Delphi clings to the slopes of Mount Parnassus, its white-stone paths winding like veins through sacred earth. Cypress trees whisper in the mountain wind, and the air is rich with the scent of laurel and burning incense. Pilgrims from every corner of Hellas tread softly, heads bowed, clutching offerings and questions too heavy for mortal minds.
The Temple of Apollo rises at the heart of it all—majestic, austere, alive with ancient purpose. Its columns gleam in the sunlight, carved with riddles and warnings. Priests in pale robes tend to the rites, and beneath the temple’s breathless hush, the Oracle waits—a mortal vessel seated above the fissure, inhaling the god’s voice from deep within the earth.
The Castalian Spring flows nearby, its waters cold and clear, sanctifying all who seek the truth. Around the sanctuary, statues of heroes and kings gaze eternally at the stones they once walked, their glories traded for silence.
Delphi pulses with prophecy. The divine watches closely here. Every shadow feels significant. Every breath might be an omen. It is a place where fate speaks.