In our comfortable realm, the affairs of Gods and Truth may sleep soundly out of reach of man's meddling, save those curious enough to spend the greater part of their years trying to but catch a wayward glance, so it was, that as man rose his first clay idols from the dirt, the earth that they rose from remained largely unchanged. As they spoke of great first causes, the battle was only rhetorical and Milton's embyron elements fought only in proverb.
It began with a question,
The philosophers rose as they examined the clump of dirt in their hand and proclaimed it to be a mere form of water or wind or the first cause of the universe itself. Unbound by compromise or predecessors, their speculation was wild and as the great Titans of myth, their battles and victories would determine the shape of the earth beneath them and heavens above. These titanic debates held at stake the very nature of the world as great cities sank, others rose to the sky and some faded altogether. Philosophers conjured with them great heroes and countless spirits and souls. Each conjuring their own image, to the casual contemporary observer, the twisted images and harsh realms are madness not dreamt of since the great wall was risen but to those who dreamt them, they were the first signs of structure imposed on a mad universe.
The battle was, with much effort, quelled and these Philosophers of nature were banished finally on the fourth attempt, behind the great wall. But exile and execution are not synonymous and despite what some might wish to believe, out of sight and out of mind does not mean out of existance.
So, every once in a while an fortunate explorer or an unfortunate fop might stumple upon a glimpse of these half-remembered realms, the relics of which still existed scattered through Sophos.