The Count of Oakhall

[Toffi~]

W.i.P

[Toffi~]

The Count of Oakhall
A Fable awakens in the dust of the past

The wind howled through the shattered windows of the old castle. Dust danced in narrow beams of sunlight that reached through the grimy glass, as if they, too, were searching for answers buried in forgetfulness. The hall was vast, once majestic, but long since surrendered to decay. Faded tapestries hung askew on cracked walls, the floors strewn with leaves, old papers, and the crumbling remains of furniture.

In the midst of this ruin stood a creature that had defied the passage of time.

Four strong hooves rested on cold stone. His body was that of a horse, but from his back stretched massive wings—or what remained of them. The leathery membranes were torn, riddled with holes, a mere shadow of former power. A tangled mane draped like dark veils over his muscled neck. His coat, once well-groomed and gleaming, was now dull, the color of ash. Only his eyes held something still—a spark of consciousness, slowly waking.

He was a Fable. A magical being whose origins were as unclear as his fate. But in the flickering reflections of cracked mirrors, in the portraits on the walls that showed him in armor and robes, he saw something. Or rather: something saw him.

He had been a Count. Once. Somewhere.

“Oakhall…” he whispered, his voice rough like parchment brushing flame. The word felt foreign and familiar all at once. It was carved above the fireplace, half-consumed by soot. Below it, a crest: a silver tree with wide-spread roots, framed by a crescent moon.

He couldn’t remember how he came to be here. How many years, decades - or centuries - had passed. His mind was hollow, filled only with mist, like the fog that crept through the halls.

So he wandered. Not with a plan, but with a pull from deep within. His hoofbeats echoed through corridors, abandoned chambers, down mossy stairs. Each room told a story—in broken furniture, shattered porcelain, yellowed books.

In the study, he found a map. Old, with faded lines, but the word “Oakhall” was still legible. It had been his land. A county deep within dark forests, crossed by rivers and ancient roads. His land. His legacy. But no one came anymore. No sound of hooves, no voices in the halls. Only him—and the echo of a forgotten age.

In the library, beneath crumbling tomes, he found a journal. The handwriting was his own. At first hard to read, but with each entry, he recognized more. He had once been a royal advisor. A landgrave, wise and feared. His words had stopped wars, spun intrigue, shaped a kingdom.

Then… darkness.

The final entry was broken, erratic. Words of a curse. Of betrayal. Of a night where he became a Fable—bound to magic, to immortality, to solitude.

“I outlived them all,” he murmured. “And no one remembers me.”

In the mirror hall, he saw his reflection. A beast. A monster. And yet… something lived in his eyes. Pride. Pain. Depth.
He began to remember.
Not all. Just fragments.

A feast. A lover.
A pact.
A dagger in the back.
The curse.

“You wished to rule forever… and forever you shall watch – alone.” The memory of a voice, sharp as frost. A sorceress? A witch?

His castle had become his tomb.
And he – a warden without a gate.

But something stirred within him. Not wrath but hunger for revenge. Something deeper.
A longing for truth.
For meaning.

He left the hall. Roamed from room to room, as if he could absorb every shadow of his former self. In the gallery, he stopped before a painting. A young man in noble garments, dark hair, proud gaze. The resemblance was undeniable. In the corner of the frame: “Count Edran of Oakhall.”

“Edran…”

That was his name.

With a shuddering breath, he ran a hoof through his tangled mane. The name felt like a key—not to a door, but to his identity.

In the old chapel, overgrown and mossy, stood a crumbling altar. There, beneath a broken ceiling, he prayed for the first time. Not to gods—but to himself.

“Edran lives. Perhaps not as he once did. But he lives.”

A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision. Not the first time. For days, he had felt watched. At night, he heard whispers. Not madness, but something else. A presence. Perhaps he was not alone. Perhaps the curse had not struck him alone.

He stood taller. His wings, tattered as they were, spread slowly like the curtains of an old stage. Something moved in his veins—a whisper of magic. Ancient power. Not gone.

He was no longer the Count he had been. No longer a man, no longer an advisor.
But he was Edran.
A Fable.
A keeper of memory.
And maybe… the beginning of something new.

[Toffi~]

Chapter 1 - The Awakening


The hooves echoed hollowly on the oak floorboards, a sound like something from a forgotten time.
Dust swirled as he stopped in front of the mirror, in front of the image of a stranger.

A creature stared back at him: powerful, yet disfigured.
Bat wings rested heavily on his back, as if they hadn't flown in centuries. His mane, long and black, hung disheveled over his shoulder. Eyes like rusty iron, empty and alert at the same time.

And yet he knew something in that gaze.
"What are you..." he murmured. Not to the reflection, but to the echo of a memory that wouldn't die.


Chapter 2 – The children's room


A secluded room in the north tower. The furniture is small, decorated with carvings. In the center: a broken cradle.
The room was almost untouched. Only a single music box lay open, its mechanism broken.
Edran approached.

On the wall: a faded painting. A child in a white dress, pale skin, red eyes.

"Carmill..."
The name fell from his lips as if it didn't belong to him. But his heart clenched.
The memory came not in images, but in feelings:
Cold. Pain. A cradle without breath.

And then... the call.
The call from the depths from the darkness beyond the veil.
A voice that promised to bring her back. At any cost.