Fable muses

[Rae]

And so I begin obsessing, and so they appear. Now for dramatic music. *glared at* Erm.... ._. Never mind. Anyway. Fable muses in next post...since one of them has a loooooooooooong...bio. What? What else did you think I could possibly say, huh? *suspicious look*

[Rae]

Name: Reaver

Nicknames: n/a

Alias: Erm...he's the Hero of Skill, and, according to a tarot card, the Thief...does that work?

Race: Human

Age: In looks: Midt20s. In reality? Between 250 and 300 years old.

Appearance: Tall (about 6'7"), somewhat pale, and thin. A while back, he had brown hair and blue eyes, but now both are black. He's got a small heart-shaped tattoo on his left cheekbone and...er...here's some pics. As he is in Fable2: Link. And In Fable3: Link. And someone drew both versions together, so viola! Full body pics: Link.

Personality: Sarcastic, narcisstic, and hedonistic are three good words to describe his personality. Deviant, perverse, and cruel are three more. He's also quite proud and a flirt. He's good at making you feel like he's enjoying your company...when he's really laughing at you. He's also impatient, demanding, and not particulary loyal when it comes to his...romantic interests.

Likes: Parties, fighting, sex, alcohol, sailing, travel, money. Granted...he has moments where he just wants to be alone.

Dislikes: People wasting his time, being lied to, not having art of him being perfect, not getting his way, complaining...'peasants'.

Fears: Death.

Abilities: He's the Hero of Skill. In Albion, Skill is a Hero's trait that consists of three things: Speed, Accuracy, and Guile. Though most people consider Will (magic) to be the strongest of the Heroic traits, Skill is the only one to carry over into the other two disciplines (Strength and Will)...and Reaver is the master of it. He's a perfect shot, never missing his target even if he doesn't always decide to kill them. He's also incredibly fast, and...well, he's not supposedly the Thief for nothing, you know. He's sneaky and good at getting around undetected. He's also annoyingly witty, if that counts as an ability....

Weapons: He uses a cutlass, but his forte is guns. He is the (proud) owner of five out of six of the extremely rare Dragonstomper .48 pistols (only six were made, after all). Other weapons? Er...his oh-so-charming personality?

History: Erm...he's got a long, confusing, very mysterious history, but here's what I know: He was born and raised in the town of Oakvale. Sometime in his youth, he, afraid of death and aging, summoned the Shadow Court and asked them to keep him young forever...and they granted his request. They also destroyed his home, killing his friends, family; everyone he ever loved...including a girl he loved. Whether before or after that, I'mnot certain, but he becamse a pirate and becamse famous for taking ships with only one bullet in impossible situations: the more impossible the shot, the quicker the other ship would surrender. Eventually, Oakvale's ruins became Wraithmarsh and the town of Bloodstone cropped up near it. He went on to own the port of Bloodstone and had a nearly mayoral position of power within the town. Eventually, in Fable2, Sparrow (the main Hero) recruits Reaver to join them with defeating Lord Lucien...who is planning on royally messing up the world using this giant, wish-granting tower called the Spire. Reaver takes his time to join them, betraying Sparrow at least twice (and trying to sacrifice them to the Shadow Court), but also saving Sparrow's life a few times in the process. One Lucien is dead (which he helps with), Reaver and Garth (the Hero of Will) travel to Samarkand together. Bored, Reaver shoots Garth (who survives) and returns to Albion. Some time passes, and, under the rule of Sparrow's son Logan, he becomes the person incharge of Bowerstone Industrial and controls the factories as well as almost all the import and export around Albion (which must help with his smuggling. He both hinders and supports the main Hero of Fable3, especially after they become ruler, though he also tries to murder them at his house with his Wheel of Misfortune, a game where the Wheel opens doors to various rooms of nasty creatures who want to eat you. Last we know of him, he's left for Wraithmarsh for his next sacrifice...apparently Marcus caught him on his way back. (Though, I should point out that, in the book Blood Ties, he's moved houses and attempted to help a war lord take over some of Albion's countryside.)

Extra stuff: There are notes and letters and stuff he's left around in the games, so...here. Go ahead and read them.
--

Note On Door (Once you buy his house in Bloodstone):

If you are reading this, you have usurped my home. Well done.

May suppurating pustules plague every delicate part of your anatomy.

Be you stranger or acquaintance, friend or foe, you can enjoy the anecdotal tales I have recorded upon magical paper and left scattered in objects around the house.

Until I return to kill you and take back what is rightfully mine.

Vindictively yours,
Reaver.

--

Diary Entry 1:

This is my first night back since the renovations, and I must say that chap from Rookridge has done a splendid job. A small miracle considering he’d recently lost three toes and two family members. But what was I to do? He wouldn’t be persuaded to abandon the construction of some worthless temple to aid me in my time of crisis. And his predecessor had simply the worst taste in furnishings. I was generous to let him live as long as I did.

Now that awful scent of burnt wood and flesh has dissipated, perhaps I shall throw a party. Ursula and Penelope will be my guests of honor. Shame Andrew crumbled to ashes in the fire. What a sweet young fellow… But such a heavy sleeper.
--

Diary Entry 2:

It’s good to be home after these three last months at sea. My ship barely made it to port under the weight of such spoils, and then only after we disposed of those less valuable. It was a pity to see my new brides sink into the ocean, but their sizeable attributes rendered them unfeasibly heavy. And I’d already tossed all non-essential crew members to the ever-undulating arms of the kraken.

I believe my most cherished memory of this voyage has to be the discovery of an island far to the south of Albion, among waters of indescribable blue. There, men and women consort in ways even I found slightly objectionable. They have little need of clothing under that gentle sun, and their fondness for a syrupy liqueur made from an obscenely-shaped fruit made it almost too easy to plunder their possessions. I might have stayed there forever, had it not been for the monkey incident.
--

Diary Entry 3:

I am filled with a wonderful weariness tonight. My bedroom is far too crowded to get a good night’s sleep, and I’m too indolent to eject any of my lovely guests. Instead, I thought I would sit in my study sipping a restorative beverage, and enjoying my own company.

It reminds me of my very first evening in this house. My bedfellows were fewer and less charming then, but I had little energy left anyway. It isn’t every day that one murders a pirate king, and takes his place.

Oh, I had the vigour of youth back then. Real youth. How many must I have killed on my way to this very room? I shall never forget the look on the brigand’s face, one so ill-suited to royalty of any kind. How he came to such a position being so slow on the draw is a perfect mystery.

I feel somewhat reinvigorated now, and I hear stirrings from upstairs. Perhaps the night isn’t quite over yet.
--

Diary Entry 4:

I received an unusual visitor today, an adventurer who’d toddled in through Wraithmarsh losing neither life, limb nor sanity on the way.

This alone would have been sufficient to mark her as a unique individual, but once I’d learned she’d escaped from the demented grip of none other than Lord Lucien, I knew I had quite a catch in my hands.

I’ve sent an emissary to speak with Lucien and come to a lucrative arrangement. Since the time of the tribute is nearing--I can already feel the wrinkles begin to form on my face--I sent the poor cow to the Shadow Court to keep her busy. I’m sure the old loon in the Spire won’t mind if I post her back slightly decrepit. Should make it easier to keep her locked up.

I think I’ll celebrate my good fortune by commissioning a new portrait. I’ve heard of a chap with some sort of magical apparatus that renders almost lifelike results. I believe his name is Barnum, I shall have him brought to me today.

(Note: My game character was a woman, hence the use of 'she'. If I'd been a man, it would have been 'he', so...yeah. Changes slightly upon who you choose for a character. Also, Barnum is the third person you hear/see Reaver shoot over art. The first, a sculptor who hadn't chisled his...butt 'correctly'. The second, a painter who didn't get his cheek bones correct. And then Barnum, because the photograph would take three months to develop.)
--

Diary Entry 5:

I awoke from the nightmare again. One would think more than two hundred years would suffice to blunt its steel. But still I see Oakvale devoured by shadows. Still those shrieks fill the air. How much longer must I live before they fall silent?

Such dreams belong to another time. To another man. One who would recoil from the things I’ve done since that night. Who might even care about all the sacrifices I’ve offered up to the odious Judges over…over how long? Hundreds of years?

I see that man as he was back then. As beautiful as me, as fiery as me, but so delicate. So breakable. And so afraid of death. I see him summon the Shadow Court into this world, oblivious to the consequences. He asks them for immunity for the disease of time and death, and they grant it.

Then I see him running madly through fields, the realization of just what price he has unwittingly paid hanging like a tragedy mask from his face. He falls to his knees before the town he called home--now a dark circus of screams. Hers is among them, and he can do nothing to stop it.

What a weak, despicable man he is. But I am not he, I am Reaver. And I will sleep much better after this chalice of wine.
--

Reaver On Reaver Prologue:

Reaver on Reaver.
An Autobiography.
Prologue.

Dear devotees, you hold in your hands a slice of history. An unadulterated and adult-rated account of one of the longest, fullest and most scandalous lives ever lived. Mine.

For the intellectually-challenged among you--and I can say with some certitude that such a definition includes most of you, my dear, dear readers--I present here a brief abridged extract from one of my least demanding chapters. I do hope you can keep up. Who knows? Perhaps your dim little minds will be encouraged to consume the entire volume.

Not that I care a jot. I have your money already. And should you have shoplifted a copy or, far worse, borrowed one from those appalling institutions know as libraries, be warned that I will find you and perform many of the acts described in chapter twelve upon your person. Now, read on, my loves!

Chapter seventeen. The senile old hag was as good as her word, and I found myself magically transported to the land of Samarkand, thousands of miles away from the bloody Spire. There, my good fortune ended however, as I soon found that insufferable bore Garth materializing beside me.

This so-called scholar turned out to have little to teach me about his homeland. Little of interest at least. I had come seeking hot nights, exotic substances, and uninhibited people, and found an excess of the first, a miserly amount of the second, and a definite shortage of the third.

Still, my stay was not without its highlights. One particular evening springs to mind. My last one. I’d followed my humorless, pedantic companion into what I can only describe as the worst tavern ever to deserve such a moniker. Its pitiful cordials and feeble spirits did nothing to improve my mood, and the air was so thick with stodgy conversation one grew constipated merely by listening. It was then that I had the brilliant notion that would simultaneously catapult me out of that humdrum country and put an end to Garth’s miserable existence, as well as diverting me for several minutes. I stood up in front of the sober crowd and…

And…well, my darlings, there the extract ends. You will have to read the rest of the book to find out what happened. Cliffhangers are such a cheap, authorial trick, I know. But one that is not beyond me (as you shall see when you reach the end of chapters two, six, seven, and twenty-two).

Now, run ahead you little scamps. Plunge your clammy, thirsty fingers into the pages before you. I hope you enjoy reading their contents as much as I enjoyed living them.
--

A note from Reaver:

Note for a monarch.

Greetings, your majesty.

I do hope your battle against the dark forces so intent on destroying our way of life went well. It would be such a disappointment to find you all dead when I return. For yes, I must take my leave now and attend to a matter of a somewhat personal nature. It is a regular appointment of mine, and one that grows more tiresome with each passing year.

Perhaps I will tell you more about it one day. Until then, allow me to say that is has been a privilege to serve you, and I eagerly anticipate doing so again in the near future. Tatty bye!

Your friend, and loyal attendant,
Reaver

(Here's what the tarot card says about him: The Thief is the most mysterious and contradictory of figures. It is the synthesis of beauty and cruelty, vivacity and decay, the ephemeral and eternal. The mirror represents vanity; the rose, hedonism. And the blood is the violence that binds them together.

The Thief is age, which robs us of our strength and looks. It is death, which robs us of our life. It is the worst in all of us. It is what we must all fear.)

And...I think that's all. Woot! On to the demonic chest....

[Rae]

Name: Chesty the Chest

Nicknames: Chesty

Alias: um...none.

Race: It's a chest...a wooden chest.

Age: um...n/a

Appearance: Like I said, it's a wooden chest. Rounded on top, but square-ish in size.... Oh, and it has a human form. Fable says it's a boy, but Chesty showed up to me as a girl when someone spelled her into a human form. She looks very young, with ashy, tan skin and dark curly pigtails and pitch-black eyes. She usually is in a frilly pinafore dress (think Alice in Wonderland) and shiny black shoes...and she's usually rather blood-splattered.

Personality: Perky andcheerful. Nothing every really gets her down and she's alway looking for a new friend...of course, she's also psychotic and obsessed with playing games and driving others to madness, murder, or suicide.

Likes: People, games, making friends, murder, death, blood...yeah, you see whereI 'm going with this, don't you?

Dislikes: People hurting its "friends", aka monsters and other beings it has trapped in its realm, people leaving it.

Abilities: It can suck people into a nightmare realm through sleep where it either summons beings to attack you or forces you to play a twisted version of some classic game...like chess. :/

Of course, after these two lovely people...er...well, technically one person and a chest, it's only fitting the next is the Queen of Albion, right? :/