The Eye of the Phoenix

[Darg]

This is my first piece I am creating for the Fan Fiction section, and I am quite thankful that I can finally show my writing to others. This is the first chapter I am making in a series of stories. Please tell me any comments or questions you may have.

Chapter One~ The Blood Debt

It was night in Knothole Glade. Veros was sitting in his home on the hill, looking out into the vast darkness. It was autumn, a time of peace and new beginning, of friends and fellowship, but something gripped his heart in an icy prison. There was something that was troubling him, a dream that he had the previous night that left a burning mark in his mind. It was rare for a strong, knowledgeable one such as Veros to be frightened, but this dream forced him awake from the haze-like shroud he had been living his life in.

In his dream, he was walking through Witchwood as he always did on weekends to calm his nerves. A calm rain was falling and the sound of a nearby bird could be heard. He stepped through a clearing, where a few flowers grew in all colors and sizes. He stopped to pick one up and could smell the fragrant scent flowing off the petals. Suddenly, the flower caught fire, a green, flickering blaze that engulfed it totally. It crumbled to ash and fell out of Veros’ grip to the grass below. As he looked up from the ashes, he realized that the field was burning. A tall, emerald wall of flames circled the clearing, trapping him in the center. He gazed at the sky above, watching in horror as its soft azure color was slowly replaced by massive blood-red clouds that obscured all light. A wild urge to escape filled Veros as he sprinted blindly through the clearing. He reached the flame wall, screaming and shouting for anyone, anyone at all. Silence greeted him as he could hear the far-off call of a balverine. He spun around to behold what he feared most, the one thing in all of Albion that struck fear into his heart.

“I’ve been waiting Veros,” said the voice of Jack of Blades, standing in the center of his fiery ring, his crimson cloaks fluttering around him like the wings of a great evil moth and his eyes reflecting the dark fire of the wall. “You have debts to pay.”
“What debt do I owe you?” Veros said, his voice shaking and his hand on his hilt.
Jack drew his blade, running his gloved finger over the edge of it as he hissed, “Do not be so naïve, Veros. Because of you and your bloodline, I have walked this damned earth looking for another suitable weapon of a true god after your ancestors destroyed my last blade, the Eye of the Phoenix. It was your great, great grandfather that sent my weapon over the cliffs of infernal judgment and ended my short reign over Albion. You are the last member of the bloodline to date, and it appears your luck has run out.”

Veros was sweating as he heard this. Many years had passed since his grandfather had told him the story of their past, and how glorious it was that their family, the Bantain family, had defeated Jack of Blades once. Now it had come back to haunt him. “What do you want from me, demon?” he screeched as he drew his long iron sword and looked into the deep fiery eyes of Jack.
“You owe me nothing,” he said darkly, “Nothing but a blood debt Veros.” With that, Jack swung his blade, fast and in a single motion, killing Veros. He awoke screaming to find that his hand was on the hilt of his sword and he had made a puddle of sweat. He had not slept the rest of the night. Jack of Blades was going to find him.

End Chapter One.

[Dark Drakan]

Liking this start so far, very detailed and descriptive and really liking the scenes you are setting.... really great piece +rep!

[Angel]

Looks good - keep it coming!

[Darg]

Thank you. I have always wanted to write a story of some sort about the Fable universe. There are so many characters and so many things you could explore that it's awesome. After this story, look for some more ones.

[Darg]

This is the second installment. It does not contain as much action as the first, but I assure you, it's only building plot.

Chapter Two~ The Dawn Breaker

“Lovely day, isn’t it Veros?” was the first thing the innkeeper, Badris said in his deep gravelly voice as he poured him a glass of Knothole Ale. “It looks like something’s botherin’ ya my friend. You don’t look yaself.” Evident by his dialect, Badris was not very well educated, the obvious reason he was a simple innkeeper.
“Oh, Badris. Something is bothering me. You knew my grandfather, Jericio Bantain, right?” Veros responded, sipping from the glass deeply as he looked around the inn, empty, save for a frustrated bard and a drunken woodcutter. Badris looked at Veros intently as he cleaned a glass with an old rag.
“Yes. A good man e’ was. Gave me most o’ my business back when this here inn was naught but a small pub. Why do ya ask?”
Veros remembered for a moment how his grandfather was quite the jolly man, the reason he got along well with Badris, good-hearted and good-humored by virtue as he said, “Did he once tell you of our ancestry and of the Eye of the Phoenix?”
Badris stopped cleaning the glass at once and stared at Veros for a moment, “Aye. A bold tale and a great one at that. Your great grand father was a brave man, the wielder of a powerful blade e’ told me, the one that sent Jack’s blade into oblivion.” Veros motioned for him to continue, his eyes becoming wide as a child waiting intently, “This blade e’ told me was called The Dawn Breaker, a weapon so powerful it could hew a might Greatwood oak in half! E’ said it was forged in the mountains by master smiths and designed by the greatest scholars Albion has ever known. I s’pose it could only be a myth, knowing about all the tall tales your grandfather told me.”

“No, Badris. I know this is true. My grandfather would never lie about this. He told me about it once,” Veros suddenly said, “He once said that ‘when the dawn breaks and the fight is finished, what remains will be the Eye of the Phoenix.’”
“Eh? Sounds like a load of Hogwash if I ever heard it. I s’pose you could research it a bit though. I heard that Melinda Germain up the hill a ways knows about that sort o’ thing. She’s been recordin’ Albion history for as long as I can remember. If ya ask her about it, she could tell you a few details about yer grandfather. I imagine she has a couple o’ old journals layin’ around, knowing how she’s a bit of a nosy one.”
“Wait,” Veros interrupted, “What was that last bit?”
“She’s a bit of a nosy one? I thought ya knew. Why, she was snoopin’ around old man Rhodes’ house last night-”
“No, no, no! I mean the part about the journals.” Veros said, getting frustrated at his friend, whom he believed a dead hobbe was smarter than.
“Oh. Right then. Your grandfather told me that your great-grandfather kept journals on all o’ his trips through Albion, even the one where he defeated Jack. I imagine if they’re still around that they’d be little more than dust then my friend. Although I s’pose it wouldn’t hurt a thing to go see. Avo knows what sorts of things that woman has in her house.” With that, Veros was off to the old house of Germain, expecting the worse from the old woman. She was rumored to be a powerful mage, and when provoked, she could turn your entire body into a pile of ash in mere seconds. Veros hoped for his sake that Badris knew what he was talking about.

End Chapter Two.

[darthlime101]

Wow. That was poweful. Good use of dialouge with the inn keeper. I can't wait for the third chapter.

[Darg]

Thank you. I like to develop the characters before getting into the plot a bit more, but trust me, there'll be more on the way!

[Darg]

Behold, the third chapter. Trust me, after this one, I hope I can make some longer, more in depth chapters.

Chapter 3~ A Twilight Prophecy

The door of the house, golden rimmed and engraved with an inscription of unreadable figures in its center. The house itself was built in an untraditional style for Knothole Glade housing, three stories tall with arched windows and stone buttresses making it look like a refurbished cathedral. Veros rapped his fist on the large gold frame door, it making an ominous dull ring that suggested the house was rather large inside. He could see a dark shape across the room rise from its position and step towards the door slowly. The large engraved door swung open with the sound of the rusty hinges creaking in the air.

“Who in Skormm’s teeth is it now?” the hoarse, angry voice of Melinda Germain shouted, her sharp features coming into view. She was a short woman with an arched back and a head of untidy silver hair with black rimmed glasses resting precariously on the tip of her long, bent nose. “Who? Wait a minute- You’re Jericio Bantain’s grandson Verich or something right?”
“Um… it’s Veros,” he said, irritated that his simple name was so difficult to remember. “I believe you may have information concerning my great-grandfather if I am right. May I-“
“Come right in,” the withered old woman said, inviting Veros in with a gesture of her bony hands, “any relative of mister Jericio is welcome here. So what is it you seek?”
“I just-“Veros was again interrupted by the ever-irritable Germain.
“Oh yes, I know! You wanted to know something about your great-grandfather Voris.”
“It’s Veros. I wish to know about,” he paused and whispered beneath his breath, “The Dawn Breaker.”
“What?” Germain said, staring into Veros’ deep eyes. “Who told you about the sword? Dammit, I bet it was that bloody Badris down the hill. What do you know?”
Veros followed Germain to a table and two finely-carved chairs and sat down as he said, “Badris told me about how The Dawn Breaker was wielded by my great-grandfather when he defeated Jack and the Eye of the Phoenix. I need to know the details and you seemed to be the best source of information.”

“I don’t think you have the slightest idea boy, about what you’re getting into. The two swords are sacred as Albion itself and-“for the first time, it was Veros who interrupted the conversation.
“Look, I had a dream two nights ago about Jack. He came to me in my sleep and told me of the Eye of the Phoenix. He said that since I was the last of the Bantain bloodline that he would hunt me down and kill me to get revenge on my family for banishing his sword to oblivion. It’s just a dream but-“
“I have heard of this before,” Germain said, as she suddenly developed a far-off look in her old eyes, “It is called a Twilight Prophecy. It is a way that Jack can contact anyone while in a subconscious state. It is not merely a dream boy. This is reality. I know just what you need.” And so it was confirmed. Jack was alive and was not going to falter until Veros lie dead. As it was said in an ancient Bard’s poem, ‘Those who break the dawn, now nigh, they are the ones watched by the Phoenix Eye.”

[weirdkidinabox]

Its obvious you've put a lot of thought into the concepts behind the story- the twilight prophecy being the more prominent one that demonstrates this. Youre thinking about how things are happen, the reasons behind it and explaining it well instead of just assuming that the reader will know it straight off the bat. (I hope that made sense lol)

Its nice to see people putting effort into their stories, working in and around good storylines and advancing their plots instead of just going with a flurry of action. It still keeps a nice Fable vibe to it as well which is good. I totally loved the description during the dream sequence, the wall of emerald flames and blood red skies invoked wicked awesome visuals- which is something I find a lot of stories to be lacking. Congratulations on that dude. Ill be waiting on the next chapters coming along, I do hope you get more in depth with longer chapters

[Darg]

It's always a good thing to recieve good criticism. Thank you very much, and I have a new chapter ready for release. A few new twists are addressed, as well as something that changes the course of what happens in the story. Keep checking in!

Here we go on the fourth chapter of the series. Enjoy!

Chapter 4~ The Library

Veros was lead through the Melinda Germain’s house as he admired the impressive southern architecture and was astonished by her wealth. She lead him to a marble staircase, spiraling down through what seemed to be at least four stories. As he stepped down the long passageway, he noticed that a thin mist began to develop and the temperature dropped considerably. When they finally reached the bottom of the large stairwell, an area with flagstone flooring and oil lamps lighting the dim way, Melinda spoke.

“If I am not mistaken, you have heard of my library, no?” Veros nodded his head, “Very good. I have amassed every ancient scroll, book and archetype I could find and have assembled them in this, the library of Germain.” With that, she turned and snatched up one oil lantern, leading Veros through the dark, cold room, presumably a basement at one time. A large opening in the stone wall lead from the basement to a high-ceiling room lit by countless gilded chandeliers and adorned with huge, flowing tapestries of warriors and magicians great and numerous. This was the library. Rows upon rows of oak shelves, several stories tall lined the room, trolleys filled with books and scrolls in several different sections set the scene for the very impressive work. Veros’ jaw dropped open in amazement as he gazed around the grand room. Melinda noticed his expression, and took the chance to boast, “You like it, I see. It’s not very often that I get to show off this beauty to anyone. They all think I’m just the crazy old woman on the hill. But this, my boy, this is my life’s work. Thousands of works of literature and accounts of history are here within my library. Now come.” She marched away down a narrow row of shelves for a moment, Veros in tow, until she came upon a particular shelf where the books seemed to be coated in dust.

She hopped onto a trolley and climbed a tall ladder to one of the top shelves, searching through piles of aged scrolls and periodically humming and speaking to herself. After what seemed like ten minutes, she emerged and said triumphantly, “Ah-ha! Here it is boy,” she slid down the ladder with the agility of someone much younger before running a bony hand through her silver hair and turning to Veros, “You see this? This book is a writer’s account of what happened that night so very long ago. It also has a thorough history of the swords. I found this among the remains of an old chapel in my travels a few years past. Very old, yet very informative. Follow me.” When they reached a large, finely-carved oak desk filled with papers, Melinda slumped down in a wide-back armchair and motioned for Veros to sit opposite her in an equally large chair.

When they were both seated, Veros decided he wanted to pose the question that bothered him the most. “Ms. Germain. I know this is helping and all, but what can I do about this situation? Jack wants me dead and he is not going to stop with me just knowing about my history. I need to know how to stop him for Avo’s sake!”
Melinda opened the ancient text to the fifth page without looking up and began, “I’m most afraid I cannot help you in that. My knowledge with that is limited. However, I may be able to help you in another way. Listen to this. On this first page, a passage states, ‘Those of the Bantain-born beware the blood-king’s thorn, out of fire, ash and gold, it is made, the sword of old. May the noble Bantain, feel no anguish or pain, for in their bold hand, they must take the sword of the northern land. This is the blade that shatters the dark, Avo’s angels do hark, this is the sword of the ice lake, and with it the dawn you may break.’ This is it boy. It is saying that if a Bantain possesses The Dawn Breaker, then he is immune to Jack’s dark magic and the sword of old, The Eye of the Phoenix. You must find the sword and defeat Jack.”
“What in bloody hell are you talking about? I can’t just go off and try to find this sword! Besides, my grandfather said it was lost in the battle.” Veros said, not believing what he was hearing.

“Not so. It also says later that The Dawn Breaker runs through the ancient bloodline of the Bantain family, waiting for another worthy soul to claim its sacred hilt. Your great-grandfather was one of the Bantains to claim the sword. It reappears throughout your bloodline for the Bantain that is worthiest.” Melinda explained, rifling through the book and marking several pages with strips of Balverine hide.
“But how do I go about getting the sword? And what does it mean ‘a worthy soul’? This is too much! I can’t believe the lot of this.”
“You have to boy, if you want to save your life,” she paused, “and more importantly, your bloodline.” She put the book aside and pulled a smaller, more worn book from her desk drawer and placed it amidst the mess of papers on her desk. “Lucky for you, I have been looking at this book for awhile before you even arrived.”
“And what would that be?” said Veros anxiously.
“Actually, it is your great-grandfather’s journal of his travels.” The moment she said it, Veros snatched it off of the desk and stared at it in amazement. After all the long years, this was where the journal wound up at. Melinda continued, “Your great-grandfather was an impeccable writer as he was an adventurer, and accounted everything to the slightest detail. Let me see that,” She took the old book from Veros and flipped to a marker made in the page with another strip of Balverine hide.

She cleared her throat and read, “Day 15 of my illustrious adventure into the Northern wastes- My small party and I have landed ourselves into a dense grove of trees northbound of the lost harbor. The Lake of Bridmor is just over the hill, as my two scouts have already reported. It is here we will be making our camp tonight, in a place that the ice giants cannot reach due to the immense thickness of this grove. It is by this that we name this place ‘The Grove of the Savior’. We have already signaled the second party on the other side of the bay with a flaming arrow in the sky. They will bring us reinforcements and supplies when the time is ready. Day 16- It is a glorious day for my party and for my family. I have found what I have quested so very long and hard to find: The Dawn Breaker. It rested at the center of the lake, thrown amidst a sea of ice shards. It was a perilous feat crossing to the middle of the frozen water, with the constant danger of slipping and plummeting beneath the icy cold drink, as none of us were well equipped for swimming with our heavy platemail. I have truly proven to the sword my worthiness of wielding it by venturing here. The blade is magnificent and burns with the fire of thousands of ancestors before me who have wielded it. Soon we will be the talk of all Albion and will be legendary for years to come.”

“Incredible! That sounds exactly like how my grandfather told me. I just wonder why he didn’t inform me about how to find the sword,” Veros said.
“If I knew your grandfather right, and I did, then I know that he did not want you to know until you really needed to. He was a fickle man if not a great one,” Melinda stood up from her chair and presented Veros with the journal, “It would seem that you need this more than I ever will.”
Veros responded with a confused, “Why?”
“Why of course boy! You are going to the Northern Wastes. You should be packing.” Veros’ heart froze like ice (ironic) as he heard this. If Jack wouldn’t kill him, then the journey would first.

[Darg]

Omg, I haven't been exactly so up-to date on this story. I swore to myself it wouldn't happen, but of course it did... Trust me, by tonight, there will FINALLY BE MORE!

[Angel]

Really looking forward to reading more

[Vegeta]

Me 2!!!

[Darg]

Sorry I'm a bit late, people but bear with me. And thus we have my fifth chapter, a bit longer mind you, but I hope you'll enjoy it. In the future I'll try to update this story more.

Chapter 5~ The Stranger

It was about four o’clock in the morning when Veros was awake. He was wandering about his house in a haze, not remembering the previous night’s events. His mind was in a fog of some sort, not allowing him to see something, obscuring the truth. He stepped to his window, opening the thick shutters with a thin creak of rusty metal. Something was not right, in his mind and in the world. The overcast sky over Witchwood far beyond the Knothole Glade gate could be seen, mingled with rising fog and billowing smoke. Smoke? Veros was suddenly brought back out of his haze, realizing that something was definitely not right. He sprinted across his bedroom, snatched up his worn old cloak and darted out the front door, his heart pounding hard against his ribcage. As he stepped out into the village, his worst fears were confirmed. Witchwood was burning, a thick black smoke rising out of the autumn colors, vast crimson flames licking at the sky and scorching the ground. For a moment, there he stood, in a stunned silence, as he realized that Knothole Glade was as well burning. The inn was a scorched mass of oaken debris and every inch of the village was set ablaze with blood-red fury.

Veros’ mind was burning just as the city was. Who could have done this? But then it hit him like an earth troll. He spun around to realize the worst had come true. Jack stood amidst the flames, his scarlet cloak mirroring the surroundings eerily. Jack grasped Veros by his shirt and threw him against the general store outer wall, breathing in the smoke with a hoarse hissing sound. Jack approached Veros, dazed and wounded. He thrust him against the wall with his armored fist and drew his blade. “You see what happens when you try to do the impossible, Veros? I swear by my blade and the cursed blade of your kin that you will die where you stand,” said the sinister tone emanating from behind the dark mask. Veros could smell his breath, a smell that could only be described as a culmination of hopelessness and death. “Now this is what I have dreamed of doing for many years to the heir of the sword. No mortal can ever best Jack of Blades. You should no that by now.” The sword pierced Veros’ chest, making the burning fire in his mind explode in an unbearable sensation of pain.

And then he was awake. In his dark, dank room, he felt more alone than he ever had. Another Twilight Prophecy had come and gone, more terrifying and terrible than the last. Veros’ mind still stung with the horrible memory of his dream, everything he knew and loved ablaze and dying. The foul breath of Jack of Blades, the very scent that made souls scream he had smelled. It was now that he decided he would not give it, he would not stand by quietly while Jack destroyed everything he ever cared about without opposition. He would not be reluctant of the journey, and would take it on just as he wished to take on Jack. Veros swore from this day on he would not be a coward in the face of his one fear, but he knew one day he would come face to face with the source of all evil in Albion, the cold hand that urges on all darkness. On that day, he would stand his ground and face the fury. This he promised.

Just before dawn, a time that seemed to calm Veros’ nerves before the coming day was now a time of preparation for the oncoming challenge. He was in his room, ascending his makeshift staircase made of old dressers and chests to his attic, enclosed and crowded with family heirlooms and random trinkets. A thin layer of dust seemed to rest perpetually on the floorboards and a ceiling of cobwebs arched above the myriad of chests and crates. Veros weaved his way past a few rows of ancient chests before he reached one that stood out among the rest. It was made of silver and rare pearl, in which he kept his most valued of items. He pulled a long black key from his cloak pocket and fitted it in the old keyhole, turning it softly. The sound of a dull metal mechanism sounded and the chest popped open easily. Veros knelt, observing the items he had long ago forgotten, but now meant so much. On the top was the only weapon he had ever owned, a steel katana with a Balverine bone hilt, a weapon his own father had given him at the age of 18. He had once said that “this weapon, son, is to be only used in the case of emergency as you remember your honor and use it for defense only.” Now was that emergency. He grasped its hilt, strangely familiar after all these years. It shined with a brilliant light as if it was new, reflecting Veros’ face. He had a young-looking face for being 32 years of age, and had a messy head of auburn hair and a small goatee. Something came into his mind, but he brushed it off as usual.

Then, he realized the other contents of the chest. His eyes became wide and his heart heavy at the discovery of an old memory. A painting in a brass picture frame done long ago by a local artist lay atop a stack of assorted items quite amiss. It was the portrait of Melissa Bantain, his wife for two long happy years. One cold, dark day when she was off in Witchwood picking berries and other ingredients, he received the news that she had been mauled to death by a pack of balverines in the grove. What had taken place those lonely years after could not be explained. Veros tragically seemed to lose hope over everything and his life seemed empty. When he looked at himself now, all he could see was his own hopelessness in his eyes. He had loved Melissa more than anything in his entire life and without her; he was desolate and lived alone. Veros made another vow to himself that if he returned alive, he would change his life. He would be a new man and would rethink his life. Perhaps, love might ignite him again. If only…

Amidst the supplies in the chest was a heavy oak crossbow and several packages of iron-tipped bolts. Veros was never known to be much of a marksman, but possessed some of the best reflexes he had ever seen. He hoisted it out of the chest and put it in its place among his current items for his journey. The last item of interest in the forgotten chest was one that surprised him and brought up another long-lost memory. A bundle of alchemical supplies and a few potions lay in the bottom of the chest in a heap. Once, before his marriage, Veros was an expert alchemist and could make some of the best potions in all of Albion. Like many things, it was something you remembered how to do throughout your entire life. This, he knew would be useful, perhaps even life-saving. With this thought, he shivered. This trip could very well be the end of it… of it all. The long beautiful walks through Witchwood, the friendship with Badris and his entire existence could all disappear with ease. With this chilling thought, he bundled up his items in a leather sack along with his food and readied his nerves for what would alter the course of his entire life.

As he stepped out his door, Veros beheld an unusual sight. Around Badris’ tavern and inn, a large crowd was gathered, of citizens of Knothole Glade and even the mainland that he had never seen. Heaving his large cumbersome sack over his shoulder, he made his way through the crowd, past a band of Bowerstone children. Curiously, they were chattering and giggling as they looked at him with wide eyes with expressions of awe. They were talking about him? Something told him that this crowd had to do with the fact that he was traveling to the Northern Wastes. In Albion, gossip spreads like a wildfire, a wildfire in a forest of townspeople eager for information. Great, he thought, publicity. He approached the bar, where Badris and his assistant, Durig were handing out drinks in a hurry to the massive mob. Durig’s, thin lanky appearance contrasted greatly with Badris’ pudgy, overfed frame. Durig was a pasty-faced, blue-eyed teenager, presumably 18 Veros guessed. He had a dark head of hair, also contrasting with Badris’ large bald head, as well as a thin, black moustache. He was well-known as a local artist, creating impressive paintings of people and places about the village. His father painted the portrait of Melissa long ago.

Continued on another post due