Fletcher [A Story] Prologue, Part Three is Released!

Hey guys! Long time no post! Along with some projects that I’ve been working on Qubicle during my…absence (relevant but off-topic (oxymoron wtf), what happened to the weekly contests?)… you may recall that about a week before the posting of this I wrote a little in the “What would you name your kingdom?” about a D&D world I was cooking up. While it may never see the light of day, I did want to give it at least some sort of story to go alongside it. (Side note: I wasn’t sure if I was to put it in Fan Media or not. Correct me on this if it’s not where it should be!)

Don’t worry, the only references to D&D in this thing will most likely be different monsters and the like, as most things in this story that would be convential D&D or RPG things have some type of twist to them. This also isn’t a cohesive “lore background thing” either. This is just a work-in-progress story that I might be able to update every so often. It would help if I had some critique on this, preferrably something after each chapter or so. Hopefully, I’ll also keep these chapters brief, as I don’t want to bore with two and a half walls of text…like this intro is turning out to be. Anyway, I present to you, Fletcher.

Prologue, Part One: Humble Beginnings

While most people choose not to believe it, Peolos is at war. It’s never out in the open, the king sends out spies and assassins every day, hoping to catch some politician or criminal in some felony or lechery. If the spies come back with nothing, they die. The king sends out someone else to do the job with the wisdom to not come back empty handed. Those that catch on to his plan soon become targets and, too, are killed in time. It doesn’t matter how important or rich the person is, all that matters is that by sunrise they aren’t breathing. And do you know what the best part is? Peolos is at war with itself.

There is some counter movement against this, though. The Resistance is dedicated to combating this, by any means necessary. When I was involved with them, their actions seemed fair. Noblemen that sided with the king would be assaulted in the streets and convinced not to side with him any more. The king had his ways, and the Resistance had theirs. It wasn’t until it was too late that I recognized their folly. However, to understand that, I have to start from the beginning. My parents, Percival and Corrine migrated to the village of Stonesbrook in Shaalier in 1582, and on the 83rd day of the Month of Toil in the year 1584, I was born and named Quentin Thomas Fletcher.

We were very much out of place, as humans in an all-elf community. Though, in time, we were in good standing with the rest of the village. Before my parents migrated, my dad was an arrow fletcher by trade. He actually served the Peolos militia until he and his wife were “banished for treason.” That’s how the old king worked. If he wanted someone to disappear, he was gracious enough to not kill them but instead ruin their reputation. Even today, my dad won’t tell me what he knew that warranted his disappearance, but I don’t pry. After that scene, he and his wife took a caravan with what little possessions the old king let them keep and arrived in Stonesbrook. Stonesbrook, being right on the edge of the Jaded Forest, was a prime place to fletch arrows for hunters. He offered his service and what little odd-jobs he could handle, and the locals treated him nice enough. My mom took to caring for a garden and preparing meals every night, but after I was born that was barely managable. Dad was still fletching arrows, every day, which left only my mom at home to watch over me. It was tough, but to help soothe me she played many different melodies on her flute. She used to be a bard, before the old king banished them, and did many street performances to supplement what my dad was making. When I was about eight or nine, she handed her flute to me and began teaching me how to play it. It turns out that I was a pretty good bard too.

That’s it for now, I’ll have more tomorrow, hopefully. Tel me what you think in the replies, and give me some constructive criticism!


if you’re referring to the qubicle competition and writer’s workshop, both have been put on a temporary break until the preview release arrives… once we’ve all had a chance to break that in, and have all sorts of creative inspirations, both contests will resume… :+1:

yes sir… i updated the category, as i think this fits best here as well…

welcome back! :smile:


Ah, that clears some things up! Now I have two things to look forward to!

Also, thanks for updating the category for me. I’ll update the first post later today with the rest of the prologue once I have time. Any thoughts on what I have currently?

i think you’re off to a great start, laying the foundation for the world Fletcher lives in… prologues can be a tricky thing though, trying to impart so much information is such a short amount of time…

Okay, I have the second part of the Prologue. Trying to keep these updates short, unless there’s a way to hide massive walls of text.

Prologue, Part Two: A Dream Come True

It was only a few years after that when she died. For three days she wouldn’t eat, cooped up in her room with chills. Yellow fever really was as bad as they said it was. After about a week of pain, while I was by her bedside, she died. My father and I used to visit her grave as often as we could, but he eventually stopped coming, returning only to his work. I never stopped, though. Every day I’d be there with the flute she gave me, just staring at her gravestone. My father blamed me, of all people, for her death. Me, the only one who sat by her bedside and watched her die. After that day, I hated my father. I’m sure he hated me, too, but he was never around to tell me. His buisness was failing, and he was doing what he could to make ends meet. By this time I was nearly self-sufficient. Whenever I wasn’t at my mom’s grave I was going one odd job or another to get enough money to leave my father. I was going to join a group of performers, the Riddlesborough Trraveling Theatre, and hopefully become one of their musicians or even an actor. Word was that they were coming to Stonesbrook.

Honestly, at the age of ten, I’m not sure why I was expecting them to let me join their group. Maybe it was my passion for music, or the need to get away from my father, but they saw something in me. In the distance, a stage on wheels drawn by several horses, led by the owner and playwright, Bronson Guthrie, trailed behind a couple of different caravans presumably containing costumes and refreshments, each led by a different member of the Theatre. They set up in town, and after they finished performing one of their famous plays, Freedom’s Price, Bronson was just standing there. He was big man, looked as if he could just squash you like a bug if he wanted to. That, coupled with his accent, nearly drove me away. But, I persisted, and I approached him. At first, he laughed me off, saying I was too young to join them and perform. Then, he saw my determination, and offered me a deal.

“Ya really want t’ come with us, don’t ya, kid?”

I nodded.

“D’ ya think ya can handle it?”

Again, I nodded, hoping he was going to say what I thought he would. I didn’t expect what he said next.

“D’ ya parents know ya want t’ do this?”

I looked over my shoulder, and from where I was standing, I could barely make out a figure in the night, siting outside on his stool, plucking feathers off of wild turkeys and fletching arrow by arrow. I turned towards Bronson, looked him straight in the eye and told him he was okay with it. He gave a long sigh, and that night they made arrangements to take me away from Stonesbrook to join the Riddlesborough Traveling Theatre. At the time, it seemed like a dream come true. Now, though, I’m sure my father hated me even more.

Tell me what you guys think, and I’ll keep posting these! Or, I’ll keep posting them even if no one says anything! Ha!

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It’s been a long time since I posted, oops. I do have the third and final part of the prologue completed, but I was wondering. is there any way to use a spoiler like other forums do? (I know Discourse does it differently) It would make it easier for me and you guys to read because I could just keep everything on the first post or so. Would it be easier to use a third party website and just post links? Until then, enjoy!

Prologue, Part Three: The Performance of a Lifetime

That night, I was introduced to the main actors and bards of the Theatre. Bronson’s son, Jim Guthrie, was the Theatre’s bard. He and I quickly became friends when he offered to teach me how to play the other instruments they had with them. Pam and Gretchen Smith, along with Jerrod Bishop and Kurt Richards, were the main actors. Each had an understudy or two that traveled with them, as most plays often called for a couple more actors on stage. I was assigned to Jim, though, knowing already how to play at least one instrument. During those first few years, I seldom performed in front of crowds, unless Jim was really sick, but I think the moment that really changed my life was the afternoon of my first real performance of a bard.

I had been with the Theatre for seven years, and my time had finally come. We were tasked with performing one of Bronson’s more famous and complex plays, King’s Ransom, and the performing bard was to go throughout the crowd singing softly during interludes or key moments of the play. Everything was going great-- Everyone knew their lines and cues, the audience was laughing, and during interludes people were commenting on my performance-- until, as I was walking past a table in the far corner of the tent, a man reached out, patted me on the back, and promptly walked out of the tent. While I felt fine, the entire situation made me uncomfortable. The play soon ended, after which most people headed home, some staying back to congratulate everyone on the performance, and I began to feel a little light-headed. I began to make my way back to my wagon when, about halfway there, I collapsed on the ground, unconscious.

I woke up about two days later, or so Bronson told me, with a massive headache and fatigue. We stayed in town during that time, and a cleric from some temple or another was also there, doing his best to heal me from whatever I had. He eventually left, and my condition hadn’t gotten any better. My skin also looked a little paler, but I figured it was just my dizziness talking. That night, we left for the next town over, in Peolos. My condition worsened over the next few days. As we were on the road, we couldn’t really get any help, though after everything the cleric did, we figured it wouldn’t really help. My skin was turning a grayish color by now, and I was really worried. My hair started getting longer, too, and Bronson though my face was looking a little different and pale, too. I had heard about this disease before, from one of the clerics in Stonesbrook, and I was not prepared for it.

The cleric once told me that there were these people that could take the appearance of nearly every humanoid called changelings. On the outside, they looked normal, like you and I. However, without that guise it’s a different story. Their skin is uniformly gray, and their facial features are very undefined, with dark gray or black rings around their eyes. Their hair is a pale silver or platinum, with hints of vibrant color. About two weeks after I collapsed after my first performance, I found myself looking like one of them. The cleric also described how, based on their shapechanging abilities, few of them are trusted in a community, most despised. If anyone ever found one out, the changeling in question would most likely be killed. If I was to avoid this, I would need to somehow adopt my own persona again, and try to hide the fact that technically I wasn’t who I said I was. No one but the Theatre would believe me, anyways. After finding out about my condition, I stayed with them for three more years, performing as a bard and sometimes acting, until we reached the capital of Peolos. I realized that, in this city it would be very easy to blend in if I needed to. I had been practicing my shapeshifting abilities on and off the past few years, and I felt that I could use them if I needed to in a pinch. I said my goodbyes, thanking Bronson for taking me in, and Jim for teaching me how to play his various instruments. I stepped out into the city, and was greeted by the man who would become the leader of the Resistance, Percival Weaver. The man who ruined my life. He wasn’t always bad, though. Let me start from the beginning.

Tell me what you guys think! I could always use the help! If you guys see any grammatical mistakes or spelling errors, be sure to tell me! Thanks!