In the middle of a plain there was a church.
It was a vast, wide plain. Long ago, in centuries past, before the age of Cells and Blessings, this land had been used for farming. Row upon row of grain, corn, and other foodstuffs had grown here, feeding hundreds of millions. Farmers had worked the land, plowed the soil with great machines powered not by Entropy, but by liquid that flowed deep beneath the earth.
Generations of simple, hardworking humans had struggled here, amidst the dirt and dust. It was not an easy living. The earth had never taken kindly to humanity’s attempts to tame it. The farmers rose early in the morning and worked till well after the sun had set. They plowed, they sowed, they cut, they harvested, and above all, they maintained the land.
Their trade was backbreaking, wearing on their joints and tendons. It was dangerous, requiring the operation of heavy machinery prone to failure, driving them to early injury and death. When they passed, the farmers’ bodies were laid to rest beneath the plains they molded, the land they gave their lives to claiming them in death as well. Through it all, through plague and famine, through death and war, the land endured.
Now it belonged only to Syn.
No more food was grown here. Cell Grenblyd took care of that. Now the plain was a sea of tall, beige grass, that grew almost to one’s shoulders and waved endlessly in the breeze. The centuries of toil, generations upon generations of loving labor was no more, for Cell Syn were not farmers. They were soldiers. Their profession was bloodshed, and these days, business was booming.
And none enjoyed it more than War.
Elias Syn, third Horseman of Cell Syn, strode petulantly through the abandoned meadow and towards the church that presided over it. Idly, he perused his Grimoire as he did so.
~~~
Machaira the Ever Sharpening
Attunement: Adaptive Evolution 20. What does not kill you only makes you stronger.
Grain: Regeneration. All wounds shall heal, given time.
Marble: Trauma Cache. Your suffering becomes your life. Store it.
Core: The Second Seal, Lifted. Your suffering becomes your strength. Shape it.
Body: This War of Mine. The trauma of others is yours as well. Claim it.
~~~
Despite what his Blessing had named him, Elias had always preferred to be called War. It was simpler. Straightforward, powerful, paramount. Like him.
As always, he wore only rough, pocketless, dull red shorts. If it’d been up to him, he’d have worn nothing at all. He hated the feeling of fabric rubbing against his skin. It was too soft, too gentle. He yearned for something sharper, crueler. Barbed wire, perhaps.
His body was chiseled, ludicrously so. Muscles bulged from his every nook and cranny, massive yet flexile, never quite so large as to impede his movement. There wasn’t a scrap, a hint, of fat anywhere on him.
His near naked form was bare entirely, aside from a single marking upon his chest. The traditional sigil of War. A pair of crossed blades over an amphora of wine. His physique rippled like a nest of snakes as he scowled and approached the church.
It, like the plain, had seen better days. It had once been a noble thing, full of pomp and purpose. A proud emblem of the ties between Cell Patrusc and Cell Syn, between the Inquisition and the Bastards. It had stood as a symbol of the alliance against the ever-encroaching Stain.
Now the only thing it represented was disrepair.
Its once tall towers crumbled and sagged. Its strong stone walls were littered with gaping holes, through which the wind whistled hauntingly in the night. Its vast, stained glass windows, once gleaming with the light of the midday sun, were now so covered in dust and dirt that naught could be seen through them at all.
It was, in inelegant terms, a shithole. And Elias wanted nothing to do with it.
He detested the place. He hated meeting here. He wanted nothing more than to be home, in his manse, a woman or two, or ten, warming his side. He wanted nothing more than to be out prowling the battlefield, fighting the ceaseless waves of spawn, feeling their hardened flesh crumple like paper beneath his palms. Most of all, he hated being told what to do. Told where to go. Told to wait.
Like a fucking dog.
But Father had called him, so, like a good little dog, he’d come. His steps echoed hollowly off the porous marble walls as he entered the building’s nave, and regarded its other two occupants.
The first one made him sick just to look at.
It was a pale man, but tall, very tall. Tall and crouching, slouching in a way that made him seem like a vulture clad in human flesh. He was so skinny that his cheek and collar bones protruded almost concerningly, as if they were moments away from popping right out of the man’s skin.
He was perfectly dressed, four-piece suit of grey and white immaculately pressed and laundered. On his left lapel was his sigil, a pair of weighing scales. His charcoal hair was cut short and straight, and a well-trimmed goatee rested consummately upon his chin. He regarded Elias with a sneer, and Elias observed him in reply.
~~~
Null, of the Fallow Fields
~~~
Null, otherwise known as Famine, second Horseman of Syn, spoke.
“Late again, little brother? Are you truly so dead set on disrespecting us? Are you so eager to incur Father’s wrath? I wonder, what whore kept you this time?” Null’s thin, reedy voice needled Elias, never failing to infuriate him. Sneering right back, Elias replied.
“You’re right, brother. You’re right–I’m late.” Elias poked a finger in Null’s direction. “I’m late, and you’re weak.” He began stalking slowly towards his brother. “But come tomorrow, I’ll no longer be late, and you’ll still be weak. You’ll still be pathetic.”
He was close to Null now, standing less than a foot away from him, staring up at his older brother. A mad grin started to creep across his face.
“Unless, of course, you’d like to prove me wrong? Go ahead, Nikos. Do it. Use your Interdiction. See if it still works on me.” Elias leaned right up to his brother, staring him in the eye eagerly, so enjoying the way his visage purpled in rage.
“Come on,” he whispered, “you know you want to. It’ll be just like the old days, except this time, I’ll be the one–”
“That’s enough,” the church’s third occupant spoke for the first time, their voice a rasping metallic hiss, and both brothers turned to observe them.
~~~
Plaguebringer Nergal
~~~
The first horseman, Plague, was the oldest of the three. They’d been around since back when Father was still War. Elias didn’t know if they were a man or a woman. Sometimes, he wondered if Plague was human at all. The horseman's entire body was concealed at all times, sealed away within oily black runic armor. The metal was so dark it seemed to swallow life itself, bulky and large, meant for defense, not agility. Emblazoned upon its center was the horseman’s sigil, a bow and an arrow dripping with purple ichor.
Even Plague’s face was concealed, head covered in an onyx helm shaped like a mechanical gas mask. Every now and again, air would whistle from the cylindrical filters, producing a robotic wheeze. Its periodicity was irregular, though, too irregular to represent breaths. At first glance, one might think it existed to defend the wearer, but Elias knew better.
The armor was meant to protect those outside it.
“This squabble is unbecoming. Lord Syn approaches.”
At Plague’s words, the two other horsemen separated, Famine readjusting his suit and schooling his expression. Elias shrugged and stomped away to a nearby pew, but even he stood a mite straighter.
Then, through a hole in the side of the church, the Head of Cell Syn strode.
His Horsemen knelt as one.
~~~
Vaultkeeper Ozymandias
~~~
Elias’s father was a mighty man.
Tall as Famine, and broad as War. Handsome and fierce, great reddish locks flowing atop his head, thick beard covering his face. Strong, stout chin and chiseled jaw. A God-King given flesh.
He was bedecked in golden armor that moved fluidly, almost like liquid metal, and an eight-pointed crown of the same make. It was interwoven in veins of ruby red liquid, almost as if the plate bore blood as well.
Mighty, indeed. The only way to describe him.
Ozymandias was an Immortal. But that didn’t make him mighty. Elias was Immortal too. Each of the Horsemen were. Ozymandias was ancient, over two centuries old. But that didn’t make him mighty, either. There were Blessed elder than him, Valour, for example. Gregor the Undying, as well. Ozymandias presided over the single most powerful fighting force in all the west, but even that wasn’t why he was mighty.
Ozymandias was mighty because he could slay Immortals.
Killing Immortal Blessed was not an easy task. Elias had only managed it once. Every Immortal had some way to regenerate themselves as long as their core wasn’t destroyed. The strongest even had ways around that. You had to hit them hard and fast, obliterating everything in a single stroke. For most, it was a fantasy.
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For Ozymandias, it was as easy as drawing breath.
He’d slain scores of them, more than any other Blessed in existence. It was the reason why he led the Horsemen, why he ruled over Syn. It was the reason their Cell could get away with almost anything. It was why, even more than Valour, Blessed feared him.
Elias’s father grinned broadly, eyeing each of them individually, as he stood behind the wooden pew at the church’s altar. His smile wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t the beam of a proud parent, grateful to see his children once more, after years spent apart. It wasn’t even that of an old friend, full of nostalgia and compassion.
No, his smile was cruel. Grand. Arrogant. It was the smile a master gave his slaves. The smile a farmer gave his livestock. The smile a soldier gave his favorite sword.
It was a smile of domination. Of authority. It was the smile of a man who knew he owned you, who knew he owned the world.
“My Horsemen,” he said, “I appreciate your presence, here, today.”
Ozymandias’s words were meaningless, and he knew it well. None of them had been given a choice to come here. He was the King, and they did as he bade.
“My Horsemen,” he said, still grinning sharply, “I come bearing news.”
“My Horsemen,” he continued, “after centuries of patience, after hundreds of years of quiet preparation, I am overjoyed to announce that finally, finally, we can begin! Our! WORK!”
Ozymandias spread his arms wide, palms splayed outwards, theatrically, almost sarcastically, putting on a show. He gestured broadly in all directions, as if expecting applause.
Plague coughed mechanically. Famine clapped politely. Elias just stared. Ozymandias’s smile didn’t falter, though. If anything, it grew yet broader.
“My Horsemen.”
“I have, just this past morning, received news from Nycta. From dear old Arthas, himself. This year’s Agoge has been decided, and Soultaker’s weapon stands ready. Prepare yourselves, for we are to make ready as well.”
He paced back and forth slowly behind the decaying wooden pew as he continued.
“No longer must we hide our true strength, crippling the Frontlines. No longer must we move quietly, tiptoeing around Regis and Patrusc. No, now all the pieces are in place.”
Elias frowned. He hadn’t known they’d been doing that. He certainly hadn’t been hiding his strength on the Frontlines. He hadn’t been crippling anything. He glanced over towards his two comrades, but Plague was just as inscrutable as ever, and if Famine was surprised then he hid it well.
Elias ground his teeth in frustration. He hated being left out of the loop. He hated being condescended to, being treated like an idiot. Ozymandias ignored him, held up a golden palm, and began ticking items off his fingers.
“Through Nycta, we control the slaves,” he explained. “We ourselves control the armies. With War as Marshall, we hold two seats in the council. We have more sway now than ever before. Grenblyd will be cowed to our side. Agni will fall whichever way the wind blows. Uther will hide behind their precious shields.”
The King’s eyes darkened with savage satisfaction.
“And I have it on very good authority that the Faith will be suffering some considerable difficulties in Old Europe in the near future. Soon, Cell Patrusc will be left alone and undefended. That only leaves Regis. And I have plans, too, for the great and mighty Valour.”
Elias shifted slightly, concerned. He lost no love for the other Cells, or for Regis in particular. But Valour was ancient beyond belief, possibly the oldest Blessed in the world. He’d led Regis since the Cells were first founded, and despite his many enemies, he hadn’t been killed yet. Ozymandias, though, seemed undeterred.
“Oh, my Horsemen. After many long years, at last our victory is close at hand. And it all starts with the Summit.”
The Summit. Every ten years, the Cell Heads would gather at a neutral location to hold council, deciding the course of the nation’s future for the next decade. Any and all grievances were brought forth, and new laws were voted upon. Each Cell Head received a vote, and the Marshall of the Frontlines got one as well.
It was the ideal location to strike swiftly at all their enemies at once, but it was an equally dangerous prospect. The most powerful Blessed from every Cell would no doubt be in attendance.
“The Summit is when we make our move. It’s less than five years away, now. Until that point in time, we prepare. You’ll each have a critical role to play in the coming storm. War, you in particular.”
Ozymandias didn’t even glance his way as he commanded Elias.
“You’ll marry Nycta’s girl. She’ll become the new Death, it’s high time we had another since her father retired. Then–”
“Wait, what?” Elias interrupted, infuriated. “Marry? I’ve no desire to marry. And besides, I’ve met this Alyss girl before, she must be more than forty years my junior–”
“You know, Elias, I’d be more inclined to take your opinion under advisement,” Ozymandias spoke over his son’s outcry, “if you yourself were at all inclined to take part in our family’s politics,” he said, disdainfully.
“However, as you seem exclusively and fully invested in your petty war glories and your little whores, I think I’ll reserve the right to make this decision for you.”
He leaned in, and his eyes glimmered dangerously. A thousand golden swords seemed to shimmer for an instant, suspended above his head, pointing towards War.
“And don’t interrupt me, boy.”
Elias gnashed his teeth silently, but looked down, cowed. Ozymandias leaned back, and recapitulated his jovial, nonchalant disposition. He joked as he spoke.
“Besides, son, you’ve no need to be faithful only to her. Just bed her frequently enough to produce an Immortal heir or two, and our future will be secure.”
Ozymandias, King of Kings, produced a satisfied smile as he beheld his court.
“Soon, my Horsemen. It won’t be long, now. Soon all land north of the Stain will be under our control. Then, we will turn our eyes east. A new dawn approaches, and soon all the light touches will be ours to claim.”
He waved his hand at them dismissively.
“Leave, and await my orders.”
Elias left the church quickly, fuming with rage. He needed something to fuck, or something to kill. Preferably both.
Fortunately, he was War, and death was never far from him.
~~~
Crawley Syn, Cell Head of Syn, watched his two children file out through the church’s dilapidated narthex. His smile dimmed.
Plague stood in place, still as a statue, unmoving despite their lord’s command. Crawley sighed, and beckoned his old friend.
Well, old acquaintance, at least. Crawley didn’t really have friends.
“Vasily,” he said.
“Lord Syn,” Plague replied, inclining his head a fraction.
Immensely disrespectful. Coming from anyone else, even his own sons perhaps, Crawley would have executed them on the spot. Coming from Plague, Crawley found it refreshing. Appropriate.
They exchanged no pleasantries. None were necessary. Though not quite friends, they’d known each other for centuries. They were partners in crime.
Crawley gestured vaguely in the direction of his departed sons. “Your assessment?” He asked.
Plague paused for a moment, considering. Crawley waited patiently. His first Horseman never spoke hastily, never lied unless ordered to, and never minced words. He was the only servant upon whom Crawley could absolutely rely.
“Lord Nikos is a coward,” he said, bluntly. “He is intelligent and diligent, but weak-willed, and lacks creativity. He will not progress beyond the Core stage.”
Crawley nodded, agreeing. It was a shame, but ultimately, for the best. Famine’s power would be too threatening if evolved to the Body stage, anyway. He motioned for Plague to continue. The first Horseman obliged.
“Lord Elias is unstable,” he said, frankly. “He displays significant sadistic, masochistic, and hedonistic tendencies over which he demonstrates little to no control.”
Crawley nodded, once more. It was no surprise. In fact, it was exactly the outcome he’d hoped for. It had been his intention from the beginning.
Crawley wasn’t interested in raising a king. He was already king, and he didn’t intend on dying, ever. What he was interested in, was creating tools he could control. Just like his great-grandfather had. The progenitor of their Cell.
The original Bastard Son.
“He will require constant observation and oversight. However, it is my opinion that he will serve as a quite formidable weapon. He is smart enough, perhaps even wise at times, but never cunning. I do not believe he will be difficult to manipulate.”
“And surpassing the Body stage? Surviving the fifth floor? Will he be capable of it?” Crawley pressed.
For the first time, Plague shrugged. “Who can say? Certainly, he eclipses the alternatives.”
“Hmm, hmm,” Crawley hummed in response, tapping his gauntleted fingers lightly upon the desiccated church pews. “And the failsafe?” He asked.
Plague’s visor hissed menacingly. A single, oily black palm opened, metal retracting to reveal a churning purple mass beneath. From it, a glowing black bead sprouted like a noxious seed.
“If I may be so bold,” the first Horseman rasped, “it is my finest work yet.”
The microscopic sphere twitched and throbbed disturbingly in the evening’s rosy glow.
“I call it Kutha’s Curse. My magnum opus. The product of nearly one century’s efforts. Tracks location regardless of distance or most dimensional disruption effects. Entirely undetectable to those without a Thinker 19 rating in anatomy, diagnostics, or medicine. Upon activation, death via Core dissolution is instant to those with a Brute rating below, again, 19.”
“And Elias?”
Plague shrugged, once more.
“Due to his nature, it will only work effectively one time, but it should provide an opening.”
An opening was all Crawley needed. He grinned, patting his loyal Horseman on the back with a resounding clang.
“Well done, my friend. Well done, indeed. Already implanted, I assume?”
“I took the liberty of applying it prior to your very arrival, my Lord. Only 18 curses remain, so I suggest you pick your targets with prudence. No doubt its utility will fall after the first death.”
Crawley’s grin broadened. He couldn’t resist making the jab, just once.
“Not Gregor, I assume?”
In a rare display of emotion, Plague’s back straightened. His mask ventilated furiously for a moment, and his violet flesh squirmed. Crawley laughed.
Stiffly, his Horseman replied, “I do not believe it will be efficacious against the Undying, no.”
“Oh, lighten up, old friend,” Crawley said, chuckling. “You’ll have your revenge on Haven’s king soon enough. And besides, if Elias doesn’t pan out, we always have the Nycta girl.”
Plague’s armor retracted, consuming the seed once more, and his posture relaxed.
“Quite, my Lord.”