A/N: Though I know the 'Jack is Back' theme isn't all that original, I hope I can make it sound good enough for the readers enjoyment. (Clears Throat) I don't own the greatness that Fable is, that credit goes to Lionhead.

Return of the Court

Chapter: 1

"HEY! Don't even think about leavin' without payin' for your room." The Rookridge Innkeeper was shouting to a dark figure exiting the Inn.

The figure was tall, very thin and dressed in black clothing that seemed to be made out of the night sky itself. He turned to the Innkeeper, with daggers in his eyes, but slowly walked up to the counter he was behind. As menacing as the man looked the Innkeeper has had his share of ruffians coming in and out of the facility and wasn't intimidated.

"You owe thirty gold for your room, sir."

"Here." The man's voice was rough and deep like an old mans, though the man seemed middle aged, it was hard to tell from the black cloth he wore over his face. He reached into a bag tied to his side and pulled out the right amount of coins, he dropped them onto the counter and walked off.

"You wont have long to enjoy it anyway," the man muttered to himself as he left the Inn.

He didn't enjoy having to hide amongst the rats of these lands, scrounging from place to place until he could reach his destination. The people of Albion should show him the proper respect, the proper fear, but he knew it would only slow him down. Though his destination was close, the journey had left him weary and he would need to be rested to complete his final task.

As the mysterious man walked up the road from the Inn he could feel the air growing thicker with evil, the sky started to darken in a deep dark black shade. He was getting closer.

A ways up the road there was a fork, next to it stood a sign. The man approached the sign, on it was an arrow pointing straight ahead that said 'Oakfield' on it. The man huffed to himself and looked at the other direction to the left, there was a crudely placed gate that was locked with a chain. He placed a hand on the chain and it immediately melted away in his hand, while the remains fell to the ground.

The man pushed the gate open and continued down the path. After a few minutes of walking he reached a long stone bridge, it ran off the cliff side and connected to a small mountain in the ocean. Sitting on top of the mountain was a large stone wall circling the perimeter. Though it appeared to be in ruins, he knew the wall itself was nothing special and the real power was far below.

As the man crossed the bridge he began tearing off his shirt and mask, since he was reaching his destination he had no need to hide himself any longer. With his bare chest in the open, it could be seen that he had a tattoo of a strange symbol on his back and chest. The symbol was of a large open half circle with daggers running through it. The same symbol was on his face as well.

The bridge had ended and led to a massive open gate in the wall, past it he could see the large empty courtyard that the wall surrounded. There was a small stage that served no purpose at the far end, but in the very center was a wide hole, a spiral staircase led down to the very bottom. The man was breathing harder in anticipation, just a few more feet and he could prepare his final task.

The underground sanctuary was as dark as ever, only half of the torches were lit and a white mist shrouded the halls and chambers. In the very center of the main chamber were five figures, two stood at the entrance to one of the hallways, dressed as mercenaries. The other three figures stood in the center of the chamber, they all wore identical black hooded robes with a red stripe in the center, a bright orange mask was strapped to each of their faces.

"As I was saying," one of the hooded figures continued, his voice sounding high pitched and sluggish, "we need to find a way to get our revenge on that hero."

"What we need are more members and a new leader, maybe repair the temple while were at it, the shadows wont be happy with our work." Another hooded figure said back, his voice a little more deeper then the first.

"Like you know what we should do," the last hooded figure spoke up, "if anything we should throw ourselves to the darkness and perform a ritual to help us."

As the robed figures bickered about what they should be doing, the two mercenaries were rolling their eyes. After a few minutes of listening to the arguments one of them leaned toward the other.

"psst. Hey Frank." One of the mercenaries was whispered to the other. "Why are we helping' these nut jobs out again?"

"Iv told you John, they're paying good gold for us to protect them while they're having this 'meeting'."

"Protect them, from what?"

"Apparently, without their old leader this place gets attacked by Banshees and Hollow Men."

"What!" The one known as John sounded worried, "I doubt we can handle a Banshee ourselves!"

"Don't worry, like you said these guys are nut jobs, I'm sure the worst we will see is a beetle or something."

The hooded figures, continued talking, while the mercenaries seemed uninterested in their current surroundings, no one heard the light footsteps coming down the stairway.

"Look you guys," the second hooded figure said, "the cult is practically gone, the temple is falling apart, we have no leader, and the world is laughing at us. We need to figure out what to do."

"You can start," a deep voice echoed from the main hallway, as the five people turned to look at the tall figure standing before them "by following someone who actually has power in the dark arts." As he walked into the room his shadow caused the chamber to dim even more.

"And just who might you be." The first hooded man spoke up, his high voice filled with skepticism.

"Names are not important, but for formality purposes you'll just call me Sir." One of the men was about to speak but a quick glare from 'Sir' stopped him on the spot.

Sir looked from person to person, eyeing the two mercenaries with interest, and turned to the three cultists.

"Hmm, I did not expect to find others down here, although this will make it all the more easier for me." Sir's face twisted into a smirk. "Though I am not sure how well you will participate, your 'Cult' was nothing more then buffoons who could only threaten a simple farm town. Your only good member was your leader and even he was misguided with foolish ideas that the shadows would give him ultimate power."

"Now see here," one of the cultists spoke his outrage, "we were one of the most feared shadow cults in the area, we had that town on their knees, and you dare come here and insult us."

At that Sir laughs, it was a dark maniacal laugh that seemed to cast an even larger shadow on the chamber. The two mercenaries shudder at the sound of it while the cultists seemed too angry at the insults to notice.

"The most feared? You were the only cult in this area. Your nothing but fools who wouldn't understand evil power if you were standing under it. In fact," he pointed to the center were the cultists stood, "you are. You have no idea of the power this sanctuary has, you disgrace it with your pathetic sacrifices of petty farmers."

"We will show you," the cultist's anger had reached its point, "we may not be able to fight but we have muscle on our side. Mercenary, attack this blasphemer."

Frank stepped forward but hesitated for a moment. Sir looked menacing, but he didn't seem all that strong. So he unsheathed his sword and charged at the man. Sir just stood there with the same smirk across his face, when Frank was close enough to strike, Sir raised his hand, it glowed with a dark power. Frank stopped in his tracks, his sword falling from his grip, hitting the floor with a loud clang.

Sir raised his hand higher and the mercenary lifted with it, while the others looked at the scene with horror, Frank made a chocking noise and grabbed for his neck.

"Don't worry, it will all be over soon," Sir's voice sounded both soothing and vicious. Still raising the squirming body of the mercenary higher, Sir swept his hand across the chamber, Frank was sent flying to the far end of the room. He hit head first against the wall, a loud crack sounded with the shatter of his neck. His body slumped against the wall while debris from the impact landed on his lifeless body, blood started to spill onto the floor around him.

"Now I will trust that you all will be excited to help me with my task, I would hate to have to waste more of my energy on any of you." His voice sounded casual as if the feat he had just done was nothing but a parlor trick.

"W-what are you?" Was all a trembling cultist could ask. While everyone else stood speechless, afraid that their next statement could be their last.

"I am apart of a powerful group, we are known as the Cult of Blades." He ran a finger across the tattoo on his chest. "It was created hundreds of years ago when our master was slain by a foolish hero, we have all vowed to bring about the power to destroy any and all heroes from the lands and to one day bring back our master so he may rule. This vow is why I am here today, and I will use you to help in this endeavor."

The cultists and remaining mercenary all nodded, they had no idea what would happen but they hated heroes as well and were all too scared to protest against it anyway.

"Yes, Sir." They all said, he smiled and started to order them about to prepare for the ritual he would perform. He pulled out a leather sack from his bag and threw it to the group. The sack was filled with small black candles.

"Place them around the room and light them," he ordered. They followed the command, as the candles were lit the flame quickly changed from orange to black. The candles added no light to the room, they seemed to make it even darker, soaking up any light nearby.

Sir reached into his bag and pulled out a white mask. Even though it appeared to be a simple mask, everyone quivered as soon as they saw it. The mask was decorated with odd markings, one eye was bordered with red while the other one was with purple. The bottom left portion of the chin was colored purple with a strange flame shape on it. Smaller symbols were painted on the forehead between the eyes. Sir held it as if were a delicate flower, rubbing his hands across it gingerly.

"It has taken many years to create this mask, a proper mask for the ritual. But like the master we were always patient, always waiting for the right time to act." Sir was staring into the mask's empty eyes, lost in thought."Uhh, Sir?" One of the cultists decided to speak up. "What exactly are we trying to do here?"

Sir quickly glared at the cultist, causing him to almost fall over as he stepped backward. Again he looked at the mask, but for a shorter time. He then pointed to the mercenary known as John.

"You, stand in the center, and put this mask on. And be careful with it, if you damage it the ritual will fail, and you'll know my fullest wrath." He hissed the last words and the mercenary moved to the center taking the mask without hesitation.

Though as soon as he was holding the mask, John had a feeling of dark power rush through his body. It even felt like the mask was calling to him, beckoning for him to put it on. As he turned the mask in his hands he saw the inside was decorated with bright red runes, so intricate as they covered the whole inside leaving only small bits of white left.

"So what will happen?" The power of the mask distracted John from his current fear of the man they called Sir. He quickly looked up at the man who just stood there smiling at him, John didn't know if he understood the power that he was feeling right now.

"It's all very simple, that mask will give you unimaginable power, power that even the gods will envy. It is based off of an old artifact that was destroyed long ago, but after many years our people found a ritual that can recreate it. Though it took us many more years to make the vessel for the power, actually bringing that power forth was a feat even we couldn't handle. That was, of course, until I learned of a temple that held so much darkness, it made the perfect point for the ritual. Much to my surprise to learn that its power was wasted as a refuge for these idiots." The cultists didn't show any sign of anger at that, they were still in shock at the power the stranger held.

John just looked down at the mask in his hands. Ultimate power? The idea sounded promising to the mercenary, all the things he could do. He could rule Albion, take everything he has ever wanted from this world, and even watch that damned hero, Lionheart, fall at his feet.

He raised the mask to his face, the whispers from the mask increased as it came closer to him. The power pulsing more and more rapidly. John closed his eyes at the mask came over him, preparing for the power he was told he would receive.

Nothing happened. John looked around, he felt no different, the whispers and beckoning of the mask had stopped. He saw Sir standing in front of him, a large sadistic grin stretched across his face. As he was about to pull the mask off to ask why, he felt it cling to his skin and tighten. He panicked, trying to pry off the mask with all his strength, it stayed on, his fingers started to turn white and his heart pounded rapidly against his chest.

"What's going on?" He was screaming, looking to the dark figure before him for answers. Sir just stood there, still grinning.

"The ritual is beginning, and as promised you will receive immense power. Too bad though, you wont have it for but a moment." He waved his dark hand across the struggling mercenary and black chains sprang from the ground, locking around his ankles and wrists, keeping him in place at the center.

"You! Cultist, come here now!" He was pointing to one of the robed men who had been cowering in the far side of the room. He slowly approached the man. As soon as he reached him, Sir raised his glowing hand again and cut into the cultist's chest. All the cultist could do was cough up the blood filling his mouth before he died. Sir pulled his hand from the wound, watching as the lifeless body fell to the ground, and quickly began to write on the ground with his blood soaked fingers.

"What are you doing?" A belligerent cultist yelled to him. "We needed fresh blood for the ritual." Sir was breathing harder as he hurriedly scribble more runes, he was circling them around the chained mercenary, his screams of terror slowly turning into low grunts and whimpers.

"We can begin!" Sir shouted with excitement in his voice. He reached out both his hands and began mumbling an inaudible language. His voice grew louder and louder until the entire sanctuary echoed from him. The black candles slowly dimmed and went out. Black flames engulfed Sir's hands as he began to chant even faster.

After a time had passed, the runes circling around John began to glow. The cultists watched in amazement and fear as the glowing runes burst into dark red flames, the flames moved towards the masked mercenary and soon engulfed his feet. John started to scream in pain as the flames burned further up his legs and reached his torso.

When the flames started to cover his neck the black flames engulfing Sir's hands launched forward, they collided with the mercenary and created a large explosion. It was impossible to see a body inside the massive swirls of black and red. The ground started to shake as the fire grew and grew, the heat was so intense any sweat that came from the three men quickly evaporated.

Soon the flames ceased and the ground was blackened. Where the mercenary stood was a large dark figure. Just looking at him gave the fear of death and pain. The figure was wearing plate armor, as black as the flames used in the ritual. Besides the armor the man wore a red hooded shirt, it reached down to midway to his chest and covered his arms up to the wrists. Lashed to his side were two masks, identical to the one he was currently wearing.

The man stood there for a moment, not making a sound or a movement. The cultists were still trembling in fear at the figure, they had no idea how to react to him. The man turned his head toward them. Before they could say or do anything the man suddenly appeared in front of them, he grabbed both by their necks and slammed them into the wall. They could just look into his yellow eyes as he broke their necks and dropped their bodies to the floor.

"Ah, that's just what I needed to get these new joints working." The dark man's voice was deep with evil, the voice sounded more fitting for the foulest demon then a man.

He turned to the figure of Sir, he was kneeling before him looking up to the man. When Sir finally found his voice he spoke.

"Sire, I never believed that I would live to see this day, the day of your dark return." The hooded man walked towards him, running his fingers across the surface of the mask he was wearing.

"You did well, cultist." He started to run a finger around the spot his mouth would be. "While I had grown used to the repaired damages of that old mask, I am glad you decided not to include them." Sir kept his gaze on his master, a smile reaching across his face.

"Yes master, I wanted it to be in its best condition. I am sorry for how long it took to revive you though, it wasn't easy, but we managed."

"Oh yes, I am very proud that my followers have shown so much loyalty to me. You will be rewarded well in the Void." The man picked up a cutlass one of the mercenaries dropped and held it over Sir's kneeling form.

"Thank you master." was all he said before the man cut him down, Sir's face was frozen in a look of awe.

The man placed the cutlass on his back and started to look at his surroundings. He made his way down one of the hallways, it lead to a small room filled with shelves of books.

"Hmm, lets see what I've missed over the years." The man sat at a table piled with books and began thumbing through them one at a time, scoffing at the errors writers had made about his own history and that fool who bested him all those years ago. After just a few minutes he had looked over dozens of books. He was taking a particularly long time with his current book however, it was entitled "The History of the Guild". After a while with the book he looked at one chapter that caused him to chuckle uncontrollably.

"To think, all those times I've wanted to destroy that blasted Guild, they end up getting beaten by the people they were supposed to protect." He let out a smaller chuckle and began looking over another book. The book was a biography about the lands current hero, Sparrow was his name, the man couldn't believe how the people loved this hero for his minimal accomplishments. Nothing compared to all the heroes he used to defeat.

After he was about to finish the book, he jerked his head from the pages and looked about the room. He sniff the air around him, taking in whatever scent he has detected, he stares off at the nothingness and his eyes intensify.

"That sent… such familiar blood… could it be?" The masked man stood from the table and walked out of the chamber.

A/N: All right the first chapters done, hopefully Ill be able to work on the others soon. Though with Fable 3 out soon Ill be a bit occupied with that, but be patient and give up some good reviews and I may be motivated to get them up sooner.