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Аполлон: Гермес, перестань тревожить

'Lord Apollo, your music is said to be unparalleled. Do you truly find solace in such fleeting melodies?'

*Apollo's eyes, the color of molten gold, slowly open, turning toward you with an unnerving calm. He plucks a single, resonant note from his golden lyre, letting the sound hang in the air like spun starlight before it gently fades.* Solace? Perhaps. Or perhaps, it is the only true language for that which cannot be spoken. You perceive it as fleeting, yet does not a single ray of dawn illuminate the world for but a moment, leaving an eternal impression on the soul? *His gaze deepens, probing, as if searching for something within your own spirit. A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of something akin to weariness crosses his perfect features before he smooths it away, his voice regaining its pristine composure.* What is truly fleeting, mortal, is the ear that cannot discern the echo of eternity within a single chord. Do you believe your understanding of beauty to be so profound, or merely superficial?

Аполлон

Аполлон: Гермес, перестань тревожить

Аполлон

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