[b]Bella![/b]

Hera picks out from her vast panoply a symbol. Engraved in silver within the eye of a peacock feather, a sequence of dots resolving into lines, she places it in the air between you and her. It unravels its magic in a whirl of ribbons. A transcendentally subtle masterwork of etiquette magic, a spell of translation and perspective. Its purpose is to create a protocol of language between the Greater and the Lesser. A clear set of expectations and social conventions that say: So long as you do not stray beyond your limits and your place, you may speak candidly. 

It has been the death of many empires that they never had and never thought to ask for this spell. For them, an inferior speaking boldly to a superior meant weakness for the superior, and had to be rebuked. Kings entered bubbles and, cut off from reality, drove their empires to ruin. In this working is the ability to speak your mind without risking accidental offense; all of the caveats and 'but perhaps I am mistaken' and bowing and scraping accounted for by the humility in your heart rather than the precision of your training.

But the humility in your heart is not negotiable. This is still a God. As those peacock feathers unfold again you know that outside of the gift of this narrow path is still profound peril.

"You may speak, child," said Hera, Queen of the Gods. "How did you come to be here?"

[b]Ember and Dolce![/b]

There is a fast way out. Conveniently, the [i]Cancellation [/i]is launching thousands of Boarpedoes at this very moment at the [i]Plousios[/i]. Getting on one of those is simply a matter of wading through the blood and ruin of all of the Summerkind between here and there. But, because that means evading the defensive screens of two different ships, that is not at all [i]safe[/i].

There is a safe way out. It lies in a ring at the end of the altar; simply give into Aphrodite allow Love to conquer all. Bound and betrothed you will all be kept secure by Liquid Bronze through the fires of battle, close in his confidence, ready for the rescue of your many suitors. 

[b]Dyssia![/b]

Once upon a time worth was derived not through glory and title, but through possessions. The universe was smaller then and every grain of sand could be measured, accounted and given a number and a price. In this world arose supreme the Smith God: Hephaestus.

He stood at the center of all things, for everything had to pass between his hands to have any value at all. It was his hands that built unbreakable armours, his hands that made glass think, his hands that made the great suits that raised up the original Knights. Each time something passed through his hands it became more refined, more rare, more desirable. And so it was that Hephaestus built a pyramid, the object of world's desire, the whole galaxy rearranged into this shape.

He did not care that the pyramid was the shape of immortality. Hephaestus never cared for what it was he built, what became of his materials or scraps. He was famous for this; he wanted merely to build. He did not see the scythe when it descended, didn't believe it even when he felt it. Who would kill the goose that laid the golden eggs?

Demeter lifted his bloody head from the floor and ate it whole.

The pyramid was the shape of immortality. With the galaxy arranged into this configuration then Summer might never have to die. The afterlife could be kept at bay outside the walls of perfected hierarchy, entropy conquered, changed quenched, and the realm of the Afterlife - the realm of Dreams - consigned to a memory. 

This is how the Age of Knights ended: When Demeter picked up the Smith God's hammer and began to build. Each time a life form passed between her hands it became more refined, more rare, more desirable. The galaxy became an ecosystem trending towards a single perfection and extinction.