Write a funny Christmas story and win a Christmas sub

[Weasel]

It doesn't have to be long, it would be fun if you incorporate people from DevBest in it. You can create erotic fanfiction of RastaClaus as long as it's within forum rules.

There's not any specific rules (besides that you have to create it yourself ofc), doesn't necessarily have to be a story either. If you're more into memes or graphic design to create something related to the topic, go for it.

 

[TesoMayn]

The snow fell thick and fast on Christmas Eve in Frosthaven, a picturesque village where the pine trees were perpetually dusted white, and every rooftop twinkled with lights. Inside TesoMayn’s Tavern, the heart of the village, the air was warm with laughter, spiced cider, and the faint jingling of bells from Weasel’s ridiculous Christmas sweater. The sweater was a luminous horror, complete with blinking lights and the words “Kiss Me Under the Mistle-toad” scrawled in garish red across the chest. It was, predictably, a prank by RastaLulz, who sat nearby, nearly crying with laughter as Weasel futilely tried to cover the offending text with his arms.

“You’re a menace to society,” Weasel muttered, sipping his cider. RastaLulz, unrepentant, strummed his guitar and launched into an off-key version of Deck the Halls.

Benden, the village blacksmith, grunted from his seat by the fire. “Can’t you two tone it down? Some of us would like to enjoy our drinks in peace.” His arms, forged by years of hammering steel, crossed over his chest like a grumpy snowman.

But peace wasn’t in the cards that evening. The door slammed open, letting in a gust of icy wind, and Sledmore shook snow from his coat. His face was pale, and his eyes darted around the room as though he had just seen the Yule Demon.

“The turkey,” he gasped. “The turkey is gone.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Then, chaos erupted.

“What do you mean, gone?” cried Markshall, the village historian, who had spent the past six months raising the colossal bird for Frosthaven’s Christmas feast. “You don’t just lose a turkey! It’s the size of a donkey!”

“That’s an insult to my donkey,” Donkey said indignantly, patting his loyal companion, also named Donkey, on the head.

“It’s true!” Sledmore continued, throwing his hands up in frustration. “I checked the pen, and it’s empty. Just some footprints and…” He hesitated.

“And what?” Bran asked, emerging from the kitchen with a tray of steaming mince pies.

“…Droppings,” Sledmore finished miserably.

“Wonderful,” Benden muttered, standing up. “A giant turkey running loose on Christmas Eve. What’s next, a rogue reindeer?”

TesoMayn banged a fist on the bar, his booming voice cutting through the noise. “Enough! That turkey is the centerpiece of tomorrow’s feast. No turkey, no feast. No feast, no Christmas cheer. Somebody needs to find it, now!”

All eyes turned to Ecko, the village’s best tracker, who was leaning casually against the wall with her bow slung over one shoulder. She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, no. I’m not going alone. If this bird is as big as they say, I’m going to need backup.”

Weasel groaned. “I know where this is going.”

“Exactly,” Ecko said, pointing at him. “You’re sneaky, and you owe me for that time I saved you from the mayor’s angry goat.”

“I’m in,” Griimnak said, standing up and cracking his knuckles. The retired warrior looked almost excited at the thought of wrestling a bird.

“Me too,” Sledmore added.

“And me,” said Donkey, though it was unclear whether he meant himself or his donkey.

And so, the team was formed: Ecko, Weasel, Griimnak, Sledmore, and Donkey (and Donkey). They set out into the snowy night, their breath steaming in the frigid air as the village lights faded behind them.

Ecko crouched low to the ground just outside the turkey pen, examining the tracks in the snow. “It went north, into the woods,” she said, brushing frost from a massive feather stuck in the snow.

“That’s one big bird,” Weasel muttered, shivering.

“You’re just realizing this now?” Sledmore shot back.

The group trudged into the forest, slipping on ice and bickering the whole way. Weasel tripped over a root and landed face-first in a snowbank. “This feels like a prank,” he grumbled, spitting snow from his mouth.

“If it is, it’s not funny,” Ecko snapped, holding up another feather, this one nearly as long as her arm.

Their banter died as a loud gobble-gobble-gobble echoed through the trees.

“There it is,” Ecko whispered.

They crept forward and found themselves staring at a truly monstrous turkey, nearly eight feet tall, with gleaming black feathers and an expression of pure malice. To everyone’s shock, the bird was wearing a Santa hat.

“Why is it wearing a hat?” Griimnak asked, squinting.

“More importantly,” Weasel whispered, pointing, “why does it have a candy cane spear?”

Sure enough, the turkey held a sharpened candy cane in its talons like a medieval knight preparing for battle.

“Well,” Sledmore said, “this just got interesting.”

The turkey spotted them and charged, brandishing its candy cane weapon. Sledmore yelped and dove into the snow as the bird barreled past, its gobble now an almost comical battle cry.

“Distract it!” Ecko shouted, notching an arrow.

“How?” Weasel yelled, panicking.

“Sing something!”

“What? Why me?”

“Just do it!”

Weasel launched into a shaky rendition of Jingle Bells, which only seemed to enrage the turkey further. It swung its candy cane at Griimnak, who caught it mid-swing and wrestled the bird to a standstill.

“This… thing… is strong!” Griimnak grunted as the turkey flapped its wings furiously, knocking him backward into a tree.

It looked like all hope was lost when a brilliant light suddenly filled the clearing. The group froze as a glowing figure descended from the sky, its shimmering wings casting rainbow hues across the snow.

“Kryptos?” Griimnak asked, blinking in disbelief.

“Yes,” the glowing figure said, its voice both gentle and commanding. “I see you’ve found my turkey.”

“Your turkey?” Ecko asked, incredulous.

“Of course,” Kryptos replied with a knowing smile. “It wandered off while I was decorating the woods. I gave it the candy cane for self-defense.”

The group stared, dumbfounded, as Kryptos clapped their hands. The turkey shrank to a more reasonable size, dropping its weapon and waddling over to Kryptos like a scolded puppy.

“Go home, little one,” Kryptos said. “Your destiny awaits on the feast table.”

Back at the tavern, the villagers erupted into cheers as the turkey returned, none the worse for wear (save for its bruised ego). Kryptos joined the celebration, dazzling everyone with magical fireworks and an endless supply of spiced eggnog.

As the night wore on, Weasel leaned over to RastaLulz. “If you ever prank me with a sweater again, I’ll sic that turkey on you.”

RastaLulz grinned. “Worth it.”

And so, Christmas was saved—not by bravery or brilliance, but by a glowing guardian, a stubborn turkey, and the sheer ridiculousness that could only happen in Frosthaven.

The End.