Fable: The Old Kingdom
Chapter I: The Keeper
The glorious golden sun was setting on both the land of Albion and the life of the guildmaster Nostro as he lay dying in Lychfield Graveyard. Though he felt as though all had forsaken him in his final hours, he was not alone. Standing beside his funeral slab was the tall and ancient form of Scythe, his tattered blue cloak lofting in the breeze as he held a bandaged hand within a bronze metal fist behind his back, watching the dusk settle. He bowed his hairless brown head in respect and admiration for his dying pupil, his veins pulsating faintly, a soft blue glow running through his withered body with the magicks of old coursing through them. Nostro too deeply wounded to speak, the Immortal kept silent vigil as though to create an air of equality betwixt them.
Instead, Scythe only thought, pondered of what to do, with this broken titan. He felt a sense of pity, of relation, as he realized how powerful Nostro was, how strong he had learnt to be but how subversive and corrupt a fate had befallen him. A man, who had brought order to the Dark Ages, built the Heroes Guild from the ground up and yet his trusted attendant, who slipped toxins of all sorts into his food, had poisoned him after showing such loyalty!
Breathing inward deeply, the Will running through him began to generate a slow hum as Scythe delved into what was to come, thinking of a way to place his pupil in the quilt that was fate after death, for no amount of Heroic blood or power could pull him back to life whole once more. He pieced a passage together that, centuries later, would house a prison, where his own blood would be kept. Scythe then approached the slab, Nostro shivering and paled as the life drained from him.
His deep voice might have been labeled villainous or sinister, but Nostro knew that the immortal was anything but. It emitted from Scythe as he knelt down besides his student's soon-to-be resting place and laid his plated gauntlet upon the guild-master's chest, beginning their rites of Heroic passing. "What has caused your fall?" the wizened immortal inquired. Corruption, Nostro thought. He knew Scythe could sense it and it sufficed, as it would have been a clear voice. "What are your duties in life?" To unify, to protect, to serve, he responded in his mind. "What are your duties in death?" To rest, for I am a Hero and I have brought peace. "Good, my student. Pride fills me to the greatest apex; you have done much to fulfill what was ordained in the favor of order. Now, your rest will be great but, mind you, I have another task for you much later." Nostro questioned within his mind, willing to take any burden necessary.
A warm azure glow spilled from the metal claw as Scythe raised it from his pupil's chest. "You shall be bound to this cemetery, a Keeper of the way. Your equipment will be scattered and whoever returns it shall be given the passage to the Prison. Do you accept, my student?" Yes, master. I will test those who wish to pass.
"Good…Now rest, Nostro: You of all people have earned it." The magic and binding glow ceased, and Nostro had let forth his last breath, passing beyond the living with acceptance.
A matter of time after casting about his pupil's armor and blade, Scythe then departed, disappearing into the world once more but not before reminiscing of how he and his student were so alike: One would not have believed that they had claimed greatness in centuries past but they triumphed against all odds. This dwelling in his past caused Scythe to return, standing still upon a vast cliff and overlooking the land, as he slipped into his memory into the land of Albion before it was, returning to his days as William Black and his only enemy being the tyrannical Court.