WE ARE THE NARRATIVE
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Long, long ago,
in the ancient, Babylonian cities of Telharesha and Telmelah, lived a nation within a nation - a stronghold of princes, elders, priests and priestesses - warrior-artisans of the highest Order. They toiled in servitude under the imperial Chaldee empire and were coveted for their remarkable scholarship and fierce talents. Smiths and weavers, carpenters and poets, singers and storytellers, dancers and potters...were deft with the bow, the sling and the sword. Outwardly, they seemed to be lowly tradesmen but their skill was...celestial.
Babylon echoed with their collaboration. Hammers and looms, wheels and kilns, quills and melodies rang out, as masterpieces emerged from ink, from pressure, from flame. Their craftsmanship was flawless...sought-after...divine....
Universities and scholars, gardens and bondage stretched alongside these regal exiles who paid homage to a God of gods that couldn't be seen or conquered and from whom they professed descent.
It was common for men of the East to claim divinity. It was common for the relics of bondmen and bondwomen to adorn palaces and shrines. But these were royals - uncrushed by oppression. Their uncommon wisdom was coveted for its purity...and for its power over the spirit world. With it, they'd amassed the greatest wealth ever known to Man and with it they'd surrendered their high priesthood.
Despite superior grasps of ritual and blood...artisanship and worship, scholarship and war, they could not liberate themselves from a bondage prolific in its brutality, supernatural in its totality. After generations of siege and captivity, their names were blotted from the Earth, their history and their descent erased, their patriarchies decimated. Only their superior craftsmanship remained as proof of supernatural lineage and a sacred bloodline; and when emancipation came...at a very heavy cost...these fighting priests were rejected by their countrymen, their ranks deemed polluted.
It is here that we raise our story to theirs because our story is theirs - our fathers...our mothers - born of time and war. To this end, their divine gifts endured, passed on as identification...passed on in our spilled blood, so we would recognize...ourselves, know...ourselves, know that we are the ones prophesied, anointed...this time...by revolution.
The Telharesha Company