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With only the slightest hint of the waning crescent moon to light the sky, a soft blanket of darkness lays over the garden where Art sits next to Thistle on one of the carved wooden benches. There is still a hint of chill to the air, but it's a last gasp of winter, tempered by the early breath of Spring.
He gazes upward at the tiny sliver of light in the sky. "Amazing, isn't it? That mortals have once more... how did that dreamer put it? Let slip the surly bonds of Earth..."
Art ventures to wrap an arm around his companion. "Not too cold, I hope?"