The Kitsune

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 like it was caught in the wind, but there was no wind this night. 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, full 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 grove 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, blood spraying all over him. On his back was a beautiful black 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 red tail.

The kill.

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

The Kitsune licked the last bone clean. He had been hunting a man for weeks. No, not hunting really. More like trailing him, making him think he would die 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. It was his slave and did as he commanded. 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, probably 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. 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…..