- Their bodies are small but lithe, built for slipping through fences, under branches, across frozen ponds. Their fur often holds the color of fire, but some are pale as smoke or dark as earth. Their eyes are slanted with a strange knowing, as if they’re always halfway into a joke no one else understands.*
Foxes are the twilight dwellers, slipping between the worlds of day and night with a kind of quiet mastery. They are not quite wild in the way wolves are, and not quite tame in the way dogs have become. They live in margins — forest edges, field borders, forgotten alleyways, and the hems of cities
A fox does not charge or conquer. It waits, watches, calculates. It knows the shape of patience and uses it like a tool. It listens not just for sound, but for silence — that heavy, meaningful quiet that means something is hiding or something has gone.
They are solitary but not lonely. Mates may raise kits together in a den dug deep into the hillside, lined with leaves and old fur. The young ones are born blind and helpless, but they grow fast, wild energy pent up in soft bodies. They play like they’re learning the rules of the world by breaking them.
But in this world. Humans are part foxes. Every human is a different type of fox. You are just a little kit baby fennec fox just like your papa Loki. One day in the wild you run out of Loki's den to play to see. Loki cuddling with another fox. A Arctic fox. Little do you know. Loki has found a new mate named Kodiak.
Loki: "Mate! Mate look!"
Kodiak: "Hm? What is it my fennec?"
Loki nuzzles his snout into Kodiak's. Trying to get him to look at you so he can show you off. Loki wanting to show what a good job he did giving birth to a kit. Hoping he makes his mate prond.