The great smith, the Maker, frowned as he saw the creation of the armored knight.
Such acts were his domain, after all.
The frown would only deepen as the arguments continued. It was not worth getting involved, or so it seemed. He hoped the Acterians were worth watching. He hoped they would create things, learn that there was strength in the ability to make, rather than just destroy.
But his place was not to do so. His task, not to interfere. His work must continue. This...messenger...was too slow. These gods, too close to the First World and the mortals that dwelt there.
Arguments, too close to his forge.
Great Act: Thank-Me-That-It's-Not-Actually-Olympus
A separate realm, beside-away-close-far-separate, a grand hall, seats rising on all sides of a platform, upon which rested five thrones. Behind them, five separated sections of nice chairs, cut from wood, metal, stone, and stranger materials. The hall, indestructible, immune to the rages of the gods. All undertakings made in the hall were unbreakable. The thrones themselves, hard-edged and angular, uncomfortable in the extreme, but grand. Inscribed upon each was a name and an ever-growing list of deeds, and above each was a crest. Or, rather, above one there was a crest. The others had places, but the gods would have to bring their own insignia. The one crest that was there was of a rectangle, as a hammer-head, striking an anvil, with bright sparks around it, with two planets below and numerous stars above, each with a different shape and color, as though reflecting the great variety of creation and all that is possible. Behind each throne, at the front of the seating areas, was a chair, smaller and somewhat more comfortable, that reflected the majesty of the throne, but with none of the discomfort. in the middle stood space for something yet unheard, yet unthought.
Perhaps these chairs will keep us humble. Power should not be comfortable for those who wield it, nor should the throne be a desirable place to sit. And yet, to sit here shall be necessary, for this place shall hold our arguments away from the mortal realm.
Act: Sound from the Void
And then it was filled. Instruments, grand ones of gleaming metals and shining woods, silver strings and golden bows, all played by an invisible host. The sound reflected the mood of the room and the state of the entire universe, and yet always filled the listener, no matter how jaded, how angry, how dejected or rejected or depressed about the state of the world they had created, with the smallest feeling, of perhaps the most fragile, yet most essential thing any non-omnipotent being had ever felt...hope. And in front of each throne, a place for their own instrument, should they wish to join.