At the edge of the North Pole, where the winds whisper ancient secrets and the snowfall spins itself into shimmering towers, stands the indomitable General Beskytte (pronounced Bez-kite). His name, a word carried through the ages in the old elven tongue, means protector, and indeed, there is no guardian more steadfast, no sentinel more unwavering. His presence is felt before it is seen, as though the very air holds its breath in reverence.

His tunic gleams in the light—crimson, bold and unyielding, a testament to the fire of his devotion. And upon his shoulders rests armor of bright, glistening gold, gifted by Santa himself, etched with runes of protection that hum softly in the cold air. It gleams like the morning frost, holding the power of countless winters past. A delicate layer of ice clings to its surface, a quiet badge of honor, earned by long, unwavering hours spent standing at the threshold between the world of magic and the unknown beyond.

His hair is dark as midnight, yet his beard—long and flowing—holds the color of freshly fallen snow. Some whisper that it turned white not by age, but by wisdom—that the very magic of the North Pole courses through him, marking him as one touched by ancient forces.

Beside him stands his army—not of flesh and bone, but of Christmas toy soldiers, tiny yet fierce, each brought to life by the very enchantment that stirs the hearts of children on Christmas morning. They stand at attention, their painted smiles betraying a warrior’s spirit, their ranks lined as neatly as snowflakes upon the wind.

And perched upon Beskytte’s shoulder is Hvid (pronounced ha-VID), the snow owl, her feathers softer than the first snowfall, her eyes keener than the sharpest winter wind. She is not merely a companion; she is his watchful gaze, his messenger upon the air, his silent confidante. Through her eyes, he sees far beyond, past the shimmering gates of the North Pole, into the distant reaches where the unknown stirs.

Together, they are the first and final guardians, bound not by duty alone, but by love for the world they protect. Beskytte knows his task is no mere defense of a place—it is the safeguarding of the spirit of Christmas itself. The joy, the laughter, the warmth—it all rests in his hands, kept safe beneath his unwavering gaze.

And as long as Beskytte stands, the North Pole shall never falter. Its magic shall remain bright, its wonders untouched by shadow, its heart beating strong as the lights shimmer above, painting dreams upon the winter sky.