As midnight approaches, the patrons of the Hanged Man have either drifted off to their rooms, or have fallen asleep at their tables in the common room. A fire burns on the hearth while the bartender begins to wipe down the bar for the final time today. Occasionally, a dog barks outside, or an owl hoots through the window, and the bartender smiles. He knows he’s had a good, profitable day. As he polishes the prints from the last in a set of flagons, the sage server swears he sees something pass outside the window through the shutterboards. Was it a bit of white, or was it red. Concerned, he makes his way to the window, and throws out one of the shutters. Through the half-opened window, the light from the moon casts an eerie glow over the city of Daunton in early Winter, reflecting off of the snow making it almost as bright as the day. He concludes that the movement he saw must have been his imagination, because he isn’t seeing anything out on the street.
He reaches out to close the shutter before returning to the bar, when he’s startled by a sudden crash on the roof. Dust falls from the thatch above the rafters, and a snoring customer stirs at the table to the right. The bartender raises his eyes to the source of the disturbance, several pounding noises that continue as he makes his way back to the bar. He reaches under the counter and produces a pike, never taking his eyes off the ceiling. As he does this, he hear what he is sure are rather heavy footsteps. They are quiet, but not nefariously sneaky – a confident stride, like one who is sure they won’ t be heard, but not trying overly hard to avoid detection. The steps cross the roof, followed all the while from underneath by the bartender’s gaze, until it reaches the chimney. The bartender’s grip tightens on the haft of the pike in his hands. Then, as the bartender stares in disbelief, he hears a scraping and scrambling sound from within the chimney flue. Small pebbles begin to fall into the hearth. Then, suddenly, the sound becomes louder and more frantic, culminating in a rather loud,
“Oooooooohohohoho!”
Crash!
The hearth explodes sending cinders flying through the common room. Miraculously, no one wakes up. The bartender stares agape as a short, bearded, and rather rotund elf emerges from the fireplace, practically unsinged, dressed in a red suit with white trim complete with black boots and belt. He’s carrying a sack, and doesn’t even look surprised, when he sees the dumbstruck bartender.
The elf lifts his finger to his lips,
“Shhhhhhhh!”
He produces a sack from over his shoulder, and rummages through it as if looking for something in particular, then his eyes light up. He pulls out a small figurine of a child. A young girl, playing a lyre. Her hair is long and her complexion is beautiful. The face resembles that of the bartender, who disarms himself, knowing now that there is nothing to be afraid of. He’s heard of this elf.
The elf hands the figurine to the bartender with a knowing smile, and winks. With the gift given, the elf moves back to the fireplace, casts a wary gaze up the flue, seems to think better of it, slings his pack over his shoulder and makes for the door. As he passes out onto the street, he looks back,
“Happy Christmas old friend.”
Then, just like that, he’s gone.
