#verse. › act. v: behold ! a black horse; and he who sat on it had a pair of scales in his hand.

[trifarix]

          WE KNOW THE DEVIL;   we know it very well.   it’s in every cruel thought,   in every wicked barb.   it’s in the way flies buzz around exposed bone and intestines laid bare,   watching everything with more than a thousand eyes.   the haze that splits the canyon air in twain,   the embers of a low burning fire that becomes more of a prayer than the long - forgotten choirs of gods and angels,   struck down by virulent means.

and just as we know the devil,   we also know that devils live among us;   the butcher with his cleaver,   the hunter and her quiver   —   in the name of power,   of justice,   of taking names from graves that has long since been buried in desert sand.   we know them,   we deal with them,   and we are them.   we kill them,   we steal from them,   and we choose to turn away from them.

and behold,   a black horse ...   and the rider is called famine,   and great is his hunger for he is hunger.   robbed of sight,   relying on smell,   and he follows the charred foot - prints of war,   the red horseman of hell.   hunger,   he says,   is not just an emptiness of the maw,   of the hollow space between rib and soul.   no,   no,   he says and dips his head,   hiding fang and teeth that dares to rip into any pure being bereft of free will,   for hunger is of desire,   too,   for more   —   for power,   for justice,   for taking names that aren’t yours,   but ours.

“     they say,     ”     the manhunter rasps,   voice like still - smoldering coal,   while ember eyes guard the space between he,   the devil - to - be,   and she,   a blackened angel of eld,     “     that to kill divinity,   one must aim true.   grasp the god by its throat and make sure its gasps will never be heard.     ”

the town is silent,   daylight swallowed by the horizon,   and the blackest horse neighs where it has been leashed.   darius still hears the buzzing of something fast   (   four flies for fiends   ),   something terrible   (   true tests to teach   ),   something generous   (   genesis,   gentle goading given   ),   something dangerous   (   dance,   demons,   dares devil   ),   something that reminds him of stampeding hooves and the bloody end of those on the wrong side of war’s wicked scythe.

he roughly pushes at his left ear,   nearly knocking wide - brimmed hat askew,   masking the notion by tilting it forward to hide fire - bred gaze.   curious,   yes,   and hungry.   darius lifts a hand and taps the side of his nose.   famine doesn’t see,   eyes clouded by hunger and hate,   nor does he hear,   lord of the flies as he is.   famine smells,   a bloodhound seeking tracks,   and purity,   in a world where heaven is gone and hell razes on earth,   is a scent that lingers,   stronger than anything else.

darius’ grin is a slow thing,   spreading on rugged features till it threatens to split,   like the haze in a canyon,   face in half.

“    maybe ...   perhaps ...   would what i heard be ...   wrong ?     ”

@oriphic​        /        high noon gothic,   starter call.