A/N: The Lesley of this fic is, indeed, the very same Lesley from the Dark Sanctum quests in Fable III. I absolutely fell in love with this character when I first played through, and I feel the lack of fic and art centered on him is absolutely criminal. You will also find the trio from the 'The Game' quest here, in the role of supporting cast. Furthermore, this is NOT a university A.U. – I just have some very strange headcanon. Finally, I do apologize for any inaccuracies you may find here. I have only played the third game, and my knowledge of earlier games is based solely on what I have read.

Of College and Cannibalism

Chapter 1

Anna was standing before him, wringing her hands to pieces.

"Now, dear," she said, "I understand that it's only natural for boys of your age to be a little… curious…"

At his father, he caught her flinging a sidelong glance. The man hadn't once moved from the couch. Lesley was mildly impressed at his ability to remain resolutely absorbed in his novel, in spite of (or perhaps on account of) all the commotion taking place in the living room.

"But", continued his mother, going out of her way to place emphasis on the exception, "This… this is a little much."

With a little cough, she drew his attention to the severed head that lay at her feet.

Really, he didn't see what all the fuss was about. The thing was dead after all – it wasn't as if he'd brought a live hollowman home (though, he wasn't entirely sure if live was the best expression to apply to hollowmen in the first place).

"But mom," Lesley whined, giving Anna the most genuine expression he could muster, "it was an experiment!"

"It was an experiment!" Lesley rehashed three months later while trying to calm his mother down after she had breached his private study (all her fault, really; she knew better than to enter without knocking) and discovered the heap of gore, which made up the bulk of his latest experiment, on his desk.

Banning Lesley from Mourningwood had stinted the incoming flow of dismembered hollowmen and exhumed corpses. However, while dissecting rats in the middle of the living room was, relatively speaking, a vast improvement, it was nonetheless considered incredibly antisocial by just about everyone who was not Lesley Brown. And while Mrs. Brown was abundantly supportive of his curiosity – bless his poor old lady – she was notable for having a weak heart and a partiality for not coming home to dead things scattered around the house.

Lesley's little experiment on the effects of the smog from Bowerstone Industrial on human lungs just so happened to be the last straw. Mum never did manage to find out where he had gotten that unusually fresh corpse.

After a particularly heated debate over the dinner table with his mother (and a not-so heated debate with his father, who couldn't be bothered to part his attention from the tiny model of Bowerstone Castle he was building), a compromise of sorts had been reached. If Lesley wished to learn, then far be it from Anna to prevent him from doing so. She did, however, insist that he seek out his knowledge through a more – how did she put it? – a more respectable source.

Not that Brightwall Academy was really his idea of a respectable source. It did have quite the reputation, there was no denying that, and he did admire the architecture of the place. Sparrow had good taste. In short, the Academy was just a bit too stiff for his pallet – and maybe, even, a bit too goody-two-shoes. There was a good chance they would not even allow him to provide his own corpses for dissection in the anatomy class he'd registered with. Nevertheless, mother had insisted, and who was he to upset mum?

With a sigh, Lesley sank back in his seat, one cheek resting against the window of the monorail coach. He peered out, watching as mile after mile of yawning, black chasm disappeared behind the car. If it hadn't been for his mother's insistence, he would have simply walked the underground passage to Mistpeak. It would have made for an interesting journey; he'd heard that the Hobbes who lived in the inky caverns bellow had the most fascinating bone structures.

But that was completely out of the question.

At the station, he hired a carriage to conduct him to Brightwall. They made good time, arriving at the village well before sunset. During the short trip, Lesley had made the assessment that Mistpeak, while not nearly as enchanting as Mourningwood, would suit his needs. One of the upsides to getting away from Bowerstone would be the dramatic reduction of light pollution at night, and it was enough to have Lesley entertaining the idea of purchasing a telescope. Mistpeak Lake, he though, seemed like it would be the ideal station for a personal observatory.

In Brightwall, he went immediately to the inn to take a room. It would have to do until he could find a more permanent living arrangement – his parents connections ran a bit thin on this side of Albion. When he'd made sure that the porter had transported his things to his room in accordance to his satisfaction (for he never did trust anyone but himself to handle his more sensitive equipment), Lesley ventured downstairs for his first ever pint in Brightwall.

As soon as he sat down, he immediately regretted not putting on something a bit more casual. Ever since Logan has assumed the throne, the Academy's admission fee had risen, and business in Brightwall was poor. The town received few travellers, and he – dressed in a sharp dress shirt and vest, much in fashion now in Bowerstone – stood out like a cock among hens. On more than one occasion, he glanced up from his flask to find a young (or, in some cases, not-so-young) dame giving him the look. At eighteen, Lesley was a bit sallow-faced, but handsome nonetheless. His clothing, and the fancy gold watch strapped around his wrist, practically advertised the fact that this was a young man who came from money, and the lack of wedding band on his ring finger appended that he was a single young man who came from money.

Thankfully, Lesley took to bed early with a headache before any of his secret admirers could approach him. The air here was putting him through a bit of a bend – it smelt far too nature-y for his liking. He missed his old room in Bowerstone, and the scent of decay that would waft in through his window from Mourningwood.

Come morning, though, he was feeling much better. As he dressed, this time making sure to substitute his fashionable shirt for a plain, long robe, he even had a sense of renewed determination to make the best of his current situation. Brightwall Academy, after all, was home to many brilliant minds, and even he could suffer to learn a thing or two from them.

Yes, he could definitely work with what he had.

His optimism was sucked away when, upon stopping off at the Academy first thing in the morning, he learned that an err on the clerical side of things had resulted in the course he had registered for, Foundations in Anatomy, was already filled, and he would not, in fact, be counted among those peers attending that particular class.

With a frown, Lesley listened as the clerk explained that only one foundation course remained open for the coming semester. It was only when the clerk mentioned the title of said class that that he finally snapped.

"What the hell," he demanded, "is Old Kingdom History?"