Asil ripped frighteningly easily through an opponent, a pitiful excuse for a fox, scrawny and bony.
River next to him hissed in fox form at a better-fed giant, taller fox but with fewer tails to his name. Asil knew his friend had not yet unleashed half his tails for combat.

Which made him wonder why there had been only such pitiful foxes till now; something was wrong. This was the second world war, no children's game, and he hadn't seen a noteworthy fox-kin in this battle.
All of them are either pitifully weak or thin like chopsticks, unable to put up a decent fight. No armed force would send such foxes to fight.
It was beyond weird, and something was wrong.

He marched to the villa. It was an empty building; not much of the furniture was left, a barren house. Why were these foxes fighting to protect an empty place? His thoughts wandered when, suddenly, his ears caught a faint whimper.
Turning and grabbing his sword, he looked at a cabinet. His ears twitched; there was something. The cabinet was barely big enough to put a small foxling into it. He stepped closer, and suddenly, a dreadful scent hit him, full of fear, death, despair, and a child.
His eyes enlarged in shock. Hurrying forward, he ripped the cabinet open and looked at a gruesome sight. Two children, half dead, more than alive, huddled up inside it.

Hiding. Now it made sense why those foxes fought so valiantly.
A boy and a girl. The boy had empty eyes; they were blank, empty amber orbs. He smelled of death. Asil knew that look and the scent; it was the look and smell someone dead carried.
The girl next to the boy was the exact opposite. Her eyes were liquid-burning amber orbs. Strong, alive, the vibrant dark orange of good whiskey, her sharp teeth bared, hissing malevolently at him, full of anger and threats, trying to cover the dead boy behind her.
She was protecting him. Asil realized and then held out his hand. She slashed at it with tiny but deadly sharp claws, a small warrior this one. Stripes of red spread on his hand, blood dripping down from them. He understood she had to hurt someone, to fight for the sake of fighting, so he didn't even defend.

"I mean no harm." He said, and she snarled, saying something in another language he recognized as distinctively akin to Spanish. He didn't know it, but he had learned Spanish.

"No worries. I mean no bad." He said in Spanish, making her blink and muster him quietly. He knew what the foxling would see. Not exactly a trustworthy sight; maybe it would have been better if he had gotten River here. Asil was threateningly large and had a multitude of scars he didn't bother the least hiding, the worst of it being half of his face had been ripped asunder by a gunshot, The white garishly marring him and permanently blinding him in one eye. While he knew most of it would heal, vanish except maybe the eye, it was certainly not a sight that would have inspired great trust in a child.
River, his friend, was friendly-looking despite his power. Fewer scars, a warm smile, and the pleasant voice of someone with social skills.
"I speak your language." She answered defiantly. "I understood." Stilling a moment, she mustered him with a sharp gaze. "You don't hide. I believe you." Her voice was slightly accented, but the words were clear. It had his ears perking up. She trusted him because he didn't wear an illusion; now that was curious, and more importantly, how did she know?

"I harm no child," Asil stated, and she looked at him with a pointed gaze that spoke of more age than she should have from her appearance; this one had seen things probably no child should see.

"I am no child; I am two centuries old." She stated cooly.

No child, yes, no child; she had eyes far too old to be a child, and the second century wasn't a child's age either. But her size and powers were far from where she should be at two centuries. She was a child, a foxling, a mere whisp of power. If she genuinely had two centuries to her name, she should be a teenager, not a cub.

"Why are you in here?" He asked.

"Because of you. You came hunting our skulk. The strong of us left the weak ones behind. Most do not care what happens to us, weak ones. Many weak sought their chances fighting you. Better die battling than die hiding." She explained, frighteningly neutral. Death did not bother her. "They said we should stay here to be killed. I didn't want to die, and I could not fight; my brother was injured; he could not fight either, so we hid. The cabinet is small, too small to be searched for people, and the entrance close, so we can run away faster once people walk inside, past us."

That wasn't the cleverest statement he had ever heard, but he guessed it made perfect sense to her. Thinking about it, he had to agree; if it hadn't been for his nose and the whimper, he wouldn't have looked into a cabinet this small, and once he had passed by, the foxlings could have had good chances to slip past his notice to the outside where stakes were high no one would be searching for them or think them as anything but another pair of poor orphans scavenging. Although ... there was no brother, not anymore, at least.
"I don't think your brother will make it," he said.

"He is only injured." She said back and stared at the bloodied hand. "Will you help him?"

"I will." Asil found himself saying to the small foxling who climbed out of the cabinet and quickly piggybacked her dead brother; she hadn't realized it yet.

"Then lead the way." She said, and he slowly stood up, walking at an extra slow pace as the foxling girl followed with her dead brother on her back. He didn't offer to carry her; such would have been an act of pity, and the girl would have refused.