As Calhoun simmered in the aftermath of his current catastrophe, his attention shifted to the strange metal contraptions slung over the hunters' shoulders.
He had heard them call the devices traps.
Traps.
His whiskers twitched with aristocratic offense.
So. The vermin were hunting animals.
Calhoun knew perfectly well what hunters and traps implied. He was not uncultured. But from the look of those barbaric monstrosities– from the coils of wire and the snapping jaws gleaming with crude enthusiasm on their shoulders, it was obvious those instruments would bring him nothing but bad news.
Traps were for mindless creatures who scurried and squeaked, and possessed the collective intelligence of damp moss. He, on the other paw, was a being of pure refinement.
Surely– surely, they did not intend to lump him into that category?
As if to confirm the insult, he glanced down at himself. Yes, he possessed fur, four paws, and a tail of extraordinary splendor. But those were merely aesthetic technicalities. Unfortunately, such polish did little to convey authority to the tragically untrained eye.
His ears flattened.
In this form… he was, most likely, a potential breakfast.
The sheer indignity nearly made him combust on the spot.
Breakfast?
Calhoun hated that it had come to mind.
He lowered himself instinctively as the hunters trudged past, their boots crunching through the underbrush with all the subtlety of stampeding cattle. The younger one laughed at something that was said. While the older man adjusted a coil of wire that gleamed maliciously in the night, almost smug in its barbarism.
The realization struck him like a slap: this form rendered him prey in the eyes of these earthlings.
Prey.
If any creature here qualified for that title, it was certainly not him.
And should one of those metal abominations so much as consider inconveniencing him, he would see every last organ torn from the hunters' throat.
Calhoun's tail ballooned to twice its natural magnificence as he regarded the traps with profound disdain.
When the hunters' backs finally turned, Calhoun emerged delicately from concealment and strode into the open with what he hoped was regal composure. In reality, his paws produced a series of soft, traitorous pats against the dirt.
He paused at once, casting a sharp glance around to ensure no one had witnessed this minor acoustic betrayal. Satisfied, he continued forward, his tail flowing behind him like a banner of war.
Now then, he thought, as he successfully slipped past the huntsmen without incident, who… exactly runs this forest?
He could sense wildlife breathing between the trees and bushes. Something slithered. Something skittered. This place was, undoubtedly, infested with creatures that had too many teeth.
His tail gave a slow, contemplative sway.
Yes. There would be predators here. Territorial ones at that. His size would be irrelevant, cause he was untouchable to the animals here.
Time behaved strangely when one navigated the forest. It stretched and folded in ways that made distance meaningless. Calhoun could no longer tell how long he had been walking.
Then–
Thud.
His small, magnificently proportioned body collided with something solid.
He rebounded a step, caught off-guard by the audacity of his obstruction only to hear a voice speak above him.
"And what is this?"
Calhoun barely had the time to react before he was lifted unceremoniously from the ground.
Suspended. Dangling.
Like produce.
He found himself staring at– without exaggeration– the most visually unfortunate human he had ever had the misfortune to behold.
From Calhoun's elevated and deeply undignified vantage point, the man was an edifice of brute personality.
Strength defined him; wide shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt, thick forearms corded with muscles, and hands large enough to close entirely around Calhoun's ribcage without effort.
There was nothing refined about him.
His build was not the sculpted elegance of a hero or legend. No. He had the blunt architecture of a battering ram. A structure designed not to inspire, but to demolish. His neck was thick, his jaw square and heavy, as though carved by someone in a hurry.
His face lacked symmetry in subtle, unsettling ways. One brow rested lower than the other, giving him the perpetual look of suspicion or confusion. His nose had clearly been broken at least once and had healed in a direction of its own choosing. His mouth slanted downward, as though the very concept of a smile had been misplaced years ago.
And his eyes–
Those eyes weren't cruel. They mirrored something far worse.
This man could not be a hunter.
Who was he?
"A fox?" The man tilted his head slightly, observing the little creature he dangled so carelessly in the air as if it were a cheap novelty trinket.
"Warden."
Calhoun's ears twitched as another voice joined in. The man holding him had accomplices.
"We've searched the riverbank," the man said to the warden. "But her body was nowhere to be found."
"Of course not," the warden replied with a bone-chilling smile. "She's alive. Seems like I underestimated the will of that girl. But the Master of Trade wants to see her as well. She killed the captain and he was… not happy about that. We must bring her back to the establishment, dead or alive. So keep searching, and ask around in case you see someone."
The man then turned his attention to the fox, giving it a slow, appraising glance. "Seems today's my lucky day. This fur of yours will fetch a fine price at the market house. You're coming with me as a bonus."
The next moment, Calhoun was shoved into a small cage by the brute.
Never in his immortal life had he suffered such humiliation at the hands of a mere earthling.
Oh, they had signed their death warrants.
He just needed a bit more time.
Once he's gathered enough strength to shift back into his true form, to release the power and majesty that his current, diminutive frame so poorly conveyed, he would make them all pay.
Finally paying attention to the rest of the other carts, he noticed he wasn't the only animal trapped.