This is what I always imagined would be the impression left on the child of my first Hero from the first Fable. I basically had him marry a bunch of women, then he was never in town. At most, I'd send him somewhere to buy some health potions. So if he had children, they wouldn't know him for himself, only through legend.
All she had wanted her whole life was to know her father. People told her all the time who he was and she never met him. There were so many things to say, so many. He was a wandering Hero often cloaked in shadow. Armor blacker than night, eyes redder than blood, such were the legends, but she wouldn't know. She had never known the man, only heard all the legends that passed about the great and vicious Deathbringer.
He was fabled to wield the mighty Bereaver, an unholy sword crafted for the most violent and strong of Heroes. It was not just this, but that he was a devotee of Skorm, that caused all of Albion to kneel before his might. All but one person.
Helena.
With auburn hair and hazel eyes, and the fairest skin of all Albion's finest, she was his daughter. Though she had never known the man, she couldn't help but to love the man that brought her to exist in such a place as Albion. For though disease ran rampant and poverty was widespread, there was so much beauty in the nature that surrounded her. So deep was her reverence for him, in fact, that she had trained to become just like him, learned the ways of the Guild, and at the young age of eighteen, she left home.
It was a crisp night in late Autumn when she arrived in Knothole Glade, the only town that her father frequented. She could only hope that legend was true, and that he would be easy to recognize amongst the other Heroes that the Arena inevitably drew here. And so she wandered the dirt roads and wooden houses of the rainy little town, looking for any sign of the man. She finally did find him, though he was not in the town.
A tournament at the Arena, she found out, was being hosted with her father as the final challenge. She bought a ticket as part of the audience and watched teams of Heroes go in and fight through each and every challenge. A whole week went by of this fighting. Wasps, Hobbes, trolls, balverines, bandits, the undead. It was a traditional Arena fight in most regards. Overall, it bored her and she wanted nothing more than to show the combatants just how to truly use their abilities.
"Ladies and gentlemen," it was the announcer, "please applaud our special guest, the one, the only Deathbringer!"
She looked up to the balcony where the announcer and any special guests would be. Her father stood at the edge of it, leaning over a railing. He wore heavy black, spiked plate, a horned black helmet and across his back were the legendary Sword of Aeons and the Bereaver. The man with the power to destroy all of Albion was standing right before her eyes, and she could see now that those stories she had been told her whole life were true.
Deathbringer's voice was one of elegance, but very venomous, as he spoke, "Today is the final day of the qualifications for these combatants to test their mettle and see if they have become strong enough to best me. Only two fighters remain, with but one way to settle who shall take me on. And so, it is my great honor to present to you, the very people who elevated me to where I am now, the mighty spawn of the beast I slew here so long ago: Suspiria!"
She had heard of this creature. Her father, many decades ago, had slain the beast Arachnox, a massive scorpion. Well, that monster had birthed another monster of equal terror and power, the beastly spider Suspiria. A titanic, eight-legged demon capable of slaying nearly any Hero she so chose.
One of the gates opened and in walked a Hero who did not seem to have nearly enough strength to combat the beast. And she was right. He fell, and in walked the second, who was much more resilient and capable in the battle. Fighting raged on the Arena floor for several hours as blows were exchanged and magic was tossed between the two beings. Finally, Suspiria succumbed to the fighter's strength and was removed from the ring.
"We have a winner!" came the excited call of the announcer. "Brave Hero, go and rest now, for tonight shall be the one which determines your place in history... forever!"
The young woman left her seat to go and find a food vendor, and while she was up, stumbled across several men from the Guild. Alex, Royson and Garret. They were all three disrespectful, and all three tormented poor Helena for never knowing her father, for never being able to rise to his greatness, for not following in his footsteps. And worst of all, for mothering a child at her young age. She hated them, with a fiery passion she hated them. If only it were them in the ring against her father tonight. Then they would see.
Hours passed, the sun had gone down and the Arena was alight with torch light and braziers. The combatant from earlier stood in the ring, waving his arms as the crowd roared around him. Then, the minstrels began playing a very ominous sound. The pounding of the drums echoed fear as the audience hushed. The grating at the Arena's center opened as Deathbringer, in all his terrifying glory, rose from beneath the floor wielding his two swords as if they were each meant for one hand.
"Ladies and gentlemen of Albion, it is with great honor and pride that we at the Witchwood Arena present to you the one, the only, the Dark Lord of Albion's shadows, the might Deathbringer!"
The two combatants bowed before moving to opposite sides of the Arena floor. The fighting cue sounded and the battle began. It didn't take long before the challenger was torn apart by the Bereaver's many hooked edges. Deathbringer kicked the poor corpse in the head before issuing a new challenge.
"Spectators, you have come to witness a great battle! This, sadly, was far from great. While the man who now lies dead before you showed great skill against the unintelligent beasts and bandits that Heroes are pitted against here, his skills were nothing against a seasoned veteran of bloodshed like myself. And so, people of Albion, I issue this challenge. Shall a Hero of exceptional skill please enter the Arena, armed with all of the talents taught by the Guild, and face me?"
Many moments passed where all the men and women in the Arena sat still. They dared not stand for fear of being taken as a challenger. Helena contemplated, then stood.
"I will accept this challenge!" she yelled.
"Let the woman through!" shouted a man sitting further towards her father.
People parted, allowing her to move closer and closer to the floor of the Arena. She would either die with honor at the hands of her own father, or, in his dying moments, say her farewell to the man only she could love. He watched her as she moved towards her almost certain demise. A familiarity hung about her, though he could not identify it.
They stood facing each other. Helena stared directly into those blood-red eyes and saw exactly what she had hoped for. Not a monster, not a demon, not a soldier of death. Her father's loving gaze, her father's sorrowful tears for the daughter he would lose tonight. Shaken out of this by the cue, Deathbringer and Helena charged each other.