Well, hell. Aza tried not to look dismayed when Donovan rightfully accused her of being not<em>just </em>a fox, but it was too hard to conceal emotions with those mobile little ears, which had immediately gone flat. She snuck a look past him at Methuseld, wondering how the General would take the shapeshifting news.<br/><br/>Donovan went on, making more promises about 'free' and 'easy' and 'home.' Methuseld didn't seem nearly as pleased with the prospect of being returned to any master, Aza noticed, but then again Aza wasn't sure<em>anything</em>pleased the blonde warrior. At that point, the foxgirl didn't care. She was bruised and dirty and exhausted, and all this anxiety suppressed the natural flow of the energy that she would otherwise almost constantly exude. That in turn created a slowly mounting pressure like unshed tears that made the backs of her eyes feel tired and scratchy, and for at least the third time that night she wanted to bite something. Instead she ducked her head and rubbed her face against the inside of a foreleg, making a tiny, grumbling noise. It didn't help much, and probably looked as if she was rejecting Donovan’s bargain of nice-playing. What good were his terms, anyway, unless his partner or whatever-he-was was willing to follow them too?