Seen through the dark mists of town, rising up above all the other broken structures around it, sat the Central Castle. It ominously looked down from atop its perch, shrouded in a veil of ever present gloom, surveying the surrounding land. Legend has it that, before the days of the war the building was library or institute of some sort. The complex was built from large blocks of yellow limestone, but they have long since turned black. It was a very thickly walled castle and it rose four stories in height. The lower level windows had been bricked off during the Neo Dark Age, in order to make the castle a more formidable fortress. Only one door leads in, and that door rarely remains open for long. No vegetation grows at its base, and no man walks in front of it. This is because the castle houses the Central Knights.

Rumored to be one of the largest organized groups around, the Central Knights are also believed to have one of the more powerful militias in the area. In these broken days of the present, other nearby factions bow to the nobility of the Knights. They are the defenders of the land and the vanquishers of evil. For their protection, the knights are paid homage at the end of every lunar cycle.

Most of the problems that occur are small raids and public disputes. The Knights act as judge, jury, and executioner in these cases, and they tend to rule with an iron fist. A few weak supernatural occurrences are sometimes encountered, but they are easily handled by the highly skilled Knights. Most of the supernatural forces that is...

Above the main tower of the Central Castle rose a long, tall pole. On this pole flew the symbol of the Central Knights. The dark blue flag embossed with a golden cross could be seen across the land. It gave the people something to look up to from the inside of their hovels or crumbled shacks. The flag was a symbol that at least gave them a little pride or restored a little hope. For the Knights, the flag proclaimed their territory. It was a beacon to all that showed their power and dominion. This attracted visitors.

Some of the visitors had good intentions, all that they wanted was a glimpse of some heroic knights in action. They had come to see if all of the legends were true. Others came for a different purpose, to challenge or overthrow the Knights. Then there were those malevolent individuals who wanted nothing more than to destroy the land and cause more pain and suffering. The Knights disposed of these trouble makers rather quickly, and peace was established once again. Until one day...

On that very day, a black robed figure walked into town. The face of the stranger was cloaked, and it’s hands were hidden in the folds of the robes. It strode into town at a slow, almost dragging pace. The newcomer did not act defiant or prideful as he entered the town, in fact he carried himself almost as a leper or beggar would. People stared from within their blasted homes as he passed. All wondered.

The black robed one reached the Central Castle and stopped, turning his head up. Atop the tower, the lookout glanced down at the dark figure with a mixed feeling of confusion and anger. No one was to set foot upon this sacred ground except the Knights. At that moment the cloaked figure brought one pale hand up and pointed at the flag that flapped above the castle.
“You Sir! You Sir, what are you doing?” cried the lookout.
The cloaked figure gave no response, but still held the veiny wrinkled hand out towards the flag.
“You Sir! Did you not hear me? Who are you?”
“Death” was all that the black robed figure gasped as he clenched his hand and the flag caught fire.
The lookout gazed up in disbelief as he saw the flag curl up into a black mass. Somewhere within the castle an alarm rang.

The old priest opened his eyes with a start as he awoke from a deep slumber. After struggling to get out of bed, he wrapped his robe about him and hobbled over to the window to see what the commotion was about. The front gates of the castle slowly swung open and knights flooded out onto the surrounding field. Sir Anthony Nothos was the last to exit, as he valiantly rode out on his large motorcycle, mounted with a lance and shield. The engines of the vehicle roared loudly, but it was soon droned out by the battle cry of the knights. The priest looked further to see the cause of all this, and caught a glimpse of a cloaked black figure being encircled by the crowding knights. The high priest’s eyes widened and he gasped as he focused on the dark one.
“No, “ he muttered, “Why?”
He scrambled down from the window and went over to his desk. Using one hand to swipe the desk clean, the old man snatched a book off of the shelf and dropped it to the desk top. The high priest cracked the book open and began to read in a frenzied state.

The chanting of the surrounding knights irritated the black robed figure. He did not like the fact that it broke his concentration. Enough of this, he thought. The dark one brought both hands up and slowly removed his hood. All of the knights ceased chanting as each one became focused on the creature that stood before them. The skin on the stranger’s head and face had appeared to have withered away to bone, and it’s eye sockets were a deep penetrating black. The gaze he offered to the knights was more than enough to stop the hearts of any mere mortal man, but the knights had become a little more accustomed to such things.

In the distance Sir Nothos reared his motor cycle, and the crowd parted to let him pass. The champion of the knights slowly rode up to the black figure and stopped. Nothos anticipated the battle...he could almost taste it. The dark stranger remained motionless, and waited for Sir Nothos the make the first move. As the engine roared and the motorcycle raced forward, the mounted knight aimed his lance. His adversary moved with superhuman speed as he reached into his cloak with both hands and withdrew a pair of silver Uzis. Deftly sidestepping the cycle, the dark one turned as Sir Nothos passed him and neatly placed ten bullets in the back of his neck, just above the neckguard and right below the edge of his helmet. Anthony Nothos’ head exploded off his torn stump of a neck, and blood showered the onlooking knights. The veterans of the crowd drew their weapons and began to surge towards the black robe, but the younger green knights just stared in amazement at the head of their champion spinning through the air.

The old priest heaved half a sigh of relief . He had found what he was looking for. Gunshots could be heard outside, so he hefted his book up and carried it to the balcony. Down below the mysterious black figure was unstoppable. A blazing flurry of red hot lead sprayed forth, and the dead piled up.
“Enough!,” the gray priest shouted.
The melee ceased. The black socketed skull gazed up and a hollow voice rang out.
“I see you have found my book old man. I would very much like to have it back.”
The priest raised both hands to the heavens and closed his eyes. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck begin to raise up as the power of god flowed through him. A loud noise shook the castle, like a clap of thunder, and then a blinding flash of light exploded around the black robe. Knights were thrown to the ground. Then it ceased almost instantly.

The black robe still stood on a plane of scorched earth, holding forth a wrought iron pentagram that hung from a chain around his neck.
Death merely chuckled, “Silly old man, I hope you were not counting on that too much. Faith in that paper doll god and puppet religion of yours is no match for the true power of my magic.”