They called him '
Achilles'. '
The Undefeatable'. '
Invincible'. And they were right to think so. He was Alexander D'Iseldreg, son of the late Eric D'Iseldreg. He was the true heir to the throne of England and he was the only leader from the Isles who never lost a battle. The Heretic Nero tried as hard as he could to get the upper hand in the Midlands but he couldn't. He was forced to give up Scotland, just because of him, the true Lion of the battlefield. He alone kept the Royalist forces at bay for all those years as everything around fell. Including his cowardly father who sold him off to the Heretic just to save his neck from the noose. Alexander spat on the mud covered floor of the inn and groaned when he realised he was waiting for his ale far too long than he should've.
'Wench! Where is my bloody ale?!' He bellowed as he tried to find a better position on the chair.
A few moments passed in silence before he realised the room was empty. It wasn't empty when he sat down. And it wasn't empty when he drunk his ninth mug. He would have lunged for the floor if it wasn't for the arrow that was sticking out of him. The bloody thing had to hit his one sensitive spot. He gurgled a few words before everything went black.
'Here's the signet.' He said as he laid a golden ring on the desk.
'Splendid.' The older man examined the ring and put it away after he was done. 'Here is your money. 20 pieces of silver, A small bonus because this bastard was a terrible annoyance on the roads.' He gave a small leather purse to the younger one.
'Do you have any more bounties?' He asked as he pocketed the small purse. 'I could use some more work.'
'No. And it's perfect that way.' The man smiled and leaned back in his chair. 'But if you don't mind a journey, you could go west to Caernarvon. They're bound to have lots of work for the kinds of you.'
'Very well. Let us hope we won't see each other again, sheriff.' The man turned around and left the room leaving the sheriff alone in his office.
Some would call him a bandit, but he was more of a guard. He was one of the bounty hunters that sprung up all over England after the fall of D'Iselbreg at the end of the Civil War. Even though the kingdom lost more than half of its lands, the outlaw problem was bigger than ever. At first there was plenty of money in killing or capturing the leftover traitors scattered around England. So much that he decided to leave the Welshmen and the army even though he knew nothing beside it. Then, after a few months, even more sprung up. When the king rewrote the Magna Carta the nobles simply refused to accept the new laws. Only three or four families beside the Angleterres kept their noble status and stayed at the kings side. Lots of new outlaws to hunt. The nobles ran after their fiefs were confiscated by the Wardens ,who were becoming an equivalent of secret police, and someone had to capture them. And finally almost a year after the war when his highness went mad and declared the Anglican Church to be the only church for the English. Forced conversions and pledges of loyalty of every single person living in the kingdom was a little worrying, even for a greedy bastard like himself. But there were no alternatives really. You either convert or die by the royal sword. Nevertheles, thing were going well for him and he made quite a name for himself truth be told. Robin of Gisbourne, the Bounty Hunter, was known all over England. '
The Black Welshman' they called him. Bringing death with the tips of his arrows. He enjoyed the name, hence the black leathers he dressed in. And the hood, you can't forget the famous hood. And now he was going back to Wales. It couldn't be much worse than 2 years ago, could it?
And not on my watch it won't. Something else will happen. 
