The mighty shores of Atlantis never shall see the light of day again. The shores that were once a part of this world have gone, like many great things, out of
the world. Its day is done, and its glory has gone with it to the depths. Those that lived in the days of splendor knew what was to come, but did not rectify the situation. Pride
destroys what we perceive as perfection so often that it is better to accept flaws and learn than to put them away so they may not be used against us.
These stories are one. One tale united in its true perception of Atlantis as a society that sought not to embrace its roots, but rather to cut them off and
pretend no connection. Though they are many, all the women who speak here are of one voice: Mine.
I am the spirit of Atlantis, and I did not die with my children. I live on the plains of Salisbury, in the columns of the Parthenon, the waters of the Amazon
nourish my blood, and power that was mine survives in the few with such a claim to my blood. I will never have the splendor that once made me a haven for a man imprisoned by his own power, and
I will never have the rich joy of nourishing my children. I am not gone, for I can never be gone, but I live now as a memory, myth, and fable.
I have watched as men play folly to the words of women, and women give in to the seductions of men with no more than lust on their minds. I lingered for a time
to watch as they departed, but I was not meant to remain rooted to the ocean floor. I belonged with my children, as Abraham with his children. Now I face a world where my name is not
known, and my face is hidden. It does not really matter that the land is gone, for I live while my children live. So long as one remains I shall too.
I sense there will be a time when the teachings of my priesthood will fade into the new teachings of this world. They mean no harm, but they have lost much of
the wisdom they once held. Perhaps to remain only in legend is not so bad for heroes whose works are escalated to greater than real, but for a paradise such as I it is naught but
speculation. The new world is not so bad, merely devoid of magic and mystery. I see a time when magic is feared and reputed to be the work of the devil. Yet, I recall a time when
magic was honor and its rewards pleasure. That time is lost. I remember when I called out to my children first, and now I turn to see that I am one with spirit but not the
conscious. Whatever I have become is not so terrible, but is the price of loss countered by justification? I think not, but the powers that be have decided it is enough. Perhaps one
day they will give back the wisdom lost to my children, and if not they will let it be felt even if it is not identifiable. For where I am, they will be also.
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