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A fearsome looking fox practices throwing his knife. The silver blade buried itself into the bark of an ancient maple tree. The wooden handle was sticking out of the tree, the rubies on it glistening in the sunlight. The fox pulled the knife out of the tree and grinned evilly. Soon he would be pulling that very knife out of his enemie's neck, wiping the blood off of it, and feeling victorious.
A young fox cub named Clutch played in the shallows of a pond. His mother watched him from their home, hidden in a hill. Clutch watched as tiny fish swim away from him as he splashed around in the water. He giggled and grinned, having a great time. After awhile, Clutch swam out of the water, shook his fur, and raced toward his mother. Cynthia smiles at her son and handed him a piece of apple pie. 'ere ye go, little rascal. Eat up. Clutch nodded and gobbled up his pie quickly, pie flying everywhere, and some of it stuck to Clutch's face. Cynthia shook her redish brown head. Ye need a bath now, Clutch. The young fox gasped and ran away, only to bump into his father, Slagar, who was walking back from a hunt in the woods. The masked fox grabbed his son and carried him back to Cynthia. 'ere is yer dirty little rascal. Cynthia nods gratefully and grabs Clutch, hauling him down to the pond for a bath. Slagar follows in case his wife needed help.