NOTE: This is a story I wrote for an apa called The Foxhole, way back in 1985. Art is old, but newly-colored. Enormous wall of text is only for the curious.

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The sun had almost finished setting beyond the forest of Falconbrook. A few stray slanting sunbeams filtered through the trees, momentarily shining into the opening of a fox's den. Inside, the den's sleepy occupant opened one eye and immediately closed it again, grimacing slightly. He stood up, turned so that his back was to his illuminated doorway and flopped back down with a grunt. It was too early yet to resume his search.

The moon had grown, shrunk and half-grown again since the time that he had first undertaken his quest for the perfect mate. It had finally gotten to the point that the anxious fox would be satisfied with a slightly-less-than-perfect mate, if only he could find her. But while there were a small number of female foxes dwelling in Falconbrook, every vixen he had met thus far already had a mate, much to his dismay. Well, every one except that bad-tempered old she-hermit who had told him very rudely to get lost.

He considered venturing into Wolfglen, the denser forest that lay on the far side of the brook that separated it from Falconbrook Forest. Wolfglen was the favorite haunt of bears and wolves and the larger forest cats. There were also whispers of strange, unknown creatures lurking in its depths -- basilisks and griffins and possibly a dragon or two. Rabbit rumors and mouse murmurings, no doubt. Still, the fox did not relish the thought of finding out for himself whether there was any truth to them.

And yet, he could not stop thinking about it. Perhaps a lonely vixen lived in Wolfglen, waiting for a brave and noble dog-fox to rescue her from...

A sharp, perky voice shattered the fox's fantasies.

"Renard! Hey, fox, are you awake?"

The fox lifted his head; he knew that voice. It belonged to that weasel, Shadow. Not a bad sort (for a weasel), but he always seemed to be getting into one scrape or another. "What is it?" Renard answered irritably, still a bit muzzy with sleep.

The weasel's eyes, luminous in the fading light, appeared at the entrance of the den. "I wanted to find out whether you would like to come and help Dumpy and me pull a raid."

To Be Continued.

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