“You realize, the probability of this happening is astronomically small.”

Kyu turned to face his daughter, squinting against the bright summer sun.  They had come to this isolated beach for solitude and, in Jessamine’s case, safety - when one had just come back from the dead, one did not want to draw attention to one’s self.  Waves crashed against a steep, rocky shore, driven by a brisk wind; soon enough the water would be up above the dark pebbles that marked the tide line. 

“Only once in every -  I don’t know, 500 years maybe.  Only once in 500 years does one of my line breed true.  And then, only if the mother is a Fox, herself.”

He turned away again to face the ocean and dropped a pair of sunglasses down over his blue eyes, missing Jessamine’s careless shrug.  Kyu was soliloquizing, and his daughter knew nothing would stop him from it.

“Tan got lucky.  I’m not sure he’d have been able to find his way back,” Kyu continued with a faint frown.  “That was an artificial resurrection.  You’re the only other Fox I know - hell, that I’ve even heard of - to come back the way I always do.  That’s quite a trick.”

“It could be your mother’s bloodline,” he added after a moment’s thought.

It was flattering to the Fox to know that he had a true heir, of sorts, and that her kind was a precious jewel among otherwise ordinary siblings.  He did not love the other two children he knew of any less than her, but there was something that now bonded him to his most wayward daughter, though they had never been close.  All at once he wanted a larger part of her life, and felt he could let her go at last - she could care for herself, after all, even in death.

Here is the Fox:

He goes by the name of Kyu, pronounced like the letter, and when necessary uses the surname ‘Whitecoat’.  He is a remarkable-looking man, but you are not likely to see him or notice him unless he allows you to.

He is not tall, and fine-boned, and his features are sharp an vulpine as one might expect.  If he was assigned a nationality it might be Japanese, but it’s very hard to tell.  His features are somehow ancient, but not rough and unformed as we are used to assuming of our forebears.  Rather, he seems a pure concept of humanity, alike to paintings and stories and myths.

This should come as no surprise.

His hair is so pale it might be called white, or golden in a particular quality of sunlight.  His eyes are chips of ice in both color and warmth.  They are not mirrors, but masks, cold and hard even as he smiles.

He smiles constantly.  His teeth are white, and his eyeteeth are sharp.  They make a fine half-moon grin, an ear-to-ear grin, feral and insincere. 

The Fox enjoys pleasures of the flesh. 

The Fox enjoys having good things to eat.

The Fox is a liar and a thief and a good person at heart.