Mount Olympus—the distant past
The last notes of the choir died away and the nine beautiful sisters made the
slightest of curtsies to their leader. Apollo smiled in approval and the marble hall, with its gleaming pillars of white and gold, glowed in his radiance. When they turned to leave, he called to the one who played the lyre.
"Terpsichore—I would have a word with you." The lovely, dark haired muse turned and glided back to where the god of light sat in splendor. He held his tripod in one hand and his bow hung over his shoulder. His own lyre or kithara lay on his knee.
The brightness that emanated from him was such it almost dazzled even a muse such as herself. However, she met the brilliance of his eyes with pride, and lost none of her self-confidence.
Clasping her delicately carved instrument, she stood before him and nodded a
polite greeting to his raven perched nearby. She inclined her head to one side, a question in her eyes. “You wish to speak with me my brother?”
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