Chapter 114 – A Bit Of Foxkin Lore

I have discovered a critical weakness.

One so dangerous that it will inevitably return to haunt me in the future.

Baths.

The atmosphere is impeccable. The water is perfect, its warmth sinking deep into my muscles and bones while doing exceptionally pleasant things to my ears and tail.

…Especially my tail.

Letting it swish beneath the surface while the heat works its way through the dense fur is a profoundly enlightening experience. An invaluable discovery graciously provided by the golden healer currently melting into the water beside me.

We have been in the bath for nearly forty-five minutes.

At first, we maintained a thoroughly productive conversation covering several matters of great importance: snacks, Earth, and the potential applications of rune-powered toasters.

Apparently, bread in Asteria is exclusively toasted using pans or open flames.

Tragic.

A magical system-civilization capable of manufacturing spatial storage and powerful runic weapons has somehow failed to develop a dedicated bread-browning device. This is the sort of technological imbalance that demands intervention.

Unfortunately, the conversation also resulted in several spoilers regarding Avelyn’s hometown.

I now know that Bramblegate has six separate entrances, divided between ordinary foot traffic and larger convoys, along with an established train network connecting it to Redburrow for the transport of goods.

A deeply unfortunate loss of discovery.

In my defense, Avelyn had looked so excited while describing everything that she was nearly vibrating in the water. Her ears kept attempting to perk higher with each new detail, only to look profoundly adorable in their waterlogged state.

Stopping her would have required a degree of cruelty I was unwilling to demonstrate.

For the past several minutes, however, conversation has gradually faded into silence.

Not an awkward silence.

A comfortable one.

Sylrae’s wings have gone completely still behind her. Avelyn appears dangerously close to falling asleep, her head resting against the stone edge while her tail floats loosely across her lap. I have achieved a level of relaxation that may qualify as medically significant.

The dungeon feels impossibly distant.

No crystal beasts or moths. No blood soaking into my clothes. No screeching monstrosities attempting to introduce my bones to geometrically questionable positions.

Only steam, warm water, and the quiet rhythm of Avelyn and Sylrae breathing beside me.

A highly acceptable arrangement.

Unfortunately, our time here is nearing its conclusion.

I glance toward Avelyn, then across to Sylrae.

She glances back.

The decision is immediate.

If we remain much longer, our resident healer is going to fall asleep in the bath.

Understandable.

The bath is extremely comfortable.

Ten out of ten. No notes.

Still, sleeping here would make sleeping properly later considerably more difficult, and allowing the party healer to drown because she achieved excessive relaxation would reflect poorly on our collective judgment.

Sylrae and I rise at the same moment.

It takes Avelyn several seconds to register the movement. Her head turns slowly, sleepily, until her half-lidded gaze settles on me.

She blinks.

Once.

Then again, apparently attempting to determine what she is looking at and why it is suddenly standing.

Recognition arrives.

Her entire face turns scarlet.

Avelyn snaps her gaze away with such speed that the motion sends a sharp ripple racing across the surface of the bath.

I remain still, studying her reaction.

The available evidence continues to be profoundly uncooperative.

Now fully awake, Avelyn rises from the bath with perhaps slightly more urgency than necessary and steps onto the stone edge with her back firmly turned toward the water.

I tilt my head.

Her ears flick rapidly while her tail lashes from side to side, scattering enough water to qualify as a minor localized weather event. Droplets spray across the surrounding stone in every direction before the movement gradually slows.

It resembles a dog shaking itself dry, only approximately ten times more dignified.

The result is immediate. Her ears recover most of their shape, and her tail regains a respectable portion of its usual fluff rather than hanging behind her like a thoroughly defeated paintbrush.

That appears extremely convenient.

I step out of the bath and replicate the motion.

My ears flick sharply, and my tail lashes behind me, sending a broad spray of water across the floor. The technique is surprisingly intuitive once observed, and my spectacularly waterlogged tail promptly recovers some of its immaculate volume.

Not all of it, but enough to avert a complete aesthetic catastrophe.

I make a mental note to question Avelyn about the proper maintenance of my Foxkin accessories. She has possessed ears and a tail for approximately seventeen years longer than I have, which grants her a deeply unfair advantage in practical experience.

Sylrae performs a similar maneuver with her wings, spreading them wide before giving them several sharp shakes. She then runs one hand along the full length of each wing, pressing the feathers together and forcing out streams of trapped water.

Far less explosive than the Foxkin method.

Marginally less entertaining as well.

Once we have reduced ourselves from actively dripping to merely damp, we return to the changing room, where I retrieve everyone’s clothing from my spatial storage and hand it back.

Only then do I properly examine the garments.

Avelyn’s top still bears the long tear left by the Crystal Reaper, the missing fabric replaced by a slowly pulsing weave of kaleidoscopic starlight. It is structurally sound, but the result resembles an experimental fashion choice made by someone with dangerous access to celestial magic.

Sylrae’s shorts have fared only slightly better. A narrow gash runs along one hip, while the fabric around one side has been left faintly tattered from the battle.

I study both outfits.

“Would either of you like to borrow some clothing?”

They stop dressing and look toward me.

Avelyn promptly realizes that I have not started yet and turns her head away again with admirable speed.

Sylrae notices.

Her grin is immediate, though she mercifully directs it toward Avelyn rather than commenting aloud.

“If you have a pair of shorts I can borrow, that would be great.”

I nod and begin searching through my storage.

After a brief investigation, I retrieve a reasonably suitable pair. They are thin black shorts intended to be worn beneath a skirt rather than as an independent garment, which makes the aesthetic somewhat questionable.

Sylrae accepts them without concern.

She pulls them on, then puts her damaged shorts over the top.

The black fabric shows through the tear along her hip and beneath the tattered edge, turning accidental battle damage into something that looks almost deliberate.

I consider the result.

Oddly appealing.

A little aggressive, perhaps vaguely punk.

The outfit has improved itself through structural failure.

Avelyn clears her throat.

Because she is apparently too polite to speak to someone while facing entirely away from them, she makes a heroic attempt to look at me while answering.

Her eyes reach my own.

Then slide away.

They return.

Then drift aside again as the weight of my gaze quietly encourages her perception to seek less threatening subjects.

Her determination is admirable. Her success rate is not.

My eyes remain victorious.

“Um...” She presses the tips of her fingers together. “I don’t really want to wear an outfit that doesn’t match at all. Could I maybe borrow a full one?”

Before I can answer, she begins waving both hands.

“If not, that’s completely fine. I understand. Mine isn’t damaged that badly, so I can just put it back on.”

I stare at her for a moment.

She is asking permission to borrow clothing from the person currently storing most of her worldly possessions—until she makes it back to her hometown—several interesting rocks, a loose screw, and an expanding collection of aesthetically significant debris.

The request seems almost excessively modest.

I search through my spatial storage again and retrieve the closest thing I possess to a suitable outfit: a soft crimson skirt with shorts beneath it, paired with an equally soft orange top decorated by a few red embellishments.

It covers considerably more skin than Avelyn’s usual clothing, but it is the best option currently available.

I hand the outfit over.

Her eyes brighten immediately.

“Thank you!”

She proceeds to thank me several more times with enough sincerity that one might assume I had rescued her from some monumental fashion catastrophe rather than merely lending her clothing.

I smile before turning my attention to my own outfit.

I am just about to pull on a pair of shorts when Avelyn suddenly speaks.

“Oh!”

I look toward her, head tilting slightly.

She is still standing in her underclothes, holding the borrowed outfit against her chest.

“You shouldn’t put proper clothes on yet,” she says. “Your tail is still too wet.”

She gestures toward one of the nearby benches.

“You should always brush it after a bath. It gets much more of the water out before you dress.” Avelyn hesitates briefly. “It also feels really good.”

I blink.

Another exceptionally valuable contribution to my rapidly expanding archive of Foxkin knowledge.

Sylrae finishes dressing while we speak and begins walking toward the exit.

“I’m going outside while there’s still some sunlight left,” she says, waving one hand over her shoulder. “You two enjoy your extremely important tail maintenance.”

Avelyn and I wave her off.

The moment the door closes, Avelyn sits on the bench.

I immediately claim the space beside her, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch, and retrieve a brush from storage before handing it to her.

Starlight gathers above my other palm. Kaleidoscopic radiance condenses into shape, forming a second brush from tightly woven celestial light.

My tail curls around my waist and settles across my lap.

I draw the brush through the damp fur.

Every coherent thought in my mind promptly abandons its duties.

A small chirp escapes me before I can suppress it.

My ears jerk upright in belated horror.

Fortunately, Avelyn is experiencing an almost identical collapse of dignity. Her eyes have drifted shut, her shoulders have relaxed, and a faint, contented sound emerges from her own throat as she works the brush through her own tail.

She appears not to have noticed my betrayal.

Excellent.

I continue brushing.

The sensation is profoundly superior to using my vines. The bristles glide through layers of fur that the vines can only stroke across, separating the damp strands while sending warmth and pleasant pressure all the way to the base of my tail.

The difference is approximately tenfold.

This information will be exploited with rigorous enthusiasm.

At some point, Avelyn drifts closer.

Her shoulder settles lightly against mine.

Neither of us comments on it.

We remain that way for several minutes, working in comfortable silence while damp fur gradually becomes soft and full again.

A peculiar warmth settles in my chest.

Perhaps the bath’s heat has lingered longer than expected.

Alternatively, there may be some deeply rooted Foxkin instinct linking tail care with trust, safety, or social bonding.

Both explanations seem plausible.

Neither explains why the warmth becomes more noticeable when Avelyn leans against me.

Further observation will be required.

Eventually, our tails are sufficiently dry.

We separate so we can finish dressing.

Avelyn’s ears droop by a small but measurable degree.

I notice.

While pulling on my shorts, I glance toward her.

“You appear to enjoy physical contact rather significantly.”

Her eyes widen.

“Oh! I’m sorry, did I overstep?”

The question comes so quickly that I pause.

I look away slightly.

My ears angle outward despite my best efforts to maintain complete composure.

“There is no need to apologize. I was merely confirming a theory.” I adjust the waistband of my shorts, then speak again, quieter than before. “It is not that I dislike contact entirely.”

My ears angle a little farther.

“I simply dislike it from strangers.” I glance back at her. “Contact from a friend is perfectly acceptable.”

Avelyn goes still.

Then her expression softens into a smile so warm that the sensation in my chest becomes increasingly difficult to blame on bathwater.

“I see,” she says. “That makes me really happy.”

She rests one finger against her chin as she considers my original question.

“And yes, I really do like physical contact. I just find people comfortable, you know?”

I do not.

Or rather, I did not.

The stars could never touch me, no matter how close they felt.

Elizabeth had been different, but physical affection had never formed a large part of our friendship. The most frequent exception involved her demanding my lap as compensation whenever she lost too many chess matches in succession and required emotional recovery from the profound injustice of being defeated.

Even that became rare after I moved away.

I only saw her occasionally after that, usually when she arranged for her father to appear at my home without warning and then subjected me to enough guilt that returning with him for several weeks became the only socially survivable option.

Contact had always been unusual.

Something tolerated in small quantities, under specific circumstances, from a very limited number of people.

Avelyn leaning against me had not felt unusual.

It had felt… natural.

We settle into a comfortable silence after that, and within another minute I am fully dressed in the same soft blue wrap skirt and off-the-shoulder top I wore the last time I visited the bathhouse.

I study the outfit briefly.

Still acceptable.

However, now that I possess a reasonably substantial amount of wealth, I should liquidate several of my mana cores and acquire a proper wardrobe.

I add the matter to my task list.

Near the top, naturally.

There are certain universal truths that should not require explanation, and my continued possession of a perfectly aesthetic outfit for every conceivable occasion ranks exceptionally high among them.

Satisfied, I turn toward Avelyn.

She is bright red again.

The cause becomes obvious immediately.

My orange top fits her with a degree of enthusiasm that can only be described as socially hazardous. If she attempted to walk through the village wearing it, there is a nonzero chance someone would stop her on grounds of public safety.

Avelyn removes it almost immediately and hands it back, her face faintly tinged with red.

“I think I’ll just wear my own outfit.”

I consider the problem, then search through my storage and retrieve the oversized black shirt I normally use for sleeping, along with my black-and-crimson hoodie.

“You may wear these instead, if you prefer.”

She blinks at the clothes.

“Are you sure? Those are your pajamas, right?”

I nod.

“It is quite all right. I can create another shirt from Starlight once we are somewhere less public.”

“I see.” Her expression softens into a warm smile. “Thanks, Lyn.”

I smile back while she changes into the replacement outfit.

Once she is finished, I conduct a thorough aesthetic assessment.

The oversized shirt falls comfortably around her, while the hoodie’s black and crimson contrast beautifully with her reddish-orange hair, golden streaks, and bright fur.

I nod solemnly.

Adorable.

Ten out of ten. No notes.

Now fully clothed once more, we leave the changing room and make our way through the bathhouse lobby.

We are nearly at the exit when one of my vines rises beside me and presents a small metal screw.

I stop.

Avelyn stops with me.

Together, we study the object with the solemn gravity of scholars examining a newly discovered relic from an extinct civilization.

After several seconds, Avelyn nods and gives it an approving thumbs-up.

“Looks like a good one!” Then she rests a finger against her chin. “Although... where did it come from?”

I open my mouth.

Behind us, a chair collapses with a violent wooden clatter.

A surprised curse follows from one of the bathhouse patrons, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of someone discovering that an apparently decorative screw had, in fact, been performing an important structural duty.

I look down at the offering in my vine.

The vine remains entirely unapologetic.

Avelyn breaks into giggles, catches my hand, and promptly pulls me toward the door.

I increase my pace but remain half a step behind, allowing her to continue dragging me along.

This is obviously tactical.

The longer we remain inside, the greater the chance someone other than Avelyn discovers that my vines have developed a persistent habit of presenting me with interesting objects, regardless of whether those objects were technically loose beforehand.

I blame the Foxkin instincts.

Once safely outside the bathhouse, Avelyn releases my hand.

I experience a faint and entirely inexplicable sense of disappointment.

Before I can investigate it, we leap onto the roof, where Sylrae is lounging with her back against the slope and her wings spread loosely across the tiles to catch the last warmth of the setting sun.

She opens one eye as we land.

“Successful tail maintenance?”

“Exceptionally,” I reply.

Avelyn nods with considerably more enthusiasm.

Sylrae’s gaze briefly settles on the oversized black shirt and hoodie Avelyn borrowed from me. The corner of her mouth rises, but she displays an admirable instinct for self-preservation and chooses not to comment.

We remain there for several more minutes, enjoying the fading sunlight and discussing tomorrow’s plans before beginning the journey back to the inn.

Naturally, the return trip includes a strategically necessary detour.

Avelyn and I require snacks.

I locate one of the berry stalls I documented during my previous visit and acquire a generous paper pouch filled with strawberries, blueberries, and several dark purple berries whose name I have already forgotten but whose flavor earned immediate approval.

Planning ahead is one of my finest qualities.

The vendor watches Avelyn and me each sample a berry before quietly adding another handful to the pouch.

A wise merchant.

We resume our journey across the village, moving quickly enough that the evening air streams through our damp hair, fur, and feathers. By the time the inn comes into view, all three of us are functionally dry.

Another triumph for stats.

The remaining half of our party is already waiting in the lobby, with our resident Bearkin liberated from his armor.

Marek, Zeke, and Rin have gathered around one of the tables, speaking quietly enough that the receptionist remains curled peacefully across her desk rather than being forced to conceal three mysteriously disassembled adventurers before the end of her shift.

Rin even places a finger to his lips when Zeke’s voice begins to rise.

A remarkable display of communal survival instinct.

Marek notices us first and smiles warmly.

“All done?”

We confirm that we have successfully completed the highly demanding process of sitting in hot water for nearly an hour.

Marek pats his stomach.

“Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m ready to get some grub in me.” He retrieves a small coin pouch from one pocket and gives it a light toss. “Managed to flag down someone from the caravan and sell a few of our mana cores. Dinner’s on me?”

Before anyone can respond, he crosses the lobby and places some coins into my hand.

Payment for the inn rooms and village entrance fee.

I place the coins into my spatial storage and rest one finger against my chin.

“Arlo mentioned a restaurant where customers are provided with ingredients and a cooking flame, then prepare the meal themselves.”

Everyone’s attention sharpens.

I tilt my head.

“Shall we go there?”

The answer is immediate.

Avelyn nods so vigorously that her borrowed hood catches halfway over one ear. Marek looks deeply invested, likely because the establishment permits direct control over meat preparation, while Zeke begins asking whether they provide spices.

Even Rin abandons his chair without complaint.

Excellent.

We file out of the inn and begin making our way toward the restaurant Arlo described.

Unfortunately, I possess no proper cooking apparatus of my own. Until that monumental failure is corrected, I must borrow the facilities of others whenever I wish to introduce the party to the achievements of Earthly food science.

A modest inconvenience.

My tail swishes behind me as I consider the ingredients waiting inside my spatial storage.

I have been saving the meat for an appropriately memorable occasion.

A comfortable evening after surviving a murderous dungeon seems sufficient.

More importantly, none of them know what I intend to cook.

I smile to myself as we walk.

I cannot wait to see their reactions when the System casually informs them that dinner was once part of a True Dragon.