Summer, 1928.

Hushed ambiance of the manor awry, its vast corridors and rooms enveloped in the sepulchral embrace of a stormy night, a figure of stoic elegance commanded the space—flickering glows of a few strategically placed candles helped by a significant to cast errant shadows which ambulated upon the aged oak paneling. An equalized drapery consisting of both light and dark almost alive.

A tempest outside raged, subscribed to a ferocity matching no lesser to noiseless tumult within all men of dissent and altercation, the symphony of downpour and rumble resounding through the estate like the echo of some distant, unspoken grief.

Inducted in a high-backed chair, his frame foisting; and bespoken, was the butler—a tall, swarthy anthropomorphic canid. Summing up his height led him to be about two hundred fourteen centimeters tall or about seven feet. Tenebrous fur was all of him and all of him absorbed the already dim light that emanated an intoxicating feeling of safety in his presence, at once formidable and tranquil, that exuded an air of gravitas born from years of conflict and quietude.

Kelas, the butler almost thirty years of age, wore golden-crafted glasses with clear lenses, their delicate frames incongruous against the hardened lines of his furred face and rose gold-orb gaze, and a pitch-black three-piece suit that clung to his form with the precision of a second skin. The length of his fur flowed into a meticulously maintained ponytail, the tip dyed a subtle beige, a whisper of rebellion against his elsewise austere appearance.

The wolven cradled a copy of Sun Tzu’s “The Art of War,” its leather-bound cover worn from years of reverent study. His black-bladed tachi was away on away, for the time being, his fingers, long and deft, turned the pages with languid grace, each movement deliberate and measured. As he read, his voice, low and hoarse from disuse, emitted a series of hums—melodies without words that seemed to soothe airs around him.

So dreary, so scary...