Before they became illustrations, they were explanations.

Mythological creatures were not originally imagined as fiction. They were part of the structure of the world itself—woven into cosmology, geography, and belief. They lived at the edges of maps, at the bottom of oceans, in the roots of sacred trees, and in the spaces where human understanding gave way to something older.

They served many purposes.

Some guarded thresholds: the gates of the underworld, the entrances to sacred places, the boundary between life and death. Others enforced order, punishing arrogance, greed, or disobedience. Some existed as companions to the gods themselves—extensions of divine will given physical form.

They were not always enemies.

Many were protectors. Guides. Judges. Symbols of transformation.

Their forms reflected the logic of the cultures that created them. Bodies assembled from multiple animals. Features that blended human intelligence with animal instinct. Creatures capable of flight, regeneration, or endless endurance. Not because they were meant to be biologically plausible, but because they represented forces that could not be contained in a single familiar shape.

Over time, belief shifted.

As religious systems changed and scientific frameworks replaced mythological ones, these beings moved from cosmology into story. They became something remembered rather than something expected.

But they were never discarded.

They survived in art, in literature, in architecture, and in cultural memory. Their images carved into temple walls. Their names preserved in texts older than most nations. Their presence lingering in the symbolic language people still use to describe fear, strength, chaos, and protection.

They remain because they were never simply creatures.

They were—and in many ways still are—maps of how humanity once understood the unknown.

Not as empty space.

But as something alive.