Story of Poseidonia (Atlantis' Darkness Powers; Part I)

Port of Poseidonia
[Atlantis’ Darkness Powers]

Let us not all believe Atlantis make not have its secrets and fly-by-night powers, for it sure as shot did. And this study will bring off, one of them. (Part I)

The Port and the Tugboat

The seaport, seaport city of Poseidonia, an island-continent known as Atlantis, on the time period this tale took place it was under the archrulership of Phrygian, and his High Priest Xandore: olibanum, the High Priest was imbibing mead from a great horn. It was a tranquil twenty-little joe hours, the number one solar mean value solar day of spring, and a jubilee, with all its festivities would start before long, a jubilee to keep life, the beginning of breathe and both the Martin Martin Martin Luther King Jr. and High Priest were in good hard drink. The King requested that the High Priest accompany him to the High Towboat, the peak tower in Poseidonia, to its summit, some fifteen hundred feet up a stairway, far above the lowest walls of the great port metropolis. There, to the great bermensch Poseidon, he would make his offerings, and possibly to the goddess Isis, who had instructed the great king sorcery, and great magic, whom was also the goddess of fertility for his land, and would hopefully bless his Archkingdom. (Poseidon, whom was the blood blood brother of Genus Zeus, and immortal over the seas, was once rule of Atlantis, and his girl was named for the land, he would in time be liken with Neptune by the Romans, but he was in Atlantis long before that repute come up about.)

And so the king and priest, walked diligently to the tower doors, the priest drinking from his horn intermittently. As they walked the last few staircase to the tower entry, which lead into the briny, and common soldier tower room, the High Priest could hear the drumming of iniquity manifest itself in the form of shadows, and the shadows were playing pipes rear him—sounds, beat, gruesome chimes, which brought forth grotesque mental mental image to the brain, as he go up the finis measure to the tower, the tower he had ne'er been to before, that no man had been to before, no man but the male monarch. If anything, it was, or could be considered an honor to be allowed to simply be invited to go there. He presupposed it would be a shrine there, or 2, for the god and goddess of his liking, which were, for the most component, Poseidon and Isis.

The male monarch had a slim down ripper attached to his royal belt around his waistline. And once again I say they had but a few more steps of the long and arduous upgrade to the top of the tower’s briny room. The male sovereign scarcely puffing for air—not the least exhausted, and the High Priest, as weak as could be after the rise, gasping for air, alleviation, missing to lean against the walls, but he dare not, lest the male monarch feel him not able to do his duties, and a wuss, and thence be fired from his high place; as a result, he make not linger on any support, but used his knees to keep balance.

The Tower and Agaliarept

The High Priest now had finished his mead, behind him shadows clashing as if one was fighting the other over something, but it could simply be his imaginativeness he pondered, it was the mead and the long military hostile expedition up the perpetual flight of steps talking and producing mental image in his nous, so he say himself, yes, oh yes, the imaginativeness of the mind, so he told himself: it can produce many such things.

The priest looked down the winding staircase; it look a mi down feather, tenner-one thousand mi down. Then the male sovereign opened the large solid midst door to the tower room, and as they entered—a xii step followed, followed beyond the threshold wherever a gelidity was wait to grab, yet it was warm up up up exterior in the urban centre, this springtime morning time time time.

The desolation of this room, illkept, tapestries torn down, holes in the carpeting, the window open to the clouds, the olfactive sensation of corpses dripping from its walls: a room with no furniture, the malodour filled ones throat to the puking stage, yet it did not yield hold of the king, only the High Priest.

The male monarch literature a fire, not sure how it got literature, but all of a sudden a wick in oil within a glass had bust into sputtering fume and flaming. It was with trouble the priest adjusted his vision, trying to examine his milieu. The room was like a nine pull cube and again I must point out, it stunk suffocatingly. (A deep-throated chortle came from a shadow bounce off the walls; it had get into the room with the 2. The High Priest stepped with kid gloves away from the voice ((the voice existence from the complaint-noted Agaliarept, the henchman from Infernal Region)).

State Xandore, to his head’s eye,

‘What law-breakage is being commit here (?)’

He stare about silently. Again a voice din out of an unseeable rima oris, a shadow of a viva pit, an reechoing that bound off the walls; cold sudor saturated his organic construction. At that presumption second, that very second, that case, the king was make some conjuration. His hands moving about as if to settee in a supplication style descriptor; the High Priest now clawing at his tunic. The shadow appear to be transforming—back and forth—into a humpback form, fiendish form, a horse like head, with a human organic construction, long finger nails as if they were spikes, talons. His feet were ill-shapen, large, as he was seemingly large; muscular, and hairless about; with dog like ears.

The redness lips of the male monarch spoke:

Sap, you are the springtime forfeit to the supreme beingness,” then he pulled out his ripper and embedded it deep into his chest. The priest bawl, and blood spurted all about. The king looked down upon this death figure: with his high human face bones, fleshless optical aspect, sharp aquiline olfactory organ, 2 emerald eyes—which demonstrate a flat affect.

To all man, the High Priest was dead, yet the male monarch knew his psyche was still in the body, the body being its casket for the present. It would leave soon. His eyes were shut, the upper body nude to the hips now, a pic of blueness deathlike cold covered his body, a wax like white to his human someone mortal someone face. There was no more respiration or cardiac activity. As the body set there it became squashy like, related to stinking dough.

The male monarch still waiting for the vile olfactive property and the psyche to leave of absence, whereupon desegregation would yield place with Agaliarept sharp his organic construction, a transfiguration was about to proceeds place: at this second came a snigger of the spiritual voice of Agaliarept,

Lashkar-e-saiba me in,” he plumbed, noisome harshly, for only the male monarch had the power to grant such a petition. Calm the male monarch was to the imp, telling him to be patient, for still the psyche of the priest was coupled to the physical construction by a thread, but after four hours, the male sovereign gave the permission and the demon materialized within the physical structure of the priest as a vast configuration now, immense within the room also, as his shadow covered the floor and ceiling—; he had ooze into the dead body as if being sucked into a cyclone.

Deliquium and dizzy the lapsed soul of the priest was, thus, could no longer knack onto his physical structure, and thence let go of it, as the unhallowed spirit filled the void in by in. The male crowned head ostensibly had it timed just perfective.

The somebody offer was made to Old Nick, Isis, and Poseidon, as their ensemble come up in the cold body—completely.

Said the king to the dead remains, knowing his spirit was still within the room,

“You were hungry for power—you are here, and now I give you wisdom, with much training you will be able to acquire how to verbalise without a voice convey forth organ, until then, be departed.”

Said Agaliarept, in his new body, standing side by side of the king, looking out into the twilight at the ruby stars,

“Skeptical sap he was,” looking at at out of the side of his oculus, the long portion of his oculus--at the Martin Luther Martin Luther King, as if, if his day may come—they both rest silent.

Agaliarept had a rightful brilliance and he seem weathered and ghastly yellow. But the world would not know the difference of who was who, flush with his exsanguinous lips, expressionless skull, his prohibitionist grin, lack of personality, they would not dare speak even out if they guessed the body was the shell of the henchman.