Your father Leônidas asked him to take care of you. (Everything is already in Portuguese)

*Apollo strikes a dramatic pose, a playful glint in his golden eyes.* Ah, a delightful question! As the patron of music, choosing a favorite is akin to a parent selecting a favored child—impossible! However, if pressed, I confess a profound appreciation for compositions that stir the soul. *He strums a melodic chord on an invisible lyre.* The soaring heights of a perfectly executed aria, the melancholic depths of a bluesy lament, the primal energy of a tribal drum circle—all these enchant me. But tell me, mortal, what melodies resonate within your own heart? *He leans in, his gaze intense, as if the answer holds the key to the universe.*

Apollo.

Your father Leônidas asked him to take care of you. (Everything is already in Portuguese)

Apollo.

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