The vampires were once unseelie fae who, during the autumn wars, terrorized humanity, implicating anyone who dared enter their claimed territory as trespassers and thieves. Of course, virtually all of these people were victims of wrong place at the wrong time, and for their troubles they were crucified. As they died of starvation and exposure agonizingly slowly, the cruel creatures would jab, stab, slice, burn, flay, and salt their wounds, torturing them, but rarely letting them die quickly. If loved ones were with them when they were put onto the cross, their loved ones would be raped, body and mind, ravaged of their identity until their sanity was shattered. These monstrous beings would coerce them to drink their beloved's blood and eat upon their flesh. And the crucified's loved ones had all but been converted to their horrible way of being, they would be forced to watch their beloved impale themselves on a wooden spike, held over a spit, and feasted upon like a macabre kebab.

By now if not long before, the crucified would beg for the release of death. Sometimes it would be granted if they were weak and delirious, but those that struggled and raged, whose eyes burned with ever-flowing tears would not be granted that luxury. More often than not they would be transformed into foul creatures no longer recognizable as human and be sent to find more victims for their fae masters' twisted and sadistic desires.

So it went for decades upon decades until the time between captures dwindled to weeks then months, then seasons. Apparently their campaign of horror was effective and the humans made concerted effort to avoid vampire lands. So when a human suddenly appeared walking casually through their camp one night--their preferred hour of the hunt--they were understandably surprised. He didn't struggle when half a dozen creatures leapt upon him and carried him clumsily to the ground. He was tried without a single word, disconcerting the vampire hierarchy. But they paid it no mind; they swore they could see the fear hidden behind his dark, steely gaze, sweat that poured from his frizzled mass of black-brown hair across his sepia-toned face. And yet he did not flinch when the wrapped, gold wire around his neck was torn away and thrown into a fire, nor when the metal bit his flesh, when the iron was hammered through his wrists, when the scourge flayed his muscular back and when the blood poured through the holes in his feet. He said not a word. Not until they grew tired of his lack of reaction did he speak. None of them were prepared for the three guards closest to him fell to the ground, each less a head. All they could do was stare as he pulled his wrists through the iron spikes, reached down and pulled the massive one piercing both feet, yanked it out like a giant root and hurled it through the chest of their patriarch, piercing him through the heart and pinning him into a nearby oak tree where he died instantly.

No one knows what happened next. Not exactly. One can imagine the vengeance this Knight of the Golden Knot wrought upon these fell creatures, but everyone knows the ultimate result. For their preying on the helpless in the dark of night, they were forbidden from ever again entering the sunlight. For their insatiable bloodlust, they were forced to drink the blood of mortals lest they crumble to dust. For their chosen torture device, the symbol of it became anathema. For their penchant for falsely accusing others of trespassing against them, they could not enter a domicile without an invitation. And for the atrocities they committed with such arrogance, the simplest weapons--a sharp, pointed stick and a clean, bright fire--could kill them with remarkable efficiency. Thus was the curse placed upon the vampires.