Fabled Legend
By TRupchis
Genre: Epic Fantasy Odyssey
Act 1
Episode 1
The Elder Relives, The Boy Absorbs
The purple flames of the campfire begin to dance, flickering like spirits.
“Zeal…
Heed this truth…”
Before you were born, the mighty Arbiters faced their greatest adversary.
Some called him a wise leader.
A visionary.
Unfortunately—and with painful hindsight—he was the persuader of our destruction.
Wherever his venom seeped, disorder followed.
Rebellion. Unrest. Chaos.
I still don’t understand why he did it…
His ideals, his beliefs—they tore the world apart.
Endless fighting. So much blood. So much death.
You’re probably wondering—
What was his power?
But that’s the thing.
He had no extraordinary ability. No command over flame, storm, or stone.
His gift… was his mind.
His word. His power.
Just north of where we sit now, nestled in this very forest, lies a village in ruins.
But on a calm night much like tonight, a pair of Keepers found him there, spewing twisted tales before a crowd. They apprehended him with ease, of course.
But that…
was exactly what he wanted.
You see, Zeal—
the brothers believed they were protecting the people.
But the people saw it differently.
A commotion erupted.
Neighbors. Friends. Even family turned on them—surrounding the Keepers in a tightening ring of distrust.
Like a noose, choking inward.
The vile man condemned them:
“These are your Keepers? Your protectors?”
So devious.
So calculated.
The brothers panicked.
The younger one raised a wall of ice to hold the mob back.
The elder hurled lightning into the sky—desperate for help.
Still, the crowd pressed in.
They say he smirked…
You believe that? Smirking?
But the people didn’t see it.
So no one believed it.
Maybe—just maybe—if they had…
history might’ve unraveled differently.
Even we remained blind to his true ambition.
Eventually, the mob shattered the ice wall—hands clawing forward, chanting:
“Filthy Fables!”
They reached for the “hostage.”
The outcome was to be grim.
But then—
A thunderous boom tore through the night.
A portal opened, brilliant as a sunrise. So bright it burned the shadows away.
The brothers collapsed. The crowd scattered.
They knew who had arrived.
And none dared linger to see what might come next.
Back then, there was still a higher ordnance.
Their presence alone could halt a war.
I’ve seen it, Zeal. I’ve felt it.
But that night… it wasn’t enough.
A first crack in a fragile foundation.
The man got exactly what he wanted.
Those naive Keepers played right into his hand.
And what did he gain?
A Legend.
A Fable to twist the world into something new.
Something broken.
The old storyteller, Porukuta, wipes his brow and lets out a deep sigh.
The purple flames fade, dimming back to their ordinary hue.
Across from him, a boy sits wide-eyed.
“Well? What happened next?!” Zeal blurts, eager and expectant.
“Justifiable honor… no, wait—that’s not quite right. Honorable justice?”
Porukuta squints. “It was chaos… civil unrest, redemption, reprimanding, coups… Honestly, the little details always get jumbled after all this time.”
He waves a hand vaguely, as if chasing smoke.
Zeal’s shoulders slump.
“Well that’s just great. Why do I even bother asking?”
The old man wags a finger across the fire.
“Hey. You’ve always loved my stories.”
Zeal flops backward, stretching his legs toward the dwindling embers.
“Yeah. Back when they had endings.”
“Endings are overrated,” Porukuta replies, lifting an eyebrow with a smirk. “The ones without them? Endless possibilities.”
Zeal ruffles his hair, half amused, half annoyed.
“Meh. I suppose. Still feels like you leave out half the story. Especially the ones that involve you.”
“I was quite the adventurer in my middle age,” Porukuta says with mock pride.
His weathered face twists into a grin—but it fades when he’s met with silence.
He exhales, softer now.
“Look, Zeal… a lot of these stories—the details can get… intense.”
The boy stews.
“This world is broken. Your words. You’ve told me that time and time again. I need to know. I deserve to know what that really means.”
Porukuta stares through the fire, his gaze piercing.
“You do, Zeal…” he whispers, voice suddenly grave.
Then, the weight lifts from his tone.
“Come now, son. We need rest for tomorrow.”
He stretches his arm over the fire, palm open.
A brilliant violet glow spirals around his hand as a single strand of light drips downward, slow and reverent.
It touches the flames—
—and at once, a shimmering forcefield encases them, muting their flicker to a steady pulse.
The old man closes his hand into a fist.
The fire snuffs out—silent, smokeless, still.
Zeal springs up, his disappointment flipping into wonder.
“Wait—does that mean we’re trying again?!”
Porukuta rises slowly, stretching and yawning.
Fatigue hangs on him like an old cloak.
He sees the world, as always, through half-closed lashes.
“We’ll humor it, at least.”
Zeal smiles, already buzzing.
“Welp. Now I’m too excited to sleep.”
“That’s not going to stop me,” Porukuta mutters, already collapsing onto his bedroll.
He folds a scarf into a makeshift pillow, yawns again, and sinks down.
“That tea’s finally kicking in…”
Zeal lingers in thought.
“You know, now that you mention it…”
A monstrous snore explodes from the other side of the firepit.
Zeal’s head snaps toward the sound—his elder, mouth agape, snoring like a storm.
“Wait—seriously? Already?”
He sighs, then laughs softly to himself.
“I guess you did warn me.”
He doesn’t disturb him.
“Love you, Pops. Sweet dreams.”
Noon. The next day.
They meditate in an open field, encircled by forest.
The old man sits cross-legged in a weathered gray robe, embroidered with faded purple flowers. Dark purple trousers peek from underneath. The fine stitching is frayed by time alone. His salt-and-pepper hair whips upward like a storm caught mid-scream. Deep shadows pool beneath his eyes—heavy crescents etched into his dark skin by years of burden.
Beside him sits a boy, younger by generations, nervous by nature. His black shirt is sleeveless—ripped crudely at the shoulders. Red-thread stitches crisscross the fabric where holes once gaped. A single ornate shackle clasps his upper arm, rattling faintly as he shifts.
“How ya feeling today?” the peaceful man asks, eyes still closed.
“Terrified,” Zeal admits. “But eager to start.”
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He inhales, slow and steady, finally settling. His body calms, but anticipation coils just beneath the surface.
“I just hope I can control it better this time.”
He rises, tightening the green-and-black woven headband wrapped around his crown for the seventh time. His chestnut hair buckles messily to one side. Then, without pause, he offers his mentor a hand.
“Again… sorry about the haircut.”
“I needed one anyway… You’re ready, Zeal. Besides—that’s exactly why we train.” The man ruffles Zeal’s wild hair, loosening the headband again. They both smirk.
“Now,” the old man says, pointing to a bare patch in the grass, “take your position over there… and remove the restraint.”
Zeal walks to the spot, unlocking the restraint from his arm. It’s a pair of ornate cuffs joined by a short, delicate chain—an object that looks almost celebratory in its design. Filigree etching coils along the mythite bands like vines frozen in bloom. But he knows better. This wasn’t crafted for ceremony. It was made to contain.
He kneels and sets it down gently, like placing a memory into the soil. No more weight. No more suppression.
A surge rushes through his veins.
He straightens with a new stillness.
He bows toward the old man.
Porukuta bows in return. They lower into their stances, bodies aligned, breath even.
“I’m ready,” Zeal whispers.
Suddenly—
From the treeline, a girl explodes into the clearing. She sprints straight toward them.
Before either can react—
She crashes into Zeal, knocking him to the ground.
Her golden hair drapes across his chest, catching sunlight like a halo. She props herself on his shoulders, gasping for breath. Her wide eyes scream terror. Wiry strands whip in every direction as she scans the trees behind her. Her body trembles.
Porukuta’s head snaps to the treeline. His cheerful calm evaporates.
From the brush, two soldiers burst through—entangled in vines.
They slash and struggle, but the vines grip tighter, shifting like serpents, refusing to release them.
The old man steps between the teens and the oncoming threat.
“Zeal! Get up. Get her out of here!” he commands. His tone is hard now. Unyielding. No longer gentle.
The girl rolls off Zeal and pulls him to his feet. She opens her mouth to speak—
But Porukuta interrupts, softly. “I know who they are. And what they do. Now go. Zeal will keep you safe.”
She mouths the words: thank you.
Behind her, the larger of the soldiers growls, voice laced with disdain. “You are interfering with Keeper business. Turn the filthy Fable over, or we will strike you down, old timer.”
Zeal grabs his shackle and the girl’s hand. They bolt into the forest.
The soldiers step to follow—
But Porukuta moves to block them, arms raised in plea.
“Please,” he says. “Return from where you came. I don’t want to cause you harm… but I will do what I must.”
The teens vanish into the trees.
The vines loosen. The soldiers finally rip free, armor clanking. They drop into a low stance and begin circling.
“Move! This is your last chance,” says the shorter one.
Porukuta exhales. “No… this is your last chance—please.”
They laugh. One bitter. One arrogant. “Enough, old fool! You’ve wasted our time.”
Porukuta’s voice drops to a whisper. “Then I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’ve been so… misguided.”
He raises his arm—and clenches his fist.
A pulse of violet light erupts from it.
A glowing ethereal blade bursts from his palm. The sleeve of his robe flutters violently from the surge of power. His eyes ignite—twin orbs of Cataclysmic violet.
The younger soldier drops his sword. His knees hit the dirt. Mouth open. Paralyzed.
The other stumbles back, mumbling, horrified. “You… You’re… the Cataclysm.”
Porukuta flinches, disgust twisting his face at the name.
“Please—no! I meant nothing by it,” the man pleads, bowing now. “We’re only following orders. We have families—”
Porukuta shuts his eyes, pained.
The pleading continues. Desperate. Human. But the decision is made.
“I’m sorry. But this is my duty. And this… is bigger than you.”
Their weapons fall. One reaches for the other’s hand—and they clasp tightly, gauntlets clinking as fingers interlock. Not in ritual. Not in defiance. Just fear. Just closeness.
Porukuta steps forward. “Truly, I am… sorry.”
One swing. A violet flash. His eyes blaze.
The clearing goes silent.
Simultaneously, the two teenagers crash back into camp.
The forest thickens around them, and the sound of pursuit fades beneath their frantic breath. Zeal and Flora break into a narrow clearing—hidden, muffled by bark and leaf and shadow.
The camp is barely a suggestion:
A cold fire pit, blackened wood arranged for a swift relight.
Two low mounds of leaves serve as beds, cloaks compressed atop them. Moss-covered bags blend into the earth like forgotten stones. Each is flanked by a roughly sculpted clay mug. Nothing luxurious. Nothing permanent.
Zeal doesn’t pause.
He drops to his knees beside the leafy beds and starts rolling up the cloaks with practiced hands. Brisk. Measured. Like he’s done this a hundred times.
“So,” he asks, eyes flicking between tasks, “do you have a name?”
“Flora.”
The word trembles from her lips. Her hands are clasped beneath her chin, knuckles white, as if holding herself together by force.
Zeal looks up, offering a soft smile.
“Flora. I’m Zeal. The older guy is Porukuta—but we just call him Kuta. Sorry we had to meet like this, but… everything’s gonna be fine.”
Flora winces. The warmth in his voice splinters something inside her.
“No,” she breathes. “I have to go back. I have to save my friend—”
Zeal rises slowly, hands lifted in peace.
“Okay, okay. Just… give yourself a moment. You’ve been through a lot.”
He ties his shackle with a frayed green scarf.
“Those were Republic soldiers. They don’t chase just anyone. Usually they hunt Legends… are you one too?”
Flora flinches.
But something shifts behind her eyes.
“Too?” she repeats. The word lingers like a key turning in a lock. “You have powers?”
“Yea,” Zeal replies, kneeling again to pack.
“Those guys caught up in vines… that wasn’t just bad luck, right?”
He looks sideways, curious.
“That was you, wasn’t it?”
She hesitates—then nods.
“…Yeah. I can control plants.”
Her voice is reluctant. Not ashamed—just tired.
Zeal lights up, oblivious to her restraint.
“That’s amazing! Seriously, that’s an incredible gift. We can only manipulate some kind of… purple energy. Well, he can. I’m still working on the control part.”
He stacks the cloaks beside the bags.
“We were about to start training when… well, you know.”
She manages a breath. “Sorry for landing on you like that. I’m lucky I did, but my friend—she’s still there. I have to go back…”
Then she freezes.
A sound.
Rustling in the underbrush.
Zeal whips his head toward the noise, shoulders tensed—
Then relaxes.
Through the trees, a familiar shape emerges.
Hair curled in tight coils lags with each slow step, like a remembrance lantern adrift in breeze. He moves gently, as though part of the forest. His robe hangs loose at the chest— dark, scarred skin glistening. His face wears sorrow, fighting against the shape of a smile. His eyes… sag with gravity, but remain impossibly kind.
“Are you alright, dear?” Porukuta asks softly.
Flora nods stiffly, anxious.
“I am, thank you… but my friend—she’s still in that village. I’m going back.”
Porukuta steps fully into the clearing, adjusting his tunic.
“Hold still for just a moment.”
He bows low, his storm-swept hair falling with the gesture.
“I’m truly sorry about your friend.”
“Thanks,” Flora exhales.
Zeal springs up awkwardly.
“Uh—Kuta, this is Flora. Flora, Kuta.” He gestures between them.
Silence.
“I need to go back,” Flora insists.
Porukuta nods, gently.
“Understood. But we can’t help her yet. More are coming. And they’ll find… what’s left.”
Flora’s voice cracks. “Does that mean… they’re…?”
Porukuta glances down at the dried blood spattered across his robes.
He exhales, and a small burst of violet energy lifts the stains from his clothing—dissolving them into mist.
“I gave them a chance to back down. In the end… they chose the path they marched.”
He looks up and meets her eyes with a sorrowful smile.
“This isn’t your fault.
And you don’t carry it alone.”
He gestures deeper into the forest.
“Let’s move. We’ll set up somewhere safer, and then we’ll talk about your friend.”
Zeal already has the gear on his back.
He nods to Flora, a small gesture of hope.
She hesitates.
Wilts.
But the forest sighs with her.
“…Fine,” she whispers.
Porukuta steps beside her and places a hand on her shoulder. Warm. Steady.
“Come. We’ll figure this out. One moment at a time.”
He moves past her, motioning for Zeal to follow.
Zeal respectfully averts his gaze and falls in line.
Flora lingers. Still. Heart tethered to another place.
Then, quietly, she trails after them—
swallowed once more by the forest.
Behind them, in the hush of the clearing,
a patch of earth blooms wildly.
Unprompted.
Alive.
After a short, silent hike through the forest, they arrive at a thicket so dense it might’ve been overlooked by anyone else.
Kuta drops his pack and exhales.
“This oughta do it,” he mutters, cracking his neck. “Give me a moment to clear enough space—”
But Flora is already moving.
She throws her arms down, palms angled to the soil like she’s grabbing the world by its roots.
The earth responds.
Tall grass flattens and weaves into layered bedding.
Bushes unfurl and bow outward.
Trees creak and lean.
Vines spiral between trunks, braiding into a sheltering cocoon of leaf and wood.
Even the breeze seems to hush.
When she finishes, the forest pants with her.
Zeal stares, wide-eyed.
“whoa, That’s… that’s amazing.”
“Stunning ,” Kuta adds, awe softening into sorrow.
“Powers like that should be cherished. Instead… the world teaches us to hide them.”
Flora accepts the praise with a quiet nod, but her voice cuts forward, urgent.
“Now that we’re settled… please. I need you to hear me. I don’t know how much time she has.”
Kuta gestures for her to sit.
“Start from the beginning. Zeal, get the fire going.”
Still shaking, Flora collapses into the soft grass.
Her hands claw at her scalp, as if she could expel the memory out through her skull.
“We were traveling the woods,” she begins, every word edged with panic.
“Then the Republic Keepers came. We tried to fight, but there were too many. They bound us… dragged us to some village.”
Her voice fractures.
“Sorinia used her power to free me. She fought—she told me to run. To not look back. I didn’t want to leave her… but I did.”
Her breath hitches.
Then comes the sobbing—deep, ugly, soul-choked sobs—but she pushes on through it.
“I could still hear her… screaming for me to go… between the strikes. Over and over.”
Zeal crouches beside the firewood, paralyzed.
His fingers hover mid-motion.
Then they clench.
“We need to fix this,” he says through grit teeth.
His eyes swing to Flora, then to Kuta.
“We can’t just do nothing. We’re here—we’re capable.”
His passion startles Flora.
It ignites something small, fragile, and hopeful in her chest.
Kuta inhales, preparing to speak—
But Zeal cuts him off.
“We’ve been hiding all this time. And here you are! An Arbiter of—”
“ZEAL.”
Kuta’s voice snaps like a whip.
Zeal freezes.
The old man speaks again, low and trembling.
“I am not that person anymore. I can’t lose everything again. I can’t—”
His voice cracks.
“I can’t lose you.”
Flora’s glimmer of hope flickers out.
Her face turns hollow.
“That’s exactly what I stand to lose… everything.”
Silence settles in like fog.
Finally, Kuta speaks—quieter now.
“I’m sorry. Truly. But to be blunt—there’s little that can be done. An assault on a Republic village would brand us all… and they won’t just send soldiers next time. They’ll send champions.”
Flora nods stiffly, her eyes hardening.
Then she turns to Zeal, softer.
“Thank you.”
Her stomach growls.
Zeal offers her a bundle of underripe berries.
“Not the best… but they last.”
She snatches them and begins to eat—but the berries swell and darken under her touch, bursting with fragrance.
Zeal watches, stunned.
“You… can ripen them too?”
Flora chuckles, a spark of warmth in her eyes.
She offers him one.
Zeal pops it in his mouth and immediately melts.
“This… this is delicious!”
She laughs for real this time. And for a moment, the world isn’t broken.
Kuta takes a berry too.
He says nothing.
But he eats it.
And that, somehow, is enough.
She offers him another.
He accepts it without a word—just a glance that lingers a little longer than it should.
A silent truce.
“I’ll go find some firewood,” he says at last, standing. “Maybe mytharoot, if we’re lucky.”
He vanishes into the trees.
Zeal turns to Flora, voice low.
“I’m sorry. Really.”
She looks down.
“He’s not wrong. But he’s not right, either.”
She hesitates, her voice softening.
“Sorinia… I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. And this world—it’s broken. We’re always hiding. Always running. And if not us… then who will stand up?”
Zeal hesitates.
Then:
“We will. Someday.”
She takes his hand and places a berry in his palm.
Gently. Like passing a secret.
“It was bitter at first. But it had potential. It just needed the right time to grow.”
She smiles faintly.
“We all do.”
Zeal bites the berry.
“Mmmph—okay, that was inspiring and tasty.”
They laugh. And for a heartbeat, they believe they might actually have a chance.
Porukuta returns just as the sun begins to melt into the canopy.
He carries bundles of roots slung over his shoulder and something leafy tucked under one arm.
The evening settles gently around them, blanketing the grove in a hush.
They sit together by the fire—Flora, Zeal, and the elder—sharing a humble meal of steamed mytharoot and wild greens, their silence less strained now, softened by warmth and fatigue.
Later, as the fire dims into a simmering cradle of orange and shadow, Kuta rustles through his satchel and withdraws a tiny, dented kettle.
“Let’s end the night right,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
He pours water, sprinkles crushed herbs into the pot, and sets it near the coals.
Steam curls.
The scent is crisp, floral, and earthy.
Zeal leans back on his elbows, eyes glassy with the beginnings of sleep.
Flora watches the bubbles swirl in the pot like little memories rising.
Kuta fills two cups and hands them out carefully—first to Flora, then to Zeal.
He directly sips from the kettle as he sinks into his mound of grass.
Flora cradles the clay cup, peering into the half-strained mix of leaves and roots.
She takes a sip.
Sweetness prickles at her tongue, followed by a mellow earthiness and a sharp, tangy edge.
Her eyes widen.
“Is this… Tuphy Tea?”
Kuta grins around his kettle.
“Ahh, you have great taste, I see.”
“My parents used to make this for me before bed,” she says, voice small, distant.
She stares into the swirling contents, as if they might spin backward into her childhood.
“Nostalgia,” Kuta says, “is the sweetest flavor.”
He tips back the last of his tea with a slurp that makes the kettle whistle.
“I hope they’re still alive,” Flora whispers, fingers tightening around the cup. “I hope I get to see them again someday.”
Zeal finishes his tea quietly, eyes half-lidded.
He seems miles away.
Flora glances toward Kuta and notices his hand—the tip of one finger dark with a pinprick of blood.
“Your finger,” she says. “You’re bleeding.”
Kuta lifts it up, squinting.
“Just a splinter. Got it kindling earlier.”
He wipes the blood on his pant leg, unfazed.
Zeal leans forward, curious.
“A splinter? You? When’s the last time you even got hurt? I thought getting injured was, like… not your thing.”
Kuta exhales through his nose.
“I’m an old man, Zeal. I’m not invincible anymore.”
“Sounds like an excuse to get lazy.”
Zeal mimics Kuta’s rasped cadence with a teasing grin.
The elder stares at him, unimpressed.
Zeal stretches into a theatrical yawn.
“Enough of that. I’m beat.”
He curls into his grass mound with a grunt, tugging the cloak up to his chin.
“I can’t even remember the last time I had a bed this soft.”
Moments later, he’s snoring—loudly, unapologetically.
Flora watches, dumbfounded.
“He’s already out?”
Zeal smirks.
“Yeah. That’s kind of his thing. It still amazes me.”
“Now that’s a gift,” she says, laughing under her breath.
A long pause.
The fire crackles low.
Flora finally mutters, “I’m gonna hit the hay too. Long day.”
Zeal nods.
“Yeah. Sorry for all the chaos today. But… I’m glad you found us.”
She slips into her grass bedding and turns, facing him across the dying fire.
“You mean you,” she says with a sleepy smile. “Me too.”
Zeal grins.
“Sleep well, Flora.”
“Good night, Zeal.”
Her voice is a whisper, barely louder than the wind.
The fire sputters.
The forest takes over, filling the silence with nocturnal rhythm.
Time blurs.
Until.
Rustling.
Zeal’s eyes snap open.
He sits upright in a breath, catching the tail of movement—a shadow slipping through the hut’s entrance. Flora.
“Flora?” he whispers.
Kuta snores, unbothered.
She doesn’t stop. “Go back to sleep, Zeal,” she says without looking back.
Zeal rises, bare feet padding silently across the grass.
“Please… don’t do anything rash.”
Flora turns. Her jaw is set. Her eyes burn.
“There’s nothing rash about what i'm about to do,” she snaps. “I made my decision the moment he made his.”
Zeal steps closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You’re upset, I get it. But even if everything goes perfectly… this won’t end well.”
Her voice cracks—but the steel in it holds. “Maybe so. But I have to try. I can’t sit here knowing someone I love is in danger. I don’t expect you to understand.”
Zeal grabs his knapsack, slinging it over one shoulder without hesitation.
She blinks. “What are you doing?”
“I’m coming with you,” he says, like it’s not even a question.
“Stop—You can’t. Not after what Kuta said.”
“Even still,” he replies, glaring at the snoring man. “This is what’s right.”
Flora falters. “I can’t ask this of you.”
“You’re not,” he says. “But if it gets too dangerous… you have to promise me you’ll reconsider. Swear it.”
She hesitates, chest rising and falling fast.
“Fine,” she says at last. “Now come on. We don’t have much time.”
She slips into the trees. Zeal follows.
Just before disappearing into the dark, he turns back toward the man still sleeping soundly on his bed of grass.
“I love you, Pops,” he whispers. “Sweet dreams.”
Then he vanishes into the night beside her.
