Ok pttsie, i rememebered my school
has an FTP ability, so i managed to get onto it and grab my coursework from alst year. It seems this is the not so finished version, i.e grammar has not yet been fixed, but my user area is such a mess i cant tell. Anyway, it didnt have a title, and fable players should see the obvious relations to it
TSR'S GCSE ORIGINAL WRITING
Darkness crept over the small clearing in the forest, smothering everything in its path. Three travellers stumbled into the clearing, panting and wheezing as though they had just ran the Hook coast – Denstone marathon, their clothes drenched in blood and sweat. Three survivors of a terrible happening, a hero turned bad, a turn for the worst for the world of Albion. They stared around the clearing, the only feature being the deserted cottage at the edge, it’s outline barely visible. The three survivors looked at each other, as if each of them acknowledging what they were to do. They crept over to the tiny, crumbling cottage, looking at the tiny, filthy windows that seemed to be peering at them, staring with a piercing look. The travellers slowly stepped up to the rotten doorstep, and pushed the woodworm infested door in, creaking slowly and eerie open, sending chills down their spines. The first of the three stepped inside, looking around with eyes wide as saucers. The other two slowly crept in after the first, brandishing rotten wooden poles they had ripped off the windowsills, but not looking confident at all. The first of the travellers spoke to the other two with a quiet, lowered tone. “I can’t talk about it… how could he? I just don’t believe it… he was so good… but now…” He took a deep breath. “Kip, you watch over me and Kyle for an hour or two, while we get some shut….” He never finished the sentence, as his speech turned into a gasp of horror. “What’s wrong? Kip asked his companion, horrified at what he was seeing. His friend did not reply. He slowly turned, his hands shaking, jerking and grasping for something to hold on to. As he turned, his friends saw, with a sick realisation. There, buried in their friend’s spine were two arrows, each with the distinctive markings of the once Heroic Sabre, a Hero with dark beginnings, a bright future, but now dark and mysterious. The two travellers watched with shock as their friend fell, another arrow planted in the back of his head. At that point the two travellers dropped their makeshift weapons as a shape came out of the woods, a legendary Yito bow being reloaded with another arrow from a quiver, hidden behind the figure holding the bow. He stepped slowly towards the two terrified travellers, a scary laugh erupting from the figure’s lungs, leaving the travellers speechless and rooted to the spot. The now silent figure took aim at Kip, the traveller who had just sold him the arrows for his quiver, and who had been one of the three survivors who had managed to escape from the crazed killer. As Kip thought of a way out of this mess, a sharp, pointed tip of the arrow penetrated his skull, between the eyes, continuing through the back of his head and into the neck of Kyle, the last survivor of this terrible night of this dreadful day on the abandoned road. Kip was dead and gone before he touched the ground, although his friend was not so lucky. He lay on the floor screaming in pain, writhing in agony, and his thoughts becoming blurred. He managed to hear the slow, dragging footsteps of the killer coming towards him, the blood forming a puddle around his upper torso. The footsteps stopped. Then silence. Kyle opened his eyes, his blurred vision managing to make out the shape of a master longblade being drawn from its sheath. He waited for the final blow. He did not have to wait long. The blade swung in the air, creating a whistling sound, and plunging into the abdomen of the helpless victim. A scream erupted from the lungs of the now mutilated body of the traveller, while a chilling laugh escaped the hero’s mouth. He withdrew his sword from the lifeless body as the scream faded, and replaced it in its sheath. He stared at the body for what seemed like an age, and was gone, leaving nothing but a small tablet placed above the head of the corpse like a gravestone, with five words inscribed on it. These were simply “the open gate is locked…”
Confusion grasped Sabre’s mind the next morning as he woke up on his back to find himself in a pool of dark water in a back alley of Derstone east. As he stared around his surroundings, he looked and felt like he was coming out of a trance. He tried to remember how he had got to these slums, but his memory was a blur. The only thing he could remember was that he had been travelling through the mysterious Vagahast plains. He had come across a band of traders and travellers being attacked by a pack of Balverines, foul, wolf like creatures with luminescent eyes and razor sharp teeth. He had begun to fight the balverines off, but was then attacked by the White Balverine, the leader of the pack. As he fought and killed the last of the remaining balverines and their pack leader, he remembered falling lifeless next to the corpses, the only feeling being the tingling sensation travelling up his leg into his upper torso and head. That was the last thing he could make out of the blur that was his mind. As he began to gather his thoughts, he realised that he was not lying in an ordinary puddle of water in fact, as it was blood. His blood. He tried to sit up, but a searing pain across his stomach made him cry out in agony. He fell back down to the hard, cobbled street, panting and wheezing, almost hyperventilating. He laid there for what seemed like an eternity, until he heard footsteps and murmured whisperings somewhere near him. He tried to call out, to call for help, but all that came out of his mouth was a small croak. He held his arm up to the dull light that was “morning” in the slums of Denstone, and tried to grab a pebble or something to attract attention. He fumbled around until a heavy boot came down and stamped on his forearm, sending yet more signals of pain to sabre’s timeworn brain. He screamed in agony, but a sharp point of a dagger held to his throat quietened him down. He heard a sneering voice close to his ear. “So then…” the voice said, although spraying Sabre with phlegm and saliva, “what have we got ‘ere then?” another voice, more calmer, but just as threatening spoke. “Look’s like good ’old Sabre here has had a nice bit of a rampage…haven’t you!!!” As the voice shouted, Sabre’s eyes finally adjusted, and he saw two city guards stood above him, one holding a dagger to his neck and another with a loaded ebony crossbow aimed at his face. “What… what happened to me?” Sabre stuttered, choking as he spoke. “Shut up!” the first guard spat, again spraying Sabre with saliva and phlegm. “I think the Mayor of Denstone and the jail warden would be pleased to see you!” he laughed cockily at him as he pulled Sabre up, and with the help of another pair of hands Sabre could not see who owned, pulled him up and began to drag him along in the general direction of Denstone Jail.
All along the uncomfortable journey through Denstone town, Sabre was at the receiving end of taunts and screams of people who had been clapping and cheering for him hours before in the arena. His mind was still a mess, but becoming clearer. He could now remember his victory in the arena, the applause, the presentation ceremony, and the meeting with the powerful writer and warrior, Sir Hue of Nigh. He could remember shaking hands and feeling a paroxysm in his arm, thinking nothing of it and receiving his champions seal. It was then that he learnt of his older sister, whom he had barely known.
Sabre realised that although he was weapon less, the mind can sometimes be more powerful than the body. And he knew exactly how to harness the power of his mind…All these thoughts surged into his mind at once, and without thinking, Sabre cast his spell. The sun went behind the clouds, the trail went dark, and Sabre began to glow an eerie red. Screams came from the watching bystanders, and the Guards began to panic. Sabre fell to the floor in a heap, anger and hatred taking over him, his body flashing vibrant, bright colours. The guards began to run away, but were then pulled down by invisible cords. The villagers and townspeople began to flee away, but then silence came. A pure evil and cold silence. Nothing happened. The dazed guards sat up, gazing around themselves as though they had just awoken from a deep sleep into an unknown place. As they saw the crumpled heap of Sabre on the floor, they started gibbering like fools, watching in terror as the body grew. It kept on growing. And growing. Growing to the size of a small house, then to the size of an ancient oak tree, and then it stopped. Sabre was turned, the pain leaving his body like water out of an unplugged bath. He had turned into the darkest mage ever. His eyes were glowing a fiery red, his body leaving a scarlet glow behind whenever it moved. By this time, he was about as tall as a redwood tree, a huge, hulking, lumbering figure. He stared down below him, to where he was being enslaved.
The guards were on their feet now, sprinting as fast as there over fed bodies would take them. But they were not fast enough. Quick as a flash, Sabre leant down and grabbed the first guard by the head. Screaming, the guard drew his sword from his sheath and took a wild swipe at Sabre’s humongous hand, only ending up with a slight cut. Sabre pulled the guard up to eye level and laughed. The guard wailed in agony as Sabre began to squeeze. He kept on squeezing until, with a sickening noise, the head popped open like a berry being crushed between a curious child’s hands. As Sabre let go of the decapitated corpse and let it fall to the ground, he began to mutter an ancient spell. His feet left the floor, again leaving the dark red glow behind, as though staining the air where he had been. He raised his hands to the air, his muttering turning into a loud whisper, progressing into a shout and then a deafening roar. And then there was fire. In his hands, two perfectly spherical balls of fire were rotating on the palms. His eyes flashed open, seeking out the guard. He noticed him attempting to hide his bulk behind a few abandoned barrels. With a roar, Sabre lowered his hands and the fire left them in turn, travelling in parallel lines towards the doomed target. As they made contact, the victim was instantly incinerated, along with the surrounding 30 meters of earth. He had no time to scream as the flames burnt his flesh off in milliseconds. Laughing a blood-curdling laugh, Sabre began to fade into no-where, leaving the scarlet gas that would all become part of the legend of Sabre.
Morning crept across the Hero’s Guild, spreading another day of training and learning into the lives of the hero’s in training. This was a time where the world needed role models, people with the power to overcome the treacherous lands the world had to offer. Diablo was in his dormitory. He had spent the whole night studying for his secondary exam the next day. His mind was crammed with facts about previous heroes the world had experienced, and how the path of darkness is waiting around every corner and had trapped countless numbers of hero’s into the world of evil, corruption and death. He had just spent the last hour memorising the facts and figures in “Sir Hue of Nigh’s tales- the misfortune of Sabre” Diablo rested his head in his hands, thinking over what he had read. This man, Sir Hue of Nigh, must be one of Albion’s most experienced travellers. He revelled telling tales and writing novels on others peoples mishaps and downfalls, even if they were flawed at times. Diablo stood up from his ebony desk, placing his leather bound books into a pile on the corner of the bureau. He walked over to his bed and slowly sat down on it, his head coming to rest on his hands. He was just about to drift of to sleep when his roommate, Whisper came bounding in the room, squealing like a little girl. “Diablo, Diablo!!” she panted. “Oh my lord, Diablo! The graduation day has had two special additions! And they’re you and me!” It took a few seconds for Diablo’s brain to realise what she had said. “But… But that’s not possible… I’m only taking my secondary exams… There must be a mistake!” He replied. “No there isn’t!” she squeaked, “I’ve been to see the Guild master and there’s no mistake! He said that we are excellent apprentices and that we are being rewarded for our outstanding efforts with the Guild graduation! “She then came up with an excuse that she had to go and do “something” and sped off down towards the tavern.
Diablo was becoming more confused. He felt that a spot of fresh air might sort his over worked mind out, or a bit of sword craft would refresh him. He made his way out of the dormitory and into the Guild grounds. As he made his way along the path to the sword training area, he saw a strange glow coming from a rock near the edge of the fountains at the far end of the gardens. Feeling intrigued, he motioned to a nearby apprentice who was practicing his archery skills to follow him and cover his back. He crept over to one of the sculptured trees and signalled for the apprentice to come closer to him, keeping his eye on the rock. When the apprentice reached him, he stood up and crept over to the stone, taking slow and silent steps. He heard the stretch of bowstring behind him as the apprentice took aim, and felt as though something bad was about to happen. And he was right. As he came close to the rock, it seemed as though it was moving, slowly at first but then faster. It began shimmering different colours of grey and brown, and then stopped. Diablo withdrew his Obsidian greataxe and went to prod the rock with the end of the axe head. As soon as he made contact, lightning shout out of the rock and hit the apprentice, smothering him with 90,000 volts of electricity. The drawn bowstring snapped, leaving the arrow to fall to the floor and land flat on its side. Diablo felt a strange sensation as a green haze-like gas crept out of the stone and began to enter his lungs and bloodstream. Onlookers watched in awe as the boulder began to slowly dissolve into thin air, with Diablo still connected to it by the axe head. He began to fade away, his mentality along with it. His vision turned into a thousand colours, all in a blur as though he was spinning at an alarming rate. As the colours slowed and his vision returned, he realised he was no longer in the Guild gardens, but at a dark, damp cave. This was no ordinary cave. This was about as big as the arena, with a huge round dome of solid rock in the middle, surrounded by water. The thing that caught Diablo’s eye was the character stood on top of the stone. As Diablo gripped the handle of his greataxe more tightly, he became aware that there were more than two people in the room. Behind the rock were the living carcasses of 100’s of missing people. They were all alive and stood up, their eyeless skulls pointing in the general direction of Diablo. The figure on top of the stone spoke, the top half of his torso shrouded in darkness. “Nice of you to join us… As a special guest of honour, I would like to invite you to see a special show…” The voice spoke with a cold, jabbing voice. “If there are any problems, of course, then the… security team will deal with it…” the figure spoke with a sarcastic, dark voice, with what looked like the outline of a hand gesturing to the hordes of rotting undead behind him. “Let the entertainment enter…” the voice hissed.
Diablo gasped as he saw a familiar face being dragged into the chamber by a group of undead. It was Whisper. “Diablo!” she screamed, “Help m…ack!” Her voice was cut short as an undead grabbed her throat with a bony hand; it’s mouth emitting a hideous snarl. The figure laughed at Whispers pained look on her face, as the undead’s grasp tightened on her throat, choking her. “NO!” Diablo bellowed, sprinting towards the undead with his greataxe held above his head. As the head of the thing turned to face Diablo, his axe came crushing down on its skull, splitting it in two and fracturing the spinal column, sending bones and rotting flesh to the floor. Whisper fell as well, gasping for air. Diablo swung his axe around, cutting through the vertebrae of an advancing undead. As he turned around, he saw that the hordes of undead were advancing towards his position, snarls and battle cries being sounded from the empty mouths of the once living humans. Diablo felt something step up beside him. He turned and gasped in shock, not believing what he was seeing.
The legendary Sabre was stood next to him, surveying the advancing line of the undead with a tear in his eye. Diablo saw what age had made of him. His hair was grey as dust and his skin was a pale, flaky colour. But his face wore an expression of determination. Sabre turned and he looked at Diablo and spoke to him as though he had known him all his life. “This my friend, is the making of Hue of Nigh. Both of our pasts are now tarnished with this evil being’s actions. And now we must fight. For our lives. For Albion. And for justice. My friend, sorry for the lack of introduction, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And this is one of them. Remember in the written legend of me? The one Hue twisted to fit his greedy pocket? The words that were left on the tablet. “The open gate is locked”? Well, the gate is locked open and cannot be shut. The gate of evil. And you are the key to unlock the gate. and I am the key to fasten it again. But if one of us dies in this final onslaught, then the world is doomed. Again, sorry for inconvenience, but just move your way through this wave to the focus rock in the centre of the chamber where we will meet. Then the process will start. Sorry for the short introduction, but it cannot be helped. I trust you know how to use a weapon? For good!” Sabre drew his sword and charged at the army of undead, wiping three straight in half within seconds. Diablo stared at the battle that was commencing, and with a feeling of dread, entered the field of hell, only his wits keeping him mentally alive.
He gave out a battle cry that even he did not understand what it meant. This was all that he had been training for for the past eleven years. Hard nights of studying, and long days of training his strength, will and accuracy skills. This was it. His final page in his book. He walked forward into the undead, his axe held across in front of him, blocking the attacks being thrown at him. Dark, rusty blades from sneering skeletons crumbled away as they made contact. The smell was unbearable, and Diablo was soaked through from the water. He swung round his axe like a propeller, biting into the bones of the surrounding victims. Deafening howls came from the fatalities as they crashed to the floor in a heap. Diablo saw Sabre easily taking down five undead with a single blow, and saw his face. He was enjoying this. Diablo wasn’t. Fear clutched his heart as he broke into a run, wildly swinging his axe to and fro, claiming any hits he could. As the water came up to his knees and the moaning of the enemy changed into a sort of war song, Diablo saw Sabre fighting his way over to him. “Diablo, behind you!” he shouted at him, barely audible of the turmoil that was happening. Diablo spun around, to see the dark hooded figure reappear in front of him, brandishing the sword of Aeons, the most powerful sword ever crafted. But this was also the legend of Albion. The first person to have drawn the Sword from the vortex of mysteries was unarguably the most powerful being in the universe. A cold laugh came from the hooded figure. “Having fun? But it’s too late! I have the sword and now you are all going to pay… In blood!” He took off his hood, and Diablo gasped. It was the guild master, his hair now a dark, greasy matt compared to his usual blonde locks. A sneer crept across his face as he looked at Diablo. “You are the special invitations, my dear boy. Whisper here managed to let her curiosity get the better of her before yours did. That glowing rock was a bit of a simple trap, but it worked, eh?! Shame about that other apprentice though. Nice lad. Although, I must say, he was going to die anyway. They all are.” A cackle erupted from his mouth. He lifted the sword of Aeons high above his head. The sword gave off a glow of white, as though it was full of static electricity. “Your time has come too, Diablo. So was Hue’s. He got in the way too much with all his bragging of how superior he was, so he had to… removed… I think you will find that you would prefer to die now. All of your “friends” now think that you are a crazed killer. Like your new buddy Sabre. Shame, he was once respected by me. But he came too big headed. So I’ve made him suffer for the past few hundred years. Look at him now, fighting away with a big grin on his face. Makes you sick, doesn’t it.” He spat, his voice trembling with hatred. “But enough!” The blade came swishing through the air towards Diablo, but he was quicker. He rolled out the way earlier, kneeling up to see the blade cut straight through the solid stone floor like a knife through butter. Diablo leapt to his feet, his greataxe poised to strike. He lurched at the Guild master, his blade missing his torso by inches as the guild master dodged his attack. The sword swung round for another attack, and Diablo, without thinking, went to block the attack with the axe handle. The sword sliced through the handle, cutting it clean in two and sending masses of magical power down the pieces, up Diablo’s arms and through his body. He fell to the floor screaming and writhing in agony, snapping two vocal cords. The guild master laughed at Diablo as he rolled around on the floor, blaring curses at him. The sword was once again raised in the air. Diablo was too drained to do anything. He just wanted to sleep. Suddenly, the blade fell out of the guild master’s hands, slicing off his left arm as it fell. The guild master turned, and Diablo saw what had happened. An arrow, with the legendary emblem of Sabre was planted in his neck. Blood began pumping out of the Guild master’s arm socket and mouth, and he fell to the floor, a blank look in his eyes. Diablo remembered the body being raised off the floor and disappearing into thin air, the only trace being a faint glow of white. The blade of Aeons was still on the floor. “Diablo, Diablo!” Sabre shouted, as he dropped his bow among the uncountable remains of the army of undead. “I’m sorry, Diablo… Whisper didn’t make it. She had the final piece the guild master needed for the blade…Her blood… She’s dead, Diablo, but the evil is gone from the world…” As he spoke, the blade began sounding a faint ringing noise. “The sword… the vortex of mysteries has faded, all evil with it. The world is saved, Diablo. Thanks to you. The Guild master was distracted enough for me to strike. Thank you, Diablo. Now I can finally rest. Diablo, remember. The gate is closed and locked. The gate is closed and locked…” And he was gone, leaving Diablo alone on the floor, sleep winning his mind over. He closed his eyes. For the first time in centuries the world was white. Everything. A pure, good white.
Sorry TSR, fics in this forum have to be Star Wars-related per CEC rules. --Jae