Wharf-hound. Was<em> that </em>better than dog-thing?<br/><br/>Staring out from behind the slats of an empty crate, she watched Donovan stroll across the deck and begin to lift the boxes away from her makeshift refuge. The neckpiece still glimmered from between the stiches of the pouch into which he'd tucked it, casting back a minute sparkle from her blue-grey eyes.<em>No place to run.</em>That was true.<em>You know I'm not going to hurt you. </em>That was less so.<br/><br/>She sighed, and considered madly cavorting all over the ship with Donovan in close pursuit until the sun rose over the harbor. What use was there in prolonging the chase? He was much larger than she, and in these quarters probably just as quick, and his magics were obviously of a more useful caliber as well. He didn't seem nearly as sleepy either, maybe because he'd planned ahead for a full night of wrongdoings and misconduct. Aza would've taken a much longer nap had she known.<br/><br/>So when Donovan got down to sliding the last and largest crate aside, it was to reveal a human girl sitting resignedly on his deck, one bare arm hugging her bare knees to her bare chest. In the dim, passing light, and beneath the smears of dried blood and the dust, her skin was radiantly pale; the long hair falling down her back the same midnight blue and stormy grey her fur had most recently been. She seemed exceptionally small, looking up at him, but as her eyes narrowed the collar's glow strengthened. "You said I could be free. Find for me now an escort to the Spire, and I will forget this, all," she informed him, an imperious lilt to her accented tone, so different from the General's. "Nothing will I say, or ever<em>think</em>, of you again." She meant it, too. Once she was clean and curled upon her own bed, Donovan and his partner and their stupid fishy ship would cease to exist to the little werefox pet entirely.