#[Fable]
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aesfocus · 3 days ago
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To start, press ENTER.
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for-the-love-of-avo · 14 hours ago
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Collection of posters around Albion in fable 3
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hnnn-fable · 1 day ago
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I feel like he shouldn't have been wearing his kingly attire during his trial. I feel like it would have been cool to see him not dressed in his kingly attire after being overthrown as well cause why would he be wearing that?
...Above all else, I'm just looking out for the Logan fans XD
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wavrica · 2 days ago
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I’m literally crying on my break at work 😩 please this was SO GOOD! This hurt every piece of my fragile heart and I need MORE MY GOD
Fable - During
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Pairing: Azriel x Reader
Summary: Azriel was too late, and something was brewing. The fate of your wings rested in the balance and there was nothing left of him to reconcile with.
Word count: 2.2k
Warnings: Angst, injury, violence
a/n: This is part of a mini-series but each part can be read on its own/out of order. The next part is going to be long guys <3 Thank you for reading all of this angst!!!
Series Masterlist (all parts ♡)
~~
The ground beneath Azriel’s feet must have disappeared. 
He was unstable, falling, plummeting into an unknown abyss. 
When he looked down, Azriel saw the plush carpet at his feet, but as he replayed Rhysand’s words—four words, echoing—the blur behind his eyes made the physical obsolete. We can’t find her, Rhysand had said, followed by a multitude of questions from Cassian that Azriel could not hear. Everything was buzzing and the carpet was gone. 
Where was Lucien? Azriel remembered that Lucien was to go with you. Where was he? 
He had to be dead because if he were alive and you were missing, Azriel would kill him himself. 
“Lucien,” Azriel spoke, his voice rough, interrupting the conversation he had not been part of. 
“What?” Rhysand asked. 
But Cassian ignored his High Lord’s confusion. “She was never bringing Lucien,” he growled, throwing his brother a sneer. “She only said that to make sure you went on your date. I told her I should’ve come. I told her—” 
Azriel had lost his breath. He was grappling for it, trying to make sense of Cassian’s words as his lungs began to burn, but you wouldn’t do that, would you? Why would you lie to him? Over something like this? 
“Cassian, enough,” Azriel gasped, the buzzing of his brother’s voice a constant barrier in the losing battle within his head. “Who’s looking for her? Where should we go?” 
Azriel was dressed in a ridiculous button-up shirt with slacks that now felt too tight on his legs. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms and his shadows took advantage of the open space, trailing up to protect him from nothing. Because nothing was here—he wasn’t in danger. 
You were. 
Azriel had only gotten through drinks with Elain before the call from his High Lord sent him into the sky. He couldn’t remember if he apologized. Azriel’s shoes were pinching his feet. 
“I had just lost connection with her when I called you. I sent her to the northeast camp. There’s a possibility that—” 
Azriel was traveling through the shadows, darkness consuming him before Rhysand could finish his sentence. He should have grabbed Cassian for backup, but that was a thought Azriel would only have much, much later. 
His mind was on you—only on you. 
That wasn’t unnatural for Azriel; you were one of the most important people in his life and you had been in trouble before. Life-threatening, war-induced trouble, but somehow, this felt different. 
You had been distant lately. 
Azriel had noticed, but Azriel had also been so zeroed in on getting Elain’s attention that he figured he would have time to check on you in a few weeks. 
When he landed in the camp, the foreboding quiet made him consider that he might never get to check on you again. Illyrian camps were never quiet. There was always shouting or fighting or nagging mothers getting after their young. But the insects in the bushes could be heard in this camp, and Azriel paused amid his racing heart to make sense of the noise. 
And then he heard the scream. 
Your scream.
And he was running. 
His shoes groaned as they pounded into soft dirt and you screamed again. Azriel had never heard that sound come from you. The way it erupted into the air—it was as if it was ripped from your throat, evoked from nothing but agony. 
He pushed himself harder, faster, until the screams became closer and a small hut materialized on the horizon. The image of the quaint house brought Azriel relief, but that relief was short-lived because your screams had become tired in his journey. With each step, your voice broke more and more and Azriel didn’t even feel angry. 
The rage he expected to feel was consumed by the terror that gripped him. 
He ripped open the door and that terror only increased tenfold. 
Azriel was usually focused during battle, his mind razor-sharp. He was known for calculating every step, for remembering each life he took, and being able to recount each slice of his blade when asked for a report days later. Azriel was a warrior and a spy. 
But Azriel could not remember his actions. 
From the moment he opened the door and found you on the ground, surrounded by enemies and so broken, he lost the ability to calculate anything other than death. 
He figured a few must have gotten away because he vaguely registered that the door made a sound. But over the screams, that sound was inconsequential, and with the image of you before him, lying in your blood, chest only minutely rising and falling, everything else was inconsequential. 
He only remembered that the rage finally found him. 
Only when bodies littered the floor did the anger make way for the visceral fear that came with reaching for you—grabbing you as you let out small, weak sounds and took labored breaths. 
“Y/n?” Azriel stressed, eyes roving over your figure with haste that his hands couldn't match. He had to be careful; so much of you was broken. “Y/n,” he spoke again, as if the echo of your name would somehow fix you, snap you out of the hurt. 
Azriel’s breath quivered. His scarred hands hovered over your skin now, afraid to touch you more than to bring you into his arms. His fingers shook. Your wings—it was your wings. 
“You’re okay,” Azriel affirmed, whispering only to himself. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” 
Salt tainted the surface of his tongue, and Azriel then recognized that he was crying. Fat, heavy tears blurred his vision and fell into his mouth as he repeated his mantra into the stagnant air. 
Your wings looked beyond repair. When Hybern destroyed Cassian’s, the roots remained. The delicate flesh was burned and torn, but regrowth was still feasible.
Only small pieces of the membrane along your back remained. 
Azriel’s soul wept. 
You groaned, and Azriel stopped his inspection of your back, his hands brushing your hair off from where it stuck to your skin. 
“Y/n?” he tried again. “Can you hear me? I’m—I’m going to bring you home, okay? You’re going to be fine, I promise.” 
He shouldn’t have promised that. His voice broke as he spoke the words and Azriel knew he shouldn’t have promised that because you only let out a broken rendition of ‘my wings?’ that Azriel had no response to. He only squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead to your temple before shadows consumed him once more. They had been rampaging around the pair, whispering worried, angry words in Azriel’s ear, but they remained faithful. 
They brought you home. 
Mor screamed first. 
He assumed everyone would be out looking for you, but Azriel hadn’t broken the connection to Rhysand’s mind, and they had been expecting him. His family stood before him as your blood stained the rug of his High Lord’s favorite sitting room. Rhysand was missing, gone to retrieve Madja, but Azriel was only looking for those he knew could help you. 
His throat caught on air as he frantically searched for Feyre in the room. When he saw her wide eyes, he let out a desperate, “Help her,” that sounded nothing like him. His High Lady’s shoulders rose and fell with hurried panic as she came forward and then hesitated. 
Azriel heard someone vomit in the corner of the room—Cassian, he thought—and Mor came to kneel beside him. 
“Feyre,” he sobbed. “Please. Please, try.” 
Mor was crying. Cassian had wiped his mouth and come to stand beside Feyre, but everyone was too afraid to touch you. You rested in Azriel’s arms, but even his palms remained face up and did not connect with your skin. He would break you more, he was sure of it. Your wings bent at odd angles and hung from your body by only tethered threads and no one knew what to do. 
Azriel thought that dying would be better than this. 
His button-up was stained red. 
“Fuck.” Rhysand’s voice rattled the air in the House. At some point, Feyre had broken her hesitancy and kneeled before you, a gentle glow emitting from her hands as she tried to stitch together the broken remains of your skin. When her mate appeared with the elder healer, she turned wild eyes towards him. Rhysand stood frozen, mimicking each person in the room, but he was the High Lord—a composed leader—so his reverie lasted only seconds before he was sent into action. 
“The table,” Rhysand demanded. “Lay her on the table.” 
No one moved. 
Azriel couldn’t stop looking at you. 
Madja then spoke, no, demanded, “Now.” 
The table was cleared, everything swiped to the floor with abandon. As gently as he could, Azriel rose from the floor on shaking legs and heaved you up with him, offering soft apologies as you cried out. He wished you would pass out from the pain, be free of it all, but the agonizing reality that you might not wake up struck him harder. 
“I’m so sorry, y/n,” he whispered against your hair. His body ached. Azriel leaned you against the table as the other members of his family turned you on your stomach. He kneeled to meet your lidded gaze, your face pressed against the wood. “Madja’s going to fix it, okay?” 
The healer was giving orders—Cassian to get water, Mor to support your head, Feyre for support. It was all a buzz in Azriel’s ears. He licked his lips and tried to meet your eyes, but they were trailing off, unfocused. 
“Y/n?” he tried. “Angel?” A name he had dropped once Elain came into the picture. Your lashes fluttered. His attention peaked. “It’s okay, angel. I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry—” 
Azriel was torn from his position on the ground, a heavy hand shoving him up and against the wall. His shadows remained caressing your skin, but a fist met Azriel's face and he lost sight of you. 
“This is your fault.” 
“Cassian!” Mor called, desperately pleading with no one. 
“It is,” Cassian seethed, his arm pressed to the Shadowsinger’s throat. “If he hadn’t been searching for something with a woman not even meant to be his, he would have been there. She would have said anything to ensure your happiness. Anything, Azriel.” 
Azriel blinked and Cassian’s face was inches from his own. “I didn’t—” 
“You have been blinded, brother. You’ve been blind for years and now this is the price.” 
“I don’t—what are you saying?” Azriel pleaded, trying and failing to look over Cassian’s broad wings to catch a glimpse of you. 
“Cassian, this is not the time,” Mor scolded, but the anguish burned so deeply in Cassian’s eyes that Azriel could tell he wasn’t hearing her. 
“She gave you everything,” his brother continued. “She—” 
Your scream punctuated the building tension in the room. Cassian whipped around and Azriel used the opportunity to shove him away, the Shadowsinger racing to your side once again. But, once again, he was pushed away. Rhysand held his shoulder back this time, shaking his head with a furrowed brow. 
The screams echoed in the room and they hurt. 
They hurt everyone. 
Feyre and Mor stood beside Madja, the three of them set to the fruitless task of saving your wings. A small part of Azriel spoke the truth that they were also just trying to save you. You had lost so much blood and he still knew nothing of your other injuries. 
“Rhys,” Azriel begged, beseeching him with his gaze. 
But Rhysand only shook his head once more. “They need the space.” 
“She needs me.” 
Cassian scoffed and ground his jaw, but a glance in the general’s direction found only tears and the quivering of his lips as he pressed them together. 
“You need to let them work.” 
“This is my fault,” Azriel spoke, his tone dead, lost within the echo of your screams. “I was seeing Elain,” he admitted. He met Rhysand’s eyes. “You told me not to. She lied so I could go.” 
Rhysand didn’t even look disappointed. He didn’t look surprised. He only ticked his jaw to the side and breathed deeply through his nose as your screams filled the room once more. 
Azriel flinched. The soles of his shoes were caked with blood and cracked along the stitches. 
Rhysand would have the right to be angry. He had the right to send Azriel away and force him to sit in uncertainty and the consequences of the night, but Rhysand found something familiar in the Shadowsinger’s eyes—something different. Something that Rhysand could find in himself if he were to search his mind from the night he thought Feyre to be dead. 
Impossible, the High Lord assumed, but you were still screaming and there was no time to inspect the intricacies of Azriel’s reaction. 
So Rhysand only held back the maelstrom of his own emotions, his sister broken on the table just feet from him, and kept his response to that of a leader. 
“Let them work, Azriel.”
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olliemnjones · 2 months ago
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sticksandsharks · 29 days ago
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fanart of Daegal from Blade of the Fane by Theo Stultz / @theoplum; one of my favorite comics to come out of this year's SBCF!
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mistress-light · 2 months ago
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Fable II • (dev. Lionhead Studios 2008)
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luciasatalina · 1 year ago
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Fable lady
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waspgrave · 4 months ago
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Art hasn’t been making me feel bad lately so I’m appreciating my ocs
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tsevile · 1 year ago
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2004 in video games
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thelvadams · 5 months ago
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favourite games showcased at E3 2024
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pellucid-constellations · 22 hours ago
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What if she loses a limb or two or maybe her vision/hearing/vocal abilities? And Azriel can't even look at her without feeling a wave of self-loating because every life altering, nearly fatal injury, was because he couldn't save her.
Bonus points if he realizes they're mates when checking on her, maybe bringing her food. And seeing how this once confident, beautiful woman has lost her spark, her energy, shes frail and clearly plagued by nightmares of her torture. All because he was too busy to save.
Extra bonus points if Elain is insensitive about it (accidentally of course, shes not mean, just ignorant to the fact she lwky caused this) an Azriel loudly defending her and calling her his mate.
-👾
Allll I'm going to say is that in 'After' a lot of these themes come up and it's also going to be a super long chapter 👀
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bladeoffrontiers · 6 months ago
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kelogsloops · 1 year ago
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'The Surrender' releases as a print tomorrow, Thursday Nov 23rd, 12PM (PT) on my store!
This piece was from my solo exhibition a few years back titled, ’Sanctuary’. The theme of the show was centred around states of mental rest and respite. This piece was about envisioning the waves of thoughts that run through your mind: sometimes gentle, but sometimes crashing swells that leave you with no room to breathe or gasp for air. But in knowing that the waves are cyclical and eventually ease, she finds herself surrendering to the motions and trusting that it will be okay. 
NOTE: This gold-foil edition of this print will only be available for 72-hours & will not be available again thereafter.
#brbchasingdreams
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renaultmograine · 2 months ago
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The Fable series was so funny because there's a good v evil morality system but it by no means presents itself as a "your choices matter" story. You are saving this world regardless, the question is if you're gonna be a bitch about it.
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