What would you do if you woke up on a beach with little more than the wet clothes on your back? Memories gone and a body full of terror? Anzou wakes to find himself completely alone, unable to the night before or even any part of his life. The only thing he knows is that he's in a strange land. But before him lay a vast island full of things he's never seen or experienced...or has he?

A Fox in Wolves Clothes is a novel length story that I'll be ing periodically, probably once a week. The original idea came from this short story that I wrote but I expanded the story because I wanted to know more about the characters! It's been sitting in my files for over a year 90% finished and I hope that starting to load it will give me the kick in the tail to actually finish it.

It's divided into 3 parts. Part 1 is about Anzou arriving on the strange shores of Kaugrush. Part 2 is him discovering secrets about himself and others. Part 3 is where it all comes together in a twisty turvey ending.
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Salt?
That was a bit strange. The sharp taste filled his mouth bringing a stir among the rest of his body. At first he thought something had been forced into the back of his throat, something to bring on the acute taste. But no, there was nothing but his dry tongue. However, as that sensation returned, others came with it. The calm cacophony of waves lapping against a shore filled his ears right as slivers of light bore through his slowly opening eyes.
The light assaulted him, forcing a recoil and shuttering of his eyes. His right arm moved to block out the light. Much to his surprise it didn’t hurt to move, in fact it moved right when he told it to. He tried his other arm and it listened to him. Other parts responded and all felt well! All be it strange, as if he were moving through the Seas depths.
A low gurgle left his mouth followed by an anemic hum. So he could make sound as well, that was a good thing. Check by check everything within his body responded as it should, moved as it should, but didn’t feel like it should. He attempted to open his eyes once more and the light attacked again but very much less so, like its intensity had been turned down by half. Enough for him to push through and start to make out things around him.
He lay in wet sand, slightly buried into the shore. Around him small black stones, smooth as those at the bottom of a river littered the beach. Cold water lapped just barely at his feet. The sun shimmered off the waves as it rose from the west, peaking over the great cascading cliffs that fell into the sea on either side of him. Great rock spires jutted out of the water dotting the horizon like sentinels watching the bay. It was calm, serene, but most of all absolutely terrifying.
He shot up, taking in the world in front of him. Terror swelled within, a terror unlike anything else. He wanted to scream, wanted to yell at something but his mind couldn’t tell him what about. For all he knew things seemed okay! It was certainly peaceful, didn’t seem to be in much danger right away and his body listened to him. So he drew in a deep calming breath. Okay he thought, one thing at a time. His eyes fell to his arms.
There, in his lap were two arms covered with a thin coat of course wiry fur. The fur seemed grey at first but after closer inspection it was clear that dirt and grime had covered what was actually a vibrant orange and black. His hands were covered with similar fur except for thick course pads that made up most of his pam and the tips of his fingers. At the very end of each one a small claw finished to a sharp point. Looks normal. He told himself but didn’t know why, just that it seemed to be. He checked the rest of his body and found nothing wrong there either, only that he was wearing a tattered tunic that had the scent of a fish that had been baked in the sun. Or was that him, either way he peeled it off to let his matted fur breathe.
Everything checked out. He wasn’t hurt, wasn’t in any trouble as a quick glance around told him there was no immediate danger. There was only one thing that kept the terror at the forefront of his mind, he had no clue who he was. Something told him that people didn’t just appear on beaches, at least he knew what a beach was. But every time his mind told him that things were ok the knowledge he didn’t have reared its head and the terror would return. It wasn’t the kind of scare that one would have going into an examination without proper study, or the kind when you know you would be scolded. No, this was different, the kind that drives you, that keeps you going. The kind of terror that makes your fur stand on end, makes your skin prickle and soul scream for a way out, the kind that sees death.
What is this? He said and began to pick himself up, brushing some sand out of the fur revealing a bit more of his orange coloring. The only thing he was relatively sure about, aside from being terrified was that he was much too young to be in a situation such as this. He couldn’t place an exact time on it, only that he shouldn’t be alone.
Once standing he looked around the immediate area with a better eye. Most of the beach was empty save for a slight gradient of wet sand to dry and driftwood that had settled at the highest point of the waterline. That is, except for a few beams that littered the span around him. These were not trees that had been felled, they were purpose cut, formed, fitted, built into something. The word formed in his head as if coming from thin air, a ship. That felt right! He’d been on a ship! And where there was a ship there was more people. The terror gave way to purpose, something he could focus on; find someone else. There had to be someone.
His first few steps were, at best, wobbly. But soon he was striding long the beach, leaving little padded prints with each step. His focus soon centered on the cliffs that bordered the half moon shaped beach and made for them thinking that a high vantage point would be best. He found what seemed to be the easiest way up, a steep hill made of a semi wet clay that had short vegetation growing out the side. Due to the softness he could kick his feet into the clay, where they sank deep and gave enough grip to climb. It took the better part of an hour and a few scares later he stood at the top and could see the beach entirely. It was small as far as he could tell with the cliffs reaching far further into the sea than the beach was wide. He could still make out the disturbed sand where he’d woken up, right in the middle.
He turned and walked to the opposite side of the cliff, it separated two beaches, the one he woke up on and another that snaked up the shore to the horizon. But other than the lack of cliffs it was the same kind of place, wet sand, smooth black rocks ranging from pebbles to large boulders and a body. Wait, a body? He centered his gaze back on the lump in the middle of the sand. It certainly wasn’t a rock and that was enough for him.
Coming down the other side was much more difficult than climbing up. The clay was much softer and every other step meant he’d slip a tails length here and there. Yet, he always seemed to keep his balance and never randomly flailed for the shrubs that grew out of the steep cliff side. But having made it to the bottom with only one real tumble and in one piece he ran to the lump in the sand.
“Hey!” He called. How did he know what to say? What language was he speaking? Was this even a good idea? All thoughts ed through his mind but he pushed them down with the terror, he’d get nowhere just sitting on top of that cliff. The mound didn’t move at his call, nor did it when he called again and then a third time. He was beginning to worry that it was some sort of trick of the eyes but coming within thirty paces he could see a distinct furred arm half covered by a cloak. It was a person!
The same smell that had first assaulted his nose came back, sun-dried fur mixed with the stench of the deep sea, but there was something different to this one. A pungent sweet smell, one that he didn’t know by name but recognized none-the-less.
“Hello?” He spoke again, the word falling out of his thin muzzle like he were trying it on for size. The heap didn’t move. The arm, palm down, lay in an L shape and two shoed footpads jutted out the end. For a moment he felt the urge to immediately roll over whoever it was but thought better of it. For all he knew it could still be dangerous so instead he picked up a piece of driftwood and poked at the heap, still nothing. Sufficiently satisfied that there wasn’t immediate danger, he laid pads on the cloth. The cloak was dry and felt almost ridged in a way. He then reached under the side of the body and with a massive effort rolled it over. That’s when he ed what the sickly smell was. The body had rolled onto its back but a deep crimson red, kept fresh from the sun by the body, pooled on top of the damp sand where it had been laying. He froze, his paws trembling, the tips of his fingers wet with someone else’s life. But just as his mind caught up to the sensations and the terror began to rear its head the body gurgled.
It was then it hit him. His head exploded with pain and he dropped to his knees cradling his temples. Blackness encroached on his vision and as much as he pushed against it, pain prevented anything at all. Soon his vision was gone. He could see none of the beach and instead the white outline of a shape, nine equal sides enclosing a deeply complex arrangement of perfectly straight lines and angles. It drew all of his attention and pulsed in brightness with every heartbeat. The darkness beyond it swirled like a mire. Dark smoke and fog mixed to give only the hope of being able to see beyond. Then, it flushed away and the bright sky and death filled his vision again.
That…was not normal. He knew that for a fact and those seemed rare in this particular situation. The underlying terror began to return and his furred hands trembled. The idea that he may, in fact, not be entirely lucid added to the fear. The only thing he could do was shake the bad thoughts from his mind as he turned his attention back to the body.
What the body was came easily. It was a Vulpine, exactly like him. The same course fur covered his body and face, muttled with the same grime his fur was covered with. He was relatively young, though much older than him, and had a thin muzzle of both orange and white that ended with a black nose and whiskers. A river of blood fell out of the side of his half open muzzle before he gurgled again, followed by a sicking, squelching cough. He looked at the body, the cloak lay sprawled open revealing a tunic similar to the one he’d discarded only covered with belts that held small pouches across his chest. Blood gently oozed from a gaping wound in the Vulpine’s abdomen. He could see sinue within and forced himself to look at it, to understand that this Vulpine, even though he’d washed up on the same shore, most likely from the same place, would die where he lay. Another moist cough and gurgle and then his arm raised. The Vulpine’s eyes opened, but only for one more time, like it took all his strength to even do that but once the deep yellow eyes centered on him they seemed to relax. His muzzle shook, whiskers trembling as he clung to what was left of his life and then, through the cough said one thing.
“Anzou.”
The Vulpine then let go, as if he were releasing his grip on a rope and falling to the abyss. The deep yellow eyes fell back and stared up at the brightening morning sky. The raspy gurgling cough stopped and the oozing of blood from his wounds slowed before finally ceasing. Anzou stayed next to the body for a long while. It was something to cling to, something to prove to whatever this world was that it wasn’t just him, that there was someone else that came with him. Or rather, that there had been someone else that came with him. It was a connection to something, somewhere that he didn’t know or couldn’t imagine.
Anzou wanted to yell, wanted to run into the waves and kick at the water for putting him here, wherever it was. In fact that sounded like a wonderful idea and he even stood and made it halfway down the beach when he stopped himself. Such things wouldn’t help. Such things wouldn’t get him anywhere, screaming at something that wasn’t listening and didn’t care. He couldn’t command it to, couldn’t impart any real will over the water and therefore the act, while feeling nice, would accomplish little. So he turned back to the body.