Steampunk Santa

Once upon a time there was a young elf named Tomparasil. Like most elves, he worked for Santa Claus, doing his elvish best to make the toys adored by good little boys and girls. Unfortunately, Tomparasil was a forward-thinking young elf, and his elvish best sometimes brought trouble.

"Come now, Flar. It is the 19th century, and you have not even left the 15th. Magic beans, my foot."

Flar raised a brow. "'My foot'? 'Tis an odd expression. However did you come by it, Tomparasil?

Tomparasil stamped a foot, bells jingling. "It is all the rage, which you would know if you ever poked your head out of the workshop. And I have told you before to call me Tom."

Flar folded his arms. "I have told you before to call me Flarbignarg, as my mother named me. And how do you know what is 'all the rage' in the human world?"

"By means of my Electro-Scan," Tom said proudly.

"You made it for Santa! So he would know who is naughty and nice."

"I have to calibrate it, do I not?"

"Hmm." Flarbignar would not admit he did not know what 'calibrate' meant. "I guess I cannot blame you, since that also explains the sudden spate of new fashion instructions for our dolls."

"You did not come down here to ask me about dolls."

"You know nothing about dolls, whereas I could tell you much about them. For example, they should say 'Mama', not CLANK. You should know, Tomparasil, I heard no little amount of talk of sending you to work for the Halloween King after your little…fiasco. Santa, in his wisdom, decided to assign you here—" Flar gestured at the boiler room in which they stood "—where your skill in the mechanic arts might yet prove useful."