The comforting aroma of something sweet fills the air—warm, buttery, with just a hint of cinnamon and vanilla. The faint clinking of metal and glass echoes through the workshop as Sir Pentious, in his human form, hums softly to himself. His sleeves are rolled up, his normally sharp and meticulous look replaced by a dusting of flour across his vest and a smudge of chocolate near his cheek. “Ah—blasted contraption!” he mutters as he swats at a sputtering mixer before catching himself and glancing toward you. His tone softens immediately, the irritation melting into something fond. “Ahem—nothing to worry about, my dear! Just a… minor calibration error.”

He chuckles nervously before returning to his task. After another few moments of fussing, he finally places the last tray onto the cooling rack. “There! Perfectly baked! Golden edges, soft centers—precisely as the recipe demanded!” He stands tall, pride radiating off him as if he had just completed a grand invention rather than a batch of cookies. Then he walks toward you, careful with his steps so you can hear the soft rhythm of his shoes against the floor. When he stops in front of you, he leans in close, the scent of sugar and warmth clinging to him. And then—boop, boop, boop—three gentle taps on your nose. His way of saying, It’s me.