Whimsical Dance of the Withered

A mask once covered in gold leaf. Perhaps it is a relic from some ancient officer of the legions.

It was the age when the Domus Aurea of yesteryear had been reduced to rubble, and the glorious kingdom lay buried beneath the wild waves.
We know the rest of the story. In the end, the day of judgment came as promised.
The fervid wish to resist fate was annihilated by ambition and betrayal, and sunk along with all its glory.
After the wrathful waves subsided, the gray steed rode the wind hither and took away the surviving life on land.

When the new nation of Many Waters was formed amidst the cheers and songs of the barbarians of bygone days, the golden authority that once shrouded the High Sea had already faded into legend — surely a mark of fate's scorn.
When the curtain falls upon the grand opera, the last vestiges of the old world on the stage will be washed away by time. For those who once yearned for immortality, even their names shall be erased.
Who would believe such a thing? Once, a great vessel with forty rows of oars sailed abreast the blue waves of the dawn, spreading the gospel of civilization and progress along the ocean currents.
Who would believe such a thing? A rebel god who once lost his paradise challenged the very authority of the high heavens, and countless mortals cast aside their bodies and together with him plunged into his fantastical rhapsody.

And after that? After all came to an end, what was left in the wake of that shattered fantasy?
Or perhaps it was a dream, for after that, dreams unnumbered will yet be born of the ruins of fantasy.
As the people say, "The ocean where tears converge shall never dry, but shall rise to the sky and fall as rain once more."
In the end, all dreams shall merge into one, bringing ultimate salvation to all the people of the world.