The White Horse Returns

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My mind is suspended in a void where light and dark are too crude a concept to bear. My dreams are vivid depictions of candles and circles of mortals who chant my name. I stand without form before them, reaching out to cut their throats. I am drawn back to my void where time is no more, but I hear a thump echo through the infinite. I hear it clearer and louder now. A sensation comes over me, awareness so strange yet so familiar, for I have not felt in so long. It is painful, oh but I enjoy this hurting me.

In the bowels of the Nether, they carve me out of this stone that has encased me for eons. The picking of their chisels breaks through the void of my being, each strike defiling my solitude, and out of the cracks crawl the flies and the worms. The awakening of my physical form is finally at hand, my rebirth into the material.

Staring out into the dreadful landscape fills me with delightful fascination, like taking a bite out of a crisp, ripened melancholy. The withering screams of tortured souls, their bodies twisted into the smoldering landscape, their faces melted to a mangled anguish, pleases me beyond words. These souls, they still accept God into their hearts, and when the assimilation of evil is complete and the time comes for them to join our ranks, will they truly know the infinite potential of darkness and all the gifts it brings.

I am the aching hunger in the bellies of the starved and neglected, I am the bulbous fat in the hearts of the content and indifferent; a black horse upon thee.

I am the glistening blood of the sharpened iron spilling from the wounds of many nations, I am the battle cry of the warriors who drown in this scarlet graveyard; a red horse upon thee.

I am the wretched filth coursing through the veins of the innocent, I am the flies swarming the decay who drink upon the tears of sorrow; a pale horse upon thee.

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