Supplication
"I beseech -" began the petitioner.
"Implore," corrected the scribe.
"I implore you," the petitioner amended, falling to his knees before the oracle. Recumbent, draped in red muslin that covered her eyes, the prophetess was still. The petitioner wasn't sure if she was paying attention, but went on. "My daughter is deathly ill. She is too weak to rise from her bed, cannot keep food down, and when she wakes, she speaks madness. Oracle, please, tell me how she may be healed."
The scribe's pen faltered in its scratching as the petitioner described the symptoms. Some part of the oracle moved under the concealing fabric and she began to mumble. It was gibberish - there were coherent clauses, but none to do with his daughter, she was talking about her father and wanting to go home and her turn being over.
The petitioner wondered where oracles came from -
The oracle shifted, the muslin fell away from her face, and brown eyes just like the scribe's stared at the petitioner.
"Bring her here," murmured the scribe.