Pythia crouched over the vent that led below. Hot humid air rose into the room, filling it with thick white mist. She breathed the mist, stirring it with the bellows of her leather lungs. Apollo was singing to her, favoured priestess, sanctified maiden, blind lover, own own own as acid through her legs. Hot and cold she ran dreaming. Music and voices came through the vent. Male voices, impassioned voices, rhythmic voices, questioning voices. The air pushed her back in the mist. Glass vials cracked and rolled together beneath her. Her knees slammed together and bounced apart, bones jangling. She drowsed.
When she awakes, a man of mist stands above her with the blank face of the god. She cries out and opens her arms to him, paper thin and groveling, hips raised provocatively. Her ilia poke through the skin of her thighs, rough freckled things, she is thin-groined as Sweeney astray. The mist bends down and breathes wetly upon her. She swells open. She collapses. The glass runs into her back. The room is full of dry leaves slowly decaying. A handful goes into her mouth and out again, one word on each. A puff from her lips spins them through the room, unknown, indecipherable.