Three days to death… The first day, Shadowspite and her companions spent most of their time out of the warehouse, perhaps reconnoitering the Temple and its security arrangements, returning only at evening to feed Zephyr gruel and water. "You'll need your strength," the mirror-image vixen said with a cruel smile.

The second day, they brought a mage in. He smelled of wine and things long dead, and his robes and his shawl were adorned with the feathers of hundreds of different birds. He ordered Zephyr stretched out as far as his hard wooden shackles would let him, and then began to chalk diagrams and circles about the fox, burning incense with a strange heavy scent that made the world seem very far away from the fox… It seemed to go on for months, that treatment, but morning light had turned to late evening when the mage pinched out the incense burner and turned his face away. That was when Zephyr realized he didn't… hurt anymore.

The third day… They brought another mage in. Black robes and pale red eyes, a rat's muzzle, that's what the fox remembers in a haze. A staff from which swung an octagonal crystal that caught the light, sending it back into Zephyr's eyes in painful spectrums of colors. He whispered in a voice quiet as the speech of rocks, as thundering as the sea, charged with an energy like standing in the storm, measured with the pace of giant drums a thousand feet across.

Black robes and pale red eyes and… A mocking kiss from Shadowspite, her muzzle warm, fangs cold and ivory. Then the fox slips from reality into a haze of "Who am I" and "What am I doing here".

Shadowspite. Cold. Clawed and fanged. Master of a hundred weapons, all dedicated to death. Whose death? Anyone that someone wanted to pay her prices for – don't even begin talking to her until you can count in gold. There is a bright vivid memory of someone dying, throat gushing red wine around a slim bone knife, and then an urgent feeling of "Escape! Get away quickly! Hide!" and…

The fox wakes outside the Temple as guards are shouting. Powerful oil-burning lamps, light directed by bowl-like mirrors, blaze to life with beams crossing the square, and somewhere close by, shots ring out with the heavy stink of gunpowder. He is Shadowspite. He is an assassin who has just made his kill … and must escape the guards' fury.

It is very nearly night, with sunset making the night blood red, and street lighters are going from lamp to lamp in the Temple District to ignite the pumped gas within. Around the Temple, already lit lamps blaze with precious little shadow for a killer.

Zephyr's first thought as he awakes isn't of anything that can be put into words. He only sees the lights, searching for him, hears the shots … remembers … and dodges for what little shadow is available to him, without hesitation.

The shadows appear and disappear crazily as some of the guards shine the beams back and forth, trying to track Zephyr… "There he goes! Tell the First Watch! It's the killer!"

"Pheeee-EEEEEE!" Somewhere in the distance – hard to place while one's senses are being regained – a shrill whistle is blown, and there are shouts and barks.

Zephyr moves on pure reflexes, not even forming thoughts fully as he realizes he has to distract attention from himself. He scoops up a rock, flinging it with all his strength to hopefully clatter against another part of the square, then runs for his life, silently and swiftly.

Several wolves – five, maybe? – round the corner just in time to see the fleeing fox. "Get him!" With drawn weapons, the wolves charge.

Other guards swarm out of the entrance of the Temple.

Eight Zelaks, four wolves. "Catch that fox!" a lieutenant orders the Zelaks.

The loud shouting and barking echoes off the walls of the nearby buildings – a warehouse, some sort of office – all closed this time of day. The noise is answered in another direction, as more of the watchmen close in. The Zelaks swivel their heads, looking for the fox.

Zephyr heads for a structure nearby, his thoughts only fragments, but directing his actions quickly. {Warehouse … have to … hide. Find … something … disguise … scent… }

A wolf catches the scent. "This way! He's leaving fearsmell!" He begins to run down Zephyr's tail. More wolves close in. The way to the east looks like suicide. Chitin blades flash.

The nearby building seems to be a printer's shop, closed for the night. Within the windowed door, the fox catches sight of massive wooden printing machines.

Zephyr's ears perk as by chance he hears a perfect echo from a nearby set of walls. He pauses running for a second, to shout in as deep a voice as he can. "No, the other way, he's doubled back! The other way!" At that, he dodges again…

A pack of easily ten wolves comes charging down the street. A couple pause upon hearing the echoing voice, and sniff about. They catch the trail, and charge after the fleeing fox anew.

Zephyr glances at the printer's door, deciding that there's no chance of picking a lock this quickly. He dodges further down an alley, running all the way to its end, then doubling back along his own trail and diving headlong into a pile of rags and casks beside the printer's back door. {Chemical, something, has to be… }

Well… It certainly smells of oils and there are staining chemicals as well – if Zephyr's ever wanted to be a real shadowfox, there might be enough ink to accomplish it. The rags stink of ammonia cleaners. The emptied ink casks have a stink of musk.

The wolves charge by, barking and growling, making their presence easily known. Not pausing to carefully follow a trail, they barrel straight down the alleyway, knocking down casks and plowing through piles of debris in their haste. They pass the fox's hiding position, heading out the other end, then congregating there, confused for a moment which way to turn next.

Zelaks meet the wolves, their long claws glittering in the dim lamplight from the next intersection. Their shadows flicker spider-like over the street as they swivel their heads to catch signs of motion.

Zephyr quickly buries himself in the strong-smelling rags, not … moving an inch, barely even breathing…

The Zelaks clack questions to the wolves and gesture to the two streets leading away.

The wolves hastily shout amongst themselves, then split into two groups, scouring the streets for any sign of the fox's scent trail.

Zephyr, beneath the rags, closes his eyes … forcing himself to blank his mind and calm, stop producing fear-musk … no thoughts beyond that.

The Zelaks walk back into the alley that the wolves dashed down recently … the one behind the printer's shop. They methodically plunge their claws into any pile of rags and destroy any crate that might hide a fox, cutting the garbage to shreds. Five feet at a time … one by one.

There are four Zelaks, red insectoids that at this time of the day look almost black.

Zephyr's eyes snap open again as he hears the Zelak's approach. He quietly rubs the strongly-scented rags over as much of his fur as he can reach, his entire form, then silently … creeps out of the pile, flattened against the corner of a wall, moving slowly, but ahead of the Zelaks … back the way he came.

The Zelaks continue to methodically dismantle anything in the alley that could hide a fox…

"AWWWwwwwrrrRRRRRRRooooo!" comes a howl from the street, echoed in distant quarters by other search parties.

The fox takes advantage of the echoing howl to move a bit further, faster, still careful to keep out of the Zelak's vision… {Hope they can't see heat… }

The faster motion seems to be what draws the insectoids' attention, as it would with any predator. One clacks to the others, and then the Zelaks begin moving forward purposefully on four claw-feet each. Walking, they are nearly as fast as a normal person could run. "Stop and be inspected, citizen," a Zelak orders. The Zelaks are moving up in an inverted arrowhead, trying to catch up and close the fox in.

Zephyr mutters a quiet curse about "bugs", and runs for the head of the alley … as quickly as he can. At least his scent is masked now.

The Zelaks clack loudly. They break into open pursuit of the running vulpine!

At the exit of the alley, a lone wolf, sniffing at the pavement, looks up in surprise. "Rrr?" His ears flatten back, and he raises his polearm. "HALT!" Other wolves down the street notice, and hastily change direction, coming in from the west.

Zephyr doesn't even slow down… he speeds up, running straight at the wolf, letting out as loud a red fox "scream" as he can, a piercing, catlike screech, then at the last second whips to the side, flattening against the wall beside the wolf and tucking into a roll.

"Stop in the name of Law," the lead Zelak orders of Zephyr breathily.

Curiously, this proclamation seems to have little effect on the fox.

The wolf whacks at the fox with the butt of his polearm.

Zephyr catches the motion of the pole out of the corner of his eye, ducking quickly and kicking blindly at the wolf's hind leg with his claws out as he tries to roll past and regain his footing.

The wolf seems terribly unimpressed with the fox screech. Maybe he has dealt with foxes before. There are a few of them around, after all. He lets out an "oof" as he's hit, however, and charges out – getting clear of the Zelaks – in pursuit, joined now by the other wolves.

Zephyr runs at top speed up the street. Foxes are faster than wolves, but don't have the endurance, so he knows he has to find someplace to hide … and soon.

Most of the wolves have circled around, blocking the way to the east – that is, unless one is invulnerable or can fly.

The Zelaks scuttle into the intersection from the south, skidding with little skrees of their chitinous claws against the cobblestones as they turn to follow Zephyr. They clack to the wolves that join them in hot pursuit. The wolves growl and bark and shout things to the effect of "Halt!" and "Get him!" as they follow the fox westward down the street, bypassing a few other wolves who join up the chase as well. There must be almost twenty wolves now – probably the entire First Watch – after him.

Zephyr glances back to the east, then forces himself to run faster, scanning left and right for _any_ possible place to hide. He's started to pant a little now … not a good sign.

The street stretches along, past several buildings, tightly packed together, without convenient alleyways – or open doors – to dive into for quite a stretch. Where to go? A rancid stench reaches the fox's nose – coming from an open sewage channel.

"You are attempting to avoid arrest, which is punishable by death under Rephidim law," a Zelak warns Zephyr from down the street. "Surrender, criminal." Their claws clack against the cobblestones as they bound.

The wolves, on the other hand, are hardly so verbose in their admonitions. "RAWR!" "Get the fox!" "Murderer!" "He's dead meat!" "He's MINE!"

Down the street, coming from the west, there is another band of wolves – these wearing black and silver uniforms of the Elite Guard, and chitin armor. They advance, then hold positions, blocking off the street.

Zephyr stops, in a panic, his ears flattened back, his fear-musk overwhelming his oily attempted camouflage. {Nowhere … unless… } His nose wrinkles as the scent of the open sewer wafts to him. He glances back at the pursuers, gaining fast. {I can always take a bath… } He takes a deep breath, then runs for the open sewer, making a low dive long into its length.

*Splooosh!*

The water is cool, but after the chill air, feels suspiciously warm as if Zephyr were swimming in a river of blood leaking from a dying man. Shadows overwhelm colors, and the murky, slightly viscous fluid runs swiftly down a hill.

Bits of rubble and stone move beneath Zephyr's feet, marring the otherwise smooth channel floor.

As soon as he hits the surface, Zephyr stays beneath it as long as he can, making a few powerful strokes in the direction leading down the hill. Then, when he can finally hold his breath no longer, he pokes only the tip of his black nose above the surface, fox-paddling silently, eyes closed tight.

Slabs of broken rock attest to where a bit of the ceiling of this understreet channel collapsed due to disrepair, exposing it to the city above.

It's almost completely dark… except for the light probing from where Zephyr made his entry. Guards shine their small lanterns into the tunnel, searching for the fox.

Zephyr concentrates only on breathing and floating, trying to not think about what he's in, only paddling silently, breathing in and out…

The Zelaks hiss and clack to each other – then carefully scuttle into the channel. Their eyes reflect like gems, and then are black as they follow Zephyr on long spindly legs.

Zephyr hears the motion through the water. {Wolves … can swim. But insects can't paddle much, those thin … legs… } He starts frog-stroking a bit more vigorously beneath the surface, still only his nose above the surface.

The channel stays an irritatingly shallow five feet in height, the water never rising higher than two third of the way. The Zelaks scuttle closer… closer. Zephyr can almost imagine their sharp claws like hot knives through… butter. Ahead, the water gurgles a little more harshly.

Zephyr thinks. {Just a drop? Or a deep tank or something… }

No clue. No way back. Zelak claws scrape against the channel walls sending echoes through the water.

Zephyr keeps paddling forward. {If one of their claws strikes a spark in here, I better be ready to duck under fast… }

There's a scraping noise from above, as a heavy cover is lifted to the accompaniment of the sounds of several grunting wolves. They peer in just in time to see the fox paddle by, and bark and growl in frustration. The Elite Guards in their black and silver uniforms and armor don't seem inclined to join him for a swim.

The walls of the channel are overgrown with a thick heavy moss and algae, shining a dull blackish green where the light from outside hits it. It feels squishy beneath Zephyr's feet.

A long barrel of a flintlock rifle pokes into the open manhole. ***CRACK!*** The sound reverberates through the channel, the resonation causing a hum which echoes back further down the length. Something hits the water (if you can call it that) very close by the fleeing fox.

There is a loud "FWOOMP!" followed by several yelps at the area immediately at the manhole cover, and the rifle disappears back out of the hole, still held by its slightly singed bearer.

Zephyr's muzzle lifts above the surface as he emits a startled yelp, then disappears again, ripples spreading out as the fox surges forward. {Gah! They're going… They did… }

Zelaks scuttle after Zephyr, pursuing him down the tunnel. It begins to drop downhill. Water roars like a sleeping dragon's breath.

Zephyr keeps paddling forward. {Can't be too much of a drop… can it?}

It can.

The water plunges abruptly downhill, not so much of a drop-off as a waterfall. Murky black stuff pours over Zephyr's nose and face, and it is only a marginal comfort that the Zelaks are emitting cries of distress as they shower after him.

Zephyr yelps, scrabbling blindly for something to hold onto as he tumbles into darkness.

Mold … Slippery when wet, it makes a very poor handhold underwater. Hunks of the stuff tear away in Zephyr's hands.

The fox gasps for air, struggling to keep his nose above water as it cascades around him, pushing him along as if he was just one more bit of flotsam.

With a sudden hammerblow, the waterfall becomes horizontal again, running rapidly through the ground. The channel opens out into… a wide lake-like area of black water, covered over and with a sluice gate controlling the disposal of wastes. The fox splashes hard from a ten-foot drop into this pool – followed closely by four quite-distressed and angry Zelaks.

Zephyr gasps! as he breaks the surface, glances around, and heads for the sluice gate as fast as he can … tiring, but with strength from desperation. {If I can hang onto that and open it, maybe… }

Other pipes can be seen leading into this same reservoir. Cries of distress echo about the chamber from sources unknown. From another direction – somewhere above, there are several shouts, catcalls and cheers!

The Zelaks experience difficulties paddling through the water. They begin circling around on a relatively shallow shelf, just their heads peeking out from the water.

Out from one of the walls, shooting along with a cascade of dark goo, some unrecognizable creature, yelping and whining, is carried along what looks all the world like a slide of some sort. It does a spiral, then dumps someone – a fox? A small one, anyway… – into the murk! "AIEEEE!" – **SPLOOSH**

Zephyr watches the Zelaks … then yelps in surprise, paddling for the fox just dropped in. "Can you swim?" he shouts.

Far above, a bunch of personages – poodles? – in fine-looking garb stand on a high platform surrounded by paneling and railing, giving them a fine view of the spectacle. They applaud. "Ah! We should do this again!" But they are roughly pushed aside, as some guards appear and set up flintlocks, scanning for Zephyr – and noting his shout.

Zelaks scuttle around the side of the pool.

The silhouette of a vulpine's head pokes up, whining. It moves along slowly … then yelps, as it is sucked along a current, and out of sight!

Cracks echo through the chamber, as pellets splash in the goo near Zephyr.

Zephyr ducks under as he catches the motion above, taking a deep breath and swimming as far as he can underwater … then poking only his nose out, black against the black water.

The young nobles, initially distressed by the intrusion, begin to cheer and applaud, apparently considering this to be an even better show.

Zelaks hiss as they look around and fail to find a fox… They make their way to a stair leading up to a low ledge. Slime drips liberally from their carapaces.

Zephyr keeps all but his nose below the surface.

{What was I thinking? Idiot, try to help someone? Almost got myself killed … Although … where did he go? Does it lead somewhere?}

Zelaks prowl around the ledge and scan the water. "Come out and surrender, criminal," one orders in a breathy voice. "Escaping arrest is a crime punishable by a three-day death."

Zephyr manages to bump up against some floating debris, keeping his black nose concealed in it, treading water slowly…

Some of the guard wolves bark and send some of those without rifles back from the platform, disappearing into some far passage on errands unknown.

It feels like… a dead body. A weasel perhaps, judging from the tail – stripped and with multiple wounds.

Zephyr represses a shudder and maintains his calm, not … daring to move.

One of the guards raises a horn to his lips and lets out a pattern of tweets that echo off the walls of the chamber.

The fox, ears underwater, hears a dull bit of the horn's sound. {What's that?}

The Zelaks begin to climb up long stairs to the higher balcony where the guards are.

The pool is quiet for a moment as the Zelaks depart…

Then, the water begins to stir. Something's gurgling from down toward the sluice gate.

Zephyr thinks over the brief glances of what lay above that he's seen. {Balcony … nice balcony. Viewing balcony. Viewing what? They threw in a prisoner, then blew a horn … Oh, no. Feeding time for … something.}

The sluice gate begins to open, revealing moving… something. They look like the fins of fishes swerving side to side at first, and then like giant insect mandibles sweeping water and debris into some processing plant far away.

A loud shriek continues to whine through the air as the water gurgles faster. Some of the gears must not have been oiled in years … perhaps centuries.

Zephyr feels the vibrations through the water. {Machinery… Something moving the water. What?}

The water's definitely swishing toward the sluice gates and what look like masticating teeth of large panes of plastic. It wouldn't be pleasant for a fox in there… and the body that Zephyr is clinging to is starting to drift at a fair speed just there.

Zephyr chances a quick peek above the surface in the direction of the water movement … and his eyes grow wide … followed by silent exclamations and profanity, a push off the dead body, and furious underwater paddling in the other direction.

The ex-weasel swooshes through the sluice gate…

Frantic scrabbling later, Zephyr has a bare handhold on the stairs that lead up from the sewage pond. The water pulls at his body like hundreds of little hands, and the shriek has risen to a whine or a hungry growl.

The growl becomes a roar as floating refuse hits the shredder.

Zephyr hangs on with all of his strength, claws scrabbling away at the moss to try to hook into cracks in the stone beneath. His tail streams out behind him in the current as he struggles to move forward, to bring his hindpaws and larger claws to the stone shelf…

Suction… Drag… Claws catching and clinging, some snapping in the stone…

Made it.

Fifteen minutes later of what seems like forever pulling himself up stairs and watching the shadows for any guards left behind, the fox emerges onto the surface.