A story.

Long ago, when the earth was still young, evil arose. Black, like smoke, it drifted from the ground in a place called New York, and there it entranced the men who dwelt there. Now that tribe was known as the Jets, and under the influence of evil they chose new colours for their standard: sickly white, like the skin of a diseased man, pale and deathly; and green, like bile or some other foul emission of the body.

And the Jets were cruel; many peoples they conquered along the coast of the land, and under the warlord Namath, they grew powerful and rich indeed. And the people groaned under the burdens of the Jets, and many a young maiden was captured, and many a young man murdered.

Now to the north lived another tribe; the Patriots they were known as, and they were a peaceful people. Now their colours were white, but pure white, not the sickly white of the Jets; and blue, for they lived by the sea, and on its waves they sailed much, and from it they pulled many fish; and red, for they were wont to give their blood in the defiance of evil. And the Jets came upon them, and for long it went ill with the Jets.

Now far to the west there was another land, and in that land was a village known as San Mateo. And in that village was born a boy named Brady. Even in youth his skill with sword and shield was unmatched; many a bandit felt the bitter edge of his blade. But there came a great turmoil in that land, and he fled eastwards, stopping only in a place named Michigan for succor. At last he came to the land of the Patriots, and the great shaman Belichick knew that here was a mighty warrior indeed.

Now the captain of the Patriots in those days was a mighty warrior named Bledsoe. But in a battle with the Jets, the cruel warrior Lewis slew Bledsoe; but over the body of his captain stood Brady, and a mountain of dead he piled beneath himself, for he would not retreat. And thus the Jets learned the name of Brady; and in New York, many foul sorcerers considered the news, and plotted great evil.

Years passed, and the Jets were driven back. But then came a new and cruel captain of men to the Jets; Ryan he was known, Black Foot his nickname, for about his neck he wore a chain of the mummified feet of his enemies. And he was a wise and powerful general, and in battle he drove back the very forces of the Patriots, though Brady himself led them.

Defeat chastened the Patriots, and the great shaman Belichick cast the bones, and he selected a warband to accompany Brady to the next battle. Wilfork the Mighty there was, who could cast a warrior aside like a lesser man might smite a fly; and Woodhead the Deft, whose skill with dagger and poison was unmatched; and Ben Jarvus the Paladin, who gave not an inch, no matter how heavy the press; and others besides, whose names I need not repeat. And in the battle that followed there was great slaughter, and Ryan retreated, but lived on.

And now there comes another battle. Rumour has reached my ears that the Jets have assembled the greatest force ever, attracting evil men from across the ocean and from the desolate hinterlands. In less than a week they shall arrive at the homeland of the Patriots, and there shall battle ensue.

It is nothing less than a battle for the future of the world.