<div class="floatleft">(http://fc07.deviantart.net/fs11/i/2006/223/f/6/Redhead_by_Chibiche.png)</div><br/>What a marvelous new world to plant her furry boots in, and live as the old wise tricksters did, the medium between huddled man and forest primeval, the goad urging hairy ape off its forelegs to get up, get out there and make a story worth telling. She could not be off the ship soon enough, and an oxblood cloak erasing the footprints of those before her in the sand, returning some mystery to the land.<br/><br/>There could be little mystery left between she and her shipmates after so long at sea, in such cramped quarters.<br/><br/><em>Oinari is god(dess) of agriculture. </em>Missy had tried her hand in the kitchen more than once, playing aide to the chef and making such a mess of things that she was forbidden from setting foot again in the pantry which still bore her crossbow-scars. She played not only with her food, but with the whole ship's food, her handiwork apparent from such irregularly-cut potatoes that she must have practiced her swordplay with them.<br/><br/><em>Oinari is god(dess) of swordsmiths. </em>She had an eye for fine handiwork, though she created nothing herself. The small details of an embroidered insignia, a maker's mark on a sword from the capital, or the binding of an antique book seldom escaped her curiosity, and she was quick to offer a compliment, to listen to its storied history as though she were curating a collection. The things men made were fascinating, and when they imbued the best of themselves, she knew.<br/><br/><em>Oinari is god(dess) of traveling merchants. </em>Singular among her luggage was a bag of tall tales, trinkets she claimed hailed from the fey realm. They were an eclectic sampling of things, a raindrop in the ocean of the new world's wonders, but only, she insisted, what she could carry. A clever trader made the most of little, remained flexible to new opportunities, and so she was.<br/><br/><em>Oinari is god(dess) of fertility. </em>Missy was a woman with appetites for the fairer sex, and between her striking red hair and zest for life, she had yet to sleep alone three nights in a row. Her company was without regret. She was unburdened from her responsibilities, unfixed from the matrix of social compromise, a romantic, a highwayman as sung in the ballads, the sexual animal humanity longed to be.<br/><br/><em>Oinari is progenitor of the kitsune. </em>She could, and had, become a small red fox. When the clouds blot out the sun and the empty ocean grew cold, she had curled herself up on her own three tails and hibernated through the worst of it, to emerge when the sun was bright again and the day hopeful, a fairweather friend who shared in the joys but in the shivering, damp, dark uncertainty, was nowhere to be found.<br/><br/>In the ledger-keeper's company she looked back, smiling, at those brave enough to follow. She was certain she'd spied kindred spirits among them. "My word but your fingers seem too slow for this. Are you prepared for mine? Mischievous Three Tailed Fox Goads Devil, scion of Oinari, boat-blesser, exotic trader, Noh performer- not to mention, intrepid explorer. Here now, just put<em>Missy. Adventurer." </em>