Bronze arrows offer greater armour piercing than their non-metallic counterparts. Copper and tin were relatively uncommon in Brynmoor, so using the resources on arrows seemed like a waste of money. One faction of bandits delighted in this premise; their leader, a man known as the Auburn Ocelot—for reasons he would never explain—took great amusement in their use.
The Auburn Ocelot would laugh as his bandits hurled expensive arrows at the villagers, pilfering coins worth far less than the ammunition used to corral them. To him, it wasn’t about the money but the look of confused terror on their faces and the knowledge that no one could stop him.
He was above it all. Better than everyone.
It was a rat that killed him. Not even a giant one. Just a tiny creature carrying a virulent plague. Money could not save him, no matter how much he flaunted it. He was cremated, and his ashes buried in the middle of nowhere so that no one might risk catching the infection that cost his life.
Now, he’s almost completely forgotten.