F5: Empires of the Stars
(Author's note: This story is an entry into FAWC (Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge), a collaborative competition among Lit authors. FAWC is not an official contest sponsored by Literotica, and there are no prizes given to the winner. Every story for this FAWC begins with the exact same line. Where it goes from there is up to the author.)
* * * *
Upon the table lay three items: a handkerchief, a book, and a knife.
"Symbols of a new beginning," observed Nitram, Head Clob of the House of Esesrocs.
"Indeed." Mota, Head Cloba of the House of Nayoge, nodded in agreement. "But some will be offended."
"How so?" asked Nitram, his blue and white robes rustling as he turned to her.
Mota raised one eyebrow. "There are more than three houses in the galaxies, Nitram. These items represent a tiny fraction of them."
"But they are the Three Roots," he protested. "All of the houses come from them. We can all, Clobs and Clobas, trace our ancestry and leadership back to the Three Roots."
"I do not disagree," Mota said. "However, you know as well as I do that many houses think they have risen to a status equal to the Three Roots. They will want a symbol of their own house on the table." She pushed a lock of blue-black hair out of the way.
"Ridiculous." Nitram looked appalled. "None of us are so presumptuous."
"Nitram, you need to get out more."
Mota stared at the book, her favorite of the items. In there was the history of the beginning of the world, the galaxies; some said even the universe.
Whatever it contained, Clobs and Clobas from all over were due to come to this summit, and Mota expected a protocol nightmare. Aside from the hubris of many of the individual houses, one had to account for the various feuds, real and imagined, between the houses.
She knew, for example, that House Nenod, with its idiotic Clob, Yelnats, had a long-running dispute with House Yllek and their own idiotic Clob, Eneg. Out in their arm of the galaxy, one could hardly take a step without being accused of allegiance to one side or the other, even if wrapped in a neutrality pod.
House Elbag, which dominated the transdrive industry, was constantly in dispute with House Sivad, although no one could say why. House Sivad had once been active in the quark business, but had fallen off in the last few generations. Mota had heard that Sivad's Head Cloba had made disparaging remarks on Elbag's Head Clob's physical attributes and abilities, but there was no way to prove that. And just as well.
Not content to feud with House Elbag, House Sivad also had a quarrel going with House Drofwarc. The latter house also had a Head Cloba, and the two women had never gotten along, casting aspersions on everything from each other's parentage to business ability. The fray had allowed another House, Retxab, to sneak in and snare not only Sivad's quark business, but a fair bit of Drofwarc's clothing manufacturing as well.
Then there was House N'nylf, which had its own feud with House Sivad, whose Cloba never met someone she couldn't insult, and
* * * *
What the hell am I doing? This is ridiculous. I'm deleting it.
Science fiction is good, but I'm on a deadline. At the rate I'm going, I'll have more Houses in this than Melville had whaling definitions in
Moby Dick.
And what was I thinking with "Clob" and "Cloba?" Those words are utterly ridiculous. Clob, clod, clot . . . Jesus.
Okay, let's back up. I don't have time to research, but I like the idea of something . . . not this world. Fantasy—that might be the way. I can make that up, pretty much. Spot research wouldn't be so bad.
* * * *
"Waking the Dragons"
Upon the table lay three items: a handkerchief, a book, and a knife.
Ilana studied the items but did not touch. She was not yet ready and might not ever be. It mattered not.
"Art thou prepared for the ceremony?"
Ilana turned to see her teacher and mentor, Elgar the Wise. His long white beard hung to his chest, and wizened eyes twinkled in his wrinkled face. His appearance elicited a smile from her.
"I can do no more. I am ready, or I am not."
He nodded. "Thou hast ever been my most able pupil," the old man said. "Now, thou must have faith, as I do."
Ilana lowered her eyes. "I can but hope. But I must inquire . . . "
"Yes, child?" Elgar lowered his wizened body down onto a stone bench. "What is it?"
"Is this wise?" she asked. At his surprised look, she continued, "No one has woken the dragons in centuries. Perhaps they should remain asleep. That presumes they are even still there, and no one knows—"
"I know," Elgar interrupted, but not unkindly.
"I know thou dost
believe
," Ilana said, "and I think—thought—I did, too. But now, studying these most blessed items, I find my faith weakens."
"Tell me of the history of the blessed items," Elgar said. "Humor me, if thou wilst, and you may regain your faith."
Ilana took a breath and sat opposite. Nervous fingers tangled with the ends of her dark hair, a token of her elven ancestry, as she ordered her thoughts.
"The cloth is a piece of the cloak from Ediale, original Keeper of the Dragons," Ilana began. "Ediale wore the cloak when she rode Kel, the first of the Fire Dragons, over the plains of Fornolk, against the army led by Marok, wizard of the Iron Fire.
"Ediale and Kel fought for long days against Marok and his minions. When all seemed lost, Ediale cast her cloak over Kel, and the gods made it grow and grow until it covered the land, smothering the fire of Marok and making his iron grow cold and soft.
"Her people found Ediale and Kel and brought them back, but it was too late. They gave them a great burial, covering them both with the cloak and saving that one piece for posterity, so that we would not forget the battle and how Ediale and Kel saved the world."
"Well done," Elgar said. "Now, the book."
Ilana nodded. "That is
The Lives of the Gods
, written by Ediale's apprentice, Cando, after her death. He chronicles the fourteen gods, and all their children and grandchildren, and how they formed the world and created us, and the dragons, and everything else.
"We need the book so that we never forget where we came from, nor forget the gods, who created us and can destroy us and—" Ilana frowned. "Why would they do that?"
Elgar looked at her, startled. "What?"
"The gods," Ilana said. "Why would they create us just to remind us they can destroy us? It is . . . unworthy, really. Childish. We can't—"
"Hush, now," Elgar said. His eyes darted around. "We can discuss that later. Now, the knife."
Ilana shrugged. "The Dagger of Marok was also recovered after the battle, forged when Marok tried to defeat Kel with an iron blade. Kel roared fire and the blade melted. Marok dropped it with a scream of rage and it reformed into a dagger on the ground.
"Ediale picked it up and thrust it into Marok's chest. It killed him, but not before he used one last burst of magic to kill Ediale. His body burnt away and Ediale was found with the dagger in her hand."
Ilana stopped and looked at her teacher, who smiled at her with both pride and relief.
"Well done, Ilana, well done."
"Elgar?"
