Fable II is my favorite game, I've been playing it for two years now, it's the only game I'll play on the xbox, and this is my first fanfiction about it. I find that strange. Anyway, I'm one of those players who had ten thousand different profiles. On one of my evil ones, no matter how enjoyable it is to break windows, kill random citizens, and sacrifice people to the shadows, I can't help but be sad when people run away from me with terrified shrieks. In my earliest evil profile, there was a cute barmaid character who I wanted to take as a wife, but she kept running away from me. What a pity. I shot her in the end. Anyway, it gave me this idea nearly a year later, so this little baby came to be. I normally don't make characters like Elizabeth- the weak, timid type- but I couldn't seem to make any other character for poor Butcher.
Anyway, please enjoy! Please keep in mind that I have not 'beta'd this... All the mistakes are my own. If you spot any, please tell me. I know the chapters are short. I have a length issue.
Also, I do not own Fable II. If I did, I wouldn't be writing this, I would be off playing Fable III, because I would have early access to it, as its creator. But I'm not. It's rather sad, really, but there it is.
"ELIZABETH!" A hoarse voice shouted from downstairs, nearly drowned out by the screams and cries of children. Mother Abigail Kingsley rushed about the small first floor of the house, leaving messes and trails of insults in her wake. "Where is'at damned girl…?" She grumbled and planted her hands on her hips as the door opened to an obviously drunk Mark, the father of the house.
"'ow nice'a you to come 'ome, dear," Mrs. Kingsley sneered, giving the shaky man a harsh glare. He waved a careless hand at her, sitting at the worn kitchen table.
"Sod off, y'ol' hag," He growled, his words slurred even past his cockney accent, "N'bring me some rum."
"Out'a rum," She replied, turning her back on him to busy herself with making breakfast for their several young ones.
"What'dya mean we're out'a rum?" Mr. Kingsley shouted, standing up.
"We're almost out'a money for food and yer worried about yer damn rum?"
Elizabeth tried to ignore the screaming, but it was impossible. She doubted their neighbors could ignore it. She groaned as her chocolate brown eyes opened, seeing three year old Ella standing in the doorway, half of her fist shoved in her mouth. Elizabeth blinked and stared at her sister, waiting to wake up. She rose and yawned, stretching. She slouched again and looked into her unmoving sister's eyes lazily, pouting slightly.
"What?" Elizabeth asked drowsily.
"Jack hurt Polly," Ella whined in her childish drawl, holding out the half-beheaded rag doll in her idle hand. The older sister sighed and took the doll, setting it on her bedside stand.
"I'll fix it after work, all right?" She reasoned softly, patting Ella's dark brown head. The girl pouted but nodded, plopping out of her room. Elizabeth sighed and closed her door softly, wishing to be silent. Her family was never silent, so she thought that somehow, if she was as quiet as possible, she would be apologizing to the world for having to put up with the Kingsley's.
"ELIZABETH!"
Elizabeth jumped at the sudden scream, nearly tearing her bodice as she quickly got dressed. She rushed out of her room, still running a ratty comb through her dark brown hair, loosely braiding it and tucking it into her bonnet. All the while, her parents were jeering at her, telling her that she would be late, that she did not bring enough income in, that it was her fault the economy was so bad. No, it was not Elizabeth's fault, but it was someone's.
Butcher.
The name brought shivers down Elizabeth's spine. He was a common complaint in her home. Whenever it was not her fault, it was his. She heard her parents tell wonderful stories about him around her teen years, back when life was quiet and the household only had three children; her older brother, her younger sister, and her. Back when her father did not drink every night and her mother's voice was as soft as a lullaby. Elizabeth would love to hear stories of how Butcher, though he was known at the time as Sparrow, killed the bandit king Thag, leaving the road to Bowerstone from Bower Lake safe. She marveled at the thoughts of this popular hero defeating the Crucible and the Spire, then killing Lucien for good. Although, along the way, Sparrow's grief from the death of his sister turned to rage and his pity froze to hate. He helped the Temple of Shadows murder all of Oakfield, a peaceful little farm town. He stole constantly from Bowerstone and anywhere else, but no one had the guts to report him to the guards. He had dark, rough skin that seemed cracked with glowing blue lines, his eyes tainted green with greed. There was no doubt Butcher was handsome—no one could deny that,—but no one stayed around long enough to notice. When his dark boot stepped into town, anyone with sense quickly hid.
A shout to her woke Elizabeth. She jumped, noticing she had been staring in a dirty mirror, absently petting her braid as she let her mind wander. She lowered her head from her mother's screaming until she was out the door, not even its solid oak shielding her completely from disapproving words. She sighed and curled her cloak around her. Winter was quickly chasing upon the humble city of Bowerstone. Snow had not yet arrived, but the skies were threatening.
Elizabeth glanced around the strangely silent streets. She always left early to help with the morning chores to be done, so it was usually quiet, but the sound of ships being unloaded at the nearby docks and the squeaking sewage rats could usually be heard. Now there was nothing. The surroundings worried her, but she kept close to the side of the road and huddled under her cloak, walking on. As she reached the opening of the town square, she broke into a near run to reach her work place; the Cow and Corset. She quickly darted inside and closed the door behind her, trying to calm her irrational heart.
"You're right to be afraid, my dear," Her employer said quietly, appearing to be busy behind the counter. Mr. Balding peered over the round bifocals that sat on his potato nose, squinting at her. He was not a fat man, but nor was he skinny. He was not tall, nor short. He was plain. A clean cream vest clung tightly around his tan shirt, rounding his double chin. He was lacking substance atop his head, his name proving his condition.
"And w-why is that, s-sir?" She replied politely, lowering the hood of her cape and untying it to set behind the counter.
"I heard Butcher's coming around Bowerstone again," Mr. Balding lowered his head, hardly muttering the words.
Ice ran through Elizabeth's veins, but she persisted to shakily unload the new shipment of ale. "I-Is that s-so?"
Mr. Balding glanced up from his accounting to stare at her, the side of his lips tucking back into his cheek. He set his hand on his stout waist, clucking his tongue at her. "Now, Elizabeth, I know everyone is afraid of Butcher, but I know you're absolutely terrified. Last time you knew he was coming 'round here, you feigned an illness." He round belly shook with his deep chuckles, smiling amusedly at her.
Elizabeth pouted and ducked into her work, blushing madly. "D-Did not-t." She bit her tongue, growling to herself. This was the curse of working at such an open shop as a tavern—she was forced to work even if a murderer waltzed in. She would have to serve him. The thought made her skin crawl. But, alas, no other shop would hire her. She could not help any of the stands littering the town square and bridge, for she could not help her stutter. She was too physically weak to work at the blacksmith's. Butcher had raised the prices and taxes too high at the tailor shops, not allowing them to hire more help. Besides, her stitches were slow and crooked. She was clumsy, so she could not clean for the upper class homes. The only thing she could do was work as a silent barmaid at the local respectable tavern.
The owner of the tavern was the father-in-law of Elizabeth's older brother, Will, so, by family blood, Mr. Balding felt it was his duty to hire Will's simple little sister with a stutter and obvious social awkwardness. To begin with, Elizabeth stuck out like a sore thumb in comparison to the other girls. The other barmaids were all smiles and cheer, happily pushing their large chests into other peoples' business to get the inside scoop and perhaps find a gentleman to buy them a golden trinket. They were smooth and they were confident—nothing like Elizabeth. She was awkward and as timid as a mouse, her voice stuttering too much at first to ask for someone's order. She simply needed to deliver the ale and rush back to the counter. The large, overwhelming atmosphere of the rambunctious tavern terrified the fifteen year old Elizabeth, but she eventually grew used to it over her many years of work and even started to enjoy it. Some of the girls were less obnoxious and good sources of the happenings in town, always happy to gossip about the truth and the lies. Mr. Balding was nothing but hospitable and the perfect grandfather-like figure, as long as one does her work. Despite Elizabeth's obvious difficulty with people, no one could doubt that she was a hard-worker and never complained, no matter how dirty the job. The only thing she would grouse about, albeit silently, was about being anywhere near Butcher. Her life was nothing to boast about, but she had no intentions on being murdered, and the charcoal-skinned man petrified her.
