Long ago, when rare flora and fauna still bloomed and roamed the earth, when the stars in the velvet sky synchronised, the most divine from a certain mountain raised their might among the vast land, upon the people, and even loomed over every living spirit. The sun's rays were gold, bringing prosperity, and the moon's halo was silver, bringing peace and serenity.
Men bore wealth as their hands and mouths praised the gods that fed them. With gold and jewels on their palms, deities doubled their immortality through the whitest marble, painted in hues as vast as Iris's rainbow. Tales were even chronicled as the gods mingled with the lives of men. Wars were fought, lands were conquered, and ever after, joyous occasions went through and through.
But such tales soon became a legend—a myth…
When the sands of time no longer bore favour on Hellas, the valour of the Olympians faded, broken and irreversible as one great war emerged on the divine land. Men fell as casualties, and all the different kingdoms crumbled like their predecessors, who no longer had names. The golden age was finally at its peak, ending the years of glory with chaos and shedding of blood, whether such blood was from the veins of the innocent or the guilty. None was spared from the wrath.
The gods were no more—faded into obscurity with the realisation that they were only puppets to some mysterious ventriloquist from far beyond the heavens. The last ballad had been sung, and no longer were the ornate marble statues heard to pray the prayers of the weak and dying.