I'm going to be in a Christmas-themed PvP D&D 5e one-shot on Lost Caravan on January 6th. My character is a miner ~~earth~~ coal genasi bard in the college of creation 3 / runechild sorcerer 6 named Lumpen Peebles (nay / none / nix / nix / noneself pronouns). To whet everyone's appetites (and just cuz Lumpen's been in my head for a few weeks now XD ), I wrote up a short little piece of flash fiction about none ~ lemme know what you think!
Lumpen Peebles's voice was a smoker's scratch, deep and rumbling, peppered with sharp snaps muffled as if by distance. It was impossible to discern whether those snaps were like the flaking of mica on a titanic scale, portions of mountains succumbing to their own weight and lack of support, or embers dancing their popping, jumping dance. Many who hear nix words wince in empathy for the pain talking like that would cause an organic throat.
"Bob Cratchett wasn't a guilty man," nay said. "He didn't ask Ebenezer for a piece of coal because he thought of himself as naughty, nor did Mr. Scrooge deny him for some imagined nicehood. Bob was merely cold, and poor, and reliant on a rich man's gifts to stave off the chill which marks the deepest ring of Hell where Dante placed the betrayers. The fruit of my flesh ~"
Nay broke off a chunk of coal from nix elbow and placed it among a small pool of the matte black powder that had settled on the table from nix breath.
"~ for three centuries had been a prized gift. You know who thinks of coal as a punitive disappointment? People with an expectation of a warm house on Christmas Day and no need to filth themself with the business of heating it. The naughty once received ashes, and switches cut from springy stingy birch. I and my whole family were honored workers among all the North Pole's syndics, standing beside the reindeerfolk teamsters and the elfin craftsmen. We were proud to do the work Santa asked us to do so long ago."
A flick of a heavy finger sent the lump on the table skidding in your direction before the genasi's forearm caught a grief-weighted cheek. The word NAUGHT *[sic]* burned like banked embers on Lumpen's forehead as nay loosed a soot-heavy sigh.
"It is a mercy, indeed, to punish the naughty with a warmed house rather than a tree-borne threat, but mercy is no gift. Gifts are free. This mercy comes at a cost. I am that cost, and my family (though they won't say so) are that cost, and so too are those who still wish for a warmed house from Santa every year for Christmas."
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