In that far district of merry Theron, which is watered by many a thin streams, there extended a wide and peaceful lake, whose shores had been adorned by the local villagers with countless shrines, so many have been the gods and goddesses that were accounted for the flourishing harvests over the past three centuries. 

Harvest, the largest of the villages on the Southern shores, used to be famous for one festival. Farmers would flock from the entire region for just that single day. Each would carry one mask of their favorite animal and wear it throughout the day, from dawn, when the drums announced the ceremonial procession, followed by orgiastic dances, until sunset, when another roll of drums would signal the devotees that the shrine of the God of Plenty had been opened. The God of Plenty, high and safe in his distant world, watched, drinking of the nectar of the Gods, and laughed at his unexpected luck, where the heroic actions of others had brought him the reaping prayers of simple folks. 

All across Theron, covering large part of the beautiful hills, valleys and up to the mountain passes in the horizon where no soul dared venture, many a battle had been once fought, desperate and harsh, and many a great hands had fallen, cut by the stern steel. But to the present day, no one remembered any of it. Lost tales hidden in forgotten books. Some old hags, perhaps to impress, and perhaps to satisfy their needs, shouted of it in the streets, that the beast may return, lest everyone finds the rightful goddess, the long forgotten one.

Here in Theron, albeit more to the North, also flourished those packs of gallant outlaws, which the time imposed to call bands of venture, and whose deeds, sold to the better buyer, had already changed the destiny of one too many skirmishes. They galloped across the land, aiding at times, and more often raiding, stripping the land of its fruits and maidens of their flesh.

Half a mile away from Harvest, Anela glided across the wicks barely covered in a turquoise tunic, fastened at the hips by a dark belt and a shiny brass buckle. She lightly pulled a young boy across the field. Her hand arched and the tip of her fingers toying with his palm, enticing the prey in the illusion of being the predator.

Quickly, her feet shifted with confidence between patches of grass, bending now, to avoid the branch, and swiftly lifting the edge of the tunic to avoid the clasp of blackberry bushes. She halted for a moment and turned her head to her mesmerizer suitor. 

The lake had already filled half of the horizon when she rapidly caressed her raven hair, from above the ear, to the nape where a crimson stripe had been carefully tied in a large bow. It took but a light touch and the red  ribbon spread its arms like a tardive summer rose and in the light breeze. Her hair flowed down her shoulders in rich waves, loaded with lavender and brightflower. 

Twice she turned her eyes to the young boy, who could barely discern two emeralds hidden under the golden mask. All he could see was but the witty smirk of a fox, the pointy wooden ears, the leather nose and the soft silver lines at the edge, right above the woman’s lips.

Oh merry Harvest! Anela could scarcely convince herself that in the filth of the unrefined countryside of Theron such lovely jewels were bred, with shoulders wide and tiny round buttocks. 

She knelt and pressed her lips on the boy's forehead. Her hands ran to his hips and seized the white cape he had been wearing, by then soiled with the dirt from the path.

-Madam, this ain't the right place!- cried the lamb and covering his bare torso turned his head away, towards the village. 

-It is. It is.- insisted Anela -Come, let lady Fox show you her hidden shrine.-

She pressed lightly against the wooden door. She had barely paid any attention to the surroundings. Secluded. That was all mattered. A quite dark place, with nobody to interrupt her rituals.

-I thought you wanted to make Lady Fox happy.- she invited the little brat to follow, but he stood still, trembling almost.

-Nay! That’s the ol’ house of the witch. She’ll rip your heart out, and drink your blood!- he almost cried.

Anela’s hands arched and gnawed into the wood, and her voice thundered under the edge of the mask. -Now you listen to me, unfettering son of peasants! I have paid your mother three shields to have you ravage my buttocks away from the smell and lurid filth of your stupid village! We spent one piece on that soap to have you nice and clean, and twenty squares for this mask that you like so much. Move inside, little pest, and do what I tell you to!- she roared, but the lamb turned in a hare and before she could utter another word, he was already out of her sight. Of him, only the white cape remained, entangled in the thorns of bluberries.

With a loud sigh Anela entered the shrine. Alone. She removed the mask and placed it on a broken column, and advanced, gloomy and frustrated, plump with desires, and swollen still with unfinished expectations. 

-Shrine of the Goddess of my arse!- she uttered. -If you are listening, I wish you’d come down here and finish the business that I paid for! Or at least send someone... but not another of these filthy villagers. Ah! Have I had enough of these!- 

She would have insisted, but the sight of the Goddess’ statue turned all her words into misty memories. There stood the monument of perfection, a gift of rotundities unprecedented. The true feast of harvest, the celebration of animal breeding, the rebirth of nature. Before Anela could get a hold of herself, she was already exploring all folds of the statues cloths and the perfection of the surface of what should have been her bare skin.

-Oh, how I wish you’d give me powers to do your bidding, in exchange of just a moment with you.- she whispered, biting her lips. She detached herself from the sculpture and cleared her throat in a croaking sigh, donning the lower curves of the statue a healthy slap with the open palm of her hand. -What!- she barked, raising her nose -Haven’t you ever desired a woman before?-