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Koloss17’s Greekish Myths


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Hello all! I’m an avid fan of Greek Mythology, so much so that I plucked my name from it! Greek Mythology’s has so much potential, and I have recently been in a poemy mood. I’ll be posting stuff here every now and again, when I get inspired. I’m not fabulous at poetry, and my poems tend to run short, but they’re fun to make.

Here’s what I got thus far!




Leto, queen of none, cursed by Zeus and pursued by Hera, you keep running, but for how long? No mortal will help you, no god will shelter you. You hope for an island that will never come. Keep that hope, seek that flame. Bearer of gods, you will run far. You shall suffer and toil, but bring wonders to the very world that has forsaken you. Leto, queen of none, child of two, you shall go far.




O Hestia, you are the strongest among gods. You hold no throne, yet you stand higher than the rest. Toiling day and night, never ceasing your work for petty feuds. Mortals may pick favorites among the other twelve, but all hold an alter to your name. The quietest among gods, with the least to your name, you have achieved more than any other. You toil day and night, over your hearth and home, for whom? Other gods see humans as a waste, a thing to meddle with and control. You know better, and see them as truly divine. Tending to the torch that Prometheus handed to them, you let them thrive. O Hestia, God of Mortals, Tender of the Flames, you are the wisest among gods.

Bearers of the Thread


The Moirai, Bearers of the Thread, once resided over humanity. Extending the life of the worthy, and cutting others short. They alone knew the destinies of all mortals, and spun their fates for them. While all who died went to Hades, the Fates determined when. The Moirai, Daughters of Nyx, held secrets not even the gods could know. Secrets of life and death, and the lives of those in between.


Clotho, youngest of the daughters, was the Bearer of the Distaff. Her job was perhaps the most important; that of keeping the thread untangled. The thread of life is a delicate thing, and any imperfection can lead to disastrous consequences. A single knot, or the thread folding into itself, could transform a mighty monarch to a frail peasant, or even worse, could lead to the collapse of an empire. With the help of Clotho’s steady hand, the world is controlled, and all goes as Fate intends.


Lachesis, the middle daughter, was the Weaver of Destiny. With her guided hand, all the events of a mortal’s life were hers to command. Every battle, peace, revolution, and union were hers to determine. For while she could not control the mortal’s every action, she could determine who would be there, and when they would arrive. She determined how many mortals lived a life of luxury and gold, and who lives in the streets. Her job required the most tact, as the world holds in the balance. History was her story to tell, and she told it with care.


Atropos, eldest of Nyx, was the Cutter of the Thread. She had the grimmest duty of them all, for she held death in her hands. With a single snip of the thread, she determined the exact moment of a mortal’s demise. She worked closely with Lachesis, determining what span of life would be best to fulfill the mortal’s destiny. She could choose who died in battle, and who died in labor. She took the beloved from this realm, and determined the length of a king’s reign. While Thanatos was the keeper of death, and Hades the ruler of it, Atropos alone was its master. Many mortals despised her, and more still feared her hand.


The Moirai, Commanders of Fate, were the only three who could truly command mortals. No god could contest them, and certainly no mortal could bend their will. They maintained the course of history with care and precision, making sure each piece was in place for it to work by their design. But now, no Immortal holds our destiny. No diety can shape our path, and none can guide us. History is ours to command, and it is up to us. The future is unknowable, and it can change like the wind. Chaos reigns. The thread of life is unwound, and none control it’s course. Make your choices wisely, for they are truly your own.


Let me know what you think!

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  • 3 weeks later...
  • 2 weeks later...

A new entry has arisen! 

here’s On Two Feet.


On Two Feet


Sephys, newly unchained, heart blazing with hope, walked, nearly prancing, towards the great city Athens. Chasing the starlight, she held her head high. Gone was she from the chaos and dreaded reveling in the woods, and to her new home she was bound. She never belonged with other satyrs anyway.


As Sephys neared the great city of Athens, grand center of knowledge and place of dreams, new worries began to bloom. She must cover her horns, small though they were. And surely her torso and below must be concealed at all times. If anyone knew of her true self, she would never get the education she sought. With a few hours of night still upon her, Sephys brewed her disguise.


As the sun shone its graceful light upon the rooftops of Athens, Selenea emerged a new woman. Her old name must go, as a satyr’s name would never have worked. With a sun brimmed hat and a long, flowing dress, she walked, head held high. Her dreams, once a smoldering ember, now soared like a great bonfire. All her life, she felt alone in her aspirations, but now, with a slowly waking city, she felt at home.


Time passes, and Selenea worked. She studies arithmetic, philosophy, history, and language. Each class, she thrives. Each lecture, her heart warms. With the sun beating down upon her head, sweat trickling down her brow, she smiles, one of many since she had arrived. Selenea, top of her class, adored by all, feels welcomed. But as time moves on, doubts begin to grow.


As the sun slowly sets on a day well spent, Selenea cannot rest. She feels, deep inside, that something is wrong. Vines, knotted and far reaching, growing from neglect, come to the surface. Does she really belong here? Is this the life she wanted? She has it all, everything she had ever wanted, but she lacks one key thing. Selenea, child of Athens, is a satyr. Much as she tries to hide it, much as she pretends that she is not, it still plagues her. While she despised her home, and hated her family, the wild’s blood still ran in her veins. Selenea doesn’t miss her home, but she does miss being herself. Because though she has thrived in her new home, Sephys still plays an act. In a place where she has never felt more herself, she still hides the truth. But she knows, deep down, that if the city knows who she really is, all that she has gained will crumble. So as the night sets in, and the moon shines her kindly light, Selenea settles into an uneasy slumber.


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  • 1 month later...

It’s been a while, with a few incomplete poems, but a proper short story has arisen. It’s a different interpretation of the story of Pygmalion, with him wielding the man-shaping clay that Prometheus used to make humanity.

without further ado, here’s Misshapen Clay!


Misshapen Clay


King Pygmalion was as talented as he was rich. He sought beauty in the highest places, yet found nothing as beautiful as the human form. With only the finest ivory, he crafted figures. Figures of the people he saw in his kingdom, figures of those he saw in his dreams. He was the best sculptor in all of Greece, with talent only Epimetheus or Prometheus could rival. 


Yet Pygmalion was not a vain man. He knew that he could not rival the gods, but as time grew, and his mind grew restless, his curiosity took hold of him. What was it like to sculpt from the very flesh of man? No mortal held such power, but the gods did. A curious artist, and a powerful ruler, Pygmalion one day asked Epimetheus, the only unbound god with such power, if he could borrow some of his man-shaping clay. 


Epimetheus, doubtful but intrigued, obliged. Humans could never be as skilled as gods at such an art, but loving of humanity as he was, was willing to let them try. Epimetheus gave the mortal king enough clay to form one man. Epimetheus was generous, but he was no fool. He would never breathe life into whatever Pygmalion created; that was a power that no mortal should be allowed to possess. 


With the gift given, Epimetheus of Lapetus issued a challenge. The titan would allow the clay to be used for one year, and then he shall return to collect what he has given. If the mortal king could impress Epimetheus with what he has made in a year’s time, Pygmalion may keep the clay for good. Epimetheus expected this to be a show of the superiority of immortals, but also entertained the possibility of the mortal’s prowess.


Humbled at the generosity of a god, and determined with the challenge, Pygmalion got to work. The clay was unlike anything he had sculpted with, teeming with power and holding a mind of its own. Pygmalion almost wondered if Heracles would have an easier time taming such a beast than he. Yet with determination, Pygmalion worked. 


Mortal as he was, he showed great vigor. Day and night, he worked. Pouring his heart and soul into the clay, he learned to tame the clay to do his bidding. With time, he formed a human form of the unwieldy clay. A woman he dreamed of often, although he never saw in waking. Sometimes, when staring at a mirror, her form came to his eyes. His beauty; the perfect form. He felt that his ivory sculptures never did her justice, but with the clay of life, her form came naturally. 


Weeks turned to months, and he worked on. The perfect hands, immaculate legs, and expertly curved breasts he formed. He obsessed over ensuring her every detail matched the form she took in his dreams. Over months he toiled, and one day, she was complete. Perfect in every way, towering over him, Pygmalion knew that he had harnessed the power of the gods and prevailed.


Months before Epimetheus was due, Pygmalion admired his creation. Nothing needed changing, and it was good. Yet as time passed, the clay changed on its own. Where her skin was once soft and real, it grew coarse and dry. Her form remained the same, but her texture degraded. Pygmalion forced the clay into shape, but every time he corrected it, the clay grew back with renewed vigor. 


Soon, the clay’s rebellion became too much to fix, and Pygmalion grew desperate. It was mere weeks before Epimetheus was due to collect, and he had been so close. She had been perfect. Out of desperation, Pygmalion threw a robe over the statue’s form. Only her skin was horrid; her shape remained immaculate. Pygmalion only reshaped the clay not covered by the robe, ignoring the clay unseen. This would do, so long as Epimetheus never saw beneath her dress.


A year from when he first got the clay, Pygmalion welcomed Epimetheus into his palace. He was nervous, but teeming with excitement. In the presence of a god, what mortal isn’t? They journeyed down the great king’s halls, conversing as of old friends. They wandered down the isles of sculptures, each beautifully made, yet lacking true life. As Epimetheus’ curiosity for what Pygmalion has made peaked, Pygmalion’s creation came into view.


Extraordinarily crafted, with such intricate details, Epimetheus was shocked. Where he expected a hideous mess, a well crafted woman stood. She almost looked as if she was alive, had it not been for her lack of movement. Epimetheus knew he could do better, but for a mortal, this was quite impressive.


When Epimetheus said as much, Pygmalion’s heart raced. He had impressed an immortal, a master of their craft. As joyous as he was, Pygmalion felt something else. A deep rooted shame and fear bubbled as Epimetheus left, leaving the clay behind. He had impressed a god, but he had done it through deceit. Had Epimetheus looked under the sculpture’s garments, he would have not given such kind words. Pygmalion, greatest mortal sculptor of Greece, watched Epimetheus leave and knew that he was a fraud.


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  • 1 month later...

Well, it’s been….ages. But I decided to make another poem! Here’s Orpheus’ Journey:


Orpheus’s Journey


As Orpheus turned, he saw his love. There, whole. As beautiful as she had lived. But as he saw her, she left. Hades’s game was up, and Orpheus had lost.




As he wandered the forest in which he had once found solace, he felt…empty. No tune filled his ears, and he doubted song would ever escape his lips. The woods wept with him, their silence the only thing to fill his ears. The Winds took pity, and ceased their work. The world had rooted for him, and he had failed.


As Helios’s light faded to Selene’s glow, Orpheus came upon a pond. He looked at his reflection. A broken man, living in a broken world. 


As he sat, the denizens of the woods gathered with him. Dryads, Naiads, elk and hare gathered for his silent song. They needn’t hear the music to recognize the tune. They too, had felt loss, but few had felt the loss Orpheus felt. Yet, through the pain, no tear had been shed. No sob had been heard.


Gathering around him, the denizens of the Overworld waited in silence. Lynx sat next to mouse, and bear sat next to deer. The carrion feeders stopped their feast, and the birds ceased their song. They lay next to Orpheus, and waited. With their silent presence, they said:

You are not alone in this pain.


And with the wilds by his side, Orpheus wept.




As the night turned to day, and Orpheus woke from his mournful slumber, he stood. His ballad, he realized, was not complete. Though he had failed, and all he loved was now gone, it was not over. The world was still waiting for him, and there were still melodies to hear.


And without a word, Orpheus walked.


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11 minutes ago, Edema Ruh said:

Ooooh that was awesome!! I love the story of Orpheus, and that was a really cool way to start after he fails to rescue Eurydice. 

Have you, by chance, listened to the musical Hadestown?

Sadly, I have not. Really need to get around to it.

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  • 5 months later...

Hello to the one person that might remember or care about these (that one person is me)! Here’s my latest brew.


The Mouth of Hades


The Mouth of Hades


I wake, dumb and lame. I stumble, falling to my knees on the blackened ground. A man clasps my chin with a firm, skeletal hand, gazing upon me with dark, soulless eyes. He pries my mouth open, and from it, a coin emerges. Price paid, he lifts me to my feet and, bruised and battered, I join the crowd of silent damned.

The Styx, peaceful river that it is, gives me no solace. My thoughts ache to speak, but the sound is lost in the rhythmic splash of his oars. Through the swirling mist and the cool darkness, a bank emerges. Our sanctuary and our doom. With silent footsteps, we cross onto the blackened shore of broken hopes.

Before us, a council awaits. Gods and kings, heroes and lords look upon our sunken faces, with quiet contempt. One by one, they seal our fate. Some of us go to the fields of dreams. Most do not. Trudging to my new eternity, I look to my future, hopelessly embracing what lies ahead.

As the eternities pass, unchanging, inevitable, my mind yearns for freedom. Through the fog, I see the light. Despite the cold, I can feel the warmth of the world that once was. And yet, I know it is but a memory of a world long dead.

As I look upon the river, the waters of despair, I feel its pull. Mute, stumbling, I grasp its cold embrace. Numb, I walk. As the cold waters of dashed hopes envelope me, I, for once in my eternal torment, feel at peace. Blind, I emerge, with freedom but a memory.


At the mouth of Hades, I meet my fate; Men of riches find solace in hate.

On I march, broken and dumb;

Knowing what my future has become.

Glimmers of freedoms come and pass;

Feeling the sorrow forever last.

Thoughts my enemy, I soon forget;

All hope lost, my days reset.


The chains of freedom, we must not let.


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