There once was a group of Aislings that believed themselves to have achieved perfection.  They had gone on many hunting expeditions, and found no monster that could stand up to their practiced and streamlined techniques.  The depths of chaos provided little challenge.  The highest and mightiest of creatures could not hope to defeat them.  Though they numbered only three, they were more powerful than an entire army of goblins.

  There was the basher, who had his dark blade, and more techniques than most warriors could dream of, all practiced to perfection.  His seemingly skimpy armor belied its nearly impenetrable defense.  A skull adorned his buckle, providing far more protection than any human could hope to muster without such.

  There was the mage, who had both dark curses and the powers of elemental manipulation at his beck and call.  He had studied the arcane arts for moons and moons, sometimes in a trance-like state.  There was no mystery not known to him.  His staves shot out the most powerful of magic in rapid fashion.

  And there was the brigand, who kept the prey confused and blind as well as bashed a fair bit of his own.  Hidden safe in shadows, he would tell the others the weak points of any monster's defense.  His soori would then stab out from the darkness, crippling most every monster.  The brigand's cunning was equal to the power of the mage and the strength of the basher.

  These three built up quite the reputation, and were feared by monsters throughout the land.  They ventured throughout the lands, seeking a challenge for their perfect system, but found none.  This is a great sadness for ones who trained so hard.  So they took to spending time in taverns, bragging about their impossible to thwart methods of executing the minions of the dark.

  One day, as they were nearing the end of their standard bender, a commoner rushed into the tavern, screaming about a dark rogue who was looting the town.  Smirking in a drunken stupor, the trio headed out to find this scourge and dispatch it with their infallible system.  They flipped a few coins to the barkeep and staggered out of the bar, brimming with confidence.

  They found the vile rogue near the edge of town, clearly attempting escape. They started to employ their system.  The mage started to recite his cantrips, the brigand prepared to duck into shadow and strike from the depths of secrecy, and the basher staggered straight up to the thief, knowing that his allies would soon complete their attack preparations and his dark sword would have no problem  vanquishing this foe.

  The basher lazily raised his sword, and brought it down.  The dark thief merely stepped aside, avoiding the blow entirely and confusing the basher.  The heavy sword embedded itself in the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust.  Something was amiss.

  The basher looked over to the mage, and saw his old friend babbling incoherently.  The brigand, off to the basher's other side, was trying to dive into the shadow of a tree, but merely bonked his head against its trunk.  As he started to raise his sword to strike again, the basher called out to his perfect friends to get their act together and aid him.

  The dark rouge took advantage of the basher's confusion and unleashed a powerful attack. The basher was forced to stagger back.  He called to the mage to call upon the magic of  Ioc, that his wounds could be healed, but the mage was unable to comply.  He gestured the proper, perfect Ioc gestures, but no magic came forth.  The mage continued his babbling, drunken and confused.

  The brigand, by this time, had given up on diving into the tree and instead decided to help the basher and face the dark rogue head on.  He unleashed all his stabs and strikes in a blur of perfect strokes of his soori.  However, all of his attempts failed to penetrate the dark armor of the dark rogue.  The mage had not cursed this minion of evil.  It was far too difficult to pierce the dark nature of the hides that protected it without such.

  The dark rouge merely stood there, chuckling at the drunken efforts of this 'perfect' trio.  He soon grew tired of these fools.  He strolled up to each of them, and knocked them to the ground, unconscious.  The rouge then relieved them of their valuables, and made good his escape out of town.

  Drunk, humiliated and naked, the trio learned a valuable lesson that night.  There is no such thing as perfection, the slightest of wrinkles can destroy the most thorough of plans.  In this case, they had forgotten a simple fact even the simplest of peasants knows:

 Spells don't work in Mileth.