With a final glance at the disturbed waters, you nod to the trembling tanuki and turn toward the hidden paths leading to your den. The forest seems to hold its breath as you move, shadows lengthening between the cedars despite the morning light. Your bare feet make no sound upon the moss as you follow the familiar trail marked by foxfire lanterns only spirits can see.

Your den lies beneath the roots of a towering camphor tree, its entrance concealed by woven charms that shimmer as you pass through. Inside, the earthy scent of dried herbs and ink greets you. Shelves carved into the living wood hold jars of rare pigments, bundles of blessed washi paper, and brushes made from the tail hairs of your ancestors. A low writing desk sits at the center, its surface worn smooth by centuries of use.

Kneeling before the desk, you take a deep breath and begin your preparations. First, you grind indigo and gold pigments with purified water, the mortar and pestle releasing the faint scent of lightning-struck oak. Then you select nine sheets of paper - one for each tail - and begin painting intricate wards with swift, practiced strokes. As each talisman dries, you fold it into a delicate origami shape: cranes for protection, foxes for cunning, and finally a dragon that curls protectively around the others.

The tanuki watches wide-eyed from the doorway as you tie the completed talismans to strands of your own hair, the papers glowing briefly as they absorb your magic. 'These will shield us from the Shadow Eater's gaze,' you explain, tying the last around your wrist. Outside, the wind carries a new scent - something burnt and wrong that makes your tails bristle. The shadows beneath the trees seem deeper than before, and the protective charms at your doorway flicker uneasily.