☕️ Alice’s Mad Tea Party Presents:
🍵 Alice Spills the Tea: The Yule Cat - Do Not Tell Rumple
Ohhh no.
No no no.
You can absolutely tell by the tilt of my teacup that I have had too much tea. And by tea, I mean the kind with something extra in it. Holiday spirit, you understand. Very medicinal.
Before we begin - quick favor.
If Rumplestiltskin asks, I am still on vacation.
If Twisted Ivy asks, this post does not exist.
And if either of them rushes into the Immortal Gazette Studio yelling about holiday lore dibs, I will curse someone into a stocking.
Deal? Lovely.
Now then.
Let me tell you about The Yule Cat.
Yes. That one.
The enormous, frost-breathing, soul-judging nightmare feline of the winter season. Iceland knew what it was doing. No ribbons. No glitter. Just accountability and teeth.
The Yule Cat prowls during Yule. Huge. Black as a starless night. Eyes like frozen moons. Fur thick enough to swallow a person whole without wrinkling a whisker. You do not invite it in.
It shows up anyway.
Here is the part people water down, usually between awkward carols.
The Yule Cat does not care if you were naughty or nice.
It cares if you contributed.
In old times, if you did not work, did not pull your weight, did not help prepare for winter - spinning wool, mending clothes, tending fires - the Yule Cat noticed. And if, by Yule’s end, you had no new clothes to show for your labor?
Crunch.
Not metaphorical crunch.
Actual crunch.
Children were not eaten for being bad. Adults were not spared for being powerful. This was not a moral lecture.
It was survival with fur and claws.
The Yule Cat was the embodiment of winter itself saying, “Do your part or be removed from the equation.”
And honestly?
Wow.
These days we dress it up. Make it cute. Plush toys. Silly poems. Big kitty energy. But deep down, everyone still feels it - that uncomfortable prickle when the year ends and we ask ourselves what we actually did with our time.
The Yule Cat isn’t hunting socks.
It is judging effort.
Oh dear.
I have absolutely said too much, haven’t I? My tea is empty and the room is slightly tilted. That is usually my cue to stop before Rumple smells lore spilling without him.
So let us summarize gently.
If you helped, you’re fine.
If you listened, cared, and showed up?
Congratulations. You will survive another winter.
And if not…
Well.
Cats do love leftovers.
Now hush.
Do not share this with the Gazette.
Do not tag Rumple.
Do not let Ivy sniff this out.
This is our little holiday secret.
Alice
Queen of Ink & Lore
Holiday-Tipsy Truth Teller
Absolutely Still on Vacation ☕️🐈⬛❄️
📝 Editorial Note from Pip (Assistant, Reluctant Babysitter):
This Issue may sound like utter nonsense. Alice has very clearly over-spiked her tea and is no longer allowed near the bells, the archives, or the good china. We attempted to stop her. We failed. She's asleep now.
- Pip
