The Legend of Cythera In ancient Rome, the Island of Cythera was fabled as the location where Venus, the goddess of love, was born out of the water. This minor place of mythological history resurfaced in DaVinci's World surrounded by a new, more robust legend. The new myth expanded upon the original connection to love, especially the fleeting, passionate kind of love associated with Venus. The idea was that a man could depart for Cythera, leaving behind his worldly, imperfect love(s). Upon arriving on the island, he would be greeted by his one true counterpart, whom he could meet but once. After a single day and night of bliss, the sojourner would return home, presumably equipped with a new, clearer vision of society and love but also haunted by the experience of a passion he never knew existed. The vision and insights he received would free him from the constraints of his limited thinking and his dreams would grow and flourish, inspiring him to reach for the truth and the love he now knew existed in his World.

"AUX ENFANTS PERDUS by Theodore De Banville "I know Cythera long is desolate; I know the winds have stripped the garden green. Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun's weight A barren reef lies where Love's flowers have been, Nor ever lover on that coast is seen! So be it, for we seek a fabled shore, To lull our vague desires with mystic lore, To wander where Love's labyrinths, beguile; There let us land, there dream for evermore: 'It may be we shall touch the happy isle.' "The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate, If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene We watch the bolt of Heaven, and scorn the hate Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen. Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen That veils the fairy coast we would explore. Come, though the sea be vexed, and breakers roar, Come, for the breath of this old world is vile, Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar; 'It may be we shall touch the happy isle.' "Grey serpents trail in temples desecrate Where Cypris smiled, the golden maid, the queen, And ruined is the palace of our state; But happy loves flit round the mast, and keen The shrill wind sings the silken cords between. Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore, Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar. Haste, ye light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile; Love's panthers sleep 'mid roses, as of yore: 'It may be we shall touch the happy isle.'

Recluce

The Forest

Cythera

Avalon

The Ruins

The Castle

Lover's Lake

The Mines

Jack's Peak