The Otherworld, Chapter 1

He shoveled teeth into the squirrel's neck. 

 

Blood, tasting of stale piss, splattered on the front of his moccasin jacket. In the moonlight, it was a deep maroon until, within a few seconds, it turned a brackish-brown. The insides speckled the front of him, landing like rain droplets on a canvas.

A bandanna was wrapped around the hunter's forehead. The hair poking from the peak looked like steam spewing from a scalding tarn. It was chaotic, unkempt, vibrantly red. The material's fabric had filigree symbols written in an old Japanese script. Loss. Regret. Hunger. It meant everything and nothing. He was Kitsune, the muzzle poking out from under the bandanna proof of this fact. 

 

The night around him was as black as an opossum's anus. Wolves howled from the top of 'M' mountain, an old University symbol from before the GREAT CHANGE. A court of faeries giggled as a passing elk farted in the wood below. Spirits bounced off leaves and trunks. They were following a man close to death, as he fled, watching him, waiting for him to fall, for the forest to consume him in its magickal womb and spit him back out again as something new and precious. 

 

The veils were collapsing, and the oldfolk were spilling into the material universe. And when I say oldfolk, I mean faeries, pixies, elves, spirits... all of it. 

 

The spiritworld lit up the night, their eyes observing behind the leaves, in the clear brooks with the fish, the lights that floated like cotton in the spring. They were the giggles from all around, tumbling from the haunted spaces where the eye was afraid to follow. You see, this was their forever-realm, and any man who entered a trespasser. Once upon a time a boy or girl could sneak out in the night, try to catch the spirit bubbles in their teeth. They tasted like candy, like sugar sweets-- But now man was an interloper inside a dangerous always-kingdom, one that could decide to crush him if it was ordained by the unconscious will. There was no reason here, only unending knotting and tangling of bark, wet twigs, and fungus. Magic had returned to the world, and it was eating away geometry.

The hunter's eyes deepened their yellow, and he spit blood down his chin. "Aishiteru, Imoto-chan," he mumbled. He tossed the carcass aside and grabbed an arrow from the quiver along his back. His man-prey was below him, and he ran his fingers along the salt-tinted feathers. Kanpekina kanji. Yes, feels right. Feels good. They made a soft flip noise each time he petted them. Licking his lips, humming, stringing up his bow, the fox tail that stuck up from the seat of his pants was stiff as he concentrated. Man-flesh. Kill man. It was a creaky voice from the back of his skull, and it was consuming him. His arms sprouted in goose bumps from the possession, though they were already moist with sweat. The hunter was used to this sensation, the two happening in the same breath. Still, It was an incongruence that sometimes got to him, an oddity in an already konran suru world. The Kitsune didn't like the tension. He wiped the sweat away, leaving his arms a mess of risen red hair and his senses in a state of confusion. 

 

"Imaimashī," he whispered, briefly losing the loner trampling below him.

A moment of panic... but he was still there, racing between the trunks and branches. The trees were tightly woven in this forest, and the hunter was atop one of the branches looking down at the rugged paths twisting through the wood like water over a falls. The tracker tried to form a thought, but his mind was consumed by the stacatto scolding. You fool, I will flay you like a pig. Don't do it! Fool! Fool! I will devour your soul like the sky-poseur drank the titan's blood like wine. He moved the arrow near the bow. His arms were layered in bumps as he tightened the string. It would be so easy to kill the man. He was dying and stupid. Not yet, the voiced hissed again. The time is not yet right, it said. Wait, wait til I order it or I'll skin you alive, like a little foxy, m'dear, me m'dear, mortal. I will eat you whole, like the little foxy you are.

His fox tail twitched. 

 

The threats were usual, but he couldn't help but wonder if he wasn't wrong this time. He had the chance to kill the man now, why not take it? Isn't that what the voice wanted, after all? Isn't this why he had had the man tracked by its goons since the Lost Battle? He was right there, loud as a dying varmint clenched between his teeth...

Unless... 

 

The hunter understood, and he slunk down, falling back into the night shadows.

* * *

The man below, surrounded by the denizens of fae, did not know the hunter, for now at least, had given up the chase. Troy was his appellation. He was a swordsmen, a Zenai. 

 

His breath was ragged and sweat flowed down his brow. His face was messy. His cloak was covered in weeds and mud, but his mind was clear as a fucking spring. The man didn't know much, but he did know he was being tracked. He had had many companions at first, but now there was only him. Troy flung himself through the underbrush like a pinball in a maze. Boing. Boing. Boing. He hit the bumper, pulling off a combo as he glanced the drop target and ascended through the habitrail, which were really a rock and a vine.

Troy had watched one of his best friends shot down a few weeks earlier. It was the middle of the day in the empty blue prairie. The sun was directly above and as he approached his fallen comrade, he had seen the arrow poking from his side. After running, falling, running some more, he had eventually not come to the conclusion that one might after seeing such things, that life wasn't that important, wasn't meaningful. Instead, Troy found himself landing on the opposite, life was the most precious thing. 

 

Troy's pants were dirty under his cloak. He had shit his pants weeks ago and had done so many times since. The feces stuck to his legs. And the scabbard against his side would kick up shit flakes when it hit his leg as he ran. Troy couldn't stop. That's how the Kitsune had got his friend. He had stopped to take a shit. Troy couldn't. He had to keep running and running.

His forehead had diamonds of sweat on it, and gasps were leaving his mouth like a dying furnace. He massaged his stomach, feeling light-headed as if there was a fly trapped between his eyes buzzing, buzzing away, zipping around inside his skull, landing on the meninges of his brain, and rubbing its arms together in there. It was because of him, Troy thought, because of his pursuer above in the trees, and he couldn't help but believe he was losing his mind as well-- but can I decide if I'm going crazy? Can I just be done with the buzzing? The- The- The fly in my brain? A King- A King in Yellow. He wanted to laugh, but that would give away his location for certain.

I- I am going crazy. There is no escape. No escape from the Yellow King, Troy thought.

A black creek appeared in his vision. It looked like the river Styx ferrying lost souls to Hades, and it reflected the eyes between the trees, a myriad of shapes, sizes, and colors. Some looked like crystal balls illuminated by candles, others with lids the petals of flowers, still others like those of an animal, a horse, a lion, or an elephant, large and blinking lethargically.

 

Wondering if it wasn't all a hallucination, Troy leaned down. He splashed water against his face. So cold it felt like needles, but it cleared his head. He had to keep moving but the wood was unyielding. It engulfed a man like the ocean, not spitting him back out until it had wasted him away completely-- his mind was realing. He desired the sharpness of the freezing water. This time when he stood again, he tried to ignore the watchers all around him. He felt his tracker's presence pulsating through him, through the watchers' visions, like it was living inside them, a coldness, more inscrutable than that of the creek. His hand twitched. His pulse was rapid. Nothing he could do. Everything was diseased, lifeless, dead inside him.

This man needed out.

He fell into the creek, submerging under the flow. When he broke the surface, it felt like he had been under longer than he had. His body was already shutting down. But he forced himself to continue on. It was for them, his wife and boy. His legs moved slowly, kicking up sediment from the rock bottom. It caused dirt twisters to form around his footsteps. If it were light and the water clear, he would have looked a dark god with clouds in his wake.

He reached the other side, collapsing onto the bank. After awhile he let his legs hover on the surface of the creek behind him. Weeds pressed against his face on the stone. They felt good. His organs didn't want to work, arms or legs or lungs or lips. Don't stop. He raised his arms, crawling up further on the bank, every motion painful. This was worse than seeing his friend die. Screw you for thinking that, Troy. He lifted himself but fell again. 

 

Troy couldn't move, closing his eyes, listening to the moving water, sounding similar to wind chimes. He could perish here, let it all go, let the forest consume his body. There was dignity in that. A boy's face. He had smooth, tan skin, and midnight eyes. He smiled at the man, and the man did not forget. He remembered the promise made. The Zenai placed his palms against the rock, lifting himself. He cried out, but the swordsmen in the city would never stop and neither would he. The sound of water was the only noise he heard, the pebbles kicked up by his moving legs. 

 

He stood by the water. His body was hunched over, and he was chilled, but that didn't change what he had done. I did it. He couldn't believe it. "I did it!" He howled in victory, pumping his arms up towards the canopy. He was on the bank, the spirits' lights filling the forest with a ballet of spinning dancers the size of seeds. The eyes glared at him, some in relief, some in surprise, some in anger that he had escaped. "I did it!" he yelled again. "Take that, you bastards!" 

 

More eyes twisted into angry triangle shapes as he hurried off again.

His legs hurt, but nothing would stop him. "Spiritus saltus transire permittas. Petiisset spiritus, non gratum intus animos parari," he breathed, his voice trembling and water dripping from his legs. They were giggling now, sounding like a child's wheeze on a summer day. He could only pass them by listing off spells, some he barely remembered from when he had trained up in the castle's towers. "Vos nescitis quidquam, aut ubi sum vidi. Quae sunt. Benedicite spiritus, et non subsistam." They faded as the Zenai spoke, candles that dimmed with the wind. The spirits respond to Latin, Master Sunday told me once. It's the language of the Romans, the language of the Masons, the builders, the shapers of the universe in God's image. They respect it.

The forest trail grew darker as the spirits faded away. Moss piled on branches; leaves shielded the stars from him; and shrubbery and mushrooms covered the crunchy earth. There were slugs hanging on branches and leaves, holding on like thousands of cave stalactites glistening moisture. It was a prison, an odd prison, but a prison none-the-less, constructed by no one. He tried to remain silent, but found it impossible. He was too excited to be quiet or avoid loose branches, which looked like they had arthritic fingers, gnarled and painful, reaching out at him. If he didn't bat them away, the things would snap him in the face, scratching his skin or worse. He was too excited because he was coming home.

 

He was coming home to the Gilded City of Bozeman, Montana.

The forests outside its gates were endless. They rose up and kissed the sky, their foliage forming beards against the mountains' sleeping faces. The trail was opening, becoming less dense with vegetation, and as he left the forest behind him, a massive wall was revealed.

* * *

...Tails. You listening, buddy?... 

 

The Kitsune had halted. An engorged, bloody moon was above him as he leaned against the trunk of a tree, high above the ground. The branch on which he stood was a thick one. The timberland was amok with the spirits of the dead, of the imps of the forests, dancing around him looking like fireflies in a disco club. On his back was a beautiful onyx quiver which reflected an emerald color in the moonlight, oddly enough, and across his shoulder was the bow, long, menacing. His arrows were holstered.

The man.

The man was fresh in his mind.

They had been hunting this man for weeks. No, not hunting really. More like trailing him, making him think he would die at any moment. Kitsune were once considered myth except by maybe a few Japanese old-timers. Times had changed. His fox tail wagged back and forth, not like a dog, more like perhaps, a playful feline. If he were to ever get caught in the world of men, it would because of that stupid tail. The Kitsune's stomach ached for more. These past few weeks had been stressful on him, and his master ate away at his mind as much as he had at the squirrel. Prodding him, begging him not to listen… the things he asked. He felt like Abraham on the mountain, holding a knife above his child, begging for the final Word not to come.

I'm starving, Tails. Jeeeez. He's not going to get away.

A chirping noise yelped in the night, and The Kitsune was relieved it was him and not his master. It was his Ryuuji, who now flapped down to his shoulder on his nubile wings. He was a small lizard with wings, a drakeling-- he cooed and cawed, making himself comfortable upon the Kitsune's shoulder, stretching his legs like a cat. His wings were bat-like, and his face resembled the rough skin newt. Brown with a pebble-like texture, orange-belly advertising the poison which coursed through his cobalt blood, he was was sleepy, yawning.

I'm famished. We've been hunting all day. That man is going bug nuts down there. It was an ancient accent, but perversely, also the voice of a young male child. It was Ryuuji, speaking directly to him. One might call it telepathic, but in truth it felt deeper than that, like invisible electric currents jetting between them.

“Tell me more about the man,” the Kitsune's said. His was a textured voice, like it had bounced through hollow driftwood. 

 

Young Ryuuji snapped his teeth, looking almost annoyed that he had to go on about something in which he cared so little. Stupid as ever. He keeps slamming into trees and knocking himself out. Made it out though. He's on the tar mac now. He will never reach home again. He is-”

“Jūbun'na,” the Kitsune growled. “We are close now. To fail now would be a mockery.”

The Kitsune could only hunt at night, it was true. The moon gave him power, and when there was no moon there was no Kitsune. He was a dream creature-- and in moments his outline seemed to fade like an image in water. It was ripple, dance, making no logical sense. In the previous world this may have disturbed the viewer. Now it was somehow possible, probable in fact.

The man below him was a mile ahead. He could hear him panting, afraid to go forward, afraid to be seen. Yes, there are enemies in the gates, my prey, the Kitsune thought. You are wise to remain unseen even by your own brothers. He was crazed, as Ryuuji had said, but not stupid after all. He was a noble man of Sir Jacob Adami's school. He was a Zenai, a man of the samurai sword, forged of a mystical stone, found ages back by an archeologist. The Kitsune thought of the hunt. The worst was when he had chased him across the open plains. There was little cover there, and the beasts were fiercer, ready for man-flesh. 

 

Thinking about Jacob Adami, my friend? Your master won't like that.

The Kitsune shot Ryuuji a venomous glance. “It's none of your business, wyrmling. Maybe I ought to eat you next.” 

 

Ryuuji didn't move. The Kitsune imagined that he would have shrugged his shoulders if he could. Eat away. You'll be pushing fire through your bowels for weeks.

 

The Kitsune stifled a laugh which sounded like a deep yip. He tossed Ryuuji the last squirrel bone he had been holding onto for later and the little dragon snapped it out of air. Through Ryuuji's bites, the Kitsune spoke: “The Master is coming again. I can sense him. You better be far away from me when he does, young one. I cannot always control myself when he pierces me.”

Don't have to tell me twice, Tails. He yawned again and then lunged into the air with the squirrel bone in his mouth, flying into the darker night. The world was cooling, becoming quieter. It was as if they all knew he was coming, the forest itself. The dragon looked back at him but for a moment. Be careful, you stupid Kitsune sonabitch. And then he was gone in the night.

* * *

The timberland was thick with Douglas fir. It was a rain forest, with fog crawling through the coniferous jungle. This had once been Ponderosa pine woodland, with scattered scrubs and dried weeds between the distant trunks, almost a prairie. Now moss hung on branches like too much tinsel on a Christmas tree, as if it was imagined by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The trees were never-ending, lush, dangerous. Once magic returned to the world, everything had become a fairy-tale. Dragons roosted in their mountain cave-holes, protecting their treasure hordes, no longer gold, but valuable ancient computer components, manufacturing goods, things that would have rebuilt society if they weren't stolen away. There were aforementioned roving night-spirits, visible in the dark but also present in the day, cackling in the breeze. Mushrooms ballooned, growing the size of bushes, of trees, of large animals. And the elves ruled again. A man could not dilly-dally into the groves without risking his sanity, his self of self. He may come back without a mind, or worse, with a donkey's head for his own.

 

The Kitsune's fox ears twitched. A hooting owl silenced itself. The night continued to chill, and goose pimples rose along his exposed skin. Parts of him were covered in a lipstick-shaded layer of soft hair. Even here his skin was cold. It was an unnatural feeling, and one he had grown familiar with over the years. The freeze slithered across his skin like a serpent and then dove into his blood, dripping lethargically through his insides once it hit fluid. He shivered, yes, shivered. You would think that it would stop, after having experienced this sensation so many times, but he knew that could never be true. It was a creature of another dimension poking its head into our own-- and that sense of dread, it was something every man faces once in his life, if he knows it or not. He suddenly wished he hadn't told Ryuuji to leave. It was near unbearable to speak with the master ALONE.

The Kitsune's doleful tail was motionless. He knew it was only a matter of time before HE spoke to him. He had been expecting it all night, and he considered his duty, like a man knowing he must wake early in the morning for a long day of work. 

 

It was a moaning. A deep moaning. Not from out there, with the spirits, the woodland, or even, God forbid, the moon. A deep moaning, forming into a hum, which if you listened closely enough became discernible, like a new language you were finally getting the hang of.

Hellllllo, it whispered into his elongated left ear. No it was inside his ear. Hellllloooo. It was in the center of his head now, begging him to question everything, his sanity even. It was the voice of a komodo dragon. Deep. Full of the texture of a lizard's mouth, with its dagger-teeth and poison-saliva. It was nothing like Ryuuji's electric jolt of thoughts in his brain. Instead, it sunk into his soul, into the deep unconscious that would snap him awake at 2 AM in the morning, feeling like a ghost passing through him. The night was incredibly dark-- his vision was failing in horror. Fox-man. Fox-man. Oh dirty, mortal fox-man, full of pulsing blue blood, convulsing organs ready to be popped like tasty zittttttts. The voice was coherent and incoherent at the same time, for it was a nightmare voice. It didn't make any sense. Fox-man, Fox-man. Full of spite man. You hate the man. You Hate HIM. Don't you?

“Yes, Master,” he answered impassively, hiding the fear inside. There was sweat building in his arm pits and along his brow. It was a lie, and he knew that the voice could see him, see his thoughts for what they were. Why did he even bother?

You want to kill him, don't you, my fox dream? You want to kill the stupid, stupid man who ran through your forest. You want him dead. In the Kitsune's mind he saw a man's eyes widening with each word, the voice growing stronger with each syllable. The Kitsune didn't want to speak with his Master, not now, not ever again, but he had made his choice long ago.

He pictured the man falling, a lump sack, shaking between the trees, shaking, shaking, then stopping. An arrow was in his back. Yes, that was what he wanted. He felt his tail erect. I see what you are thinking. But that would go against my orderssssss, fox-man. That would go against my. Orders. Fox-mannnnn. The voice was turning into a hiss. Even though the voice raved at it him with its venom-fanged verboseness, he felt lonesome, a forsaken itch gnawing at his skin-- it was only he in these woods. Everything else had hidden away under their collective blankets. Do you plea for them, my fox dream? Plea for them to emerge from the night shadows and save your tenderness from the boogy-woogy man? Ain't going to happen, cupcake, it growled. Ain't even going to happen. You're mine for always.

 

He was helpless against it. There was no escape from the nothingness.

His Master was a force of not nature, perhaps, but anti-nature… maybe even anti-matter. 

 

He could see ITs face… no it wasn't a face, it was a blank space with white shining teeth, like the Cheshire Cat, and burning red eyes. They shot into him, seeing his soul, all of it, all of its cracks, indentations, cuts. IT knew. IT knew everything. His MASTER had walked upon the earth once, wearing sandals, speaking a tongue of hate. NOW it could only speak through others, many many others throughout the years. It was the creepy crawling spider beneath the dark ocean waves, It was the sinking feeling in your groin when you hear a beloved is dying. It was division, it was the crossroad demon at midnight, it was the grand schism-maker with its sheath, destroying matter and defecating it into formless mass.

I'm growing tired of you, foxdream. The smile expanded until it connected to the back of its barren skull. Do your job, and I'll give you the world.

 

He knew the Master did not lie.

 

A vision flashed through his eye, snapping like one of those trick noisemakers kids use on the 4^th of July. It was a valley lush with trees growing toward the moon, untouched by man's grimy hands, so used to crawling in the dirt, and dragons roosted in them in nests made of gems and straw. There were thousands of them. They were the size of 747's, yes, but also smaller juveniles-- maroon, the darkest of blacks, the goldest of golds. Their scaly hides reflected the sun, and their cooing, their growling, sounding like giant birds. The fox-men… they also climbed through the trees, tending the lionhearts, feeding them meats from the kill, vegetables harvested from the fields far to the east. Men, men were trash in the dirt… they had no place in the foxdream's world. The vision had been so perfect he had almost forgotten about IT, but the voice returned, like a demon sliding into a sick person's conscious. Or I'll take it away, the creeping said, I'll take it all away. I'll kill that whom is closest to you, the only man which you care. I'll kill him.

“No,” he spoke aloud. “Please no.”

Then do as I say. 

 

“I will,” he pleased. “I will, Master.”

* * *

The Kitsune Rewrite, 2

...Tails. You listening, buddy?... 

 

The Kitsune feasted upon his prey. He dug into its flesh with his pointed teeth, letting the blood pool on the tip of chin. It dripped, falling in specks down his shirt or far down to the rich forest soil. His midnight treat was a squirrel. Its flinching tail tickled his cheeks. It bounced and jigged all over, twitching as if were a dying insect. With the Kitsune's first bite it was alive, by his fourth it wasn't. The squealing ceased, and he was alone. Thanks the gods, he was alone. An engorged, bloody moon was above him as he leaned against the trunk of a tree, high above the ground. The branch on which he stood was a thick one. The timberland was magical, full of the spirits of the dead, of the imps of the forests, dancing around him looking like fireflies in a disco club. The Kitsune's red hair, which ballooned above the bandana across his forehead, looked like a scalding tarn-- he was a fox-man. He wore dark rawhide like an Indian, moccasins on his feet, clawed toes poking through the fabric. The two blue bandanas on his head covered everything but his golden eyes and his mouth. Yes, yes, eating the varmint, gore spraying all over him as he tore at it with his muzzle. On his back was a beautiful onyx quiver of arrows which reflected an emerald color in the moonlight, oddly enough, and across his shoulder was the bow, long, menacing. From his butt a bushy tail.

The kill.

The kill was fresh in his mouth. Eat it. Yes… Eat it… Enjoy it so… 

You must be hungry, Tails. Jeeeez.

A chirping noise yelped in the night, and The Kitsune was relieved it was him and not his master. It was his Ryuuji, who now flapped down to his shoulder on his nubile wings. He was a small lizard with wings, a drakeling-- he cooed and cawed, making himself comfortable upon the Kitsune's shoulder, stretching his legs like a cat. His wings were bat-like, and his face resembled the rough skin newt. Brown with a pebble-like texture, orange-belly advertising the poison which coursed through his cobalt blood, he was was sleepy, yawning.

The Kitsune licked the last bone clean. 

You must be famished. We've been hunting all day. That man is going bug nuts down there. It was an ancient accent, but perversely, also the voice of a male child. It was Ryuuji, speaking directly to him. One might call it telepathic, but in truth it felt deeper than that, like invisible electric currents jetting between them.

 

“Tell me more about the man,” the Kitsune's said. It was a textured voice, like it had bounced through hollow driftwood.

Young Ryuuji snapped his teeth, looking almost annoyed that he had to go on about something in which he cared so little. Stupid as ever. He keeps slamming into trees and knocking himself out. He must sense he is close to home, the fool. He will never reach home again. He is-”

“Enough,” the Kitsune growled.

They had been hunting this man for weeks. No, not hunting really. More like trailing him, making him think he would die at any moment. Kitsune were once considered myth by men, except for maybe but a few Japanese oldtimers. But these days they were very much a part of the now. His fox tail wagged back and forth, not like a dog, more like perhaps, a playful feline. If he were to ever get caught in the world of men, it would because of that stupid tail. The Kitsune's stomach ached for more. These past few weeks had been stressful on him, and his master ate away at his mind as much as he at the squirrel. Prodding him, begging him not to listen… the things he asked. He felt like Abraham on the mountain, holding a knife above his child, begging for the final Word not to come.

The Kitsune could only hunt at night, it was true. The moon gave him power, and when there was no moon there was no Kitsune. He was a dream creature-- and in moments his outline seemed to fade like an image in water. It was ripple, dance, making no logical sense. In the previous world this may have disturbed the viewer. Now it was somehow possible, probable in fact.

The man below him was several miles back. He could hear him panting. He was crazed, as Ryuuji had said, but not stupid. He was a noble man of Sir Jacob Adami's school. He was a Zenai, a man of the samurai sword, forged of a mystical stone, found ages back by an archeologist. The Kitsune thought of the hunt. The worst was when he had chased him across the open plains. There was little cover there, and the beasts were fiercer, ready for man-flesh. Thinking about Jacob Adami, my friend? Your master won't like that.

The Kitsune shot Ryuuji a venomous glance. “It's none of your business, wyrmling. Maybe I ought to eat you next.” 

 

Ryuuji didn't move. The Kitsune imagined that he would have shrugged his shoulders if he could. Eat away. You'll be pushing fire through your bowels for weeks. 

 

The Kitsune stifled a laugh which sounded like a deep yip. He tossed Ryuuji the last squirrel bone and the little dragon snapped it out of air eagerly. Through Ryuuji's bites, the Kitsune spoke: “The Master is coming. I can sense him. You better be far away from me when he does, young one. I cannot always control myself when he pierces me.”

 

Don't have to tell me twice, Tails. He yawned again and then lunged into the air with the squirrel bone in his mouth, flying into the darker night. The world was cooling, becoming quieter. It was as if they all knew he was coming, the forest itself. The dragon looked back at him but for a moment. Be careful, you stupid Kitsune sonabitch. And then he was gone in the night.

* * *

The timberland was thick with Douglas fir. It was a rain forest, with fog crawling through the coniferous jungle. This had once been Ponderosa pine woodland, with scattered scrubs and dried weeds between the distant trunks, almost a prairie. Now moss hung on branches, which grew much thick, as if was imagined by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The trees were never-ending, lush, dangerous. Once magic returned to the world, everything had become a fairy-tale. Dragons roosted in their mountain cave-holes, protecting their treasure hordes, no longer gold, but valuable ancient computer components, manufacturing goods, things that would have rebuilt society if they weren't stolen away. There were aforementioned roving night-spirits, visible in the dark but also present in the day, cackling in the breeze. Mushrooms ballooned, growing the size of bushes, of trees, of large animals. And the elves ruled again. A man could not dilly-dally into the groves without risking his sanity, his self of self. He may come back without a mind, or worse, with a donkey's head for his own.

The Kitsune's fox ears twitched. A hooting owl silenced itself. The night continued to chill, and goose pimples rose along his exposed skin. Parts of him were covered in a lipstick-shaded layer of soft hair. Even here his skin was cold. It was an unnatural feeling, and one he had grown familiar with over the years. The freeze slithered across his skin like a serpent and then dove into his blood, dripping lethargically through his insides once it hit fluid. He shivered, yes, shivered. You would think that it would stop, after having experienced this sensation so many times, but he knew that could never be true. It was a creature of another dimension poking its head into our own-- and that sense of dread, it was something every man faces once in his life, if he knows it or not. He suddenly wished he hadn't told Ryuuji to leave. It was near unbearable to speak with the master ALONE.

The Kitsune's doleful tail was motionless. He knew it was only a matter of time before HE spoke to him. He had been expecting it all night, and he considered his duty, like a man knowing he must wake early in the morning for a long day of work. 

It was a moaning. A deep moaning. Not from out there, with the spirits, the woodland, or even, God forbid, the moon. A deep moaning, forming into a hum, which if you listened closely enough became discernible, like a new language you were finally getting the hang of.

Hellllllo, it whispered into his elongated left ear. No it was inside his ear. Hellllloooo. It was in the center of his head now, begging him to question everything, his sanity even. It was the voice of a komodo dragon. Deep. Full of the texture of a lizard's mouth, with its dagger-teeth and poison-saliva. It was nothing like Ryuuji's electric jolt of thoughts in his brain. Instead, it sunk into his soul, into the deep unconscious that would snap him awake at 2 AM in the morning, feeling like a ghost passing through him. The night was incredibly dark-- his vision was failing in horror. Fox-man. Fox-man. Oh dirty, mortal fox-man, full of pulsing blue blood, convulsing organs ready to be popped like tasty zittttttts. The voice was coherent and incoherent at the same time, for it was a nightmare voice. It didn't make any sense. Fox-man, Fox-man. Full of spite man. You hate the man. You Hate HIM. Don't you?

“Yes, Master,” he answered impassively, hiding the fear inside. There was sweat building in his arm pits and along his brow. It was a lie, and he knew that the voice could see him, see his thoughts for what they were. Why did he even bother?

You want to kill him, don't you, my fox dream? You want to kill the stupid, stupid man who runs through your forest. You want him dead. In the Kitsune's mind he saw a man's eyes widening with each word, the voice growing stronger with each syllable. The Kitsune didn't want to speak with his Master, not now, not ever again, but he had made his choice long ago.

He pictured the man falling, a lump sack, shaking between the trees, shaking, shaking, then stopping. An arrow was in his back. Yes, that was what he wanted. He felt his tail erect. I see what you are thinking. But that would go against my orderssssss, fox-man. That would go against my. Orders. Fox-mannnnn. The voice was turning into a hiss. Even though the voice raved at it him with its venom-fanged verboseness, he felt lonesome, a forsaken itch gnawing at his skin-- it was only he in these woods. Everything else had hidden away under their collective blankets. Do you plea for them, my fox dream? Plea for them to emerge from the night shadows and save your tenderness from the boogy-woogy man? Ain't going to happen, cupcake, it growled. Ain't even going to happen. You're mine for always.

 

He was helpless against it. There was no escape from the nothingness.

His Master was a force of not nature, perhaps, but anti-nature… maybe even anti-matter. 

He could see ITs face… no it wasn't a face, it was a blank space with white shining teeth, like the Cheshire Cat, and burning red eyes. They shot into him, seeing his soul, all of it, all of its cracks, indentations, cuts. IT knew. IT knew everything. His MASTER had walked upon the earth once, wearing sandals, speaking a tongue of hate. NOW it could only speak through others, many many others throughout the years. It was the creepy crawling spider beneath the dark ocean waves, It was the sinking feeling in your groin when you hear a beloved is dying. It was division, it was the crossroad demon at midnight, it was the grand schism-maker with its sheath, destroying matter and defecating it into formless mass.

I'm growing tired of you, foxdream. The smile expanded until it connected to the back of its barren skull. Do your job, and I'll give you the world.

He knew the Master did not lie.

A vision flashed through his eye, snapping like one of those trick noisemakers kids use on the 4^th of July. It was a valley lush with trees growing toward the moon, untouched by man's grimy hands, so used to crawling in the dirt, and dragons roosted in them in nests made of gems and straw. There were thousands of them. They were the size of 747's, yes, but also smaller juveniles-- maroon, the darkest of blacks, the goldest of golds. Their scaly hides reflected the sun, and their cooing, their growling, sounding like giant birds. The fox-men… they also climbed through the trees, tending the lionhearts, feeding them meats from the kill, vegetables harvested from the fields far to the east. Men, men were trash in the dirt… they had no place in the foxdream's world. The vision had been so perfect he had almost forgotten about IT, but the voice returned, like a demon sliding into a sick person's conscious. Or I'll take it away, the creeping said, I'll take it all away. I'll kill that whom is closest to you, the only man which you care. I'll kill him.

“No,” he spoke aloud. “Please no.”

Then do as I say. 

“I will,” he pleased. “I will, Master.”

* * *

The Kitsune rewrite, Part 1

...Tails. You listening, buddy?... 

 

The Kitsune feasted upon his prey. He dug into its flesh with his pointed teeth, letting the blood pool on the tip of chin. It dripped, falling in specks down his shirt, or far down to the rich forest soil. His midnight treat was a squirrel. Its flinching tail tickled his cheeks. It bounced and jigged all over, flapping away as if were a twitching insect. With the Kitsune's first bite it was alive, by his fourth it wasn't. The squealing ceased, and he was alone. Thanks the gods, he was alone, huge, engorged, bloody moon above him as he leaned against the trunk of a tree, high, high above the ground. The branch on which he sat was a thick one. The timberland was magical, full of the spirits of the dead, of the imps of the forests, dancing around him looking like fireflies in a disco club. The Kitsune's red hair, which ballooned above the bandana across his forehead, looked like a scalding tarn-- he was a fox-man. He wore tan rawhide like an Indian, moccasins on his feet, clawed toes poking through the fabric. The two blue bandanas on his head covered everything but his golden eyes and his mouth, yes, yes, eating the varmint, gore spraying all over him as he tore at it with his muzzle. On his back was a beautiful onyx quiver of arrows which reflected an emerald color in the moonlight, oddly enough, and across his should was the bow, long, menacing. From his butt a bushy tail.

The kill.

The kill was fresh in his mouth. Eat it. Yes… Eat it… Enjoy it so…

You must be hungry, Tails. Jeeeez.

A chirping noise yelped in the night, and The Kitsune was relieved it was him and not his master. It was his Ryuuji, who now flew down to his shoulder. He was a small lizard with wings, a drakeling-- he cooed and cawed, making himself comfortable upon the Kitsune's shoulder. His wings were bat-like, and his face resembled the rough skin newt. Brown with a pebble-like texture, orange-belly advertising the poison which coursed through his cobalt blood, he was was sleepy, yawning.

The Kitsune licked the last bone clean. 

You must be famished. We've been hunting all day. That man is mad man. It was an ancient accent, the voice of a male child. It was Ryuuji, speaking directly to him. One might call it telepathic, but in truth it felt deeper than that, like invisible electric currents jetting between them.

“How's the man?” the Kitsune's said. It was a textured voice, like it had bounced through hollow driftwood. 

Young Ryuuji snapped his teeth, looking almost annoyed that the question even had to be asked. Stupid as ever. He keeps slamming into trees and knocking himself out. He must sense he is close to home, the fool. He will never reach home again. He is-”

“Enough,” the Kitsune said.

They had been hunting this man for weeks. No, not hunting really. More like trailing him, making him think he would die at any moment. Kitsune were once considered myth by men, except for maybe but a few Japanese oldtimers. But these days they were very much a part of the now. His fox tail wagged back and forth, not like a dog, more like the wave of the ocean, perhaps, or a playful cat's. It had a mind of its own, some might say, but that wasn't true. The fox-man controlled it, that stupid tail. If he were to ever get caught in the world of men, it would because of that stupid tail. The Kitsune was hungry still. The squirrel was not enough. These past few weeks had been stressful on him, and his master ate away at his mind as much as he at the squirrel. Prodding him, begging him not to listen… the things he asked. He felt like Abraham on the mountain, holding a knife above his child, begging for the final Word not to come.

The Kitsune could only hunt at night, it was true. The moon gave him power, and when there was no moon there was no Kitsune. He was a dream creature-- and in moments his outline seemed to fade like an image in water. It was ripple, dance, making no logical sense. In the previous world this may have disturbed the viewer. Now it was somehow possible, probable in fact.

The man below him was several miles back. He could hear him panting. He was crazed, as Ryuuji had said, but not stupid. He was a noble man of Sir Jacob Adami's school. He was a Zenai, a man of the samurai sword, forged of a mystical stone, found ages back by a great man. The man below, however, was near death, but that didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. More so in fact. The Kitsune thought of the hunt. The worst was when he had chased him across the open plains. There was little cover there, and the beasts were fiercer, ready for man-flesh. He was surprised any of the men in that original party had survived this long. Thinking about Jacob Adami, my friend? Your master won't like that.

The Kitsune shot Ryuuji a venomous glance. “It's none of your business, wyrmling. Maybe I ought to eat you next.” 

 

Ryuuji didn't move. The Kitsune knew that he would have shrugged his shoulders if he could. Eat away. You'll be pushing fire through your bowels for weeks. 

 

The Kitsune stifled a laugh which sounded like a deep yip. He tossed Ryuuji the bone and the little dragon snapped it out of air eagerly. Through Ryuuji's bites, the Kitsune spoke: “The Master is coming. I can sense him. You better be far away from me when he does young one. I cannot always control myself when he pierces me.”

Don't have to tell me twice, Tails. He lunged into the air with the squirrel bone in his mouth, flying into the darker night. The world was cooling, becoming quieter. It was as if they all knew he was coming, the forest itself. The dragon looked back at him but for a moment. Be careful, you stupid Kitsune sonabitch. And then he was gone in the night.

* * *

The timberland was thick with Douglas fir. It was a rain forest, with fog crawling through the coniferous jungle. This had once been Ponderosa pine woodland, with scattered scrubs and dried weeds between the distant trunks, almost a prairie. Now moss hung on branches, which grew thick. The trees were never-ending, lush, dangerous. Once magic returned to the world, everything had become a fairy-tale. Dragons roosted in their mountain cave-holes, protecting their treasure hordes, no longer gold, but valuable ancient computer components, manufacturing goods, things that would have rebuilt society if they weren't stolen away. There were aforementioned roving night-spirits, visible in the dark but also present in the day, cackling in the breeze. Mushrooms ballooned, growing the size of bushes, of trees, of large animals. And the elves ruled again. A man could not dilly-dally into the groves without risking his sanity, his self of self. He may come back without a mind, or worse, with a donkey's head for his own. 

The Kitsune's fox ears twitched. A hooting owl silenced itself. The night chilled, and goose pimples rose along his exposed skin. Parts of him were covered in a lipstick-shaded layer of soft hair. Even here his skin was cold. It was an unnatural feeling, and one he had grown familiar with over the years. The freeze slithered across his skin like a serpent and then dove into his blood, dripping lethargically through his insides once it hit fluid. He shivered, yes, shivered. You would think that it would stop, after having experienced this sensation so many times, but he knew that could never be true. It was a creature of another dimension poking its head into our own-- and that sense of dread, it was something every man faces once in his life, if he knows it or not. He suddenly wished he hadn't told Ryuuji to leave. It was near unbearable to speak with the master ALONE.

The Kitsune's doleful tail was motionless. He knew it was only a matter of time before HE spoke to him. He had been expecting it all night, and he considered his duty, like a man knowing he must wake early in the morning for a long day of work. 

It was a moaning. A deep moaning. Not from out there, with the spirits, the woodland, or even, God forbid, the moon. A deep moaning, forming into a hum, which if you listened closely enough became discernible, like a new language you were finally getting the hang of.

Hellllllo, it whispered into his elongated left ear. No it was inside his ear. Hellllloooo. It was in the center of his head now, begging him to question everything, his sanity even. It was the voice of a komodo dragon. Deep. Full of the texture of a lizard's mouth, with its dagger-teeth and poison-saliva. It was nothing like Ryuuji's electric jolt of thoughts in his brain. Instead, it sunk into his soul, into the deep unconscious that would snap him awake at 2 AM in the morning, feeling like a ghost passing through him. The night was incredibly dark-- his vision was failing in horror. Fox-man. Fox-man. Oh dirty, mortal fox-man, full of pulsing blue blood, convulsing organs ready to be popped like tasty zittttttts. The voice was coherent and incoherent at the same time, for it was a nightmare voice. It didn't make any sense. Fox-man, Fox-man. Full of spite man. You hate the man. You Hate HIM. Don't you?

“Yes, Master,” he answered impassively, hiding the fear inside. There was sweat building in his arm pits and along his brow. It was a lie, and he knew that the voice could see him, see his thoughts for what they were. Why did he even bother?

You want to kill him, don't you, my fox dream? You want to kill the stupid, stupid man who runs through your forest. You want him dead. In the Kitsune's mind he saw a man's eyes widening with each word, the voice growing stronger with each syllable. The Kitsune didn't want to speak with his Master, not now, not ever again, but he had made his choice long ago.

He pictured the man falling, a lump sack, shaking between the trees, shaking, shaking, then stopping. An arrow was in his back. Yes, that was what he wanted. He felt his tail erect. I see what you are thinking. But that would go against my orderssssss, fox-man. That would go against my. Orders. Fox-mannnnn. The voice was turning into a hiss.

The Kitsune, Part 1

...Tails. You listening, buddy?...

The night was old and the Kitsune feasted upon his prey. He dug into its flesh with his pointed teeth, letting the blood pool on the tip of chin. It dripped, falling in specks down his shirt, or far down to the rich forest soil. His midnight treat was a squirrel. Its flinching tail tickled his cheeks. It bounced and jigged all over, flapping away as if were a twitching insect. With the Kitsune's first bite it was alive, by his fourth it wasn't. The squealing ceased, and he was alone. Thanks the gods, he was alone, huge, engorged, bloody moon above him as he leaned against the trunk of a tree, high, high above the ground. The branch on which he sat was a thick one. The timberland was magical, full of the spirits of the dead, of the imps of the forests, dancing around him looking like fireflies in a disco club. The Kitsune's red hair, which ballooned above the bandana across his forehead, looked like a scalding tarn-- he was a fox-man. He wore tan rawhide like an Indian, moccasins on his feet, clawed toes poking through the fabric. The two blue bandanas on his head covered everything but his golden eyes and his mouth, yes, yes, eating the varmint, gore spraying all over him as he tore at it with his muzzle. On his back was a beautiful onyx quiver of arrows which reflected an emerald color in the moonlight, oddly enough, and across his should was the bow, long, menacing. From his butt a bushy red tail.

 

The kill.

The kill was fresh in his mouth. Eat it. Yes… Eat it… Enjoy it so… 

You must be hungry, Tails. Jeeeez.

A chirping noise yelped in the night, and The Kitsune was relieved. It was his partner, Ryuuji, who flew down to his shoulder. He was a small lizard with wings, a drakeling-- he cooed and cawed, making himself comfortable upon the Kitsune's shoulder. His wings were bat-like, and his face resembled the rough skin newt. Brown with a pebble-like texture, orange-belly advertising the poison which coursed through his cobalt blood, he was was sleepy, yawning.

The Kitsune licked the last bone clean. 

We've been hunting all day. That man is a fricking mad man. It was an ancient accent, the voice of a male child. It was Ryuuji, speaking directly to him. One might call it telepathically, but in truth it felt deeper than that, like invisible electric currents jetting between them.

“How is he?” the Kitsune said. It was a textured voice, like it had bounced through hollow driftwood.

Young Ryuuji snapped his teeth, looking almost annoyed that the question even had to be asked. Stupid as ever. He keeps slamming into trees and knocking himself out. He must sense he is close to home, the fool. He will never reach home again. He is-”

“Enough,” the Kitsune said.

He had been hunting this man for weeks. No, not hunting really. More like trailing him, making him think he would die at any moment. Kitsune were once considered myth by the world, except for a few old Japanese men and women. But these days they were very much a part of the now. His fox tail wagged back and forth, not like a dog, more like the wave of the ocean, perhaps, or a playful cat's. It had a mind of its own, some might say, but that wasn't true. The fox-man controlled it, that stupid tail. If he were to ever get caught in the world of men, it would because of that stupid tail. The Kitsune was hungry still. The squirrel was not enough. These past few weeks had been stressful on him, and his master ate away at his mind as much as he at the squirrel. Prodding him, begging him not to listen… the things he asked. He felt like Abraham on the mountain, holding a knife above his child, begging for the final Word not to come.

The Kitsune could only hunt at night, it was true. The moon gave him power, and when there was no moon there was no Kitsune. He was a dream creature-- and in moments his outline seemed to fade like an image in water. It was ripple, dance, making no logical sense. In the previous world this may have disturbed the viewer. Now it was somehow possible, probable in fact.

The man below him was several miles back. He could hear him panting. He was crazed, but not stupid. He was a noble man of Sir Jacob Adami's school. He was a Koroki, a man of the samurai sword, forged of a mystical stone, found ages back by a small man. This man was near death, but that didn't mean he wasn't as dangerous. More so in fact. The Kitsune thought of the hunt. The worst was when he had chased him across the open plains. There was little cover there, and the beasts were fiercer, ready for man-flesh. He was surprised any of the men in that original party had survived this long. Thinking about Jacob Adami, my friend? Your Master won't like that.

The Kitsune shot Ryuuji a venomous glance. “It's none of your business, wyrmling. Maybe I ought to eat you next.”

Ryuuji didn't move. It almost looked like he shrugged his shoulders. Eat away. You'll be pushing fire through your bowels for weeks. 

 

The Kitsune stifled a laugh which sounded like a deep yip. He tossed Ryuuji the bone and the little dragon snapped it out of air eagerly. Through Ryuuji's bites, the Kitsune spoke: “The Master is coming. I can sense him. You better be far away from me when he does young one. I cannot always control myself when he pierces me.”

Don't have to tell me twice, Tails. He lunged into the air with the squirrel bone in his mouth, flying into the darker night. The world was cooling, becoming quieter. It was as if they all knew he was coming, the forest itself. The dragon looked back at him but for a moment. Be careful, you stupid Kitsune sonabitch. And then he was gone in the night.

The Kitsune, Part 4

The Kitsune ambled from branch to branch. He was like an acrobatic, but the whole thing looked natural, all in a day's work, ma'am.

He might have been fleeing his Master. He might have been fleeing his own self-hatred. No, no. I don't despise myself. I do what I have to for my people. I do what I do for my brother.

The moon was above him, cut in pieces from spiny arms of trees, constantly changing like a reel of film. It no longer was a kind luna. It was now an agent of hate. It gazed on him like a sleeper agent, waiting for him to make a mistake-- to loose his grip and plummet to his demise.

The Kitsune, Part 3

Even though the voice raved at it him with its venom-fanged verboseness, he felt lonesome, a forsaken itch gnawing at his skin-- it was only he in these woods. Everything else had hidden away under their collective blankets. Do you plea for them, my fox dream? Plea for them to emerge from the night shadows and save your tenderness from the boogy-woogy man? Ain't going to happen, cupcake, it growled. Ain't even going to happen. You're mine for always.

 

He was helpless against it. There was no escape from the nothingness.

His Master was a force of not nature, perhaps, but anti-nature… maybe even anti-matter. 

He could see ITs face… no it wasn't a face, it was a blank space with white shining teeth, like the Cheshire Cat, and burning red eyes. They shot into him, seeing his soul, all of it, all of its cracks, indentations, cuts. IT knew. IT knew everything. His MASTER had walked upon the earth once, wearing sandals, speaking a tongue of hate. NOW it could only speak through others, many many others throughout the years. It was the creepy crawling spider beneath the dark ocean waves, It was the sinking feeling in your groin when you hear a beloved is dying. It was division, it was the crossroad demon at midnight, it was the grand schism-maker with its sheath, destroying matter and defecating it into formless mass.

I'm growing tired of you, foxdream. The smile expanded until it connected to the back of its barren skull. Do your job, and I'll give you the world.

 

He knew the Master did not lie.

A vision flashed through his eye, snapping like one of those trick noisemakers kids use on the 4^th of July. It was a valley lush with trees growing toward the moon, untouched by man's grimy hands, so used to digging through the dirt, and dragons roosted in them in nests made of gems and straw. There were thousands of them. They were the size of 747's, yes, but also smaller juveniles-- maroon, the darkest of blacks, the goldest of golds. Their scaly hides reflected the sun, and their cooing, their growling, sounding like giant birds. The fox-men… they also climbed through the trees, tending the lionhearts, feeding them meats from the kill, vegetables harvested from the fields far to the east. Men, men were trash in the dirt… they had no place in the foxdream's world. The vision had been so perfect he had almost forgotten about IT, but the voice returned, like a demon sliding into a sick person's conscious. Or I'll take it away, the creeping said, I'll take it all away. I'll kill that whom is closest to you, the only man which you care. I'll kill him.

“No,” he spoke aloud. “Please no.”

Then do as I say. 

“I will,” he pleased. “I will, Master.”

The Kistune, Part 2

The timberland was thick with Douglas fir. It was a rain forest, with fog crawling through the coniferous jungle. This had once been Ponderosa pine woodland, with scattered scrubs and dried weeds between the distant trunks, almost a prairie. Now moss hung on branches, which grew thicker than a tree a man would see in the modern world. The trees were never-ending, lush, dangerous. Once magic returned to the world, everything had become a fairy-tale. Dragons roosted in their mountain cave-holes, protecting their treasure hordes, no longer gold, but valuable ancient computer components, manufacturing goods, things that would have rebuilt society if they weren't stolen away. There were aforementioned roving night-spirits, visible in the dark but aso present in the day, cackling in the breeze. Mushrooms ballooned, growing the size of bushes, of trees, of large animals. And the elves ruled again. A man could not dilly-dally into the groves without risking his sanity, his self of self. He may come back without a mind, or worse, with a donkey's head for his own.

The Kitsune's fox ears twitched. A hooting owl silenced itself. The night chilled, and goose pimples rose along his exposed skin. Parts of him were covered in a lipstick-shaded layer of soft hair. Even here his skin was cold. It was an unnatural feeling, and one he had grown familiar with over the years. The freeze slithered across his skin like a serpent and then dove into his blood, dripping lethargically through his insides once it hit fluid. He shivered, yes, shivered. You would think that it would stop, after having experienced this sensation so many times, but he knew that could never be true. It was a creature of another dimension poking its head into our own-- and that sense of dread, it was something every man faces once in his life, if he knows it or not. 

 

The Kitsune's doleful tail was motionless. He knew it was only a matter of time before HE spoke to him. He had been expecting it all night, and he considered his duty to bear, like a man knowing he must wake early in the morning for work. 

It was a moaning. A deep moaning. Not from out there, with the spirits, the woodland, or even, God forbid, the moon. A deep moaning, forming into a hum, which if you listened closely enough became discernible, like a new language you were finally getting the hang of.

Hellllllo, it whispered into his elongated left ear. No it was inside his ear. You do well. It was in the center of his head now, begging him to question everything, his sanity even. It was the voice of a komodo dragon. Deep. Full of the texture of a lizard's mouth, with its dagger-teeth and poison-saliva. It sunk into your soul, into the deep unconscious that would snap you awake at 2 AM in the morning, feeling like a ghost passing through you. Fox-man. Fox-man. Oh dirty, mortal fox-man, full of pulsing blue blood, convulsing organs ready to be popped like tasty zittttttts. The voice was coherent and incoherent at the same time, for it was a nightmare voice. It didn't make any sense. Fox-man, Fox-man. Full of spite man. You hate meeeee. You Hate ME. Don't you? 

 

“No, Master,” he answered impassively, hiding the fear inside. There was sweat building in his arm pits and along his brow. It was a lie, and he knew that the voice could see him, see his thoughts for what they were. Why did he even bother?

You want to kill him, don't you, my fox dream? You want to kill the stupid, stupid man who runs through your forest. You want him dead. In the Kitsune's mind he saw a man's eyes widening with each word, the voice growing stronger with each syllable. The Kitsune didn't want to speak with his Master, not now, not ever again, but he had made his choice long ago.

He pictured the man falling, a lump sack, shaking between the trees, shaking, shaking, then stopping. An arrow was in his back. Yes, that was what he wanted. He felt his tail erect. I see what you are thinking. But that would go against my orderssssss, fox-man. That would go against my. Orders. Fox-mannnnn. The voice was turning into a hiss.