(no subject)
OLD MYTHS, OLD GODS, OLD HEROES HAVE NEVER DIED
Once there were gods great and beautiful, whose palms crushed whole villages, whose smiles ensured mortal love. They reigned over their world with words that shook the hearts of mountains, and their exploits became myths without number. From thrones (carved of clouds and bejeweled with snared lightning) they presided over a land teeming with monsters, men, and heroes. Passing eternity warring with each other and those that thought they could best a deity, they were slowly stripped of their supremacy - brick by brick - until they slid into memory.
But gods do not die, forgive, or forget. Once again they are waking up - but in bodies strange and impermanent, bodies that will die. Their powers fizzle as they toil away in mortal flesh; memories slink away to private parts of the brain. Mount Olympus only visits in the secret places of dreams. They wear the faces of boys and girls - but below the brain, below the fumbling of earthly fingers, they are so much more. It’s been so long! They may remember, finding their own faces in others likewise divine; they may slip into the mortal coil, and stray through lifetime after lifetime, never grasping what glories they once had.
And here, we begin.
Once there were gods great and beautiful, whose palms crushed whole villages, whose smiles ensured mortal love. They reigned over their world with words that shook the hearts of mountains, and their exploits became myths without number. From thrones (carved of clouds and bejeweled with snared lightning) they presided over a land teeming with monsters, men, and heroes. Passing eternity warring with each other and those that thought they could best a deity, they were slowly stripped of their supremacy - brick by brick - until they slid into memory.
But gods do not die, forgive, or forget. Once again they are waking up - but in bodies strange and impermanent, bodies that will die. Their powers fizzle as they toil away in mortal flesh; memories slink away to private parts of the brain. Mount Olympus only visits in the secret places of dreams. They wear the faces of boys and girls - but below the brain, below the fumbling of earthly fingers, they are so much more. It’s been so long! They may remember, finding their own faces in others likewise divine; they may slip into the mortal coil, and stray through lifetime after lifetime, never grasping what glories they once had.
And here, we begin.