They had heard the sounds, down in the deep and the cold, in darkened tunnels where the winds howled and the clatter of things redounded through the black. They had heard gunshots, and the crackle of flame, and they knew - the Christmas cookies were under attack.
That they should discern all this and act with such speed need not surprise readers - after all, ‘he sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake.’ The hopeful always live partway in the future.
And hopeful they certainly were, for they had been toiling and sweating all day, hammers and saws working tirelessly to bring wonderful toys to all the good little boys and girls (Santa was not an industrialist, after all). And all that with only a bite of lumbas bread to tide them over till the evening, when Mrs. Claus would give them their cookies after dinner.
They did not know why someone had come all the way north of the north pole for the singular purpose of destroying their Christmas cookies (it never occurred to them that they were the targets of the assault), but they did not care. They laid down their tools and swarmed upwards, through the halls beyond measure and tunnels beyond count, until they reached the emergency kitchen access point.
This was a trapdoor, designed for when snowstorms prevented them from reaching the kitchen through their usual route; but as it was locked at all other times and they were in a hurry, they settled for the simple expedient of blowing it to smithereens.
But let us return to our assassin squad. Tiana and her crew heard drums, drums in the deep, and a rattle, and then the pantry floor gave forth… and then the elves arrived.
They poured forth from the darkness, rank upon rank, an endless mass of arms and eyes and teeth. The blaze in the pantry did not bother them, nor could it have, for as Tiana gazed with horror upon the advancing tide she realised that no mortal weapon could stop its path.
The elves took in the desecration that had been wreaked upon their cookies and moved as one towards the party responsible, lurching hideously across the flame-bitten tiles.
Two of Tiana’s men dropped their weapons, faces slack with terror, but the rest opened fire, a wave of bullets slamming into viscous flesh with a sickening plap. The elves simply grinned, revealing multiple rows of teeth in each of their mouths, and oozed ever forwards. Claws reached for the despoilers of their after dinner snack, awls and files stuck up like a wall of spears.
Tiana did not waste time the way her men did. Even before the bullets had left their guns, she was gathering her power - and not some of her power, but all of it, for to complete the mission now was no longer in her mind. How long the elves had toiled, and in what foetid depths, was beyond her as much as it was beyond any mortal; but the enemies shambling and howling their way towards her were no First Circle cultivators.
She shouted the name of her technique and slammed her blade into the floor, releasing a brilliant purple light. An explosion of qi shook the room, reducing the entire kitchen floor to matchsticks, and sending Tiana, her crew, and the elves tumbling down into the endless caverns below.
Gelatinous flesh burst and limbs popped like Christmas crackers, and for a brief moment Tiana’s crew cheered, a cheer which vanished into the void as out of the sludge emerged arms, arms with far more digits than any mortal arm ought to have, which grasped the men and dragged them into a night without stars. That which should never have lived could not die, sung a supple tune from a thousand voices with no tongue, gibbering and cackling over the assassins’ dying screams.
Tiana did not hear them. She heard nothing, saw nothing, as she dashed through the black and the cold, across ancient halls of brackish stone, rife with carvings of things best forgotten. The screams of her men she did not allow to reach her, and only dimly did she notice Kristoff, swearing and cursing, fall under the hoof of reindeer whose legs were bent at strange angles, and from whose visage came a gaze that was more than human, and yet of dimensions far greater than any humans dared to tread.
She ran, and ran, and ran, seeking an exit, any exit - and yet at every corner she turned, every door she opened, there the elves were… following… staring… singing… Marching in their ranks, an amorphous and acephalous horde. She felt her heart thump in her chest as she realised they were keeping pace with her without using any movement techniques, and she hurriedly downed a potion to restore her qi.
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They shambled after her, slowly, methodically, inexorably, with all the imperturbable malice of a deathless nothing which has centuries to exact its revenge.
Whether centuries passed, in that endless pitch, Tiana could not say. It was too dark for time, and even space receded as she wandered, around and around, hunting for a door.
No door did she find, nor any respite. After aeons of flight she finally collapsed, the last of her feeble reserves exhausted, into the blissful illusion of unconsciousness. The elves did not react; they had a more important task now.
Tiana awoke, and it was neither black nor cold. The moment of relief which followed this discovery quickly receded with the realisation of why it was neither black nor cold. For Tiana had been dragged beyond the caverns in which man can tread, into abysses which our feeble form cannot endure. Far, far below the earth the elves had dragged her, into pits carved with inhuman claws from the primordial rock. The pressure was immense, pushing in on her like a weight, and she could feel her bones burning with the heat. She tried to move, but her limbs were tied to a table.
She was in a workshop - the same workshop within which the toys were made, by the looks of things, for through sweat-soaked eyes she could see row upon row of tables, covered with brightly painted and meticulously carved toys, each one made with reverent attention. Over each table were strings, hung with letters, whose scrawls identified themselves as children’s letters. Carefully calligraphed notes hung alongside them, showing the toys and games to be crafted and talking about the children (every gift was crafted personally, in every way).
There were elves surrounding her - many of them - though how many she could not determine, for even had her vision been clear they would have blended one into the other, a morass of shapeless forms quivering with eager anticipation.
One stepped forward, and for the first time since the start of this nightmare Tiana noticed that the elves were wearing pointed caps (at least, assuming what was underneath was a head). It cleared its throats.
The following cacophony ripped through Tiana; she screamed as her body was wracked with pangs of hideous, consuming agony. The elf’s eyes (and several other organs) blinked.
“My apologies. I forgot to speak English. Allow me to introduce myself - my name is Tl’x’canazaph. And yours?”
Tiana said nothing. There was another blink, a yawn, and the sound of crackling as the creature’s limbs slowly adjusted themselves.
“I suppose that’s to be expected. Where did you say you came from, again?”
Still nothing. Tl’x’canazaph cracked his knuckles, all six hundred thirty-two of them. Though he was maintaining a (to him) pleasant facade, he’d been looking forward to those cookies and was not a happy camper. That Tiana had annihilated the kitchen equipment - preventing Mrs. Claus from making more - had not improved his mood.
His grin spread, until his entire face had vanished amid a wall of teeth. One knuckle scraped slowly across the ground as he brought himself closer to her. She flinched involuntarily as droplets of his spit burnt into her. “Come, didn’t you ever want to sit on Santa’s lap as a child, and tell him all your wishes? Santa is busy at the moment - thanks to a certain someone - but they say talking to his elves is the next best thing.”
She coughed. "And if I don’t, am I getting coal in my stocking?"
The smiling visages laughed as they swam through the furnace-light. "Coal? Coal? Coal is only for the bad children, who may yet rectify the metal of their soul in the furnace. But you, you have profaned the Spirit of Christmas, and for you no redemption is possible save through death. But have no fear - if you cannot be good, you can at least be useful. The children will be delighted with what we'll do with you."
And then someone revved up the belt sander.
Now our readers should not think poorly of the elves, for they had no plans to torture her. That would be contrary to the Innocence demanded of all who carry within themselves the Spirit of Christmas, and at any rate those who dwell outside physicality have no need of physical methods to get what they want. They were simply a mischievous sort, and hoped to scare her into revealing why, exactly, she had dared to defile their cookies. But Tiana had already been scared, and terrified, and tormented, and frankly in the age since the elves had walked among men they had forgotten what mortals thought of them. And so it was that when someone revved up the belt sander, it proved too much for poor Tiana, and her heart gave out.
There was silence in the workshop.
“Oh snuggle muffins, Santa’s going to be pissed.”