Night.
Theodore Mansion.
Critic Arley, Critic-Ishire.
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In this cold winter night, the sky a deep, inky black, with crisp air, carrying the faint scent of pine light flickered in the kitchen of the grand Theodore mansion, Hound was carefully wrapping a bundle in the warm light of his kitchen.
His white clothing stood in stark contrast to the dimly lit room, giving him an ethereal appearance. He took a final look at his creation, biscuits he'd baked with care, before securing the package and slipping it into his satchel.
Wrapping himself in a thick white cloak, he stepped out into the night, his breath visible in the cold air. He walked to the stable and opened a space, a majestic horse with a sleek coat, waiting patiently. With a graceful motion, he mounted the horse and urged it forward, the hooves beating a rhythmic pattern on the ground.
