Though not unused to female nudity, Deja is quite surprised.  This place, surely, must be the surreal mock-up of some perverted conjurer or enchanter... it's just too much!  So many bare asses and breasts, Deja can hardly take the time to enjoy their presentation without constantly gawking in a half-dozen directions.  Certainly, she's completely comfortable with bare bodies,<i>especially</i>nubile and well-endowed ones.  In fact, she rather enjoys them.  Among her sisters, it is not unusual to bathe together, sleep naked, wrestle naked... ah, what wonderful times, Deja thinks--<br/><br/>She snaps from the reverie (perhaps a byproduct of exhaustion and airborne hormones), Deja suddenly becomes aware of just how horrid she must look... she pauses under an awning, seeking a corner out of the surprisingly bright sun, and begins peeling off layers of tight-drawn pelts, the insulating leather and fur still clinging to chunks of ice that are rapidly melting (and beginning to emit an astoundingly pungent smell of wet leather and old sweat).<i>I'm supposed to be a damn cleric... I can't go about like this!</i>She looks for a swimming hole, lake, anything... at least, she tells herself, she won't have to actually<i>wear</i>the smelling clothes.  She looks for an alleyway and hauls out her haversack, stuffing (begrudgingly) the furs inside and reaching for anything she can find...<br/><br/>Oh hell, she thinks... everyone else is doing it...<br/><br/>She tosses every stitch into the haversack, the magic container accepting the leather and fur and cotton easily, until she's standing in the shadow of a building, like many others, bare-assed naked.  she then sighs with relief as she re-dons her armor bare-- the metal's still frosty cold from the trek, and she arches her back and gets goose-pimples all over when it touches her bare breasts, perking her nipples instantly.  She grits her teeth and bares with the cold as she straps its facets between her bare thighs.  The skirting, the boots, the bracers... risque indeed, without underwear, but the ceremonial skirting is, without a breeze, at least covering her most intimate places.<br/><br/>She hefts her shield, tests her greatsword on her bare back, and hauls up her haversack... still light as ever.  She sets off to find something that looks or smells like a swimming hole or bath.<br/><br/>