"'Coati, fox shifter, of age. Auburn hair, pale green eyes, roses-and-cream complexion. Short, average, verging on slender. Theatrical background.'" Coati scrunches her face. “‘Of age’? ‘Roses and cream’?" The shifter sitting with her shrugs his shoulders when she glances at him. Coati sighs and returns to reading. "'As a fox shifter, theme yourself around trickery, sneakiness, and appeal. Wear your hair down, for once. But with your hair down, people won’t see your ears; hybrid form required at all times. Included is a stipend for clothing and gear; wear gowns, not that ragged coat and those awful, washed-out tunics. Be sexy; you are a vixen.'" Coati folds the letter, and then folds it into smaller squares. She gives her friend a solid stare. "Kite. You’re comfortable with this?" The man shrugs.
"I guess. It gets us out to see the world, you know?" Coati sighs again.
"Says the male—who gets 'cutsey,'" she says. Kite holds his hands up in resignation.
"Mice are going to mouse. But come on; what could go wrong?"
Coati sat at a campfire, staring at the manner in which the light played over the ragged scar circling her arm. Her friends at the theatre had warned her against working with animals and children, but no one had ever mentioned adventurers.
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