The cold of night poured into the tent. The tent flaps swayed as wind flowed through the small abode. Candles flickered, as the cool of night flooded into the tent. The messenger approached the captain, his salute weak and forced. The captain addressed the young man; his features ruffled.

“You look awful, soldier. What’s the matter? Has anything happened?”

The young officer, his proud red uniform torn and flushed, placed a set of dispatches on the small round table.

“There’s more in there then you’ll ever want to know, sir.”

The captain looked at the papers, curiosity burned in his eyes.

“Where’d you find these?”

“From the devil’s lair itself! We captured one of the heretics… tied him to a tree and demanded answers. He gave us this. It was horrible, sir. This man was no longer human! His eyes darted about, his complication pale. His native tongue was bizarre; I could not make sense of it.”

“What of his tongue?”

“He shouted such things… I can hardly recall even now. ‘Numbering files is for idiots!’ he shouted over and over again. We where forced to gag him, simply to make him cease.”

“Were are your men?”

The young man lowered his head, averting his gaze. The captain slammed his fist down upon the table, his rage boiling over, taking control.

“The heretics came looking for their lost kin. I drew my sword, and fought them off. You should have seen it, sir! Heads flying, but to no avail. For everyone we killed, three more took his place. They dragged Hans, and Carl into the night… I ran. The shout of their leader was not far behind. ‘You die a lot now!’ he shrieked. I ran, still, but they pursued me. I could hear their inhuman breathing, could see their twisted and warped figures. I carried my torch for need of light; they needed no such device, their eyes cat like. I crossed the great swamps ridge at last… and the chase ended. I believe they are linked to the swamp, and cannot leave…”

“Those bastard devils! We’ll get them, soldier, by god we’ll get them.”

The messenger saluted, his once well polished boots stamping the ground, and left.

Outside the tent, small camp fires burned; soldiers milled about. The brigade force- twenty thousand strong men- sent to rid the duchy of all heretic forces, rested for the night. High Lord Militant Charles, himself, had authorized the attack, after his third cousin, Lord Fionn of Countberrry was attacked while hunting goose. The great swamp, just south of Schonberg (ruled over by the wise Count Rune), has long been suspected of being the heretic’s base of operations; or monastery as it seems. All the peasants of this land feared the heretics, and were all too glad to see an army on the march to fight them. How many towns and villages had been raided by the heretics? Enough to warrant a full scale attack it was clear. The captain closed the tent flaps. He sat, spreading the papers. Strange runes burned his eyes, heretical writing was scribbled across the page; there was no manner to it. The captain produced a large concave glass, a mirror. Those heretics were clever, but it was no matter. The captain had dealt with much worse. Once reflected in the mirror, the writing became clear. The mind which had laid down such scripture was truly an insane one, twisted by years of evil. The captain read on:

The Justicar here by proclaims…

(ii) Yes, like the legendary Phoenix risen from the ashes, like the Flying Dutchman returned to port, like the great Peng awakening sober … the Mutha Beautiful and the swamp of Muria. Those who are worthy, and if you have to ask then you're NOT ... are welcome to their home away from home … others … die!

It made no sense! It was a foolish rant, a simpleton proclaiming the status of a god.

Perhaps this was some form of bible? A ten commandments of sorts? Who was this so called ‘Justicar’?

(XIV) What Ho? Still here?

(1.43) You are a Scum Sucking Newbuis and it's important that you be told many a time. You are not welcome here. You will be ridiculed to within an inch of your worthless life and while that might gain you more attention than you've seen in many a moon, it will be a long and painful path… for you.

A cult based on a ‘nirvanian’ worship of… pain? What sort of sick fools took part in such a collective? The captain swore to personally slay this vile Justicar, and hand his head to the King himself.

(b) Haven't you fled yet? Please don't hesitate on my account, there's no time like the present you know. Oh my, persistent little beggar aren't you, don't say I didn't warn you. If you must you must I suppose…. Oh well, look then, please remember that this is the challenge of Peng, so perhaps you might consider actually challenging someone to a blood duel. None of these group grope challenges you clown. If you do choose to challenge, and please don't overlook the advantages of simply fleeing in horror, do remember the following:

{34} No ... you can't challenge me ... or another Knight, or really even a Squire. You Might be able to challenge a Serf I suppose and we don't care HOW many SSNuis’ you challenge. That would be best, come to think of it, challenge another SSNuis for our amusement. We need a good laugh.

How odd this all was. This cult seemed to have some form of primitive serfdom, in which challenges of blood would increase you’re rank… The rest was burned out, only an archaic signature remained.

Knight Champion of the Mutha Beautiful, Justicar of the Swamp.

The sick perverts would die tomorrow. The candles had burned out, leaving only trails of smoke. The captain slept a long dream filled sleep.

He dreamt of this cult, the images and words of the insane ‘Justicar’ chiseled into his head. The captain walked through the woods, night and a starless sky all he could make out. He would not know it, but he was crossing the void- entering the swamp of Muria. A beautiful voice called out to him. He ran towards it, a light began to shine in the distance. A bright orange glow, It pulsed and swayed, pulling the captain towards it. The captain was pulled into a small clearing. His eyes widened. A shrunken puddle of bright orange goo pulsed and burst at his feet. Part of the goo moved, shifting and raising. The shape of a man molded out of the orange liquid. He was beautiful. The captain was shocked. The man hovered several feet above the pool, his voice calling out to the captain. The man beckoned for the captain’s hand.

“Who… who are you?”

The man blinked slowly, his appearance elemental. His hair was a fire, burning brightly. He spoke quietly, his voice not quite matching his lips.

“I am Seanachia. Come with me captain. Embrace the pool…”

The captain took the man’s hand, and together they sunk into the pool of orange sludge.

The sound of birds woke him.

The captain walked through the tent flaps wide, the bright sun shining off his well polished buttons. His sword in scabbard, and his hat placed well on his brow, the captain marched to his commanders. They stood atop a hill, surveying the lay of the land.

“Excellent day for a battle.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Ready the men. I want to slaughter every last one of those heretics.”

A horn suddenly blew. The captain spun around. Far below the hill, towards the woods and great swamp, thousands of men flooded. Like a wave of locus, they swarmed across the grass, and fields.

“Draw your swords men! We fight! We fight!”

Twenty thousand men produced swords, raised shields, and readied to meet the hoards of cultists…