Once upon a time in Christmas Land, there was a young elf named Poppy North-Pole. On the surface, she was a very elfy elf. She was tiny and cute as a button! She even had red hair and green eyes! But looks can be deceiving. On the inside, Poppy North-Pole was not a very elfy elf. It's not that she wasn't cheery or bouncy or sweet, its just that she wasn't very into the whole "elf" thing. Why should she be stuck in a factory all day every day, laboring ceaselessly over toys, only to be paid in peppermints? How is that even legal? She didn't ask for this. Elfenhood is the last legal form of slavery. Christmas elves may seem bubbly, but really they're all just dead inside. Dead.

And now Poppy had another problem. Despite her name, Poppy lived a ways off from the WASP-y North Pole in a bad section of the Lollipop Forest. It was dark days. Gumdrop Gangs ran amok, the cities were plagued by infestations of Choco-Rats, and there was a horrible Glitter-Pox outbreak spreading like wildfire.

Recently, while climbing over a tinsel-wired fence in her neighborhood (she needed to get in to her apartment, okay? Her landlord didn't accept peppermints for rent), Poppy had cut her finger and instantly acquired the dreaded Candycosis-Hollytosis. It was a very serious disease. Don't worry, it won't kill her-elves can't die-but she will turn into fruitcake. It's a very painful deformative process.

Everyday, Poppy trekked from the Toy Factory, Down Lovely Light Lane, across Gift Gully, and over Figgy Pudding Point, to the Sodapop Sea, where she would drink from its carbonated waters and speak with her good friend, Mr. Narwhal. She would tell Mr. Narwhal of her hopes and dreams, of her fears, of how her day went, and of just about anything she could think of.

"Oh, Mr. Narwhal, you are my only friend," Poppy declared one day. Mr. Narwhal didn't answer. He never did. Poppy assumed that it was because he was a narwhal, and narwhal's could not speak. What she didn't know was that Mr. Narwhal had been dead for some time. Narwhal's can't live in soda, silly.

Almost everyday that Poppy visited the floating whale carcass, she told him about her unrequited crush on James Ras-Muffin, a strapping young Gingerbread Man with whom she'd struck up a friendship. However, no matter how many times Poppy nibbled at his fingers or invited him out for milk and cookies (the only. Damned. Thing. Served in Christmasland's restaurants) he didn't seem interested in moving beyond the "friend zone."

"And now I'm going to turn into a fruitcake, and he'll never love me! Nobody likes fruitcake!" Poppy began to cry-elf tears. Which as we all know turn into jellybeans!

What Poppy didn't know was that James Ras-Muffin did care for her, very much. But times were hard these days for Gingerbread Men. They were a rare and dwindling breed. They're natural predators were…well, just about everything, and with the economy being so bad, cannibalism was a rising problem. For this reason, Gingerbread Men doomed to always remain a minority.

It was very dangerous for the Gingerbread men and women to enter relationships with non-cookie folk. No matter how caring their mate, the temptation of sweet cinnamon and sugar was sometimes to great to resist. But James could not help how he felt about Poppy North-Pole, and it was the Magic of True Love (and the trail of jelly-beans) that led James to her that fateful night.

Upon reaching the sob-soggy elf, James promptly took her into his crumble-cookie arms where she told him everything.

"Poppy," He said slowly, once her tragic tale was complete, "did you know that Gingerbread Folk are immune to all blood-borne diseases?"

Poppy sniffed, "Really?"

"It's probably because we don't have blood."

"Oh, Jamie!" Poppy gasped, "I want to be a Gingerbread Girl! I want to be delicious and 2-dimensional just like you!"

"But Poppy, the life of a Gingerbread Man is one of danger and loneliness," James warned, "are you sure you want to go through with it?"

"I'll be fine," Poppy looked at him from under her orange lashes, "As long as I have you."

And then something miraculous happened: Poppy shed a tear that turned into a jellybean every color of the rainbow. And it sparkled. Oh how it sparkled! And when it hit the snow, it became a star that blazed into the sky with a burst of light. When the light dimmed, Poppy was a Gingerbread Girl.

Just kidding-that last part didn't happen. But it was still pretty frickin' weird.

The process of Gingerbreadification is actually highly illegal and must remain unknown by the masses, lest another cookie-cloning epidemic hit the mainstream. Let's just say that it involves a full moon, enough electricity to kill an elephant, a penguin esophagus, and exactly fourteen candy canes.

The end result: every atom in Poppy's body was converted to sugar, spice, and everything nice. Quite painful, but she survived. Because she was an elf.

That night, James Ras-Muffin and the newly cookie-fied Poppy North-Pole cuddled on James's Gingerbread Bed. They sucked face (you know, literally. Cause they're cookies,) and removed each others gumdrop buttons, but there was really nowhere to go from there. Even if it can walk and talk, underneath the icing it's still a gingerbread man. And no one wants an anatomically correct gingerbread man. Ick.

Meanwhile, there came a powerful, charismatic, and highly attractive Ice Wizard by the name of Ash…uh…Magic-Fern! The brilliant and beautiful and way-better-than-James-Quinn-and-everyone-else wizard appeared in Christmasland with his Ice Magic. And everyone was totally jealous because we was just so awesome, and-

"Ash, what the hell are you writing?" James peered curiously over the blond's shoulder.

"Hm?" Ash covered the paper with his hands quickly, surprised that he hadn't noticed James walk up, "Oh, nothing."

"Nothing?" James grabbed the paper from under Ash's hands, "You've been sitting here giggling for, like an hour and a half now."

James's gray eyes narrowed at the paper, "What in the…"

Ash took the opportunity to snatch the story from James's hands. He met the younger lamia's confused face with what he hoped was a reassuring smile (though it looked more like the grin of one suffering from psychosis,) "Nothing for you to worry about, my most dear, darlingest little cousin. Just a bit of Christmas fun."

And with that the blond strode off, humming Deck the Halls as he exited the room.

James blinked, watching his cousin disappear, then shook his head.

"Sometimes, Ash, I worry about you. Really."