He killed my dog—Fenris, I named him. He killed Fenris. And I couldn't do a damn thing except watch him die, with wide, angry eyes. I kind of knew it was going to happen, to be honest. One way or another. A friendly and loyal canine companion? How could they not kill him, right? But my attachment to Fenris had let my guard down. So when I watched Fenris leap in front of Lucien's gun in an attempt to save his master, it kind of took me by surprise.

When it came time to throw down with Lucien for the first and final time, I had newfound purpose. I was no longer playing to simply beat the game and sit through a potentially underwhelming ending. I no longer played to avenge Sparrow's sibling that I barely knew and barely cared for. I played to make Lucien pay for killing my dog. Not Sparrow's dog. My dog. My love for Fenris went beyond his ability to sniff out treasure chests or bark to tell me when he'd found something of worth buried in the soil.

Fuck that. Fenris and I were a team. We were best friends. If he was scared, I cheered him up. When he found me treasure, I fed him a treat. When he mauled the hell out of a highwayman while I tended to a slew of other enemies, I told him what a good boy he was. Hell, we even entertained the people of Albion together with dancing and victory arm pumps and farting. Yes, god damn it. Farting.



And now he was dead? Lucien had to fucking pay.

Crossbow loaded and aimed for his chest, I pulled the trigger and let an arrow fly, lodging itself into Lucien's heart before he could monologue a single, meaningless word. And I watched him fall from the platform and into the abyss of The Spire with only slim satisfaction. Slim, because I didn't—couldn't end him in the fashion I truly desired. I wanted to destroy him. I wanted slice him, maim him, set him on fire. I wanted his pain to last more than the few moments he endured before his body reached the bottom of The Spire.

When Theresa presented me with a choice to ressurect those who died constructing the Spire, to ressurect my beloved Fenris, or to take vast riches as my reward, I did what any "truehero" would have done, and opted for the first choice. It was the hero thing to do... the 'right' thing to do.

When I reappeared in Oakfield, Fenris not by my side, I felt naked... incomplete... angry. I'd saved the world, ressurected millions and reunited them with their loved ones, and all I had to show for it was a "Thank You" letter. If there had been a way to trash that damned letter, I would have. My dog was dead. My best friend was dead. And since I felt robbed of my vengeance during my 'fight' with Lucien, Albion would receive punishment in his stead. Did I go around slaughtering innocent people all willy nilly? No... that would have been too easy. The people of Albion were to live under the dark, oppressive cloud that I was forced to live under since the death of my partner.

I took up a bartending job in Bloodstone. Did an excellent job. Got promoted four times, and made an exceptional amount of money. 300,000 gold pieces, in fact. I took that money, and bought every property in Bloodstone. But that wasn't enough. I didn't just want Bloodstone. I wanted Albion. I spent the next few days earning money and buying up businesses and housing, increasing rent by as much as 70%, and marking up stall merchandise as far up as 80%. And the people hated me for it, but could do a damn thing about it. If they had something negative to say, they were killed. I was their hero, God damn it. Soon to be their King. There was no way I was going to allow such ungratefulness. Especially in my face.

Before long, my actions... my corruption... it began shifting my appearance. Gradually, my stark, blue eyes began to take on a hellish, crimson glow, my skin faded into a sickening hue. I'd even begun forming horns. But I didn't care. I was acting like a monster, so it was only suitable that I looked like one, perhaps.

Soon enough, I had enough money to purchase the castle in which my sister and I had been murdered. Fairfax Castle. My new butler greeted me, amazingly unphased by my horrific appearance. I gave myself a tour of the place. Roamed the halls. Meandered in the room in which Lucien had thought he'd killed me. And finally, the throne room. I walked slowly, silently along the stretch of royal red carpet that led up to my throne, the new symbol of my iron clasp tyranny, and stopped half-way.

I had infinite wealth. Had killed countless. Was feared by all.

But Fenris was still dead.

And suddenly... it all meant nothing.

It's funny. Because when I first popped in Fable II, I expected it to suck like an eager collegiate whore. And to be frank, I really wasn't all that engaged with the game's story until my—Sparrow's dog was killed. In that moment, the game suddenly came to life. The world became tangible. The people I killed suddenly had feelings, memories. The hatred they showed me as I walked the streets felt real and offensive. Cliché, I know, but the game kind of made me feel like a kid again. I hadn't immersed myself like that within a game in a long, long time.

Games are pretty amazing, huh?