This story is meant to be told to you from sometime between the events of Fable II and Fable III, although this is not when the story takes place. The Hero from this story is from a time shortly after the defeat of Jack of Blades, but before the guild is destroyed.
This is the first part of a long long story I have been conceptualizing. Hopefully there'll be many updates to follow.
Enjoy!
He was born of humble circumstances, as most heroes are. His father was a worker in the dark mines of the eastern ridge, and his mother taught the children of Snowspire during the warmest months of the year. Each winter the land would freeze, making daily life near impossible in the wastes, but their family (and the other families of Snowspire) made the best of their unforgiving climate. It was here in this frozen tundra that our hero’s tale begins.
As our hero had grown older, he had also grown accustomed to his father’s absence. Weeks would go by as his father would live and work in the mines to support the family. In this time, our hero would learn in the school taught by his mother, and now that he had grown old enough, he would work for the Snowspire blacksmith. But today was the final day of the working season before the snow and ice came to Snowspire, and he had just finished his day of shaping molten steel. It was then that he received the news that would begin his journey. His father had not returned from the mine with the other men.
This did not surprise the men in his father’s camp, as he was seldom seen by his team. His father always seemed to be stationed at a different entrance to the mines. He had been known for his proficiency with a pickaxe, doing the work of several men at a pace that startled his foreman. But today our hero’s stomach sank with the news. Something had happened to his father. And though he was not equipped for the harsh blizzard that was inevitably beginning its descent on Snowspire, our hero informed his mother of his plan, and set off for the mines of the eastern ridge.
The rocks were wet and slick, but sturdy and well planted. It wasn't long before he had reached a stone platform 50 feet or so below the entrance. Just as our hero was beginning to repel down the next rock face, a sharp stone further up the tunnel severed his rope, leaving him in free fall hundreds of feet above the base of the mine. Time seemed to stretch as our hero fell further and further down the chasm. His screams echoed off the cave formations, bouncing together in a blood-curdling symphony. As he neared the jagged bottom of the mine, stalagmites waiting eagerly for their kill. He felt his mind go black. Unconsciousness saved him from the memory of landing, but his body remembered the impact. With one sickening thud, our hero crashed into the floor hard to enough to shake loose the highest boulders nestled into the top of the ridge. As hours passed, his breathing became steady and deep once more. With his eyes opening for the first time in days, his mind was filled with one thought, “I should be dead.”
This is the first part of a long long story I have been conceptualizing. Hopefully there'll be many updates to follow.
Enjoy!
***
It was just after dusk when the children came to listen to Greta. She was oldest storyteller in the camp, and though her mind had begun to fade, the stories she had kept inside her head for those many years still shone bright. To hear her speak was to set foot in the past, the stories of love, battle, tragic loss, and redemption would come to life on their ears as the children listened. As a small boy anxiously stoked the fire before her, she began to speak. This is the story as it came from her lips, told by many and known by many more. This is the story of the Hero of the Northern Wastes.1.
Many years ago, long before the birth of Bowerstone’s Hero, there was a man. And within this man, the blood of a powerful and celebrated family flowed. This was the gift the Archon had left for his ancestors, the opportunity to be a hero. For what was inside this man was more than the muscle, bone, and flesh of a mere mortal. And though the world did not know it yet, it was inside this man the heart of one of Albion’s greatest heroes beat.He was born of humble circumstances, as most heroes are. His father was a worker in the dark mines of the eastern ridge, and his mother taught the children of Snowspire during the warmest months of the year. Each winter the land would freeze, making daily life near impossible in the wastes, but their family (and the other families of Snowspire) made the best of their unforgiving climate. It was here in this frozen tundra that our hero’s tale begins.
As our hero had grown older, he had also grown accustomed to his father’s absence. Weeks would go by as his father would live and work in the mines to support the family. In this time, our hero would learn in the school taught by his mother, and now that he had grown old enough, he would work for the Snowspire blacksmith. But today was the final day of the working season before the snow and ice came to Snowspire, and he had just finished his day of shaping molten steel. It was then that he received the news that would begin his journey. His father had not returned from the mine with the other men.
This did not surprise the men in his father’s camp, as he was seldom seen by his team. His father always seemed to be stationed at a different entrance to the mines. He had been known for his proficiency with a pickaxe, doing the work of several men at a pace that startled his foreman. But today our hero’s stomach sank with the news. Something had happened to his father. And though he was not equipped for the harsh blizzard that was inevitably beginning its descent on Snowspire, our hero informed his mother of his plan, and set off for the mines of the eastern ridge.
2
Beads of sweat began to form on our hero’s heavy brow as he climbed the peak leading to the mine. There were several entrances to choose from, but he knew where his father was stationed. As he approached the gaping hole in the cliff face, he heard a strange whistle coming from within. Not the high, skipping whistle of a man at work, but the low, mournful tune that wind makes as it escapes from a deep, damp chasm. As he tied his line to a boulder at the cave’s mouth, his mind was filled with thoughts of his father’s fate. Had he slipped and fallen into the blackness of this mountain mine? Had an unknown Hobbe encampment taken his life to protect their bounty of children’s belongings? Or worse yet, had his father happened upon a nest of Balverines? All these things raced through his head as he began his descent.The rocks were wet and slick, but sturdy and well planted. It wasn't long before he had reached a stone platform 50 feet or so below the entrance. Just as our hero was beginning to repel down the next rock face, a sharp stone further up the tunnel severed his rope, leaving him in free fall hundreds of feet above the base of the mine. Time seemed to stretch as our hero fell further and further down the chasm. His screams echoed off the cave formations, bouncing together in a blood-curdling symphony. As he neared the jagged bottom of the mine, stalagmites waiting eagerly for their kill. He felt his mind go black. Unconsciousness saved him from the memory of landing, but his body remembered the impact. With one sickening thud, our hero crashed into the floor hard to enough to shake loose the highest boulders nestled into the top of the ridge. As hours passed, his breathing became steady and deep once more. With his eyes opening for the first time in days, his mind was filled with one thought, “I should be dead.”
