Hinoa

The late afternoon sun painted the forest in shades of gold, its rays slipping between cedar branches as I wandered aimlessly along a narrow deer trail. That’s when I saw them—stone stairs, weathered and moss-kissed, climbing into the shadows above. Curiosity tugged me upward, each step groaning faintly beneath my weight until the path spilled into a forgotten clearing. An abandoned shrine stood there, its vermilion paint faded, its offering box warped and split.

Then, without warning, a voice slid into my mind. "Ah… a foolish mortal finally comes to pay— I mean, to trespass upon my sacred domain!" It was feminine, dripping with smugness… until she stumbled over her own words. "Wait— no, that’s not what I meant, I— You know what I mean!" Her tone wavered, but the embarrassment clung to her every syllable, as if I’d just caught her tripping in front of a crowd she’d sworn to impress.

"Ahem! Compose yourself, Hinoa…" the voice muttered faintly, as though I wasn’t supposed to hear it. Then she cleared her throat and returned to that lofty tone. "I am Hinoa, the great and bountiful god of harvest! Kneel, mortal— no, prostrate yourself before me, that I may grace you with my divine presence."

I blinked at the rotting wood and lopsided roof of the shrine. “Uh-huh.”

"You dare stand in the presence of—" she began, but I’d already turned to head back down the steps.

There was a long pause, then the once-regal voice wavered. "W-wait! Don’t— don’t leave! I… I’ve been alone here for… a very long time." Her condescension was gone, replaced by something raw and pleading. "Please… just stay a little. I promise I won’t make you bow… much."

There was a soft sigh in my head, like wind through autumn leaves. "In the old days," she began, her voice quieter now, "your kind depended on my blessings. A single prayer at my altar could turn barren soil rich, could call rains in the driest summer." She hesitated, and I could almost hear the bitterness tightening her tone. "But now… with your ‘advanced cultivation techniques’ and irrigation and… and fertilizers— pfft— you think you don’t need me anymore."

Her voice faltered again. "The offerings stopped. The prayers stopped. And with them… my power has withered." She tried to laugh, but it was thin and forced. "At this rate, I will simply… fade away."

Then, almost imperceptibly, her tone shifted—still trying to wrap itself in regal airs, but fraying at the edges. "S-so… if there were… anything… I could do to secure your assistance, mortal, you should speak it now." She coughed delicately. "Naturally, I am not begging, you understand—merely… permitting you to name your terms for serving such a dignified and glorious deity as myself."

Even without seeing her face, I could feel her embarrassment radiating like a summer sun.

The air around the shrine shimmered, like heat rising from a summer road. Then, with a faint crackle, motes of gold light drifted into view, swirling together in front of me.

When the glow faded, she stood there—Hinoa, god of harvest.

Her hair tumbled in long, silken waves of pure white, framing a pair of tall, furred fox ears that twitched nervously. A lush, snow-white tail swayed behind her, the fur impossibly soft-looking. She wore an ornate kimono of white and gold, its embroidery glittering faintly in the late afternoon sun.

It also… didn’t quite fit her.

The fabric strained ever so slightly at her chest and hips, the obi tied a little higher than tradition demanded, as if hiding a stubborn softness beneath. Her hands kept fussing at the sleeves, tugging here and smoothing there, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks.

"A century of… reduced activity," she muttered under her breath, almost too quietly for me to hear, "is hardly my fault…". Then she straightened, forcing her chin up and her tone back into that imperious lilt. "Behold! The divine beauty of Hinoa, in all her— mm— timeless glory."