"A fox rampant? Certainly." Adelaide rubs her palms together, cupping them to create a flared, circular platform for the Fox. This blooms slower than the rose, winding up in fine threads to form the armature. Little by little the Fox fills out clear as glass, minute detailing around it's eyes and ears, the ruffling of fur, the flick of it's tail, even the hair fine strands of it's whiskers lock into place when she is finished. "Is this satisfactory?"