[Open starts with a view of a desk, with a page and some writing utensils next to it. A few different bits and bobs cover the desk, including an OSW sticker and a bobble-head of Zeus. From off view, a set of gloved hands with stars sewn into the backs of them appear, and begin to write.]

To Wolf Fang Ayame,

I hope this letter reaches you well. Times are growing darker and darker as we all draw near to Red Snow. The shadows grow as the shortest day of Arcadia draws nearer and nearer. For some, it’s always a festive time of year. Where people get close, and celebrate each other in equal measure in forms of bonds not seen the rest of the year.

But people like us? We don’t get to have that.

[The hands stop writing, the left hand drumming as the right taps the pencil on the desk for a few moments before putting down words once again.]

No, for us this time always means violence. That the fights brewing within are coming to a gushing crescendo that threatens to drown us with the beauty of red. For those that think the life of a beast is best, it almost seems natural to be ready for Red Snow.

But you never consider the price in the end.

You’ve been hounded, persistently chased by a monster and a man so desperately intertwined together that separating one from the other is a Sisyphean task. Despite the instincts to run, to keep away, you chose to stay and fight. To try and end the monster that’s chasing after you.

That scent of blood and finality, copper on the tongue hanging there is tantalizing. But you never consider when you dream of it that it’s yours.

[The hands stop, surprisingly tense for a moment before easing. There’s a strange stillness before the left hand flicks the bobble-head and then begins to write again]

It was only last year that I was like you. Chased and hounded by one that seemed to stop at nothing to get what they wanted. But that, to you, was locked behind a mystery. Who was it, why had they gone taken everything from you. All that we wanted was to be left alone.

But the price was paid. The blood was spilt, and all that was left was the red that came with the end of the year. A year ago, in a similar situation, the Yellow Python bit the dust. Died in blood, and rage, and the call of the beast. It took all that I could do to become more, build myself into something more.

Don’t be the wolf that falls for the baited trap. For that wolf ends up as the fur rug for the wrong kind of hunter.
Be careful.

Sincerely,
Captain Arcadia

[Tapping the pencil, the right hand sets it down. From beneath, a letter is fished out, stamped, and then taken off screen, the click of the light being the last thing we see.]