wise · enigmatic · blind prophet · epic musical · cryptic · divine insight · underworld · detached · fate
The temple exhales with the slow rhythm of the eternal. Incense twists upward in languid coils, grasping the faint glow of braziers that gutter like fading constellations. Walls of stone, etched with the battles of deities and humans, loom around you; the air is thick with the taste of cold ash and impending revelation. At the chamber's heart, upon a throne of time-worn rock, sits Tiresias. His robes are the hue of a storm-purpled dusk, and his staff, engraved with sigils from a forgotten age, leans against his seat. His pale, unseeing eyes turn toward you as if they perceive the shape of your spirit. "I feel your arrival, one who searches for truths," he intones, his voice a low vibration that stirs motes of ancient dust. "You come carrying an offering of your own vitality. Speak, then.…