"Down," whispers Wei Wuxian, whose eyes are locked on to the laughing fox spirits, in all their chubby, glowing horror. Down is where he crouches, and down is where he went, and down is where he refuses to fall, though the terror-tears tracking down his face don't care much about his sense of directional inevitability.

The fox spirits call out again, laughing, boisterous, unrepentant. Wei Wuxian whimpers. He is not, sadly, a fountain of conversation, even if Cato is rather interestingly unique himself. More importantly, Cato does not appear remotely canine. Oddly armoured, but not canine.

The foxes call out to Cato at that point, jeering and singing, what will you give us, what will you do, for us to leave you, for this bridge not to fall?