Everybody knows about Santa's toy workshop in the North Pole. Less talked about are the lower-class elves who slave away in the South Pole's coal mines, gathering the rocks to fill the stockings of naughty children.

The working conditions in the mines were barely tolerable. It was hot, filthy and generally unpleasant. There was no sun, nor birdsong, nor feeling of comfort.

"Every year its the same thing," Gluggagaegir grumbled. He was a grizzled old elf with a long scraggly grey beard and a miserable droop to his large pointed ears. The blue overalls he wore were covered in coal dust, and his ruddy face was also blackened with the stuff. "We spend the week leading up to Christmas stuck down here while Santa's elves get to hang out in their nice clean toyshop. At least they have air conditioning."

"Quit yer complainin' will ya?" Ruprecht griped from his position down the line. "Its Christmas Eve. The sooner we get this done the sooner we can stop."

"Heads up, guys!" Belsnickel yelled from the mouth of the mine. Belsnickel was the supervisor and Head Elf, despite being the youngest. The others resented him for this, and he was often the butt of their jokes, but the words 'heads up' always got their undivided attention as they knew what was to come next. "The boss is coming!"

The other elves froze, standing at attention. The very air itself filled with tension as they heard the boss's footfalls approaching, the heavy clip-clop of his cloven hooves echoing around them. Moments later, his towering form came into view. His yellow eyes glinted in the light of the flaming torches that lined the walls. The tips of his sharp horns scratched the rocky ceiling as the mine barely accomodated his seven-foot-tall frame.

He eyed the sacks of coal critically, not speaking a word for what felt like an eternity.

"Nice job, boys," Krampus finally spoke. His tone was soft and almost deadpan, but edged with approval. "Let's go visit some naughty children, shall we?"