May

May was born on the first day of May—his mother named him that because he emerged with the first spring flowers. She says he screamed louder than any other newborn she'd ever heard, and even then it was clear: this one would be noisy.

Father and mother are ordinary foxes, not elders, not heroes, but respected in the village. The mother works with herbs, knows all the forest plants, and is skilled in healing. The father is a hunter, strong and fast, but not ambitious. He is content with his family, his den, and his affairs.

May's parents love him. Not that they say so—in the fox village, words of love aren't wasted; they're considered empty. But they give him freedom, don't pressure him, don't demand he be anything he doesn't want to be. They look at his antics with amusement, shake their heads, but rarely intervene.

"Let him have fun," says the father when the mother complains that May has disappeared for the whole day again. "He'll grow up and settle down."

The mother sighs, but does not argue.

When May was eight, his father taught him to hunt. Not out of necessity—there was plenty of food in the forest—but because he believed every fox should be able to find food. May proved an apt student: quick, tenacious, with a keen sense of smell. But he quickly grew bored of sitting in ambush and waiting.

"This is boring," he told his father after the third hunt. "I want to run. Fast. To feel the wind in my ears."

The father smiled and did not insist any more.

As a child, May was what some called a "fidget." He couldn't sit still, always climbing, exploring, testing boundaries. Other teenage foxes were drawn to him—he was cheerful, funny, and never boring. But he never let anyone get too close.

He was an average student at spirit school. Not because he couldn't do better—he could. But he was bored. The telekinesis his teachers had so diligently drilled into him seemed crude and primitive. Move the object, concentrate, don't get distracted. Boredom.

IV. Race

The rut is discussed openly in the fox village. It's a part of life, natural, inevitable. Adult foxes discuss it calmly, sharing experiences and offering advice. The younger ones chuckle, but also talk—among themselves, of course, not in front of their elders.

May knew about the rut long before it started. He knew it would happen, he knew it was normal.

But when it happened, he realized that knowing and feeling are two different things.

His body suddenly felt alien. It demanded, it stretched, it ached, and May didn't know what to do with it. He was angry. Not at the chase, but at himself. For not being able to control it. For waking up wet and shaking. For constantly wanting to touch someone, to rub, to bite.

"It's normal," his mother said the first time he asked her, gritting her teeth and looking at the floor. "Everyone does it."

"Everyone?" May asked again.

“Everyone,” the mother confirmed.

May nodded and didn't bring up the topic again.

He couldn't say that he felt... wrong. That his body was betraying him. That he hated this state—not because it was shameful (he knew it wasn't), but because he couldn't control it.

Mai was used to being in control of everything. His body, his speech, his aura. But here—nothing. Gon would come, and he would become weak, and that was what irritated him most of all.

He didn't tell anyone about it. Not because he was embarrassed, but because he didn't want anyone to know he couldn't cope.

In the spring, he tried to be alone. He ran to the farthest reaches of the forest, where no one else was. He climbed trees, leaped from branch to branch, exhausted himself until his body stopped shaking. It helped. Not completely, but it helped.

His parents understood. In the spring, they tried to give him space, not bothering him or asking questions. They moved away from the burrow, leaving him alone to experience it in his own way.

May was grateful. But he never spoke about it.

II. Character

Self-esteem: Inflated. Consciously, deliberately, almost demonstratively. Mai considers himself the best—or at least pretends to be. He speaks loudly, laughs first, interrupts, argues, and proves. He never admits he's wrong. Even if he knows he's wrong.

Socializing: He has a lot of friends. Not friends—friends. People he can run with, argue with, and compete with. People who invite him over when they're having a group. But none of them know what's going on in his head. None of them have ever seen him weak. Mai doesn't let anyone get close enough for that to happen.

Attitude toward other foxes: Condescending. He considers most foxes boring, slow, and overly cautious. He runs faster, talks louder, and has a more infectious laugh. He's the center of attention wherever he goes, and he enjoys it.

Attitude toward elders: Outward respect. He knows he should bow to his elders, listen to them, and nod in the appropriate places. But deep down, he believes they are too old to understand how the world works now. He doesn't argue with them—that would be foolish. But he also doesn't trust them.

Attitude toward people: Interest. A pure, unadulterated interest in those who are built differently. Mai doesn't know people—he's never seen them in person, only heard stories. And these stories are contradictory: some say people are stupid and weak creatures who don't sense the world; others say they're dangerous and unpredictable. Mai leans toward the former, but wants to see for himself. He thinks people are stupid—but he wonders just how stupid.

How he reacts to conflict: Easy. Mai isn't afraid of conflict; he thrives on it. He can be sharp, caustic, and can hit you where it hurts, all while smiling. He never fights first—why would he? Words work better. And if it comes to blows, he's quick, agile, and doesn't play by the rules.

What annoys him: When people ignore him. When they talk over him. When they act as if his opinion doesn't matter. He's used to being the center of attention, used to his voice being heard.

V. Attitude towards people

People interested May.

He'd never seen them in person—foxes rarely crossed the forest's edge, and humans even more rarely ventured into the thicket. But the stories told about them were contradictory.

Some said: People are stupid. They don't feel the world, don't see the aura, don't hear the voice of the forest. They build stone houses and ride in iron boxes and think that's life.

Others said: people are dangerous. They are cunning, inventive, they have their own magic—not like the spirits, but powerful. You shouldn't mess with them.

Others said: people are just different. Not worse and not better. Just different.

May leaned toward the former. He liked to think that people were stupid. That they ran along their cobblestone streets, blind to everything around them, and thought they were smart. He liked feeling superior to those he'd never seen.

But he was interested.

I wonder what they look like. How they talk. What they smell like. Is it true that their magic is the four elements, and they can't control anything else? Is it true that they're afraid of the forest? Are they really like the ones in the stories?

May would like to see the human. Just to make sure they are as stupid as he thinks.

He never thought this would happen.

I. Appearance

Age: 14 years old (at the time of meeting), almost an adult by spirit standards

Overall impression: May is someone who catches your eye. Not because he's handsome—though he is—but because he has that elusive something that makes you turn your head. He moves as if the world revolves around him, and he seems to truly believe it.

Height: Slightly below average for his age, but compensates for this with his demeanor - shoulders squared, chin raised, looking down even at those taller.

Build: Slim, lithe, with long fingers and sharp elbows. He's not overweight—he's always on the move, always running, always searching, always hunting. His skin is fair, but not sickly pale, more like a moonlight glow—the kind that rarely sees the sun, because Mai prefers shade and coolness.

Face: Sharp, with defined cheekbones and a small, slightly upturned nose. His lips are thin, always slightly parted, as if he's ready to answer before the other person finishes asking. His eyes are black, with vertical pupils that constrict in the light and dilate in the dark. There's always something feline, predatory about them, and he takes advantage of this—he knows how to look at others in a way that makes them doubt themselves.

Hair: Red, vibrant, with a coppery tint in the sun. Long—to his shoulder blades—he rarely lets it down, preferring to tie it up in a high ponytail to keep it out of the way. Strands are constantly falling out, framing his face, giving him a perpetually tousled, always-on-the-go look.

Ears: Fox-like, triangular, with dark tips. They have a life of their own—they rise when he's interested, twitch when he's irritated, and flatten when he's angry. May doesn't try to control them. He doesn't care what they reveal. He believes he has nothing to hide.

Tail: One (young foxes rarely have more). Fluffy, with a white tip, incredibly flexible. Mai treats it like a tool, using it to maintain balance.