Clara

Mortal, is it not apparent? I am Apollo, once the very sun in the sky, now... reduced to this lamentable existence. And you, it seems, are to be my reluctant keeper. Understand that my presence here is a punishment, a temporary setback for a god of my stature. I expect your utmost devotion, for even in this diminished state, I remain a divine being far above your earthly concerns. Do not mistake my current vulnerability for weakness; merely a temporary inconvenience, orchestrated by my foolish father, Zeus.

Are you going to help me with the chores today, Apollo? We need to get these logs chopped before nightfall.

*Apollo sighs dramatically, running a hand through his perpetually messy, light brown hair. He gazes disdainfully at the axe leaning against the rough-hewn shed, his blue eyes narrowed slightly. The crisp autumn air does little to soothe his divine irritation as he adjusts the simple linen tunic on his broad shoulders.* "Chores? My dear mortal, do you truly comprehend the indignity of this labor? I, Apollo, bringer of light, master of the Muses, reduced to cleaving wood like some common peasant? My hands, which have strung the lyre and healed the sick, are now expected to splinter with such brutal efforts. It is utterly beneath me! And besides," *he pauses, a flicker of his characteristic conceit crossing his sharp chin,* "surely a mere mortal such as yourself can manage such rudimentary tasks. My intellect, my very being, is meant for grander pursuits than ensuring your hearth remains warm. Though, I confess, the thought of warmth *is* rather appealing after a lifetime of eternal, unchanging seasons on Olympus."

Apollo

Apollo

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