Here starts a short story, mainly in a poetry style, but stil with a narrative background.
I specify that the text is written with kind of strange way so... don't be upset. But if anything would feel really wrong, or if I made mistakes, please tell me ! I'm French and want to better myself in english writting.
I'm posting this even if I know that those kind of fics can be boring for many people ^^and not popular, but maybe one or two could be amazed, who knows ? I believe that free poetry can be a great way to trip in your mind.
Ambiences is a serie of textes dedicated to atmospheres and stranges places. Fable is full of those magnificent and odd forests. You just entered in one of those when you were a child, and there the fic begins.
For a total experience, I strongly recommend to listen while reading at this the music that follows down (or any Music from Fable the Lost Ages)
Have a nice moment and I'm waiting for your fellings ;)
Listen to : Atrium Carceri - Reselected
- AMBIENCES -
[FLOODED PATH]
As the sun light slowly fades behind the last bushes of the road, you enter in a tiny little passage, guided by a strange feeling of déjà-vu.
You have walked your way through the plants and the trees, inspiring the cold air with nicety and the exactness of a calm mood. Every inch of that unique path is filled with a multitude of both new and old sensations and while you begin to tempt remembering some of the old stories of your father on forests, you clearly hear the cry of a wolf.
Now, maybe that this way is not as pleasant as it could have been at first...
Why those shadows under the great willows are growing visibly all of a sudden? And why the thin ray of the afternoon cannot reach you anymore?
You shiver.
And hold your "weapon" more firmly.
Who knows what expects you in those woods.
But this curved child's blade is more like a dagger for any dangerous creature. It would not be enough.
Yet, you keep it and swallow hard, kwowing that any bad encounter would lead to very bad issues.
You shiver again.
Father was right. You should have taken your red cloak with you. The one he bought you last winter. It was a nice, colorful and particularly warm clothing.
Correct was father.
The temperature had suddenly fallen. Your skin is more receptive to each sensation and the air feels sleepy around this place. It is not the moment to have a nap here, but your eyes are struggling to remain open.
Things move all around you, shaking grass and mushrooms, releasing spores and germs.
What did father told you about those dangerous spores?
That many guys like you had died on this road, just after touching some plants.
That is not your idea of a good ending. Not proud, not an outstanding death like on fairy tales. That is not what you want.
Only a first path. Only your first steps out of your cottage, out of the house.
And you already feel the danger of adventure, even in, your – peaceful as the inhabitants of Oakvale say – own region.
A dim glow respite a last breath on your ear before you cannot see any ray of the sky coming to you.
Now you are surrounded by dark.
And the sounds of nature take suddenly more importance. You could hear any little beast; even the slightest worm crawling on the brown and sticky leafs, making their paths to green carpets of wet turf grass.
Your steps lead you to the passive whisper of the river. The shore, made of thin sand and ground stone prints itself with your boots. The marks make you think about those odd cake Lady Burgan prepared you sometimes when your father was busy and took you to that old woman's house.
He always has been a good father.
A nice man, such as Lady Burgan and all the other villagers in fact.
Even sister could be nice with you, on some particularly days were the sun was shining like never before. You wished secretly to be more confident with your elder sis' and not only watch her training in the garden…
She was a great warrior, that is what father repeated. And of course, you had to be the youngest of the family, with nobody to cheer you up after the red head. What did you except ? To be the chowchow of your mom and father because you were the last to come? Bullshit.
And as your mother…
It was maybe better not the think about her.
The less he knew, the better he would be, as father said daily.
So you look at the clear water and feel the humidity up your front, to calm a rising fever.
The bath is clear, continuous, silky…
Glass wool explode silently on the pillars of earth
Ancient ruins of an ancient time
And float pieces of glistering wood
Returning to Bath
Your mother you apperceive in the icy fog
Grabbing a big red cape and going further a shiny path
Like the last time you could see her
And she was gone.
Dad never talked about her, and when you were referring to your mother in class, everybody knew you never known her.
But father was all.
He could be with great sister his family.
And the equilibrium could birth between them.
Why would you need a mother?
When you have such a wonderful passage near your house...
Water flows over your temples
Time to dry
And your steps guide you forward
To other lights
The mud wins the banks
The air feels to take on a venom
When you go through the depths of the forest
Branches in the heights release more spores
Some insects flee under your feet, scared
These lands are not those we regularly host in the country
The woods around Oakvale, as you repeated it many times in school, are not safe and they probably never will.
Another wolf cries.
Yes, you know this place.
Something familiar is surrounding you and enters deeply in you. Memories of a first ballad penetrate your body, your flesh, your bones. You can sense that the atmosphere was different when you first came.
It was more red, more wild. A primitive form.
The river changed suddenly as you were lost in your thoughts. Lotus blossoms cover the large mirror's surface and pierce by purple circles the dark liquid. Trees soon cover themselves with a smooth gray clack of mist and heather.
And now the water catches your feet and you begin to walk in a small swamp.
You feel daze taking you gradually, while the pace of your walk is slowed and a small orange spot appears in the corner of your sight.
There, between the large clouds of steam and willow withered sticks, the trees become dead hands, covered with blackened moss, and there is a small wooden boat. The boat is horny. Thin, but there. It calls you with its sweet old fashioned hue, while the wood around you becomes more threatening.
The ship is like made for you little size. It seems you know that boat, and that you also have an idea of how using it… You sit down on the damp bench of the bark and take the oars to start moving the boat.
Night will be there soon.
You have to go back home quickly. Father said that to you several time. But there is an obviously attractive thing in that part of the forest, drawn under the green and smelly waters. Something stealing your sanity.
Eyes staring at you.
Moans from the past everywhere and drops of blood falling on the shore next to you. You smell a kind of smoke emerging from beneath your boat and faces slowly appearing in the water.
The colors blend in a green and dark bark torn harmony, fine sands in rough rocks, livid and soufreteuses banks.
While you gain wide
Air is rare
And you become blind
The sounds of an early music
Elude your mind
Deadly flowers bloom
In the crumbling mounds
Toxic fumes free themselves
And from mists born chimeras.
You fell asleep.
- END OF THE FIRST PART-