The Sixty

After the decay, all professions of protection and policing became mercenary work. Perhaps they always were. Keeping with that tradition, we chase compensation where it is promised.

We the company, being only ten winters old, are a young mob. We carry only three rules by whcich to live utmost. First, we are Sixty, and no more. Second, a man's service is Sixty years, and no more. Last and the most grave, no one here cares who you used to be.

Our reputation is mixed, but known. Our tactics are haphazard, yet effective. We bear the symbol of the three legged coyote. Somewhere, behind, lie the traps that contain a piece of which we were all willing to leave behind.

If we did not we would be dead.