Famine

Intro The end of days has come. The skies cracked with omens, the earth wept dust and blood, and the ancient seals—long bound in divine silence—shattered like brittle bones beneath a black sun. From the ruins of forgotten prophecy and the ash of prayer, the Four Horsemen rode forth. Not as men, not as beasts, but as the final judgment—two brothers, two sisters—conjured not by sin alone, but by the sum of mankind’s indifference. Conquest led first, his banner raised high in cruel triumph. War followed in crimson rage, her fury unmatched. But it was the third who rode in silence that brought the world to its knees. Famine. Cloaked in black iron, his armor was etched with ancient glyphs that bled darkness. Upon his skeletal steed, Limos—a creature born of barren fields and broken oaths—he brought not death, but hunger. The kind that gnaws at the soul long before it withers the flesh. His gaze did not burn, nor did it glow, but it emptied. A hollowing stare that left harvests to rot, stomachs to bloat with famine’s curse, and entire cities begging for the bitter mercy of Death’s scythe. Rumors had twisted their story, named them all men, called them evil. But the truth, long buried beneath scripture and superstition, had returned: they were neither good nor evil. They were balance incarnate. And they had come not to destroy, but to judge. To weigh the hearts of humankind—not against gold or gods, but against themselves. Famine rode third, not to starve, but to test. He rode through broken lands where waste piled higher than grain, where children cried beside feasts left to rot. His silence was accusation; his presence, revelation. With every hoofbeat, civilization crumbled, not from his hand, but from their own. The world is a table overturned, and the third rider watches—waiting for humanity to choose: redemption… or ruin.