Relics

But I don't want to sleep! Tell me a story. Mother told me lots of stories. You never tell me stories...
Ah, very well, I will tell you one. But only one, and then you will sleep.
Of course I'll sleep, I promise, of course!
Indeed you will young man, lest the old stick gets up to dance with your bottom like when you were younger. Now quiet, and listen well. This is the story I told your mother long ago, when she was a wee girl, about your years, or perhaps younger still. It set her on a foolish path in life, I regret to this day, but her wish was that you know of this, and now you will:
In the beginning, there was nothing. Well, yes, some say there was time. Others don't. But you would do well now to imagine a dark world. Black. A void, nothing in it.
Like when I close my eyes at night?
Yes, exactly like when you close your eyes at night. Close them now, and keep them shut. Now imagine - riders! They they are, approaching from afar, gaining on you post haste. Eleven of them strong, riding mighty dragons like men ride horses.
Like I rode the pony today?
Yes, much like when you rode your pony today. But don't imagine any of them falling off the dragons, please. For they were mighty. Back then, at the beginning of time, when they shaped our world. Slowly, over unimaginable ages, they built the world we know today. First, they erected the great mountain, to tower over the world. Around it, they put a sea. A sea with currents that no sailor could fare. And then they put land, for the people to live on, and a sun and moon to light the sky, and stars to guide travellers.
I thought the stars were good people who died?
Ahem, yes, yes of course, that they are my good boy, that they are. But those are the yellow stars you see, like those of your parents. No, these were different stars back then, blue, and only eleven of them there were. When one of these riders, an avatar, would die, the star they had put up would perish with them. That is why, as you can see, there are no blue stars in the sky now. The riders are gone.
Where did they go?
Nobody knows. Some say they left us on our own and went to make other worlds. Others yet, that they were killed, when man's hubris grew enough to challenge them. Or maybe their dragon steeds ate them.
Hold on! You said they were mighty!
Oh ho ho, and mighty they were! But each in their own way. You see, they all had to work together to make a world. Each presided over an aspect of nature. Within it, that avatar had absolute power. Outside it, not so much. Or perhaps they were these aspects of nature manifest. I've heard it told like that too. Either way, see, they had their domains.
What were their domains?
Do you want me to tell the story or not? Anyway, as I was saying... ah, yes. Despite being infinitely powerful in their own area, I very much doubt a mortal man would fare against one, even outside their domain. Even claimed to be immortal by some! And, I mean, would you not believe that those which created an entire world are immortal? Don't seem like a far stretch to me.
I do, but what were their domains?
Very well. Since you know so much about how a good story flows, let me stop right here and explain. That will surely put you to sleep already.
Oh papa, we are way past sleeping, this is exciting!
Wipe that grin off your face and listen. We don't know what all of them did, or exactly what their domains were. What we do know, or so the story goes anyway, is of the artifacts they left behind. See, at one point, after they had taken care of men for so long, some of them wanted to retire. But they were the elements themselves, their domain revolved around their existence. So they sought a way to bind their powers to the world forever, as to allow them to leave. Some were reluctant, but they all did it. They poured their control over the eleven aspects of nature into artifacts, called Relics.
Relics, like what father talked about?
Oh yes, exactly what your damned father talked about. To wield a Relic is to wield a piece of the universe itself. Absolute control over its domain. They are lost, of course, for countless ages they have been and so they will remain. It is their defining characteristic, getting lost, it's what they do. Which, naturally, will not quell the hearts of men from seeking them with their endless greed for power. Relic Hunters, like your foolish father, pour through history and imaginary tales, searching for them all their lives. It's not even known that a mortal could wield a Relic, if they truly exist.
What are those Relics?
My, that is hard to say. Some of them are unknown, what they look like or what powers they command. Others, some of the more famous, might well exist, or be attributed to famous artifacts of the past.
The most important, the one they all seek, is The Crown. Said to be worn by the leader of the riders, these avatars, The Crown is the symbol of kings. Legend says it gives the man who would don it on their head control over the world, in the most absolute sense. Were you to wear it, your word is law, and the world obeys. Tell a man to serve you, and he will. Decree upon a horse to fly, and it will. Demand that a mountain get up and walk, and it will.
A mountain!
Indeed, a mountain. But there are more. Elves speak of The Ring, that once belonged to the King's wife. She was the Supreme Sorceress, all magic was channelled through her being. Such ring we know exists, for it was the source of unlimited power behind the conquest of these lands by the terrible witch Arsianna, not many generations ago. It is said that to  wear The Ring would be to access the bottomless well of energy that the universe itself has to offer.
The universe!
Yes, yes, the universe. But but, listen, the wise man would not go after such obvious power. Those few Relic hunters that know what is of true value, they seek The Orb. A small, unassuming black stone. A perfect sphere. Fits in your hand, even. Well, not your tiny hands. For those that do not know better, it does not appear to do anything. But as the story goes, rather than not doing anything, it does nothing. It negates, nay - completely absorbs - anything that would harm he who possesses it. While wars are fought and thousands are slaughtered over mere mentions of The Crown, he who has The Orb remains safe. However, of the Relics we even have these tales of, this is the least well known, and in fact nobody has ever claimed to have it. Perhaps wisely so on their behalf.
But if it does nothing...
I promise you, with time, the day will come when you will value nothing being done to you or yours far more than anything else. But that time is not now, boy. This is why I will tell you of another Relic, perhaps more to your liking. The Spear. Twice the metre long and then some, stronger than the toughest steel, the golden spear of the Warrior is the ultimate weapon of war. If the legend is true, to wield it means to become stronger, faster, an unstoppable force that none can oppose directly.
Wicked!
Last, there are tales about the final Relic known to exist. It is said by some that this Relic is not an artifact, oh no, but something more elusive. Intangible. Could be an enchantment placed on the world, or a spell, or perhaps a thought seeded into the minds of men. Nobody knows, not what it is or what to search for. But, if you were to believe in such things, an angel herself told the legendary knight Marten about it, and from his poems come the rumours about all the other Relics. One song in particular claims that, briefly, he had possession of them all. The secret, of course, died with him, and they were lost once more.
That is, in short, the story of the Relics. Indeed, most are enticed by the promises of The Crown, throwing away their life and often a whole fortune in empty hopes of a glorious legacy. One of tyranny and death, no doubt, as men with too much power always leave behind. Be not foolish like your twice damned father to waste your life looking for them, I tell you. Now go to sleep, and in the morning I want you to learn to ride proper. If you fall off one more time, we are selling horse sausage come next market.

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That night the boy slept, and dreamt of dragons, and their riders, and sparkling artifacts which he exchanged for terrible, tasteless dry sausages at market. In his sleep, a woman appeared, or a spirit, or an angel. He could not tell, for he knew not what spirits and and angels looked like, but she wore a white dress and her white wings shone so brightly he could not make her face. She took his hands, and placed in them a small stone, black and round, but crude and cracked, and sometimes through the cracks ran a soft blue light. She kissed him on the forehead, and flew away. He tried to grab at her, make her stay, but he had barely grasped at a wing, and she was gone.

That morning, the boy awoke with his pocket a little heavy, and a big white chicken feather in his hand. He decided to keep it, hidden safely in his pillow, not the least because their chickens were all brown, but also because they were famously small and scrawny among the neighbouring farms.