And there, on the Plains of Cyrus Bentok, Santa, the Claus, known as Kringle to the Kelts, Uberelf to the Goths, and the Dread Red Scar to those from across the sea, astride his chariot drawn by eight stout reindeer -- the ninth, Rudolph the second, son of Donner, fell at the Battle of the Firfwood Tyne, struck down by an enemy sniper -- rode out in front of his warrior elves, the Elfenhard
Verily, these once merry toymakers long ago beat their tools for toys into sword and spear to help repel the invasion of the green devils from the Red Planet Mars.
Across the way, of the field of battle to come, the Martian legions awaited -- the sun glinting off the shiny plastic barrels of their deadly Wham-O Air Blaster Freeze Guns -- primed and at the ready.
Here, the Claus turned his battle sleigh and rode up and down the front of his lines, the adorning bells, jingling all the way. No words need be spoken as a chorus of cheers erupted while he passed, the elves giving voice to their beloved master, and beat their shields with their sword butts in a strong cadence.
Then, the Claus swung the sleigh back until he reached the center of his lines and dismounted. After a brief glimpse at the enemy across the field, he went from beast to beast along the hitch and rein, calling them each by name; and when he reached the front pair, he whispered into the lead right creature’s ear. Dasher, the swift, snorted his dismay but a stern look from his master made him lower his head. Dasher then looked to the right to his partner, Dancer, the not so swift, and they slowly turned and led the others back from whence they came.
The gathered elf legions parted, like a green wave, allowing the team to retreat to the rear, and another cheer erupted as the noble beasts moved to safer ground. Soon they were gone and the assembled mass reformed and turned back to the Claus -- but the cheer only grew louder. No semblance of the Jolly Old Elf of old remained. In its place stood a pillar of stone resolve, hell bent on removing the Martian scourge from the universe.
And then, with the raising of one, red-mitten'd hand, the Claus silenced his legions, which became so quiet you could only hear their Red Banners angrily flapping in the wind. Several pregnant moments pass before he spoke, ordering Winky, son of Wonky, of the Funderburke-Dell elves, to have his archers stand at the ready.
The Claus then removed his scarlet hat, and as his long, white locks dropped low and sifted in the wind as he drew a long saber from inside his magical toy sack and drove the blade through the removed cloth and began to swing it over his head. A low, guttural, growl slowly crescendos, and, in a blazing instant, his entire army was warped into a blood-rage frenzy.
"They will write songs of what we do today," he roared, turning toward his enemy. "Remember the North Pole! And death to the sons of Mars!"
The Claus then gave the order to open fire, turned, and led the charge towards his final destiny...
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