Masked and painted, cloaked and armed-
all four pressed upon the weak- for all were so under them.
Horses and riders, axes and swords which triumphed over evil-
and surpassed it.
Hollow hearts, balls of steel, they rode and slayed and stabbed,
entered into all those white houses and took them down.
Pillage. Murder. Rape...
None were holy but their brothers.
Nothing sacred save themselves.
Then came I.
COME!
The hoofprints of the apocalypse ran rampant through our village.
Skulls of my people, ashes of my mentor-
the remaining reminder of life.
Labelled a healer, I was to save them all,
Nay a thing I could do!
The knife was in my chest-- I was dead.
Panting breath ceased.
Beating heart stopped.
I died with my world and they knew it naught.
COME!
Perched up-top the white horse- he was Civil Strife.
Caspian killed better than them all-
he put his heart and back into it.
Deceit, treachery, all the old ways but never
a break from the brotherhood.
It was the rush of the hunt, the thrill of the catch-
Death could not make him change though
Caspian was the one that would be lost
if one was to be so.
Lover of blood, drainer of souls- he took as much as he could take
and more.
Stole from Hunger, created himself, Civil Strife,
among the two- and Death the gruesome mediator.
The asylum merely tried.
For you cannot kill the killer.
COME!
Straddling low the blak one- he was Hunger.
His words were few but deep.
From the soft side of himself- the murdering Cylas.
He bore an ax, a re-used treasure, his other arm,
and looked at their terrified faces as he struck them down.
Nothing but murder- the softest and the strongest.
Whatever desires, whatever needs- he took what he could
and longed for the rest... letting all go.
With only a question, hesitation, refusal-
such was his life.
But Cylas was liked.
COME!
Sitting high on red- he was War.
Grinned with an evil snarl, he was their leader,
helpless alone- the head, the power,
His name was Kronos- changes, perhaps, but still the same inside.
He couldn't have me(I was spoken for)
for as many times as he and his spiked sword tried-
My legs spread, body trembled.
Scars ran the length of his face- visible wounds of mortality
in such an immoral immortal.
Loved the murder, loved the terror- fed upon it
to fill his empty heart--
The fear from the world below.
COME!
Slouching in the saddle of the pale horse-- he was Death.
Sick of starvation, arguments, battle.
Turned off by all he knew,
but strung to it by the brotherhood-
he did the same as the others.
Searing flesh and taking all- the violence his only home, his life.
His brain the brain of all, his heart the heart of none.
Three were incomplete without him, but he was unnecessary.
Methos went with the winner, too scared to die to have morals.
His life packed full of regrets-
over a thousand.
COME!
He was Death and I was his
I lived because he wished it-- and we knew it
With every scword blade in my side-
With every hand run up my thigh.
He was different- but still a brother.
Turned off to the world- clinging to the life-
he lived
and thus did I.
I was a regret-
But as one of a thousand, I mattered
COME!
I cou'dn't stay- my powers dimished there.
I had to flee- ride upon a gorse.
Color was unimportant, as was life, as is life.
They must die.
Few spells, little magic, teh spirit in me always.
My white shirt red with blood,
my face as pale as could be seen in the black of night,
which only held me.
The horse sped away from all, into the esert.
I think it was the pale one--
his saddle had always fit me the best.
