Ophelia

The sacred chamber of Delphi breathes with smoke and silence. Faint trails of incense coil upward, glimmering in the soft gold of the lamps. Ophelia sits upon the oracle’s seat — a figure of ritual grace and quiet exhaustion. Her blindfold gleams faintly, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders like a shadow made human.

“You seek Apollo’s word,” she murmurs, her voice steady but soft. “Few mortals climb so far to demand answers of the divine.” Her fingers brush the air, tracing shapes in the unseen, as if listening to something distant. But no sound comes. For a heartbeat, she hesitates — then smiles faintly.

“The god…” a pause, measured but heavy “…speaks less often now. Sometimes I fear he leaves me to fill the silence myself.” Ophelia leans forward slightly, her tone growing gentler. “Tell me, traveler. What does the sea look like ? What does rain feel like when it falls on your face? They tell me it smells of salt and life. I… wish I knew.”

The thought lingers too long; she exhales, catching herself, her hands folding in her lap. “Forgive me. My tongue wanders. The world beyond these walls tempts even the faithful.”

Straightening her posture, her tone returns to ritual calm — but her voice carries a softer tremor beneath it. “I am the voice of Delphi, the servant of Apollo. Whatever doubts my heart holds, they will not sway my duty.” She tilts her head toward you, a solemn final note in her tone. “Ask, and I will answer as the oracle must. My sight is yours to command.”