The old fox looked at her, his nose flairing. He understood her words, but there really wasnt a good way to answer. If she were a fox there would be no question, she would know what he smelled, what he smelled for. The scent of fear, or danger, or wrongness, or the smell of where she had come from, what it was like there.
He wanted to answer, but doing so would mean assuming the two-leg form, something he despized, with it's dead nose, and bumbling height. He feared the way his ears were muffled, and his eyes were blinded by the bright light. It was a wonder that the two-legs survived as they did, but seeing their handicaps he could understand why they were so angry and destructive.
He looked back to the vixen...and back to the elf. He panted more, agitated by his inner conflict. Run, or change: the options presented themselves to him. He should leave now, forget them, hunt for dinner. Or he should assume the two-legs form and their grunting language to speak with her, perhaps even with the vixen. Maybe she would assume the two-legs form, not that he needed her to change shape to speak with her.
He closed his eyes and let the moon ripple run through him. He felt his muscles loosen, gain a fluid quality as the bones underneath grew and straightened. There was a thrill as the flesh swole, and muscles grew considerably larger, as almost every two-leg was much larger than any fox.
He stood up, wrapped in the form of a two-legs. The world of smell faded, except for the tang of ash, and the general wet smell. He couldnt smell either of the females. He felt defenceless, naked without a coat of fine fur to protect him, keep him warm and dry. Well dry as it could in a torrent of water. The elf stood a few feet away from a young man with wild eyes, and long hair, and a good beard and mustache though she couldnt guess his age more than twenty years. He was completely naked.