::Fiction Genre Awards Honorable Mention::
::First Place Winnner in the Prose Awards Fiction Awards 2017 Loco-Lingular Award::
Many years have passed since the Deathless arose. Immortal, invincible they came, they subjected the people and their...
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Taking the last bite of peach cobbler, Jori looked wistfully at his empty plate. After accepting the fact that he could have no more cobbler, he looked up from his plate and admired his magnificent dining hall. The five-meter-long oak table reflected the bright light that shone through the sky roof. The nine other intricately designed chair added a fullness to the large room. The crystal chandelier shimmered uncertainly in the bright morning light. Candle stands lined the walls of the dining room adding extra light onto the speckled marble floor.
The large oak doors at the end of the large room parted and emerged, a servant. His hard heeled boots clacked against the floor sending echoes around the room. Glancing at the spotless plate, and the longing look on his master face, the servant spoke. "My lord, if you have peach cobbler for breakfast every day, you will have to be reborn more often."
Any other deathless would have slain the man right there, but Jori saw the value in his servants questioning him. He could not lead an empire without logical followers by his side.
"What news Garrel?"
"Highness, the Pantheon requests a meeting to address the rumors of the warlord," the servant answered.
"Ahhh, so the mighty Pantheon is afraid of rumors of the petty warlord. What fools," Jori said to no one in particular.
"I agree Great One. The most powerful deathless are afraid of a few minor skirmishes," Garrel replied.
"Why do you address me differently every time?" Jori questioned.
"Does the High Lord of All not like this?" Garrel inquired with a grin.
"It adds... variety," Jori said plainly.
"The other servants and I have a little game to address you differently every time. It keeps us on our toes," Garrel explained.
Jori was fond of his servants, especially Garrel.
"Prepare my ship," Jori said and left the room to prepare for the trip.
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Jori sat down in the comfortable leather seats of his ship. He had named it Uriel's Fortune, after his father. Punching in the coordinates of the Pantheon's Hall, Jori leaned back in his luxorious leather sears. Vaguely noting that the craft was on it's way, Jori closed his eyes and nodded off.
Jori tried to ignore the rain soaking into his close. He gritted his teeth and continued to peddle, the peddling that became monotonous after a mile of straight biking. Wiping the mix of sweat and rain water off his face, he narrowly avoided the muddy grass on the edge of the road. Through the torrent of rain and fog, Jori saw the bridge that meant he was close to home.
Looking downward, he kept peddling, so close to home. Something was wrong. The ground became brighter. Jori looked up to see two large lights and then, black.
