Delaena Oak placed her hands on the surface of the altar and closed her eyes. The temple was a little ways away from where the War Mistress dwelt, keeping the priestess almost a hermit. She liked to stay away from the politics there, and spent almost all her days in the temple practising or out in the woods, with her bare feet in the dirt, whispering to the trees to hear what they had to say about news from afar. The trees were the best communicators. They were patient. While the rivers got the messages there quicker, they were so erratic it was nearly impossible to make sense of anything they bubbled to her. They just moved too quickly. The trees had patience. They stood still and passed their messages slowly, but surely. And accurately.<br/><br/>No great news had come to her lately, and the dark-haired woman had set herself with consecrating the temples. The floors and pillars had been cleaned, the walls had been washed, and now, after scrubbing the altar for hours until its polished surface shone, she rested her hands, palms down and fingers splayed, on the cool top. Her eyes were closed ad she whispered ancient words, the words of her teachings. Goosebumps rose up along her skin and she kept repeating the same verse over and over until she felt in her marrow every bit of dirt, every echo, cleared from the sacred space. While womenkind could be cruel, and Delaena herself knew that she was not exempt, she could never be told that her temple was dirty. She took the gods very seriously. A breeze played with the ends of her hair, and the priestess smiled. Closing her eyes again, she played with the breeze, making it grow and lessen, pulsate around her through the doors and windows. Yes, she much preferred nature and her temple to the harsh training areas.