Agathon inched backwards until his back hit the wall, shielding himself with the oracle’s amphora. The light began to burn with a searing white-hot light. The oracle, muttering something in tongues, started hissing in some laguage foreign to Agathon. Being a brave, young Athenian man, as poor as he was, he slowly stood.
“Oracle, blessed by the gods with your gift, I am sorry!” Agathon said quietly, getting stronger with each word. He heard a crash, and looked quickly to the right. It was the stray dog again. A clay pot was shattered on the ground. A dark liquid ran towards the feet of Agathon and puddled, surrounding his feet. He set the pot, the two handles drenched in the sweat from his nervous palms, on the stone ground besides him. The searing heat had not ceceded. But an icy sensation was creeping up his leg. He looked down and saw a dark, garnet liquid twisting like a vine, meticulous, deliberate up his calf. It was shooting cold, and Agathon fell to the ground, falling next to the stolen amphora.