In a walled village on a cliff by the sea, there lived a clan with eyes of red. Among these people, a black feathered man was born.

It was in this time that heinous men in blackened collars pillaged the lands around in much dishonour. The black feathered man did not stand for it. When he could hold a blade, he trained through and through. When he could wear proper plate, he wore more than its weight. He watched the captains go about their rounds and read all the annals on clan grounds.

The black feathered man grew strong and true, with his blades of steel there was much he slew. Days turned to months and months into years. When all but one band of blackened collars remained, the black feathered man stood to earn his clan’s highest rank, which he rightfully gained. Though to much the clan’s initial displeasure, before he turned chief the black feathered man said he’d beat all the bandits for good measure.

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But there was more to it, the elders all knew, for the black feathered man had made a promise in lieu. Before he held a blade, before he thought fighting was wise, he’d fallen in love, and love be his demise. The girl wagered to the boy who stole her heart, that she’d much rather marry the chief than a lonesome heart thief. And should he pursue it, he’d have to beat back all bandits, to make it the toughest of gambits.

So the black feathered man ventured once more, with ten dozen men, and a personal company of four. They battled and battled and when all seemed won, by the time of their victory the deed had been done. The black feathered man had fallen, cowardly slain with a blade run through his back. Though all bandits were beaten, there was much that victory happened to lack.