A mortal weaver, labored in her tiny shop. Her nimble fingers wove tapestries that told tales of gods and heroes. She whispered prayers to Aelios, hoping for inspiration.
One day, Aelios appeared before her, his once-glorious form now faded. "Lyra," he said, "we gods are but echoes. Mortals forget us."
Lyra's heart swelled with empathy. "Perhaps," she replied, "it's time for a reminder."
The oracle of Delphos, communed with the gods. But lately, her visions blurred, and her prophecies arrived late.
"Why the delay?" Pythia asked the heavens. "Have the gods lost interest?"
Aelios appeared, his eyes weary. "We're drowning in eternity," he confessed. "Your prayers reach us, but we're slow to respond."
Pythia's anger flared. "Mortals suffer while you bask in cosmic indifference!"
Lyra wove a tapestry depicting Aelios, his face etched with longing. She hung it in the temple square, where people gasped at its beauty.
Pythia's prophecies grew sharper. She warned of celestial unrest—the gods' discontent manifesting as storms, droughts, and plagues.