When men still sharpened their swords, when men still concealed their knives, when men polished their armor and adjusted their leather; a time when one man could face fifty, as well as armies face their horned helms on the weak miserable minorities that lived in fertile peaceful pasture. An era that was ruled with conflagration signaling the impermanent lifestyle of the meager. To some men, to pillage is a love, unknown to them the shallow actions of their blood bathed heinous crimes only caused acrid resentment to build in the lives of those they spared.

Thus in death, death created the callous Invictus. A fierce guild who traveled and defended the people that resembled their dead fathers. Their lack of compunction in mauling foes gave the people hope that perhaps their lives would not be so simply snatched out of existence. In this tale I will tell you the event that warned so many to abjure from setting fires on the people who had done no wrong to the bandits beforehand, and Invictus was not clandestine for the heroes told in this story were august, more so than any Robin Hood with his merry men, or King Arthur and his court of knights. These are the heroes who refused to die and so they remain immortal with a mithril breast plate that stood as the skin of their spirits. With the victories that waked in the path of this clan the miserable could match that indomitable spirit in the elated praise that few received.

Fifty rouges approached a small village surrounded by dirt, rock, and straw. The villagers fled to their huts that were barely fit to withstand the wind of any invader who wished to force entrance. The rouges laughed and galloped their horses ever closer, a cloud of dust kicking up a trail behind them. However they were stopped from their assault by three travelers who stood in their way, quiescent, until two of the thieves decided to keep their momentum and attempt to trample the obstacles. These riders did not understand that these men were not indulgent, but rather… more ruthless. With what seemed like a slow swing the man in the center of the blockade drew his large sword and sidestepped out of the path of the horse. For a moment the renegade continued to ride… and then fell off his horse in two pieces. The second bandit took an arrow between his eyes from a second man of the mysterious three, already he was stringing his bow with another arrow in an inveterate fashion.