This is the first part of a three-part story I might continue... Set between the events on Fable 2 and 3. It features the immigration of South Islanders as referenced in Fable 1, the homeland of Thunder and Whisper, and the Albion natives based in Bowerstone.
"Our leader had his life taken, for fighting for this nation as it is. You want me to... befoul his great legacy, by letting you scum run free in our fine country? 'cause you pour from your vessels, disease-ridden and begging for our hard-earned gold?"
Speaking is a man of great power, Alastair, given to him recently following the murder of the Bower Brigade's former leader. This man stands taller than most, appearing more-so with his large top-hat. His beard is thick and brown, his skin pale and apparantly sweaty, his attire formal though slightly bloodstained - beneath a large wooly overcoat that hides multiple firearms, to which his skill with is comparable only to Reaver's.
"I've thirty-four scatches on me club, ye know... Ye know what for? Each and every one of ye racist bastards I've killed!" spoke a dark-skinned, muscular foreigner of the Southern League, slowly approaching Alastair in an aggressive manner; before being dragged back to his crowd.
He is, too, a man of great power, though more respected by his brothers than feared like Alastair. His name is Nimar, a descendant of a great heroic dynasty of the distant South Islands. Insanely strong, and a figure of great renown in his homeland. His large bald head and great big, long bushy beard is instantly recognizable by any Southern.
The atmosphere in this Old Town tavern has escalated to heated and bloodthirsty. The Bower Brigade, a gang simply comprised of racists opposing against the Southern immigrants, had come simply to drink and fight, as per each night. But they got more than they expected when a equally-sized mob of Southerns arrived on their scene. To this, the Brigade would have, usually, abandoned anything they were doing to all jump at these unwanted immigrants. But the Brigade suffers an irrepairable wound. One that has them question the continuity of their cause. With their former leader dead, and his own former advisor Alastair still attempting to reach his grand pedestal, the Brigade stands more vulnerable than ever. And the oppressed Southerns shalln't back down from this oppurtunity.
After a moment for the cooling of more than several tongues, Alastair returns to the front of his mob, smugly again facing the huge Southern brute, Nimar. It's clear both gangs know what will settle this, once and for all.
"Battle?" requests Nimar, his enormous arms folded across his torso, his head held high and proud before his people. His people have mixed attitudes among themselves. Some devoted beserkers and warriors are glad for some proper action, whereas most are starving beggars whose hopes for better lives have been crushed by the loyalists. On the other hand, these loyalists all cheer inside at this proposal - guardsmen, nobles, citizens alike. Alastair looks to his followers on his left, then slowly over to his right, nodding before looking back at Nimar with a foul grin spread.
"Accepted."
