"Ten days, Aloisius. Ten *days!* Good heavens! Alexi's in jail, I've not seen Altias in days, and I certainly do *not* have a house big enough to throw a party for this holiday!"
Aloisius Treadwell was just a little frantic as he wobbled around his toy store with a sugar cookie in each hand, a mug of milk by the fireside, and a brown robe over his body. Snow had started falling outside again, and here he was wanting to do something for what the Elves would know as Sylimburn, some humans would know as perhaps Christmas, perhaps Sylimburn, perhaps any of a number of others depending on religion (officially, the church in Myrken nudged folks toward Sylimburn, but this Christ fellow keeps getting mentioned, usually in oaths. . . .).
He wanted a party.
He wanted a feast.
He wanted a chance to act in public as the legendary Father Winter, finding out what presents children wanted this year and generally making those children happier.
Then again, party or no, they'd get their presents. Tready had them all made already, and he knew to whom what belonged. He knew where they lived, and he knew he could go through town unseen the night of the twelfth delivering those gifts. It would be his first night delivering such goodies--his first night serving as Father Winter for real since Roderic Cliché had given him the position--and he was certainly jittery about it all.
But he wanted a feast.
Tready would spend the next hours of the evening waddling 'round town putting up posters asking for all interested to see him about setting up a house or hall to feast and gather in for the holiday.
Certainly jittery indeed. Two cookies go down, and two more end up in his greedy, pudgy hands. Ten days to go.