This Is the other card I had done up, and the story I included.

THE WINTER RIDER

In the deep stillness of Midwinter, when the snow lay thick as memory and the sun hovered low on the horizon, there lived an ancient traveler known only as The Winter Rider. Some called him Father Winter, others the Old Gift-Bringer, but he simply thought of himself as a companion to the turning of the year.

Every solstice morning, he saddled his loyal companion—a great wild boar, strong-backed and sure-footed, a creature whose bristles caught the faint return of sunlight like threads of gold. The boar was no ordinary beast; he was the embodiment of Instinct and Strength, the part of the world that could not be tamed but could always guide. Together, they walked the narrow path where the forest met the edge of dreams.

As they traveled, the forest whispered. Tall snow-laden evergreens stood as guardians of the Threshold, marking the passage between the old year and the new. From their branches, ravens watched with quiet intelligence. They were the Messengers, keepers of hidden knowledge. One called out in a rasping voice, a sound like a door creaking open.

“It is time,” the raven croaked.
The Winter Rider nodded. He already knew.

Ahead lay a village still wrapped in sleep. Its clock tower—proud, slender, and ancient—glowed with the orange kiss of the rising sun. Within its gears lived the archetype of The Timekeeper, a being who turned the wheel of the seasons with patient hands. As the sun crested the mountains, the tower bells rang, announcing the rebirth of the light.

Children—two small helpers bundled in red—heard the chimes first. They ran outside, leaving a trail of mitten prints in the snow, waving eagerly at the approaching silhouettes of boar and rider. These were the Child Helpers, symbols of wonder and renewal, reminding the village that even in deep winter, playfulness and joy endure.

When the Winter Rider reached the heart of the town, he paused. The returning sun painted his long shadow across the snow, stretching behind him like the story of a year now ending. He reached into the sack on his back, but instead of toys or trinkets, he pulled out something far more precious:

A small spark of the returning light.

Not a literal flame, but a blessing—warmth, hope, courage. The kind of light that lives inside people, quiet and steady. He handed this glow to the helpers, who carried it door to door, gifting it to every home.

And so, the village woke not to presents wrapped in ribbons, but to something deeper:
the reminder that even in the darkest times, the light will always return.

When his work was finished, the Winter Rider turned his boar back toward the forest. The ravens called their farewells. The clock tower hummed with the rhythm of another year beginning. And the sun, now fully risen, crowned the world in gold.

No one knew where the Rider went after that. Some believed he wandered the endless winter woods. Others said he climbed the mountains to speak with the spirits of the old year. But all agreed on one truth:

He would return again, whenever the world needed reminding that light, wisdom, and kindness never truly fade.