First-of-Names

There is a man who stands all day in a shady corner of Lungtown. They call him Storyteller. The Storyteller belongs to one of the native tribes of Lungtown.

He is older than middle age, well past sixty, but trim, sunburned, and looks ancient.

There is a story he tells often. A story of a man. A story of fire.

“The natives have a concept of business. It is one of those things that take a hundred words to explain in the tongue of the common because we do not have a word for it. 

I’ll give an example. Terrible things happen. People die, animals die. Weather dies. Water dies. The inhabitants of most towns pray for rain. Some resort to science. The tribe of the Golden Skinned People do rain dances. The Bitter Leaf tribe slaughter birds. The Glass Makers make glass. They accept. The Storyteller was a Glass Maker and so was First-Of-Names. You see what I mean?

The average Glass Maker takes stock of the situation, understands that he does not have the power to change anything but his attitude to accept the inevitable.

However, First-Of-Names was not an average Glass Maker.

When he was born, somewhere in a hot summer season, his lifegiver wanted to name him after clouds and rivers and such natural things. His father’s father wanted something else and he got it. A name that would mark him for terrible greatness. Like Man-With-Terribly-Long-Name but not like Man-Of-No-Name. They called him First-Of-Names.

In the age of dust, The Rulers denied the people of The Outer Regions a lot of rights. The Rulers were harsh and cruel. They restricted a flow of supplies to The Outer Regions and the people suffered. There was a call for change and revolution and blood and all the younger people answered it. First-Of-Names was a reasonable man but he wished to impress a particularly beautiful female and so he decided to undertake his own foolhardy quest.

A quest to bring fire to the Glass Makers. A fire that would not go out and a fire that would not be a slave of The Rulers. A fire of glory.

First-Of-Names, the champion of the people, with his wily wit and the blessing of the gods stole fire from The Rulers. He gave it to his tribe. He brought glory to Lungtown.

But, alas! The Rulers punished him for his crime. They sent their cronies and they had him arrested. The held him in a tower of black rock.

It is said that a great mechanical bird guards the tower and there are men in white coats inside the tower who try science on First-Of-Names. The Rulers came down harder than ever on The Outer Regions.

They created the District and sealed us all in here. They left us to die but the fire of glory blazed in all our hearts and we survived and rebuilt an existence out of the dust.

The fire is lost now but the people know it still burns for them.”

“That is a fine story, Storyteller. I thank you for telling me this story. Here is your coin. Now, tell me where to find this fire.”

The Storyteller merely chuckled. “I am sorry, sinjoro. There is no fire. It is but a story that I tell to earn a living.”

“That so? Vloek! My name is Grijs and this is my contact card. If you ever feel like not lying to me, give me a call.”