Within the misty nights of the foreseen apocalypse, throughout pesty death, tortuous famine, within the filthy pestilence, and when there was no blistering war, there was pure peace. There were no screams for help, no death, no blood spilt, it was as if the entire land had been turned upside down. At sunrise, the solid ground was filled with red, but at night, the terra firma was beautiful, nearly ironic. As the knights rest their heads, slowly healing from injuries or some in a better place, one thing they were glad about wasn’t that they weren’t fighting or bleeding, it was that they didn’t face the wrath of the four horsemen.
It was the only thing they feared more than putrid war itself, the way the horsemen fought, the way they butchered, it was too much for sight. When there was war, it was nasty, guts spewing around like a child playing with a doll, screams from the puny, absolute mayhem. But when a faint sound could be heard, like the sound of a brutal hurricane arising, if you looked in the distance. You could see ‘them’ approaching ever so abruptly, all four. They charged with all their might and fury within them rushing both sides. This drove fear into the knights fighting, you wouldn’t want to die at the hands of the horsemen, the way they murdered, it was inhumane. No man would want to be known by the horsemen as one of their caught prey. It was as if the war was the prey and the four alliances of death was the predators.
It seemed as if these four men might be delivering a message, to either stop war, or make it rain blood and drive fear into those who see them…
