Cities Of The Shifters ( Book Cover Done And Credit Goes To @MeowSniper Thanks)

A Goddess in Spring Valley

Από τη φωτιά στη φλόγα,
Ανάψω αυτά τα κεριά,
να ευλογήσει αυτό το ναό,
στο όνομα των παλιών.

This was her favorite room in the whole temple. The private alcove that served as her bedroom was, of course, wonderful as well; with all the luxuries and comforts that it offered her. The large, soft bed and the heavy, brocade drapes over the windows that hid out all the light of the day when they were drawn closed. The shelves of pretty cherry wood to fill with her magical knick-knacks and studies. The plush rug that made shoes obsolete. But none of that compared to the altar room. Everything about it felt like home. From the familiar scent of slightly singed jasmine and sage, the cloying smell of melting beeswax, and the dancing glow of the sacred fire in the hearth. To the mortar and stone walls that were modernized for convenience, but designed with an eye to the past. This is where she belonged.

It reminded her of Delphi to a degree.
Or at least, what Delphi could've been if it hadn't been abandoned and left to ruins.

She puffed out her cheeks and blew upon the orange embered tip of the kindling she held in her hand. It died out with a little wisp of smoke. The candles were all lit, lending their eerie flickering light to the atmosphere of brick that made up the ritualistic chamber. Each flame given life by the greatest source of heat and light in the room: the sacred hearth that is the heart of any Grecian home. Day in and day out, it burned, no matter the season or the temperature. It was part of her duties as a Priestess of the Temple to be sure that it was tended to properly and she took it very seriously. In the summer, it would be a greater task than it is now when the warmth of the fire was welcomed to her cool body. But nevertheless, with sweat clinging to her skin, she will continue in her devotion.

Maybe it won't be as bad as she was used to from the last time she was on the mortal plane. New York was quite a bit more north than the Mediterranean area where Greece is located. It certainly took some getting used to now, when snow littered the ground and frost bit at the corners of the windows. It wasn't that it didn't snow in Greece, as many well know, it did and there are even ski resorts in the modern times that are popular destinations for vacationers. But something about it was different than this utter bitter cold that she experienced now and that made her huddle closer to the fire.

Daphne lowered down to kneel before the fire. A small rug padded her knees from the rough granite tile as she arranged the skirt of her dress around herself modestly. The golden cloth, folded upon her body in a modern rendition of the toga she was once so accustomed to; was more flashy than she was used to. The fabric was richer than she once wore, prettier by far. It was almost glittery in the light with it's golden shade and the clasp which it draped down from resting at her shoulder was decorative in design. A shiny laurel wreathe which the fabric weaved through and tightly into a knot. She wore no other jewelry, because it was a masterpiece by itself. Anything else would've seemed cheap or gaudy in comparison. Daphne also enjoyed the private irony of the symbol being from her past.

Most people at the Temple knew very little about her or where she came from. Purposefully so. It wasn't so easy to explain her true origins. Very few were aware that she was brought there by a Goddess Herself, but are not aware of which one or why. Only that she was placed in a position of importance: Priestess and Prophet. The mystery that clung to her aura and her premonitions only added to the allure of her. They both feared what she had to tell them and greedily ate it up with their selfish needs to know the future.

Her fingertips slid into the folds of her toga, finding the hidden pocket at her hip. The one carefully sewn in to hold the various objects of her trade without showing the obvious weight of them in her silhouette. Blindly she fumbled for the linen bag, green in color, and gently pried it open. The closure seemed to be living plant tendrils of pale green; a curious thing given that there was no soil, water, or sun for which such a thin vine could be nourished. Daphne tipped the bag and spilled the picture cards out into her opposite waiting hand.