The Horsemen of the Apocalypse
The land wilted before them. People fled, scattering to the winds, only to gather in small groups, whispering of their desolation. To speak too loud, they said, invoked them. Yet they had no names. No true way to be summoned, for they were mindless forces of chaos driven into naught but destruction. Those few souls who saw them perished, or became hollow versions of themselves. The others drew blade and let loose the blood of their kin, manifesting heated battles that determined nothing save who could endure the longest. The victor wore the skulls of their enemies and drank the tears of those who wept for them. So it was everywhere they went. I followed, never more than a week behind, watching the carnage. Yet as I watched them, they did nothing. Sword, bow, and scales sat emblematically, held aloft, and never used. They rode their beasts, never speaking, never acting. The world fell open before them without so much as a whimper. It was morning when I finally dared approach where the...