This particular work isn't set in any specific game. I felt like putting my writing skills to the ultimate test and writing a complete, original plotline.
I'm actually debating over if I should rate it M or T, mainly because it contains graphic violence, minor sexual themes, multiple character deaths, and severe angsty stuff.
Oh yeah, and I had no idea what genre it was, so I just gave it a generic Adventure/Romance thing.
Disclaimer: I don't own LoZ. All rights go to Nintendo.
A gentle breeze blew in the otherwise still morning air. It slowly blew away the mist over Lake Hylia, rendering the lake cerulean once more, tinged slightly pink by the breaking dawn. The breeze whistled past several small lakefront dwellings, the wind chimes outside making a slight tinkling noise as they swayed back and forth. It continued to swirl over Lake Hylia, rippling the lake's waters. The reflection of the sunrise in the waters distorted slightly as the originally smooth water formed itself into small waves.
Nobody noticed this. Nobody was even awake yet. Nobody was able to take a small sense of childlike wonder from this small event, so insignificant in the making, but with such a wondrous effect. The wind continued, gently setting the branches in a nearby tree to swaying. A blackbird, awakened by the unexpected motion, shifted its wings and sang out a brief group of notes. Its song echoed across the otherwise silent lake, the last ripples fading as the wind's strength waned.
The breeze, barely more than a whisper now, drifted over a small field. A mare grazing in the field nickered quietly and tossed her mane as the wind flicked invisible fingers across her face. The breeze drifted between the shutters of the nearby house, still damp with the mist of the lake. Just before it faded, it gently caressed the cheek of the boy sleeping inside. At a guess, he appeared to be in his late teen years, possibly seventeen.
The house was a rather simple affair. There was no evidence that anyone else lived there, its rather amateur construction suggesting that it was the work of the boy sleeping in the bed. The house was very Spartan, boasting the bare essentials. No artwork adorned the walls, the walls and floors were left as bare wood, the furniture kept to a minimum. The only personal touch was a single bright red feather, preserved between expensive glass plates, which heralded the front door. On a small rack hung a handmade saddle and tack, presumably for the horse outside. A nameplate on the bridle read: "Epona".
Apart for these, the house was rather sparse. A sheathed belt knife lay on the kitchen table, beside a small wallet. A small fireplace lay unlit, its heat unneeded in the summer months. After sweeping through the house, the last breath of the wind sighed through the wooden wind chimes hanging outside the window. Swaying oh so gently, the wooden tubes knocked against each other, producing a hollow clunk.
The sound awoke the boy. His eyes opened, revealing intensely blue eyes, a pass between the deepest ice and the purest cobalt. His eyes focused, registered the light just beginning to slant into the bedroom. For a moment, he was content to simply watch the light, trace the path of the golden dust motes that drifted through it. But, like all dreams, the dream of the dawn must end. Hoisting himself out of bed, the boy opened the shutters, allowing the newborn light of the dawn to stream into the room. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.
He filled his lungs with the fresh morning air, registering the sweet smell of the clover on the breeze, the air still damp from the night's dew. He opened his eyes and sighed gently, watching a chickadee land on a branch. The tiny bird plucked a seed from the tree, chirped, and flitted away. Turning away from the window, the boy filled a basin with cold, clear water from the well, splashing some over his face. Morning ablutions complete, he proceeded into the kitchen, lighting the stove.
He made a simple breakfast of wheat porridge, lightly flavoured with a small amount of cinnamon brought from the south. He sat back, satisfied, and stretched, finishing with a wide yawn very much like a cat's. Donning a plain brown robe, he picked the belt knife off the table and slid it up his sleeve, where it joined the seven other knives hidden on his person.
He grabbed the saddle, slinging it over his shoulder in a practiced motion, calling the mare with a whistled, three-note descending sequence. The horse trotted to his side, clover forgotten, looking at him expectantly. Scratching her under the forelock, he swung the saddle onto her back, and quickly vaulted on. Spurring her into a gallop, he directed her toward one of the main roads to Castle Town. The early hour didn't really matter to him. In fact, he liked it better.
After all, a bandit must always be on top of things.