Upon a draped backdrop she reclined in a purple vest which was lined and embellished with golden flowers upon a sheer blouse, the lower half of the vest was cut in tabs that sat upon a long skirt of crimson taffeta, her feet were bare. Most unusually, her yellow hair was loose, delicate upon her shoulders in an imagined breeze, adorned with a single golden band. Within her relaxed arms was a small girl in light cotton, arms stretched out towards the man who stood behind, just as informal in an emerald green vest and white shirt with rolled up sleeves. There was a tenderness in the portrait, as well as a fusion of austere tradition in the hue and richness of the costume, softened in the serene modernity of their unfinished dress, layers of robe abandoned in way for adaptability for new positions within the ever-changing galaxy. This was no longer a place for gods to rule, today they had voluntarily stripped away their visual power and taken on the role of philosophers and muses, roles of the creative and caring thoughts which had always existed behind the stern façade of conventional rule. Over a century, they had broken down the barriers to make this depcition of their lives possible. A true image of free spirit, inspiration for contentment, a reminder of the tranquil days before they were to pass on, as always.