She absolutely notices, but she's going to be polite and pretend it was.

"It's all right. I'm Aysilvetea," she says, with a somewhat prim curtsy. "If... I'd be welcome. I'm afraid I'm rather lost, at the moment."

"I'm Chippit," Chippit says. "And Daddy is Rekkivikki, and Mama is Tirikkiti."

Tirikkiti twitches again. "I. Am not sure it'd be appropriate. For you to come to the Abbey with us."

"Mama!" Chippit gasps. "She saved Papa's life, and she -"

"Not because I think she's - not a good sort," Tirikkiti clarifies sharply. "But - they're not set up right, for beasts like foxes. They only catch so much fish, and everything's built to a mouse's height -"

"That's not true," Chippit squeaks indignantly. "There's the badgermother! Aysilvetea isn't bigger than a badger!"

"Chippit!" Tirikkiti says sternly. "Don't talk back!"

"And how are we going to get Papa all the way to the Abbey, huh?" Chippit shouts. "Can you carry him?"

There's an awkward pause. Tirikkiti seems to be trying to wrestle with this question while also not looking like she's doing that.

"I could carry him there, and then they could perhaps direct me somewhere that I might be more welcome?" she offers. She's a little used to this kind of questioning of her skills and intentions and abilities, but usually it's on account of her age and her sex. It's kind of novel to be discriminated against because... she's a fox. Not even that she's some kind of animal surrounded by humans, but that she's the wrong kind of animal, in a world of animals.

"If they don't welcome you I'll make them!" Chippit fumes.

"Chippit, stop that," Tirikkit snaps. She turns back to Astea, schooling her expression. "I think that would be fine," she says carefully. "Thank you very much."

Astea is terribly charmed by Chippit, and Chippit gets a smile.

"You're welcome," she says. "Do you need time to pack things? I can likely carry more than just your," do squirrels get married?? is that presumptuous??? "partner."

Her expression becomes so strictly schooled that it threatens to graduate into a rictus at any moment. "No, thank you. I can pack very lightly."

She scampers up the trunk to do so.

Well, okay then. She feels like that probably struck some kind of fox stereotype nerve. Of some kind. Or possibly a squirrel stereotype nerve? It's really hard to tell, when one is in a nonsensical animal world where all of the animals that usually eat each other instead walk about on their hind legs, talking to each other in the same language and having racial tensions.

Anyway, she'll sit down here on the ground and wait, then.

Chippit will fume beside her.

"It's not fair," she growls. Or, as close to a growl as a preadolescent squirrel can get. Which isn't that close.

"Few things in life are, I'm afraid. We can but do our best to make things better, and hope it evens out eventually," she shrugs. It is probably condescending to pat her on the head, but she's very tempted.

She struggles for words.

"But - she's punishing you. For being good even though you're a fox. Why would any fox try to be good if that's what you get for it?""

"Well, speaking for myself? Spite. Pure, undiluted, juvenile spite. It's fun to disprove people who think the worst of you." She winks, then flicks her tail. ... It's surprisingly nice to be able to have that sort of tail based body language. "But yes, the incentive structure is all wrong."

Chippit nods slowly. "I think you're a very strange fox. But I think I might understand."

"I will not deny being strange," she agrees, brightly. "But that's not a bad thing, now is it?"

Vigorous headshake. "No, it's good! Most foxes are - mean, I think, and don't heal people, and don't choose to be nice just because it'll annoy people."