The Quest Of King Meshre - I

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HERE IS A TALE OF TRUTH FROM A MYSTERY SCHOOL. A SPRING FLOWER NEED ONLY ASK.

Once There A King Weret: He By The Name “Meshre”, As They On The Islands Call(Ed) Him.

And Two Weret The Islands: One Long Before The Other; The Second, Named Latland: Land Of Lats. And The First Island, Old In Its Founding, Old In Its Fashions, Was Named Fayland, As That Wast A Land With Fays And Magic. There, Meshre Was Birthed By A King Of A Lost Name, And Meshre Was A Son–A Son Of Mystery And One Of Promise. His Father Was Respected And A Light Amongst The Giants, The Fays, Gnomes, But Not Of Small Humans: They Who’d Fear His Godly Prowess.

The Lost-named King Raised Meshre In Knowledge, In Wisdom, As The High Magicians And Priest Raised Him. It Was A Time Of Old: Before The Great Fall Of The Upper Gods And Lower Diamons; A Time Where Magic Dwelt Upon The Learned Men Of Power.

So Did Meshre Grow Up Slowly; One Year Of His Being A Lifetime Of Small, Mortal Men.

Unfortunate! Sad! As He Rose In Heights Of Godly Knowledge, So Increased His Anger At Failing To Know The Highest, Most Mysterious Of Mysteries. Wished He To Learn The Mysteries Of The Highest Masters–Guardians And Overseers Of The Light Of Existence; Keepers Of Great Magic And Endless Power, They.

And There Came A Day In His 444Th Year Of Life, While He Was But A Young Teenager (As Men Would Call It) That He Lay Upon An Angel’s Seal Within The Holy Temple (Which Men Call A Pyramid). And, With A Filled Belly Of Rosemary And Cider, With Ash Upon His Breast And Stones Atop His Forehead, He Prayed Seven Days Without Cessation. Then As The Purple Sun With A Violet Sunrise Appeared, So Didst A Light From The Ceiling Of The Hidden Chamber.

The Light Was A Mixture; That Wast It Of Light, Knowledge, Life. The Mysterious Light Called Itself Liberation, Later Known As Christ By Small Men.

Spake He Unto Meshre To Fear Not And Release His Heart From Anger, Then Would He Find That Which He Searched For. And Meshre–Even He, Who Was, Yet Not, Wise–Hearkened Deeply The Words Of The Formless Form.

“Go Forth,” Said The Being Called Liberation. “Walk To The Great Cave Betwixt The Temples. There Shalt Ye Find Mysteries Not Even Thy Father Knoweth. Tell Thy Magical Priests Of Thine Travel, Ask For Blessings And All Of Magical, Goodness, Protections. Go Now, Meshre, And Only If Thou Dare, For Danger Lieth Below, Deep In The Bowels Of The Underworld, Down And Down You Go Until Thou Shalt Reach A Destination Of Unbearable Torture–A Place Unholy, Unwise, Of Pure Evil Which Hath No Place In Being. There, In The Rotten, Obsidian-coated Heart Of Sheol Shalt That Discover The Mysteries Of Mysteries. Be Thou Higher Than Thine Birthfather.”

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