The Glass Walkers were nestled all snug in their dens;
While visions of Weaver-things danced in their heads;
The Shadow Lord in his cape and Silver Fang in her gown,
Were both dreaming sweetly of the very same crown.
When there through the Gauntlet appeared such a dire form,
I near dropped the teacup I’d brought to keep warm.
Down the chill roofing I slid to the eave,
And peered at the figure I could scarcely believe.
The pale Galliard moon cast her light down below,
Bathing the world in her luminous glow.
There in all the light I could possibly need,
Was a warrior spirit astride a huge steed.
He bore no great weapon, at least none I could see;
But wore fur-lined scarlet that went down to his knee.
He leapt from his mount and retrieved a large sack,
That he swung to one shoulder to rest on his back.
His face shone with power, and a white beard so impressive,
That calling it Epic wouldn’t be too aggressive.
He made his way forward then stopped at the door,
And gave me a look I’d seen often before.
With a chortle I dropped to the ground like a leaf,
Then opened the door so his wait would be brief.
He wasted no time and got right to the task,
Setting down bundles, a box, and a cask.
That had to be mead I thought with some glee,
And as if he heard he turned to face me.
Just one more package he set down near my feet,
A cylindrical shape wrapped up perfectly neat.
In spite of the gifts he had left near the tree,
The bag on his shoulder still looked full to me.
I needed to know more and started to speak,
But he lifted a finger and I just shut my beak.
A smile was his answer and he shouldered his sack,
Then he went to his steed and jumped right on its back.
Once more through the Gauntlet the spirit returned,
And my own curiosity gleefully burned.
I tugged open the bow, loosed the ribbon and lid,
And let out a sound like the happiest kid.
There was a note, on my new top hat of white,
“Merry Christmas to all, and keep up the good fight.”