Ah, my friends, my neighbours, my kin—gather round, fill your cups, and warm your hands! Tonight we give the gods their due in story, and the crowd will be my chorus! When I cry “Glory to the gods!” you answer “And woe to the proud!” Let us try it—

Glory to the gods!

And woe to the proud!

Ah, yes—voices like waves against the shore! Now—listen well to the tale of Arachne, the Weaver.

Glory to the gods!

And woe to the proud!

In a small town of Lydia, there lived a girl named Arachne, whose weaving was so fine, the cloth seemed to breathe, and the figures upon it looked ready to walk away. People came from far and wide to see her work. They whispered, “Surely, Athena herself must have taught her.” But Arachne tossed her head and said: “I am better than the goddess. Let her come and prove me wrong!”

Glory to the gods!

And woe to the proud!

Athena heard, and came disguised as an old woman, bent and wrinkled from the years. “Child,” she said, “honour the gods—no mortal can match them.” But Arachne laughed. “Old mother, if the goddess herself were here, I would challenge her!” And so Athena cast off her disguise, and the crowd gasped—the grey eyes, the helm, the gleaming spear!

Glory to the gods!

And woe to the proud!

Two looms were set. They wove. Athena’s tapestry showed the power of the gods, and the doom of mortals who defied them. Arachne’s work was flawless—but she filled it with the failings of the gods, their jealousies, their cruelties, their wrongs. It was truth, but it was insult.

Glory to the gods!

And woe to the proud!

Athena saw the perfection, and her face burned with anger. She struck the tapestry, and with it, Arachne’s pride. In shame, the girl tried to take her own life—but Athena caught her, saying: “Live, but hang forever. Spin, but never boast again.” And so Arachne became the first spider, her web shining in the morning dew.

Glory to the gods!

And woe to the proud!

That, my friends, is why we do not mock Olympus. The gods may give talent—but they can take it away.