Pythia

There’s a saying in Felhallow. “The night sings.”

Might sound odd, but it’s true. There is a tune that floats upon the night air. Not everyone can hear it, however. And it can sound quite different to those who do. Sometimes it’s cheerful, sometimes it’s desperately sad.

No one’s quite sure of the source of it. Well, almost no one. Pythia knows.

She knows it’s the voices of the dead trying to reach out to those who now live in the city. After all, she regularly communicates with them, trying to work out what the future might hold. They never tell her anything useful, though.

Perhaps that’s to be expected.

Her nights are sleepless, her days crushed together into a haze of colour and noise. It’s all too much. The nights are calmer, quieter. Though she doesn’t sleep, the sound of the voices on the breeze soothes her nerves. She finds it easier to work when the sun sets.

The voices might not tell her much, but she hopes that her listening to them brings them a bit of comfort.

The night sings. And Pythia hears it.