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The four horsemen

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He smelled of metal, coated in layers of dry blood and old gun powder. His face was similar to a shredded curtain, slivers of skin hanging over his eyes and mouth. His voice was guttural, as if blood was curdling at the back of his throat. His garb was ripped and torn, but a dark elegance shone through his battered clothes. He rode his dark crimson red horse with his head held high, ignoring the bloodshed surrounding him.
Famine
He had a dry, brittle feeling about him, hundreds of years of caked skin still clinging to his degraded face. His breath was hot and musty, depriving all life surrounding him of water. His clothes were covered in sand and dust, crackling and ripping as he moved across the land. His gray steed appeared old and weak, burdened under its master’s weight. Wherever Famine lay his feet turned to dust, carried away by the prevailing wind.
Pestilence
He hummed a small tune, saliva protruding from his mouth and forming a small bead of phlegm hanging from his chin. His hands were caked with snot and blood, grabbing and fondling whatever was in reach. He coughed to the point of blood spewing out of his mouth and onto the wall in front of him. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, thick bloody mucus streaming down his arm. He wore a dark green robe that may have looked fairly decent when it was first manufactured, but was no longer a pleasant sight. Long strands of green and brown stains ran up and down his thick attire. His arm sleeves were coated with dry patches of mouth excrement, occasionally flaking onto the ground. His face was pale, translucent, as if the skin could be looked through straight to the bone. The cavities around his eyes were red, thin veins protruding out onto his cheek and forehead. His entire face seemed to sag like a mask, simply waiting to be violently ripped off at the edges. His horse was scrawny but violent, stomping and biting all who approached it, all but his sickening master.
Death
Death wore black, casting shadows where light would usually penetrate. He smelled of spores from mold and fungus, floating off of him in a wispy fluctuating cloud. His face was ashen; the only apparent color was barely noticeable veins snaking from the top of his head down to his thin bony neck. His eyes were glazed over, gray pupils shifting back and forth in his sunken eye cavities. Whatever he touched cooled, the color draining from it. His voice was quiet, a soft whisper, but had a reverberating tone which sent it cascading throughout whatever enclosure he happened to be in. When he raised his voice it sounded like a thousand men screaming as their flesh was being ripped from their bodies, his neck tensing with each wave of angry shouts. His inky black horse was swift and fast, reaching across the land with haste and urgency.





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