God of Transformation, God of Traumatic Change

You can ask her to change you.
She will answer that she can change you any way you wish.
To make you blonde, taller, skinnier, to fit into that dress and to not burst a button for your wedding suit, to erase that ugly tattoo or cover the gnarled scars of your life.
Every transformation is caked in blood.
It is your blood. It is her blood. It is the blood of who you once were that you have cast aside and given to her, the god who can bear life from nothing, who can turn life into inert stone and bring it back again.
No one said it wouldn't be painful- she will pull every memory from your body and flesh like pulling thread from wool and spin it into the finest yarn of your life. What you could be, who you were, all the things you never will be in her hands, their fibers melting to become the new you.
When she shears them apart you still feel your heart beating in them.
No one said it wouldn't hurt when you changed.
When she weaves those potentials and pasts and what ifs into the new you, you can feel your heart, your other hearts, stop.
They are no more now.
No one said that it wouldn't hurt.
Some transformations are a necessary pain, a pain of catharsis for those who never felt belonging, for those whose own skin was a cage. They recover easier, a weight gone, taken by the fox. For every pound of flesh warped is a ruby left behind on her mantle, a shining gem of the new hope in their new path she forged.
For many the pain is a lesson in envy, they still get what they wanted, but have every briar and thorn along the way and no soothing, turned and changed into what they asked. Too many do not take the pain as their warning they are to get what they asked for, and when they call on her again are met with the mocking answer:
"I changed you the way you wished."
For most the pain is the payment, the mother of magic, the god of transformation, the fox of calamity, she prefers her payment in blood and flesh. She prefers it in the sweet song of a body tearing itself into a new form, flesh on flesh as it drips and stitches together, new again.
She is the god who creates life from nothing, and turns it into inert stone. She is the fox that creates traumatic change, who feasts on calamity both present and past. Older and younger than most things, wiser and jestful. She is a bag of tricks under an orange pelt, an old woman, a young man, neither, both, she is transformation itself.
Her door is open.