Fable: Dark Age
Fable: The Dark Age
Chapter 1: Birth of the Brethren
Cold night and the sound of forged steel still rung heavy across the land of Albion. The Dark Age had all but consumed the entire land laying waste to everything that was and paving the way for all that had yet to come. All that was evil and that defied the laws of the gods was now in plain sight for all the citizens of Albion to see. The Seven Year War had ravaged the land leaving it as nothing more than a shadow of its former self. A rippled reflection in a deathly mirror that foretold of things to come. Of Death, of pain, of suffering and of pestilence and violent retribution. Of fallen Heroes and long lost ways of the legendary Guild.
The night had come to rest upon Greatwood. The trees, stripped of their bark and leaves, towered naked in the night sky. That once beautiful sky, that now seemed to burn red with hate and anger at the fate that had befallen the land, left an eerie backdrop for the forest. The smell of burning rubble and torched flesh dispersed into the air after the attack on Bowerstone earlier that day. A glowing figure in white darted amidst the trees, a trail of perfect emanation left glittering in her wake. Stopping briefly behind an Elm tree she looked cautiously. It was dangerous for her to be here. A Seer of Avo. Her kind had appeared in Albion not long ago with the intent to save the world from its own destruction- it was too little and much too late. A tear of sadness rolled down her cheek for the Seer not only saw, she felt as well. The pain of the lands of Albion, the anguish of those who lived there, of those who died there. Her kind had the greatest of intentions when they came here, but now, now they were hunted by the minions of Orem, they were tortured and their bodies ground to dust, their spirits stolen by dark will users and imprisoned in glass vials, locked away in the hell fires of Orem’s bastion in the south.
She had to be careful for her message held great importance. The last of the Heroes of Albion needed to know about the prophecy, about the foretelling of the one that would come to save the land. She snuck quietly, once again her perfect white trail left hanging in the air along her path like a mist or fog. Her frail beautiful body bounced effortlessly from the ground as her feet seemed to guide themselves to the wall by the bridge, quickly she dropped down and twirled her white mythril fabric around the corner so she was concealed beneath the bridge. They were here, the four Heroes to be entrusted with the future of Albion. The lands last hope. She drew from inside her over garment four small pieces of papyrus paper, all with the same inscription. To each of the Heroes she handed one.
“And so the prophecies say- the time of Dark will come to pass and those with honour and love for justice and liberty will fear to hold their heads high and will cower in the shadows whilst those filled with hate and vengeance shall cast their wretched despair upon the land. One shall come to Albion, born of peasant and humble origins, and raised this Hero, shall be, to fight the evil and bring about the rebirth of the Kingdom of Old. The Hero of Albion. The last hope against the all consuming Dark.”
The Heroes read and understood their quest well. With forced smiles to each other they all knew this could be their last, and greatest, quest ever undertaken. Their power and skill would give way to another, to the saviour of the land. There, beneath the bridge they sat, a skin full of ale in raised hands, they drank one last time to the Guild, to the god Avo and to the fallen Heroes who gave their lives fighting against Orem, the false god. The Seer watched and blessed the four Heroes with luck and prosperity, both of which seemed to be non existent in these dark times and then she parted ways, for the last time. Her body once again flitting silently from tree to tree, that white glow streaking behind her. Making her way cautiously and carefully back to her place of solace and sanctum, to where the last of the Seers of Avo remained, behind the Demon Door at Lookout Point.
The four Heroes remained beneath the bridge in Greatwood for one final vow after the Seer left.
“May your journeys fare you well.”
The voice of Guyana spoke lightly, his chain mail armour blood stained and his soul disheartened but his mind rushing with the thoughts of his quest. From a small bag he removed four broaches, identical in skilled beautiful craftsmanship he pinned one to each of the four Heroes,
“We are the Brethren of Avo my friends.”
He pinned a broach upon Aylana,
“May his light guide you, keep you true and protect you from evil.”
He pinned a broach upon Serrian,
“We will meet again someday, until then we will grow. We will train others, hidden away from the evils of Orem.”
He pinned a broach upon Zarin and with a glimpse to the final broach he pinned it to his own cloak.
“We leave for the four corners of Albion tonight. Safe journey my old companions.”
The group dispersed from beneath the bridge. Each going their separate ways to find their own place in the world, to grow the Brethren of Avo and await the birth of the one who they were now sworn to protect.
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Chapter 2: Loren, The Servent
Morning arose in the small village of Regalia and so to did arise Loren. Her eyes flickered open, in the mere moments of careless morning bliss she smiled, something she rarely ever did. Her life had been one of servitude and of pain. Her family mercilessly slaughtered almost two years ago in Bowerstone by Orem’s minions, she had been taken as a slave to one of the Generals and then sold onwards to Lords and Ladies, to those who would wish to carry favour with Orem. Those who would pay him gold, livestock and sacrifice their own children in his name for a masterful title, a piece of land and a safer existence. She had lost track of the places she had been through, her soul had grown all too weary of keeping track of how far from home she had gone. The reach of Orem and those who followed him seemed to know no boundaries. Her days were filled with the lustful urges of any young woman, not only lust for sexual desire but for things that made her feel complete. Love, a happy home and children. A pretty garden to plant trees, vegetables and fruits to live off, to barter with the locals and to feel wanted, not for services rendered, but for herself and for who she was. Sometimes her daydreams of these fantasies were the only things which kept her going. They were what stopped her from thinking of the dreaded truth, the fact that she would never be free of this life, not as long as she was alive.
She hurried herself to get ready, she had almost overslept. Throwing on her rags against her filthy skin she swiftly dashed downstairs where Lady Alvord was already waiting, a barrage of orders came next and as Loren busied herself she once again thought back to that perfect life she would never have. Her pretty house sitting on the edge of town, her husband tilling the garden while she followed trying to plant seeds but always being too preoccupied with trying to keep a close eye on her children as they rough housed on the dirt pathway. She was snapped from her reverie by the screams of Lady Alvord. The woman could be dying for all Loren cared but to dismiss the screams would mean a lashing with the nine tails, she had only ever received such a beating once but it was enough for her to learn that when master or mistress of the house called, or screamed, or made any audible noise she should come rushing. And rushing she did come. Lady Alvord, a woman who was noble only in name, was stood atop a stool, the frills of her not so elegant frock flailing wildly,
“By Orem’s hand!!”
Her cracked voice called. Loren gazed at her for a moment before looking around the room,
“What is it Ma’am?”
A sharp and icy glare shot from Lady Alvord’s eyes,
“A beast on the floor, gnawing upon my dress!”
Loren sighed, her head shook just a little as she knelt downwards to the floor. A small animal scurried along the ground, from her apron she drew a small piece of bread, stolen from the pantry of the house to feed herself that night. Loren motioned the small creature to her, her hands gripping the bread, slowly it came to her, nibbling on the bread, of no danger to anybody, hungry is all that it was. Loren lifted the small creature of Avo onto her hands,
“Ma’am its only a small beastie, I’m sure it meant no harm to you.”
Lady Alvord would have none of it, she grunted in a most unladylike fashion as she descended from the stool. With a snap of her hand she knocked the creature to the ground and with a swift stamp of her foot she crushed it. Loren stared, her eyes welled with tears,
“But--but ma’am it was only…”
Her sentence was cut short by a stinging slap across the face,
“Clean that bloodied mess up right away then get back to whatever it was you were doing!”
As the tears began to flood Loren’s eyes she rushed out of the room to gather what was needed to clean up the remains of the precious little creature. As she gathered the brush, the rags and the water she couldn’t help but think of her Father, a kind and genial man who had taught her many things, but most of all respect for the life of the land.
“My precious Loren, all things, all creatures no matter how small, within Albion are a beautiful gift from the god Avo. He gives life to those truly deserving of it. He nurtures those who need nurturing and he protects the weak and innocent. But sometimes the anger of our race can contradict his nature and his wishes. But sometimes we do destructive things. That is why it is people like you and I who must also help to protect these creatures from those who would do them harm.”
The words still echoed through her head as she washed the tattered rags of the cloth across the small blood stain on the textured wooden floor. Her Father was so caring, as was her Mother, both loved the land of Albion dearly and both also taught nature studies in their younger days. It was with the greatest hopes they passed on their teachings to their only daughter, so as one day she too would carry on their legacy. It was this life of respect for the creatures of Albion that had forged Loren’s caring nature. She hastily finished clearing away the remains, trying her best to her back an even heavier flood of tears.
The day had been long and arduous. More pain had come and gone. The anguish never ceased, never resided and once again her hatred for the lord and lady of the house grew. Loren’s head touched against her flimsy pillow, her thin layer of fabric she used a quilt just about reached her knees as she curled up in the basement of the house and once again drifted off to dream about the future she would never have.
Fable: The Dark Age
Chapter 1: Birth of the Brethren
Cold night and the sound of forged steel still rung heavy across the land of Albion. The Dark Age had all but consumed the entire land laying waste to everything that was and paving the way for all that had yet to come. All that was evil and that defied the laws of the gods was now in plain sight for all the citizens of Albion to see. The Seven Year War had ravaged the land leaving it as nothing more than a shadow of its former self. A rippled reflection in a deathly mirror that foretold of things to come. Of Death, of pain, of suffering and of pestilence and violent retribution. Of fallen Heroes and long lost ways of the legendary Guild.
The night had come to rest upon Greatwood. The trees, stripped of their bark and leaves, towered naked in the night sky. That once beautiful sky, that now seemed to burn red with hate and anger at the fate that had befallen the land, left an eerie backdrop for the forest. The smell of burning rubble and torched flesh dispersed into the air after the attack on Bowerstone earlier that day. A glowing figure in white darted amidst the trees, a trail of perfect emanation left glittering in her wake. Stopping briefly behind an Elm tree she looked cautiously. It was dangerous for her to be here. A Seer of Avo. Her kind had appeared in Albion not long ago with the intent to save the world from its own destruction- it was too little and much too late. A tear of sadness rolled down her cheek for the Seer not only saw, she felt as well. The pain of the lands of Albion, the anguish of those who lived there, of those who died there. Her kind had the greatest of intentions when they came here, but now, now they were hunted by the minions of Orem, they were tortured and their bodies ground to dust, their spirits stolen by dark will users and imprisoned in glass vials, locked away in the hell fires of Orem’s bastion in the south.
She had to be careful for her message held great importance. The last of the Heroes of Albion needed to know about the prophecy, about the foretelling of the one that would come to save the land. She snuck quietly, once again her perfect white trail left hanging in the air along her path like a mist or fog. Her frail beautiful body bounced effortlessly from the ground as her feet seemed to guide themselves to the wall by the bridge, quickly she dropped down and twirled her white mythril fabric around the corner so she was concealed beneath the bridge. They were here, the four Heroes to be entrusted with the future of Albion. The lands last hope. She drew from inside her over garment four small pieces of papyrus paper, all with the same inscription. To each of the Heroes she handed one.
“And so the prophecies say- the time of Dark will come to pass and those with honour and love for justice and liberty will fear to hold their heads high and will cower in the shadows whilst those filled with hate and vengeance shall cast their wretched despair upon the land. One shall come to Albion, born of peasant and humble origins, and raised this Hero, shall be, to fight the evil and bring about the rebirth of the Kingdom of Old. The Hero of Albion. The last hope against the all consuming Dark.”
The Heroes read and understood their quest well. With forced smiles to each other they all knew this could be their last, and greatest, quest ever undertaken. Their power and skill would give way to another, to the saviour of the land. There, beneath the bridge they sat, a skin full of ale in raised hands, they drank one last time to the Guild, to the god Avo and to the fallen Heroes who gave their lives fighting against Orem, the false god. The Seer watched and blessed the four Heroes with luck and prosperity, both of which seemed to be non existent in these dark times and then she parted ways, for the last time. Her body once again flitting silently from tree to tree, that white glow streaking behind her. Making her way cautiously and carefully back to her place of solace and sanctum, to where the last of the Seers of Avo remained, behind the Demon Door at Lookout Point.
The four Heroes remained beneath the bridge in Greatwood for one final vow after the Seer left.
“May your journeys fare you well.”
The voice of Guyana spoke lightly, his chain mail armour blood stained and his soul disheartened but his mind rushing with the thoughts of his quest. From a small bag he removed four broaches, identical in skilled beautiful craftsmanship he pinned one to each of the four Heroes,
“We are the Brethren of Avo my friends.”
He pinned a broach upon Aylana,
“May his light guide you, keep you true and protect you from evil.”
He pinned a broach upon Serrian,
“We will meet again someday, until then we will grow. We will train others, hidden away from the evils of Orem.”
He pinned a broach upon Zarin and with a glimpse to the final broach he pinned it to his own cloak.
“We leave for the four corners of Albion tonight. Safe journey my old companions.”
The group dispersed from beneath the bridge. Each going their separate ways to find their own place in the world, to grow the Brethren of Avo and await the birth of the one who they were now sworn to protect.
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Chapter 2: Loren, The Servent
Morning arose in the small village of Regalia and so to did arise Loren. Her eyes flickered open, in the mere moments of careless morning bliss she smiled, something she rarely ever did. Her life had been one of servitude and of pain. Her family mercilessly slaughtered almost two years ago in Bowerstone by Orem’s minions, she had been taken as a slave to one of the Generals and then sold onwards to Lords and Ladies, to those who would wish to carry favour with Orem. Those who would pay him gold, livestock and sacrifice their own children in his name for a masterful title, a piece of land and a safer existence. She had lost track of the places she had been through, her soul had grown all too weary of keeping track of how far from home she had gone. The reach of Orem and those who followed him seemed to know no boundaries. Her days were filled with the lustful urges of any young woman, not only lust for sexual desire but for things that made her feel complete. Love, a happy home and children. A pretty garden to plant trees, vegetables and fruits to live off, to barter with the locals and to feel wanted, not for services rendered, but for herself and for who she was. Sometimes her daydreams of these fantasies were the only things which kept her going. They were what stopped her from thinking of the dreaded truth, the fact that she would never be free of this life, not as long as she was alive.
She hurried herself to get ready, she had almost overslept. Throwing on her rags against her filthy skin she swiftly dashed downstairs where Lady Alvord was already waiting, a barrage of orders came next and as Loren busied herself she once again thought back to that perfect life she would never have. Her pretty house sitting on the edge of town, her husband tilling the garden while she followed trying to plant seeds but always being too preoccupied with trying to keep a close eye on her children as they rough housed on the dirt pathway. She was snapped from her reverie by the screams of Lady Alvord. The woman could be dying for all Loren cared but to dismiss the screams would mean a lashing with the nine tails, she had only ever received such a beating once but it was enough for her to learn that when master or mistress of the house called, or screamed, or made any audible noise she should come rushing. And rushing she did come. Lady Alvord, a woman who was noble only in name, was stood atop a stool, the frills of her not so elegant frock flailing wildly,
“By Orem’s hand!!”
Her cracked voice called. Loren gazed at her for a moment before looking around the room,
“What is it Ma’am?”
A sharp and icy glare shot from Lady Alvord’s eyes,
“A beast on the floor, gnawing upon my dress!”
Loren sighed, her head shook just a little as she knelt downwards to the floor. A small animal scurried along the ground, from her apron she drew a small piece of bread, stolen from the pantry of the house to feed herself that night. Loren motioned the small creature to her, her hands gripping the bread, slowly it came to her, nibbling on the bread, of no danger to anybody, hungry is all that it was. Loren lifted the small creature of Avo onto her hands,
“Ma’am its only a small beastie, I’m sure it meant no harm to you.”
Lady Alvord would have none of it, she grunted in a most unladylike fashion as she descended from the stool. With a snap of her hand she knocked the creature to the ground and with a swift stamp of her foot she crushed it. Loren stared, her eyes welled with tears,
“But--but ma’am it was only…”
Her sentence was cut short by a stinging slap across the face,
“Clean that bloodied mess up right away then get back to whatever it was you were doing!”
As the tears began to flood Loren’s eyes she rushed out of the room to gather what was needed to clean up the remains of the precious little creature. As she gathered the brush, the rags and the water she couldn’t help but think of her Father, a kind and genial man who had taught her many things, but most of all respect for the life of the land.
“My precious Loren, all things, all creatures no matter how small, within Albion are a beautiful gift from the god Avo. He gives life to those truly deserving of it. He nurtures those who need nurturing and he protects the weak and innocent. But sometimes the anger of our race can contradict his nature and his wishes. But sometimes we do destructive things. That is why it is people like you and I who must also help to protect these creatures from those who would do them harm.”
The words still echoed through her head as she washed the tattered rags of the cloth across the small blood stain on the textured wooden floor. Her Father was so caring, as was her Mother, both loved the land of Albion dearly and both also taught nature studies in their younger days. It was with the greatest hopes they passed on their teachings to their only daughter, so as one day she too would carry on their legacy. It was this life of respect for the creatures of Albion that had forged Loren’s caring nature. She hastily finished clearing away the remains, trying her best to her back an even heavier flood of tears.
The day had been long and arduous. More pain had come and gone. The anguish never ceased, never resided and once again her hatred for the lord and lady of the house grew. Loren’s head touched against her flimsy pillow, her thin layer of fabric she used a quilt just about reached her knees as she curled up in the basement of the house and once again drifted off to dream about the future she would never have.
