[b] [center] The Town of Rinswald, miles west of Castle Detrimus [/center] [/b] Buildings stood as burnt out husks. Charred bodies littered the abandoned shelters as a sepulchral reminder of the funereal sickness that plagued the once booming town of Rinswald. Here a morbid disease took the townspeople by the hundreds, forcing many of them into an unending sleep, cursed with mumbles and soft jabbering as the unwaking mind still ran active. Others woke from the gloomy slumber, but as beasts. The waken were insane and perverse figures of their former selves, gnawing on their own flesh as well as the healthy. They carved hideous unworldly symbols into their ichor covered skin and muscle, and their eyes bleed as if mourning their new forlorn existence. A blazing sun painted on the crumbling walls stood as a caring embrace to the townsfolk, reminding the Charlinite citizens of the town that all was not lost, and a slice of virtue still policed the hopeless situation. This sun was the banner of the Paladins of Krax, the callers of the inquisition, and the knightly patrons of the god known as Justinian. The shining plates of their armor reflected the sun above, giving the virtuous men the look of heaven sent angels. They were the citizens hopes and dreams, they were the saviors. The Paladins guarded a prisoner line vigilantly, but there were no regular prisoners shackled together in the train being led out of the destroyed town, but the monstrosities of the plague, the prisoners of the dream plague. The rhythmic clang of the heavy shackles that adorned the pale legs of the sick monsters provided a beat for which the Paladins saw fit to whip the disobedient creatures to their final place of judgement, and ultimate execution. Women wailed as their infected children were marched, and their husband and sisters funneled into the large pits that were dug outside the towns by the Paladins. While no sane relative wished to openly acknowledge it loudly, they all knew this cruel fate laid out by the saviors was the only fair solution to the even crueler beasts of madness. At the lips of the pits, the Paladins wore thick masks to filter their own breaths as they forced the damned into the earthen chambers where headsmen swung wildly at the helpless creatures, their blades dull with extreme overuse and the soil moist with blood and gore. After hours of filling the pits, they were evacuated by the blood splattered headsmen, and then after a showering of extra kindling the Paladins lit the pits aflame. Soon the fires roared and licked at the sky, jumping far above the pits in a deadly dance. Muffled and estranged screams and shrieks of those spared by the headsmen scratched at every witnesses ears as the creatures attempted to crawl out, only to have the few victorious flame engulfed bodies pushed back in by long poles wielded by the Paladins and angry survivors. When the flames began to die and the sound of charred bodies crackling under the heat replaced the sharp shrieks of the living, the Paladins began to chant a prayer to Justinian, a prayer of cleansing so that the plague may not continue it’s conquest of the Kingdom of Charlin. As they chanted, each and every Paladin knew the plague had already spread into Charlin, maybe not at such a potency, but it had, following suit behind the cultists of the dream plague that riddle the Charlin underground and worshiped ancient and bizarre figures in the dead of night. Overlooking one of the gruesome fires was one Grandmaster Paladin, Marc Galenon, cousin to the king and leader of the Paladin order. His shining armor was adorned with a crimson red cape that housed the embroidered golden sun in it’s center. On his hip hung a nobles sword that was dull in decoration in comparison but instead utilized the pragmatic uses of a true war sword. Marc was a tall man and definitely an imposing figure to all who he deemed heathens, and a clear hero to all he deemed righteous. His face was a serious one, wielding sharp blue eyes and a black beard, with long hair that matched. He looked like a true Charlin. On his orders alone all across Charlin the Paladins marched, in search of the plague carriers and cultists, and with blazing righteous fury, they marched to cut them down, in the name of justice and order. This was his way, his word became law to those who listened and his sword became punishment to the dishonorable. He stood there by the pits contemplating a thought while watching the plagued bodies crumble under the immense heat. The acrid smell caused his nose to wrinkle as he continued his lonely thought in a calming silence. While his thought was lonely, he wasn’t, as three of the twelve masters that formed the elective ruling body of the Paladins stood by his side. They wore armor almost as grand as him and on their hips were swords of equal make, the fine quality steel coming from the scorched lands to the far north east, the Kingdom of Karkarth, long trading partners of the Charlinites. One of the Masters spoke up, his face was young and boasted only a short dark beard in comparison to his present company. “Sir,” He said obediently, “Rinswald has been evacuated, and transgressors and the infected have been neutralized.” The obvious remarks of the report were barely chewed before swallowed by Marc, as he was the man who orchestrated the mass execution. “Have there been any news from the Monodominics?” The Grandmaster asked, his voice hoarse from all the commands he had yelled on the battlefields of his past, yet still sharp enough to bring a man to his knees in submission. “Our reports still remain mysterious and spotted, all who are sent to the Mountains of Roland in search of their monastery either never come back, or come back without any information to provide about the long lost Monodominic structure other than a few reports of a massive foreigner barring the way in some of the passes.” Marc grunted, “They deny Justinians supremacy, and even though we use a gentle hand, they refuse to enter our custody, and now foreigners are meddling in our business?” “No one can seem to pinpoint the strangers accent, or size for that matter. Some question if he even has horns-” “I don’t care about the stranger, Paladin, we need the Monodominics. We need them to submit themselves to our charity if we are to ever unite the Kingdom of Charlin completely in Justinians name.” Marc Galenon sighed, “ Sometimes I wish their influence wasn't so ancient and deep rooted into the Charlin way, so we could just go around them. However, since that is not the case, we have to dissolve them into the new Dynasty of Galenon and the reign of Justinian, or our foot hold is threatened by the remnants of the old Dynasty of Roland, and the heresy of the Monodominics. Our glorious nation cannot succumb to it’s current state of a decentralized mess. ” “Understood, Grandmaster.” “ Do you?” Questioned the Grandmaster. The Paladin master pounded his cuirass covered chest with his gauntlet covered fist, “I submit my honor to you, Grandmaster, and request the privilege to ride to the Roland Mountains myself, as to oversee Justinians reign.” “Sir Edvin, you truly are a Charlinite,” Marc agreed with a sharp smile, a curve that always sat rarely on his face, and sickly whenever it did. [hider=Things to Know] - A mysterious stranger has appeared - The Paladins of Krax have declared an inquisition against all dream cultists and the infected - This was least exciting opening post I've ever done - The struggle between the Paladins and the elusive and ancient Monodominic order continues (See NS for history) - All nations are able to apply to receive a Paladin Chapter house in their country, as a part of the Paladin Foreign Legion (PM for details) [/hider]