eomerking19 here.

I'm so sorry for the year long hiatus (!) but life is life, I guess. So here's the new improved 'This Could Be Something'. It still has the over all plot, but it's been tweaked more than slightly, and is now darker and less care-free than TCBS. If this doesn't appeal, I'm very sorry, but it's how the story evolved in my head. Anyways, happy reading!

Fable III is owned by Lionshead and not by me in the slightest, which is very upsetting.

The sunlight hit her eyes hard as she emerged from the dark greyness of the cave, leaving her blinking away dancing spots of colour. Archon followed closely at her heels, his hackles still raised and letting out a soft but constant growl. The noise turned into a sharp yelp as the Alsatians' leg was sucked halfway under the mud, leaving him so off balance that he tumbled to the floor and landed with a wet thump. Roslyn mused idly that perhaps their new surrounding weren't much of an improvement on the last – not including the sunlight, of course.

They – herself, Walter Beck, and her trusty but filthy hound – had fought their way through a seemingly never-ending system of Hobbe filled caves only to end up in the middle of a forest. It was vastly different from the swathes of high reaching evergreens that covered Mistpeak Valley. For one, the trees here were far closer together, twisting together and sharing space. They seemed older, too, their pale trunks thick and their branches sturdy, exuding a feeling of age that Roslyn hadn't felt since she wandered through the Reliquary beneath Brightwall. Tendrils of vines and ivy hung between them, thickening the already dense canopy. The ground, where it had been cleared of trees in the vaguest indication of a path, was thick and marshy, the mud swimming up over their ankles. The air was permeated with a thick smell of mould, and the surface of the mud shimmered green and purple and yellow with things that hadn't been disturbed in a good long while, and that should probably be left un-disturbed.

But what struck Roslyn as most odd was that as far as she could tell, there wasn't any noise at all coming from the forest itself. Only Archon's pants and Walter's huffs sounded near her as they all regained their breath. There was no bird-song, or the scurrying of small creatures in the trees, or larger things skulking in the underbrush. Not even the wind made it through between the great tree trunks to pull and whistle at her. Even the sunlight, which had struck her as bright only a second ago, now seemed pale and listless, devoid of life and colour. Everything was still.

She had never much liked stillness.

Ignoring all of these things, Walter stepped forward with his arms outstretched as if to embrace this strange forest as an old friend. He kicked through the sludge quite happily to forge onwards, despite how it sloshed around him and released strange puffs of air with each movement Walter made. His eyes were closed as he spun in a lazy circle; and smile split his face as he tipped his head back, breathing deeply through his nose. The dried Hobbe blood on his face cracked and flaked off, dropping to the forest floor to be consumed by the marshy ground. Her mentor looked worse for wear, she had to say. As often as he told grand tales of his misspent youth as a soldier in her father's army, or his grand adventures afterwards, Roslyn was ever aware that those stories came from over three decades ago. Walter wasn't as young as he thought himself to be, or as young as he had been in Rhos' mind. Not that he wasn't capable, but Roslyn looked over his slight collection of injuries more critically than she might have done with any other soldier.

He was walking without a limp, and he didn't bear any deep wounds. But a deep tiredness seemed to permeate the man, soaking into every motion and expression. His eyes carried bags underneath them, and the laughter lines on his face had deepened in the six months of their self-induced exile. She supposed that she probably looked no better, but with youth and the blood of Heroes on her side, Roslyn certainly felt better than she supposed poor Walter did.

They drew to a stop barely ten feet from the cave entrance. Archon rubbed his wet nose on the back of her hand. His coat had been wet from various dives into pools in the caves, but that only made the strange mud of the marsh stick to him even more. He shook himself out on her legs happily, spraying mud in every conceivable direction and dirtying her clothes even more so. Roslyn scowled and Walter laughed.

"Ah, Roslyn, you can almost smell the sunlight! Isn't it wonderful? The damp, muggy, soggy sunlight." He beamed at her.

"I would hate to see what a disappointment looked like to you, Walter. I fear that it would be too much for anyone else to handle." She looked away from him back to the cave, eager to move further away from it. There was no doubt in her mind that there were any Hobbes left in there, but that didn't mean she was in any way eager to go racing back into it. Walter peered at her as he always did: a mix of amusement battling with concern on his face. His self-placement as her protector left him in a bit of a quandary when she was in danger, because as much as he wanted to be able to swoop in and save her, he simply wasn't able when she was fighting for a cause that needed to see her in action.

"This is Mourningwood." She was told, "There's not any Hobbes here, that you can be sure of. But still, I hope the people we're looking for are still alive." Walter beamed, pleased at him attempt at gravity.

Roslyn rolled her eyes and sighed, pushing away her dog and starting down the squelching path. Her hand came back absolutely coated with mud. She wiped it off on her breeches and grimaced.

"Walter, come on now. Would you really have dragged me all the way out here if the people we're looking for weren't still alive? Maybe stuck in some peril and in need of rescuing, but they'll be alive. It's fairly ridiculous how you still don't trust me with your plans, though."

"You aren't even the slightest bit worried?" He looked upset at her dismissal. Roslyn smirked.

"When I'm with you, Walter, I'm always worried."

Walter hooted, nudging her with his elbow first then slinging his whole arm around her shoulders. He stank utterly of dampness and mildew and blood. Roslyn laughed.

"Though afternoon tea and pleasant conversation would have made a very nice change, no?"

"Perhaps next time, Rhos."

"Well, if you're going to be going through all that trouble, next time you might as well keep it 'certainty of death' free as well. Mortal peril too. Oh, and if you could, miss out life threatening beasts, monsters, and creatures the whole thing would be perfect."

Walter hummed as he considered it.

"Think you're asking a bit much there."

She sighed dramatically, throwing a hand to her forehead as if she was about to swoon.

"Maybe next time my poor heart won't be able to take it. Oh, do go on without me, brave soldier. Finish my quest, save the world if I cannot!"

Walter tightened his arm around her shoulder, squeezing her to him tightly, then he let Roslyn go and looked at her with a small smile on his face, giving Archon room to butt between them and rub himself on Walter's legs.

"You ain't half like you're Pa, you know. Both sarcastic sods. It's the lowest form of wit, you know."

Roslyn pondered that for a moment before a thought occurred to her. She grinned.

"Is it not possible, Walter, that - seeing as they are your friends - the people we're on our way to see haven't simply died of old age?"

Walter's eyebrows rose, and an offended look stole across his face.

"You cheeky bugger. I am not that old. Avo, you really are like your father. Speaking of which, Small, if I haven't said it already; you are most definitely his equal with that sword of yours. The rifle too. No doubt if he was still alive you'd give him a good run for his money." He smiled, remembering past battles and victories at her father's side. For a moment Roslyn was struck by a sudden sadness about the fact that she didn't ever get to experience those things with her father, whose portrait is burned carefully into Roslyn's mind. She only hears of his exploits in tales that are second-hand, from people who knew him better than she ever got the chance. She can't remember anymore the feeling of being sat on his knee while he told her stories of pirates and priests and Will users.

"It was almost like being by his side again, only the air was less black with curses – you only turn it a dark greyish colour. But I'd almost forgotten what it was like, to fight next to a hero."

Roslyn looked down to her feet, a deferential move she thought she had conquered years ago, and breathes in sharply through her nose. His admission of her being a Hero happened a long time ago, but that title came with requirements and sacrifices that Roslyn didn't want to think about. She jerked her head up sharply and gave Walter her best smile, fully aware that he could see right through her, as he always had been able. It was a trait that he and Logan had always shared. That thought made her jaw clench horribly.

"Who are we looking for, Walter? Who could be so pivotal to the cause that we need traverse halfway across Albion to recruit them?"

Walter frowned at the abrupt subject change, but knew her well enough to leave it alone. He tried for a smile instead.

"Some old friends," He shrugged, "They should be willing to help you, and their aid would be very much welcome."

"Soldiers, then." She guessed, keeping eye contact with her mentor. She knew her mood had been sporadic of late, and she tried whenever she could to remind Walter of the fact that she was still capable and prepared. Eye contact may not do a lot towards that, but it helped her get her confidence back in line.

"Yes, but loyal to their country, not necessarily their king." Mention of her brother so casually in conversation made Roslyn want to weep, six months on from her escape. She didn't think that that would ever change. She didn't know if she would ever want it to. For all his crimes, Logan was still her brother, the man who loved her and raised her after their father died. Who took on a kingdom before he had stopped growing, and who shouldered so much weight that his back bent under the pressure. Perhaps one day Roslyn would figure out why her brother turned so drastically, or perhaps she would realise that the darkness was always there, lingering under the surface. It was not a nice thing to think on.

"So they would follow me," If her voice sounded thick, Walter didn't mention it.

"Yes, Roslyn. Undoubtedly."

Roslyn blinks particularly hard, looking ahead to the path that wound through the trees and towards their destination.

"Doubt is a hard thing to vanquish these days, Walter."

Her mentor smiles sadly at her, reaching out a large hand to rub her cheek. Her traces one of her scars with his thumb, a thick white line that runs from the tip of her eyebrow to just under her cheek bone, and speaks to her softly.

"Aye, Roslyn, it is. But hope is as easily found as doubt, and a far lighter weight to carry." The smile she offered him was weak, but there, and it bolstered Walter to see it.

"But," He says loudly, making her startle slightly and look up at him, "None of that will matter in the slightest if we don't get out of this bloody swamp. I know diddly squat about this place and its dangers, but right now I'm getting a rash."

Roslyn laughed, loud and bright, and thought then that perhaps there are things apart from hope that were a light weight to carry.