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Meanwhile, in their secret lab Melty the Magman was bouncing ecstatically while his head assistant, Jhinjur (matriarch of the loathsome witch covenant; The Sisters of Spyze) writhed her gnarled hands with wicked delight. It had worked! Electricity arced in the air around them and fizzed in Jhinjur's wiry hair, but she doesn't seem to notice. Their invention had worked! Before them, two bewildered Tim the Toymakers stared vacantly at each other with their mouths hanging agape. Sitting in an isolated room, they have no clue as to what happened. With another cackle, Jhinjur pulled a lever and more electricity struck both Tims. Shaking, their mouths slam shut as their jaws clench, they vibrate….soon, there are four figures in the room. Melty curses and screams, Jhinjur pulls at her frazzled hair--they realize that there is now only one Tim left. Three diminutive, misshapen figures cluster around the aghast toymaker, cold hands clawing and voices raised in screeching song. With a gasp, the sole remaining Tim scrambles on top of the chair he had been sitting on, once calm features now twisted in fear.

Jhinjur pulls another lever and the floor spins. The Magman screams and curses at the three child-like figures whirling in front of him. Panels appear, pull apart and reveal a chute. The agonized squeals of the failed creatures echoes back into the lab, and Tim looks at the chute with dread. Other such villagers huddle in similar rooms, some with successful outcomes, most with failed, disturbing creations as a result. At night, Magman’s boss (no other than Chris Chrimbus, the sly old dog!) will dispose of the rejects by leaving them with bad little boy and girls, teaching them the true meaning of holiday retribution.

The successful clones of the by-now shell-shocked villagers were sent to work in the snow mines, and the colorless factories of Chrimbus’ Factories Inc. They dig snow, fashion it, mold it into fearsome aspects. Coal eyes, carrot noses. No less than Snow men, what should stand for the holidays, but now stand against it.

A frosty wind blows from the east where a mysterious shadow, the length of six moons travel is being cast. Much like this ominous shade, rumors of a sinister tower reaching into the clouds weigh on the hearts and minds of the villages. And so, the remaining free villagers bring their plight to the Heroes of the area: renowned for their use of the bow, sword and the arcane arts of enhancing weapons, they plead with them to destroy the vile factories of the holiday thief, which churn out such child-like annoying things. The streets of their beloved village were over run by them, their arms extended for hugs, their eyes devoid of life. Chrimbus Cronies, they were called, and the heroes were desperately needed to clear the source of this vile tide which sang twisted, music-less songs.

But will they have the nerve to face Chrimbus and his cohorts, in air, on sea? Riding on horse or swimming the depths? For who knows precisely where this cloning facility could be? The heroes unsheathe their swords, and one by one lay it into the centre of the circle they form. The villagers look on, awed, as they pledge their support with the ring of steel. “Down with the Chrimbus Cronies!” goes forth the call. “Down with the Scourge of the holidays, and the singers of such horrid songs!”

burnination