A Little Chilly Humour

This mountain was the definition of cold itself.

And yet the little being trotted on; swaying on his ankle whenever the wind decided to take a jab at him.

Those winds were howling like a pack of hungry wolves in the blizzard-filled sky, the snow pelting down with the force of stones from the grey-black clouds above. Cold that was bitter and unkind, hitting batting mercilessly at the little three-foot sprite like a cat with a yarn ball.

Welcoming, sure.

The trees were frozen to the point of resembling statues, something he noticed as he went by. He was shivering uncontrollably now; Many who would ever hear about his journey would’ve deemed him insane due to the plummeting temperature and the odd character who lived inside the icy mountain itself.

The figure was smaller than an elf, but no Christmas Helper of any kind; no child either, with pointed ears, electric blue hair and dressed like a caricature of an electrician. Or bug exterminated, with those jumpsuit and gloves. Oh, and the wellington boots.

This was the realm of Snow Miser; the embodiment of ice itself.

And elemental. And the little minion would be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid. Elements weren’t evil, but they were not good; and mortals were after-thoughts, and lesser magical beings just a step-up from that.

And the little minion wasn’t exactly – durable with this weather.

Eventually, despite the winds and slight procrastination in his gait, the little figure came to a draw bridge constructed made purely of ice - leading into the mountain. Tiny, pale figures stood at either side of the it, regarding him with neutral, if intense attention.

The tiny beings eyed each other silently.

After much blinking, the yellow-blue haired minion spoke up in a soft, warbling voice.

“I’m here to see the Snow-Miser?” His shaky words had meant to be a statement but ended up morphing into a question. After all, who said he could just waltz in? He’d heard that Snow Miser was a social being, despite the danger, so a visit wasn’t impossible.

They small figures gave each other a series of thoughtful glances before nodding quickly, much to the guests’ surprise.

A loud, resonating thud rang through the mountains as the draw-bridge began to lower.

One of them hurried towards him – then another, and before the minion knew it he was being ushered inside.

He was horribly aware of the draw-bridge rising again behind him. Oh dear, oh dear.

The halls were spiffy and well-adored, made entirely of ice, again; most translucent and gleaming. Perhaps magic was the only reason he wasn’t, ah, sliding along like Bambi.

Two of Snow-Miser’s little selves slowly, faintly but firmly grasped his arms to tug him down one particular corridor – to an opening that…

Ah. A Throne Room.

It was very brightly lit; with a small icy-river meandering through the middle to separate the audience floor from the pedestal and chair; several machines, surprisingly, were sitting in the right; with more minions peering at him from the controls.

It was very vast in here, not like – where he was used to.

The minion fidgeted like nobody’s business.

“Um.”

He was going to ask, but needn’t. A whistle suddenly danced into earshot; so swift it could have always been there. The yellow-glad sprite jumped a little, resisting the urge to duck behind something.

Luckily or unluckily depending on your definition, there was nothing in this sizable room on his side to huddle behind.

The double doors to the left flung open, a cold snow-sprinkled wind swept abruptly in, and he had to screw up his eyes to shield them from the burst of cold.

The being that strutted in, clearly owning the place, was alarming.

A pale, blue and white-clad figure; Pushing eight feet; his proportions were different than of humans so that he was twice as broad. Sporting a long, crooked nose hung with icicles. A decidedly jaggy face. The guest was startled, to say this least, and hoped his shivering would be blamed on the cold as the elemental strode in; twirling a golden cane.

He looked straight at him, unsurprised that he was there, and he plonked himself down upon his seat, smiling in a way that showed off blunt white teeth.

“Well, this is a surprise, didn’t expect company.” His voice was chipper, fruity, very smooth and easily rolling.

Snow Miser paused then, eyes blinking once as they observed the spiky little thing’s trembling. His expression was pleasant, welcoming even –

But intent, and it saw right through the small being. With a titter, he leaned back and waved his hand from left to right, “Aw, c’mon now, sonny, no need for that. You’re a guest! Make yourself at home.”

It was hard and they both knew it; in his yellow-tinted clothes, the ‘guest’ was clearly not suited for winter, and unrelated to it in every way.

Yellow’s just a few shades away from orange, then red – he would not look unwelcome in a certain warmer climate.

“O-oh.” The sprite murmured, “Th-thank you, Sir. But I, don’t bother you for a social call –“

“Social calls never brother me.” Again, Snow Miser smiled easily; his eyes hooded halfway. His tone was a stark contrast to the shivering octave of his guest, and a little overwhelming. “But if you wanna get down to business, kiddo, well – the floor is yours!”

His bravado-filled tone softened then, as did his brows – suddenly the spiky minion felt prompted, and perhaps a little bolder.

He stood up straight, cleared his throat, willed his shivering limbs to reach into his pocket and pluck out the rolled-up letter he’d been tasked to deliver.

Snow Miser’s brows and eyes were alight with intertest; something new, something unexpected – were little things immortals loved. He sat forward, hands on his lap.

“I -I am Miscellaneous Spark, s-sr, but people, people call me Sparky. I am an envoy of my employer.”

“Sparky, huh? Thank goodness for that, I’d have a hard time dancing along those syllables.” Snow Miser hooted with laughter then, and Sparky had to keep himself from jumping.

But he composed himself just as quickly as the unabashed laughter appeared, and held out his hand.

The scroll flew out of Sparky’s hand, sweeping right through the air; unfurling, into the elemental’s hand.

“Now let’s see.”

And the letter is as follows.

…

Dear Mr Snow Miser;

I hope you find you in good faring. You do not know me, as I have not been around these parts long, but I’ve heard tell of the fiasco not long back that included Santa Claus. I must say, the incident interested me; and I have a request.

Not a demand, mind you, but humor me. My employees and I require a small blizzard near the border to the South; still on your land of course. I’ve written the latitude and so on for your convenience. If you want a trade, feel free to name your price to Miscellaneous Spark.

Good tidings,

SM.

Well, well, this was new.

Snow Miser idly twirled the hem of his scarf between his fingers; fabric a-rustling pleasantly. Hmm. SM? He was smart enough to know they’d signed initials rather than a name for a reason. Sneaky blighter. But perhaps he would ‘humor’ this no-show. After all, turning down a chance to snow-offwas never a forte of his.

With a flick of his wrist; the paper folded up origami style into a boxy little snowman. Worth it, watching Sparky down there gawk in surprise. Easy audience, a bit shivery. But he hadn’t dealt with someone new in a long time.

“Alrighty then! I’ll take your ‘employers’ little request.” Snow Miser sat back again, gesturing idly; a habit of his clearly. “I’ll shake up some snow at the border. In return, your boss comes to see me. Bring him around, and we’ll have a blizzard.”

The little guy looked thoroughly alarmed, “Here? B-but…”

“That’s my term, sonny.” Snow Miser interjected, shrugging lazily – but he made sure his tone held no waver whatsoever. “If I can humor him, he can humor me, right?”

He almost felt a little bad, putting the kid into low-temperature turmoil, but hey, he did say ‘name your price’ and the price was a face to attached to the two letters.

“V-very well, sir.”

The way the minion turned on his heel and make a hasty exit didn’t escape him, and he hid how off-put he was well; it wasn’t a first. “I’ll tell him.”

“Cool beans.” Snow Miser returned; waggling his fingers at the retreating creature in goodbye, grinning broadly. “Keep your eyes to the skies.”

No, really, he’d just conditioned a touch-up on the ice decorations, and that meant a bit of a chill. Who doesn’t love some weather-based practical jokes?