The Graveyard was silent that night. Not merely the absence of sound made it thus; but the catch in your throat, shiver up your spine. Silence, in its rawest form.
I ventured further into the shadows between headstones, weaving and searching. But never finding.
I have been appointed many titles in my worldly travels: A Shinigami, The Grim Reaper, One of the Four Horsemen. The last never fails to bring amusement. Though the resemblance is startling -Dark hair, hunched stance and Vampiric skin that is stretched so tight over bones it almost seems several sizes too small- in truth the original rider was my father. Though he has long past.
A whisper of fabric drags me from my thought and I spin, finally finding what I was searching for. There, perched atop the crumbling stone of a grave, sits Pestilence. Or as I call him: Brother. He certainly has changed since taking the role; his lashes are crusted, welts and rashes coat his limbs like armour and his lips are shrunken and chapped. Behind him stands Famine -His ribs and hips protruding through the thin tunic, his eyes sunken and wild- parched lips tipped upward, then War -Towering beside Famine's slight frame, the plumed Helmet barely containing thick hair- also with a crazed gleam in his onyx eyes.
They look at me, waiting for order and I turn my gaze to our steeds: standing to attention by the gate.
They say that when the horsmen of the Apocalypse join, the end of the world is nigh.
I mount my skeletal steed and draw up the ragged cloak's hood.
I am Death.
Tonight, we ride.
I apologise if this has been done before, please let me know f it has so I can take it down :) Just an I dea that occurred to me and I had to write it down :)
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