year and pretended was “distressed vintage.” Lanterns shimmered. Snowflakes fluttered. The market buzzed with a festive hum that was 70% holiday cheer and 30% pure emotional instability.
Right in the middle of it, Brulk Emberwhisker twirled his ornament-laden staff, oblivious to the fact that his “mild enchantment” was beginning to mature into something far less mild and far more… theatrical.
The trouble began the moment Vesperella High-Note stepped onto her caroler stage, hands on hips, scarf fluffed into what could only be described as weaponized knitwear. Her choir snapped to attention.
“All right, my little tone-elves,” she purred, “we’re opening with ‘Frost Angels Descend.’ Remember: hit the harmony like you’re trying to seduce Santa into leaving you the good booze.”
Her choir nodded with synchronized seriousness. Somewhere behind her, an ornament vendor fainted at the phrasing alone.
The elves inhaled.
Brulk’s beard lights perked up nervously, as if aware something incredibly stupid was about to happen.
Then the carolers sang.
It started beautifully — warm, crisp, ethereal. Shoppers stopped. Snowflakes paused midair like they were waiting for the drop.
Then Vesperella stepped forward for her signature high note.
And Frostmarket Row experienced the first sonic event to be officially classified by the Council as a “festive assault.”
A shimmering shockwave of sound blasted outward. Glinter’s entire ornament stall trembled. Baubles chimed, wobbled, spun on their hooks like dizzy planets.
Brulk blinked as the air around her erupted with not just a glitter pop, but a glitter explosion — a full-on confetti geyser paired with a sudden blast of jingle bells and one distant “HO HO—NOPE!” that didn’t seem to come from any mortal throat.
The spell had upgraded itself.
“Ah,” Brulk muttered. “That—yes, that’s not ideal.”
The shockwave kept going.
Across the lane, Thrum Snowjaw braced himself as it slammed into his snow sculpting table. His half-carved reindeer shuddered, its head swiveling just a little too far like it was questioning existence.
One of Thrum’s apprentices dropped a chisel and screamed, “THE SNOW IS LISTENING TO HER!”
Vesperella stopped singing, proudly glowing. “Perfect,” she said. “We’re warmed up.”
Brulk watched in horror as a growing orb of golden magic hovered above her head, pulsing like a disco ball that had been possessed by a petty spirit.
“Oh no,” he whispered. “It’s developing opinions.”
Meanwhile, at the ornament stall, Glinter Fizzhook did what Glinter always did under pressure:
He decided someone else’s success was a personal attack.
“Absolutely not,” he hissed to his apprentices. “Absolutely not. We are not being upstaged by what is essentially a festive foghorn with legs.”
He turned dramatically, sending his glitter-dusted cloak swirling like a diva snow devil. “Activate Display Sequence Alpha.”
The apprentices gasped. “You don’t mean—sir, we haven’t tested Alpha since the Great Sparkle Incident—”
“I SAID ACTIVATE IT.”
That was when Brulk felt the shift. The drama spell, still humming wildly from Vesperella’s high note, perked up like a dog hearing the word “treat.”
Glinter snapped his fingers. Rows of ornaments lit up. Baubles rotated dramatically. Glitter cannons — which absolutely no one had approved — clicked into place.
The air crackled.
Brulk realized in that moment that Frostmarket Row was seconds from a turf war between decorative arts and vocal performance.
“So this is how the season ends,” he muttered, “not with peace on earth, but with a glitter-based holy war.”
The ornaments fired first.
Three cannons blasted slow-motion arcs of sparkling powder across the lane, shimmering like a fabulous volcanic eruption. A spray of multicolored dust rained down on Vesperella’s stage.
She paused mid-sentence, looked down at the glitter now coating her boots, and snarled, “They have violated the sanctity of my footwear.”
The drama spell responded instantly with a thunderous GONG.
Thrum Snowjaw, watching from his sculpting station, groaned. “Oh great. Now she’s going to monologue.”
He turned to his apprentices. “If they want war, we’ll give ’em war. Ready the Frostbite Battalion.”
“Sir, that’s just the dozen snowmen you made with angry eyebrows—”
“Yes,” Thrum said proudly. “My boys.”
As the first snowman battalion was wheeled into formation, Brulk stood in the very center of all three factions, gripping his staff and trying to remember which part of the spell he had allegedly set to “nonviolent.”
Judging by the fact that the glowing orb above Vesperella was now crackling like a furious Christmas star with abandonment issues, the answer was: none of it.
He cleared his throat. “Esteemed citizens of Frostmarket Row—”
A giant glitter blast erupted behind him. A snowman toppled sideways. A caroler fainted into a tinsel pile. Someone’s cocoa stand sign caught fire, which shouldn’t even have been possible.
Brulk stared upward and muttered, “Oh yeah. No notes. This is going amazing.”
What happened next would later be referred to as:
The Three-Minute Holiday Meltdown.
A sequence of escalating events unfolded with terrifying, comedic precision:
- Vesperella launched into a retaliatory high note so sharp it trimmed an icicle midair.
- Glinter countered by activating “Sequence Beta,” which turned the ornament stall into a synchronized light show visible three towns over.
- Thrum’s Frostbite Battalion advanced, sliding ominously forward like a herd of frosty bowling balls with emotional issues.
- The drama spell, now fully unhinged, began generating sound effects of its own: kazoo fanfares, dramatic chords, sleigh bells of judgment, and one alarming honk that echoed like a goose threatening litigation.
People screamed. People laughed. People filmed it for their social media feeds. Frostmarket Row was two seconds from trending under the hashtag #HolidayThrowdown.
And right in the center of it all, Brulk Emberwhisker realized something:
If he didn’t intervene soon, someone was going to throw an ornament at someone else hard enough to achieve flight.
He thrust his staff upward. The beard lights flared. Magic snapped through the air like a caffeinated comet.
The crowd gasped. The factions froze. Vesperella’s high note cut off mid-vibrato. Glinter’s cannons halted. Thrum’s snowmen stopped sliding like guilty bowling pins.
Brulk stood tall — or as tall as a stout gnome can — and roared:
“ENOUGH! Now listen up, you festive lunatics!”
The spell pulsed. The air shimmered. The entire market held its breath.
Brulk inhaled… …ready to deliver the grand, unifying speech of the holiday season…
…when a single ornament — a tiny glass bird covered in iridescent glitter — detached itself from a hook above Glinter’s booth…
…wobbled… …wobbled harder…
…and plummeted directly onto Brulk’s head.
It bounced once. Twice. Then exploded in a small but humiliating piff of glitter.
The entire square went silent.
Brulk blinked slowly, covered forehead to boots in shimmering dust.
A single sleigh bell chimed overhead as the spell delivered what was clearly the most sarcastic magical sound effect possible.
Brulk exhaled. A smile crawled across his face. A dangerous smile.
“All right,” he said softly, cracking his neck. “If that’s how it’s gonna be…”
He raised his staff.
“…then Part Three is going to be biblical.”
And Frostmarket Row collectively braced for the kind of holiday chaos scholars would later describe as:
“A minor but fabulous magical catastrophe.”
The Frostmarket Holiday Catastrophe of Legend
For one perfect, shimmering moment, Frostmarket Row stood frozen in time — not literally, though Thrum’s snowmen did look like they were reconsidering their life choices again. Snowflakes hung suspended midair. Ornaments held their breath. Even the lanterns flickered like, “We don’t get paid enough for this.”
And at the eye of the storm stood Brulk Emberwhisker, every inch of him glitter-coated, beard-lights glowing like a holiday meltdown beacon, staff raised high as if he were about to conduct the world’s first symphony written entirely by petty people in emotional distress.
He inhaled deeply. The kind of deep inhale that precedes either enlightenment or something profoundly stupid.
Spoiler: it was the second one.
The Official Declaration
Brulk slammed the staff down. A shockwave rippled through the street — not destructive, but dramatic enough to cause three carolers to swoon and one ornament vendor to drop a box labeled “FRAGILE: DO NOT SHAKE.” (Spoiler: they shook.)
“ENOUGH,” Brulk roared, “of this festive foolishness!”
He pointed at Vesperella. “And you! With the weaponized throat! Your notes are strong enough to trim a reindeer, but girl, you know they’re not for violence!”
Vesperella blushed. “Well— I mean— it depends on the reindeer—”
JINGLE. The spell chimed in judgment.
Brulk spun and jabbed a finger at Glinter. “And you, Sparkle Tyrant! Your recent behavior has put you on a watchlist. A glitter-based watchlist. That’s the worst kind.”
Glinter gasped, hand to chest. “You wouldn’t…”
Brulk whispered darkly. “I would laminate it.”
Gasps. Somewhere, a child dropped their caramel apple in sheer drama.
Brulk pivoted toward Thrum Snowjaw. “And you, Frostbite Daddy—”
Thrum lifted a hand. “Okay I didn’t choose that name—”
“—no one asked you to weaponize snowpeople with eyebrows angrier than tax season!”
Thrum glanced back at his battalion. One snowman glared so hard its carrot nose bent slightly.
“…Fair,” Thrum admitted.
The Spell Decides It’s the Main Character
Brulk raised his staff for round two — and that’s when the enchantment decided it was tired of being background ambiance.
The golden orb above Vesperella’s head pulsed. Sparks cascaded. Snowflakes rearranged themselves into increasingly dramatic Helvetica-font swear words.
Then — with the self-confidence of a teenager who watched one YouTube tutorial and now thinks they understand carpentry — the spell expanded.
A second orb appeared above Glinter. A third orb lit above Thrum. A fourth hovered above Brulk himself, twinkling like, “I can fix him but I won’t.”
Every orb began reacting to its host’s emotions.
Vesperella’s orb emitted operatic whooshes with every flounce. Glinter’s fired confetti cannons whenever he rolled his eyes. Thrum’s let out grumpy thunderclaps whenever he frowned. Brulk’s… …made the sound of a kettle boiling over, constantly.
“Okay,” Brulk muttered. “This is personal.”
The Holiday Duel of Dumb Decisions
The three factions simultaneously decided, without speaking, to attempt diplomacy in the most dysfunctional way possible:
They all challenged each other to a grand holiday performance showdown.
Vesperella pointed dramatically. “We shall settle our differences the way the Winter Elders intended: with artistic superiority.”
Glinter’s eyebrow arched so high it nearly detached. “Bring it, Snowthroat.”
Thrum cracked his knuckles. “My boys are ready.”
One snowman tipped over immediately.
“Ready enough,” Thrum corrected.
Brulk facepalmed so hard his beard lights flickered. “Absolutely not. Absolutely—”
But the factions had already begun.
The Showdown
First came the Carolers with a high-drama, high-volume, high-risk rendition of “Snowfall Serenade: The Revenge.” Their harmonies were flawless. Their choreography questionable. Their emotional stability nonexistent.
Vesperella hit a note that made an icicle detach from a balcony two streets away.
The crowd applauded politely. Half of them were covering their ears to prevent concussive damage.
Next, the Ornament Vendors unveiled a synchronized ornament ballet. Baubles spun in coordinated geometric patterns. Ribboned spheres glided through the air. A glass angel pirouetted so gracefully that three audience members cried.
Then one rogue ornament drifted a little too close to Glinter’s orb. It popped, showering him with glitter.
He hissed louder than a holiday kettle left boiling dry.
Finally, the Snow-Sculptors presented their pièce de résistance: a ten-foot-tall ice sculpture of all three factions… …mid-argument.
The detail was incredible. The posture accuracy terrifying. The pettiness immaculate.
Thrum bowed. The snowmen bowed. One fell over and slid into a cocoa cart.
It received bonus applause.
And Then Everything Went Beautifully Wrong
The drama spell, overwhelmed by emotional input, audience engagement, and the complete lack of supervision, began vibrating.
Vibrating harder. Sparks flew. Lanterns dimmed. Snowflakes swirled upward in reverse like they were trying to escape.
Brulk recognized the warning signs of a “Magical Feedback Cascade,” known colloquially as:
“Oh no oh no oh no stop stop STOP—”
Too late.
The spell detonated in a burst of golden light that enveloped the entire square.
Everyone screamed. Everyone sparkled. Everyone experienced the emotional equivalent of being smacked with a decorative pillow by a furious grandmother.
And when the light cleared…
Three things happened at once:
- The orbs above each faction fused into one enormous, shimmering sphere floating over the market.
- The sphere projected the collective feelings of Frostmarket Row into the sky like a giant magical mood ring.
- That mood ring displayed, in 40-foot glowing letters, the market’s dominant emotion:
“YOU’RE ALL BEING RIDICULOUS.”
The crowd stared. The factions stared. Brulk stared the hardest.
Vesperella: “…rude.” Glinter: “Technically accurate.” Thrum: “I mean, yeah.”
The Extremely Reluctant Peace
Brulk lowered his staff, sweat beading on his glittery forehead. “Look,” he said, “I get it. You’re passionate. You’re talented. You’re deeply committed to your craft and even more deeply committed to being dramatic about it.”
All three factions nodded.
“But maybe — just MAYBE — the holiday season isn’t about who sparkles the hardest, or who yells the prettiest, or whose snowman could take whose ornament in a fistfight.”
A long pause.
Thrum shrugged. “My money was on the snowman, for the record.”
Brulk pressed on. “It’s about joy. Togetherness. Community. You know — making the market not look like a festive civil war zone.”
The factions looked around. Broken ornaments. Wobbly snow sculptures. Singed cocoa stand. A caroler stuck in a garland. Three children still crying for reasons unrelated but convenient.
“…Yeah,” Vesperella admitted. “We may have gone a smidge too far.”
“Smidge?” Glinter scoffed. “This is at least a moderate crisis.”
Thrum nodded. “We did emotionally traumatize that snowman.”
They all sighed. And in the same breath:
“Fine. We’ll work together.”
The crowd erupted in cheers. The orbs faded. The spell dissolved with one final passive-aggressive sleigh bell.
The Aftermath: Frostmarket Row 2.0
What emerged over the next hour could only be described as a miracle born of shared humiliation:
- The Carolers toned down the lethal notes and harmonized with the ornament light show.
- The Ornament Guild provided glitter responsibly for decorative accents only (allegedly).
- The Snow-Sculptors carved a collaborative centerpiece featuring a gnome-sized throne.
Brulk sat on that throne eating roasted chestnuts he hadn’t paid for, watching the marketplace finally glow with un-chaotic warmth.
And for once — FOR ONCE — no one was screaming.
“It’s perfect,” he whispered. “A functional, beautiful holiday market.”
He paused.
“…Gods, how boring.”
His beard lights flickered. His staff sparkled ominously. A grin crept across his face like a cat discovering a freshly decorated tree.
“Oh well,” he said cheerfully. “There’s always tomorrow.”
And the market collectively groaned.
THE END (of the holiday season, probably)
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