The poor elf, his nerves quite shattered now, ventured into the office and joined the rest of the assembled Elders. The Master shifted his vast velvet clad weight in his seat, his eyes narrowed to a piercing glare. “Report” he bellowed. The elf whimpered.
The Master set his fine rimmed spectacles on the desk and rubbed his eyes. Sleep evaded him. “How bad is it” he enquired. “The drifts are over 20 feet in places” the little elf replied. “It’s… still snowing. We have crews trapped down the peppermint mines and we’re going to have to start burning the coal for the naughty children. It’s… its… nearly as bad as…”
Silence returned to the room, the crackling dying embers of the fire and uneasy breathing of the Elders the only sounds to be heard. Minutes passed and finally the Master spoke. “This is as bad as ‘86. We can’t have a repeat of ‘86. So many lives are at stake. Summon the elves. We’re going to disaster recovery”. 20 tiny eyes drew wider and 10 deep breaths were drawn. Panic ensued.