ROANOA, THE HALL OF HERITAGE
Three men stood toward the back of the hall, assembled in a semi-circle around a singular book lying closed on a pedestal of ancient oak; a resource not found anywhere else on Roanoa besides heirlooms and ancient relics of their civilizations.
Cordell Abramson and his father stood with the Council Elder. The Elder was the tie-breaker in all matters related to social indecision. Only when the Council could not solve issues themselves would the Elder intervene. It was also the responsibility of the Elder to protect and open and close the Book of Origin.
“It is true, however, that nothing before now has any relevance. As you have come of age and you are the son of a Councilmember, it falls to you to succeed your Father,” the Elder explained. Cordell placed him in his seventies, noting the triangular white beard that seemed to lose itself in the large ankle length robes of white and gold.
Cordell responded with silence, the weight of the Elder’s words not yet settling in. His eyes were drawn to the ages old leather bound book. The edges of the pages within were coffee brown and rough, implying antiquity. This apparent fate that he was hearing for the first time was underwhelming but seemed to be of some higher importance to the other two men with him.