A rustle of wind acrossed leaves, the grinding of old wooden walls shifting, the shuffle of sleeping fools inside an inn.
The rustle of fur as a fox awoke and stood, stretching its small body from its rest. The grinding of stretching bones as its body grew to eight feet and took and a humanoid silhouette. The shuffle of large paws along damaged flooring.
Lucimar, already adored in tattered ceremonial garb, lumbered down from the attic of the old inn, making no attempt at quietness. His indiscretion went unnoticed nonetheless, as not a soul shifted as he passed through the halls, the sound of his movements never reaching past the edge of his shadow.