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.
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