B
Black Dahlia
Guest
A Fable Tale: This being an account of one James Hunter...
Well, although I've posted this on about three other sites, I supposed that one more couldn't hurt... So here it is, a fanfiction about Fable 1. Here's chapter 1. I have 2 others, but I'll post them if people want to continue reading...Enjoy! ^_^
A warm breeze drifted through the air, carrying the sweet scent of apples and oaks towards the peaceful little village of Oakvale. It was evening now, and everywhere, the lamps were being lighted, their soft glow gently bathing the cobblestones in warm light.
The twilight air was filed with the chirps of crickets and the quiet songs of the nightingales. Waves from the nearby ocean lapped up onto the shore, and laughter could be heard emanating from the tavern.
James sighed contentedly as he observed the view from atop a small grassy hill above the village. Everything was so calm, so peaceful. He fingered the jar beside him, hoping his father would be back from the tavern soon. James wanted to go firefly catching with him tonight, seeing as the air was balmy and the skies were clear. He scooped up the jar and carefully picked his was down the hillside towards his house. Sure enough, James’ father’s familiar laughter floated through the open doorway. He must have a friend over thought James.
He walked through the doorway, still clutching the jar tightly in his hands.
“Dad?” he called, although he already knew his father was home.
“Come here, son,” his father answered back, coming into the main room of their little thatch roofed cottage. “What do you need?”
“Well, I was hoping you and I could go into the fields to catch fireflies, but it looks like you’re busy, so I’ll just go do something else.” He trudged off, looking crestfallen.
“Wait a minute, son,” James’ father called to him, “my friend here was just leaving. We’ll go out as soon as he’s gone.
An Hour Later…
James and his father stood in one of the many grassy fields that surrounded Oakvale. Around them, dozens of fireflies whirred around, their soft, warm light casting a comforting glow around the two people. Already, they had filled the jar with a fair few of the bright creatures, and James sealed the jar containing them as he and his father wandered over to an old, knotted tree, whose leafy canopy extended far out over their heads. They settled down comfortably between its roots, setting the jar down in front of them. James’ father contemplated the fireflies for a moment, before speaking up.
“Would you like me to tell you a story?” he inquired.
James nodded quietly. He loved the stories his father told, the stories of the history of Albion, of the creatures, the Heroes past, and the Heroes present. James settled himself into a more comfortable position and waited for his father to begin.
Once, long, long ago, there was a Hero who went by the name of Quickblade. I call him Hero, although he wasn’t part of the Guild. Quickblade was an independent Hero, one hired and paid money for his own profit, and not the Guild’s. He was a prideful man, arrogant in his ways and selfish in his thinking. Despite this, he was an amazing fighter. As an archer, no ones aim was truer. As a swordsman, no one could best him. When it came to the Will, no one rivalled his power at all. Quickblade was well aware of these facts, and took advantage of it. Villagers would call for his aid, and he’d come, slaying progressively deadlier creatures, no matter the risk, and this only strengthened his arrogance. However, as his fame grew, the Guild took notice. In his rise to power, he had robbed the Guild Heroes of their fame; all those years spent training were wasted upon them, as it seemed no one wanted their help anymore; they only wanted Quickblade. The Guild, fearing this would put an end to their good reputation, came up with a plan. They would take their strongest Heroes and band together to bring down Quickblade, thus halting his dangerous ascent to power. So, one night, while travelling through Gibbet Woods on his way to another quest, Quickblade was ambushed. From seemingly out of nowhere, Heroes appeared in the murky shadows, their weapons gleaming menacingly in the moonlight.
“You have a choice, Quickblade,” their leader called, his voice hollow, “you can quit your life of arrogance and stay with us, and we will spare you, or you can continue to lead this sort of life, in which case we will be forced to kill you. The choice is yours, although we’d rather you didn’t pick the latter.”
Quickblade glared and them each, one by one, his eyes bloodshot, then cried out into the night,
“So be it then. If I must die, then I die fighting!”
And with that, Quickblade drew his sword and charged. He roared with fury and slashed at the Hero standing in front of him. The Hero stumbled backwards, but soon, three others took his place. Quickblade knew he was outnumbered, and that he wouldn’t be able to win this fight. Nevertheless, he fought with all his might. Quickblade parried and slashed, kicked and leapt, but soon, he could not go on any longer; Quickblade was succumbing to too many wounds. With one last cry of pain, he dropped his silver sword from nerveless fingers just as the leader of the Heroes ran him through, pinning him to the large tree that loomed over them. Leaving his body there, the Heroes left to celebrate their victory. It wasn’t until much later that Quickblade’s body was taken down, but his blood remained, splashed onto the bark of the tree. And to this day, that very tree has been used to execute all the terrible criminals in Albion, so much so that it has received the name Gallows Tree. Some even say they can still see the stain of blood left by Quickblade during his final moments, left to show the tarnish the Guild had left on their honour…
James sat in silence as his father finished his story. He had never heard that story before…His father usually refrained from telling him such bloody stories, or stories that tainted the Guild’s name. James watched his father for a moment, deep in contemplation. He was often told that he looked like his mother, whom he didn’t even remember, and nothing like his father, although he wished he did. James was small and slight, with jet black hair and grey-blue eyes, just like his mother’s. His father, on the other hand, was tall and muscular, with dark blond hair and deep green eyes. The both of them wore nothing but simple peasant’s clothing; James, a pair of brown shorts, a dirty white shirt and sandals; his father, a green tunic, brown pants and heavy boots.
James and glanced at the sky, contemplating the myriad of stars overhead, thinking about his mother and sister. They were up there, somewhere. Or at least, that’s what James’ father had told him when James brought up the subject. His father was always very aloof when they talked about the two women, and he’d always try to change the subject.
The young boy turned to his dad, a question on his tongue.
“Dad, what really happened to mom and Theresa?” he inquired, hoping to get more than a vague answer this time around.
His father sighed, then said in an exasperated tone,
“James, I thought we had been over this before; that subject is not to be brought up. But if you must know, they died years ago, you know that. Now, it’s getting late, and you should be in bed. Let those fireflies go and come along.”
He rose, and began to walk down the hill. James unscrewed the jar and watched as the fireflies hummed away…He sighed, and followed his father. Another failed attempt, he though, just as the last of the nightingale songs died away.
Well, although I've posted this on about three other sites, I supposed that one more couldn't hurt... So here it is, a fanfiction about Fable 1. Here's chapter 1. I have 2 others, but I'll post them if people want to continue reading...Enjoy! ^_^
A warm breeze drifted through the air, carrying the sweet scent of apples and oaks towards the peaceful little village of Oakvale. It was evening now, and everywhere, the lamps were being lighted, their soft glow gently bathing the cobblestones in warm light.
The twilight air was filed with the chirps of crickets and the quiet songs of the nightingales. Waves from the nearby ocean lapped up onto the shore, and laughter could be heard emanating from the tavern.
James sighed contentedly as he observed the view from atop a small grassy hill above the village. Everything was so calm, so peaceful. He fingered the jar beside him, hoping his father would be back from the tavern soon. James wanted to go firefly catching with him tonight, seeing as the air was balmy and the skies were clear. He scooped up the jar and carefully picked his was down the hillside towards his house. Sure enough, James’ father’s familiar laughter floated through the open doorway. He must have a friend over thought James.
He walked through the doorway, still clutching the jar tightly in his hands.
“Dad?” he called, although he already knew his father was home.
“Come here, son,” his father answered back, coming into the main room of their little thatch roofed cottage. “What do you need?”
“Well, I was hoping you and I could go into the fields to catch fireflies, but it looks like you’re busy, so I’ll just go do something else.” He trudged off, looking crestfallen.
“Wait a minute, son,” James’ father called to him, “my friend here was just leaving. We’ll go out as soon as he’s gone.
An Hour Later…
James and his father stood in one of the many grassy fields that surrounded Oakvale. Around them, dozens of fireflies whirred around, their soft, warm light casting a comforting glow around the two people. Already, they had filled the jar with a fair few of the bright creatures, and James sealed the jar containing them as he and his father wandered over to an old, knotted tree, whose leafy canopy extended far out over their heads. They settled down comfortably between its roots, setting the jar down in front of them. James’ father contemplated the fireflies for a moment, before speaking up.
“Would you like me to tell you a story?” he inquired.
James nodded quietly. He loved the stories his father told, the stories of the history of Albion, of the creatures, the Heroes past, and the Heroes present. James settled himself into a more comfortable position and waited for his father to begin.
Once, long, long ago, there was a Hero who went by the name of Quickblade. I call him Hero, although he wasn’t part of the Guild. Quickblade was an independent Hero, one hired and paid money for his own profit, and not the Guild’s. He was a prideful man, arrogant in his ways and selfish in his thinking. Despite this, he was an amazing fighter. As an archer, no ones aim was truer. As a swordsman, no one could best him. When it came to the Will, no one rivalled his power at all. Quickblade was well aware of these facts, and took advantage of it. Villagers would call for his aid, and he’d come, slaying progressively deadlier creatures, no matter the risk, and this only strengthened his arrogance. However, as his fame grew, the Guild took notice. In his rise to power, he had robbed the Guild Heroes of their fame; all those years spent training were wasted upon them, as it seemed no one wanted their help anymore; they only wanted Quickblade. The Guild, fearing this would put an end to their good reputation, came up with a plan. They would take their strongest Heroes and band together to bring down Quickblade, thus halting his dangerous ascent to power. So, one night, while travelling through Gibbet Woods on his way to another quest, Quickblade was ambushed. From seemingly out of nowhere, Heroes appeared in the murky shadows, their weapons gleaming menacingly in the moonlight.
“You have a choice, Quickblade,” their leader called, his voice hollow, “you can quit your life of arrogance and stay with us, and we will spare you, or you can continue to lead this sort of life, in which case we will be forced to kill you. The choice is yours, although we’d rather you didn’t pick the latter.”
Quickblade glared and them each, one by one, his eyes bloodshot, then cried out into the night,
“So be it then. If I must die, then I die fighting!”
And with that, Quickblade drew his sword and charged. He roared with fury and slashed at the Hero standing in front of him. The Hero stumbled backwards, but soon, three others took his place. Quickblade knew he was outnumbered, and that he wouldn’t be able to win this fight. Nevertheless, he fought with all his might. Quickblade parried and slashed, kicked and leapt, but soon, he could not go on any longer; Quickblade was succumbing to too many wounds. With one last cry of pain, he dropped his silver sword from nerveless fingers just as the leader of the Heroes ran him through, pinning him to the large tree that loomed over them. Leaving his body there, the Heroes left to celebrate their victory. It wasn’t until much later that Quickblade’s body was taken down, but his blood remained, splashed onto the bark of the tree. And to this day, that very tree has been used to execute all the terrible criminals in Albion, so much so that it has received the name Gallows Tree. Some even say they can still see the stain of blood left by Quickblade during his final moments, left to show the tarnish the Guild had left on their honour…
James sat in silence as his father finished his story. He had never heard that story before…His father usually refrained from telling him such bloody stories, or stories that tainted the Guild’s name. James watched his father for a moment, deep in contemplation. He was often told that he looked like his mother, whom he didn’t even remember, and nothing like his father, although he wished he did. James was small and slight, with jet black hair and grey-blue eyes, just like his mother’s. His father, on the other hand, was tall and muscular, with dark blond hair and deep green eyes. The both of them wore nothing but simple peasant’s clothing; James, a pair of brown shorts, a dirty white shirt and sandals; his father, a green tunic, brown pants and heavy boots.
James and glanced at the sky, contemplating the myriad of stars overhead, thinking about his mother and sister. They were up there, somewhere. Or at least, that’s what James’ father had told him when James brought up the subject. His father was always very aloof when they talked about the two women, and he’d always try to change the subject.
The young boy turned to his dad, a question on his tongue.
“Dad, what really happened to mom and Theresa?” he inquired, hoping to get more than a vague answer this time around.
His father sighed, then said in an exasperated tone,
“James, I thought we had been over this before; that subject is not to be brought up. But if you must know, they died years ago, you know that. Now, it’s getting late, and you should be in bed. Let those fireflies go and come along.”
He rose, and began to walk down the hill. James unscrewed the jar and watched as the fireflies hummed away…He sighed, and followed his father. Another failed attempt, he though, just as the last of the nightingale songs died away.
