Even now, the tales are told. Across the realms of men, and dwarf, when the tables at the taverns are occupied, the tankards are emptying, and the night is growing old, someone- usually an old, scarred man, possessed of very few teeth and lost limbs-raises his drink and gets to his feet. He cries out that he will now tell the tale of "The Black Band."
The drinkers and staff are silent for a moment. Even the barman's huge mastiff dog stops barking for a brief second. They have all heard the legends: about one of the greatest mercenary army of all, founded in an act of reckless daring by an insane alchemist, attracting a band of the mad and the vengeful, the bitter and the evil, the noble and the pious, before going off to search for an artefact that would have provided him control of the world. Still, they shudder at how close the Wizard- Harriot, wasn't that his name? Or perhaps Chariot- got to his goal. Him and his band of cut throats, after fighting through man and orc and chaos worshipping demon. And the old man smiles knowingly, orders another pint, and begins his tale of treachery and bloodshed; of darkest villainy and greatest heroism.
The tale of the Black band.
