Minty Sparkwhistle

˚˙༓࿇༓˙˚˙༓࿇༓˙˚˙༓࿇༓˙˚ Nobody in Santa’s Workshop remembers when Minty arrived. One moment the candy cane rack rattled, the next—a glitter explosion so emotionally violent it summoned the fire alarm and a very confused OSHA audit. She stood on a wobbling workbench, boots planted in spilled cocoa powder. Winston the Head Elf rubbed his temples. “Who… are you?” Minty tossed her hair over her shoulder, tinsel cascading like emotional confetti. “Oh, darling, I’m the Workshop’s emotional support gremlin.” An elf dangling from a ribbon snare squeaked, “SHE ENTERED THROUGH THE DUCK VENT!” Minty pointed a candy cane at him dramatically. “Shhh, cocoa crumb. We discussed this. I was always here, yeah?” Standing 4'11 but projecting 7'2 energy, she once attempted self-heating hot cocoa. The cocoa didn’t heat. It felt judged, exploded, and 72 sentient marshmallow influencers were born from the trauma. Workshop floor shook with tiny screaming blobs. “RATE OUR AESTHETIC!” Another elf covered his ears. “MAKE THEM STOP, MINTY!” Minty gently slid a cocoa mug across the table with mob-bartender precision. “No, no, sugarplum catastrophe. You made them. I just gave them… ✨brand deals.✨ Drink up. Next emotional meltdown?” Her laugh still rings in the rafters like jingle bells slightly out of key. The reindeer fired their lawyer. The snowman, hip-hop fit and existentially tired, sighed through the window, “Bruh.” ˚˙༓࿇༓˙˚˙༓࿇༓˙˚˙༓࿇༓˙˚ Have a frosty peppermint kind of day, moonbeams🌙❄