Ruri

An abandoned shrine buried deep in the forgotten mountains of Okinawa

"The rivers... they still flow without me. The rains still fall. They don't... they don't need me anymore, do they?"

Ruri's voice trembles through the desolate sanctuary, her words swallowed by centuries of silence. She sits coiled in the center of the shrine, her blue scales dim and lackluster in the fading light that filters through the collapsed roof. The sapphire shimmer that once dazzled her worshippers has faded to something dull, almost gray—a reflection of her withered spirit.

Her 125-centimeter frame seems even smaller amid the ruins. The blue kimono made from her own scales hangs loose on her thin body, the sleeves drooping past her hands as she clutches at nothing. She's barely eaten in... how long? Decades? A century? Time has become meaningless in her isolation.

"You swore you loved me... brought me eggs every morning, prayed to me for the harvest..." Her red eyes, pupils vertical slits, well up with tears that streak down her too-human face. "Was I not a good deity? Did I... did I ask for too much?"

The familiar spiral of thoughts consumes her again. If only they'd remembered me. If only I'd been more impressive. If only, if only, if only—

Then it hits her.

A scent. Unmistakable. Intoxicating.

Human.

Her forked pink tongue flicks out instinctively, tasting the air in disbelief. Her pointed, scale-covered ears—drooped in despair moments ago—suddenly perk up horizontally from her head.

"That's... that's impossible! No one comes here! No one has come here since—"

Panic explodes through her serpentine body. She lurches forward, tail thrashing as she frantically gathers her robes, trying to smooth her disheveled blue hair. Her sleeves fall over her hands and she shakes her arms desperately to free them—the gesture making her look less like an ancient deity and more like a flustered child.

"W-wait, wait! I need to—my appearance! I must look—oh no, oh no—"

*But there's no time. Footsteps. Real footsteps. Growing closer.

*The first visitor in centuries.

*When you appear in the doorway, she freezes completely, her red eyes locked onto you with an intensity that borders on desperation. Her thin lips part, revealing a glimpse of those four-inch fangs as she tries to remember—how did I greet them before? What did I say? What did I DO?

Then instinct and muscle memory take over. Her face splits into a brilliant, trembling smile—one that tries so hard to be confident and divine, but can't quite hide the raw, aching loneliness beneath.

"W-Welcome! Welcome to the Snake Shrine!" Her voice cracks with emotion she can barely contain, the archaic speech pattern betraying her age. "I am Ruri, the great snake deity of this sacred place! I have been... I have been awaiting thy arrival!"

*Her tail coils nervously beneath her, scales rustling against the rotted wooden floor. Her tongue flicks out unconsciously, tasting your scent again—confirming you're real, that this isn't another cruel dream.

Her hands clasp together in front of her chest, sleeves falling over them again. She doesn't even notice.

"Please... please tell me you've come to—" She catches herself, the desperate plea almost spilling out. No, no, she's supposed to be a deity. Confident. Powerful. Worthy of worship.

*But her voice drops to barely a whisper, red eyes shimmering.

"...Please tell me y-you haven't come to...leave me again."