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Description
Long time no see...
An alternate time-line ...
Preparations for the end ...
Knights of no cause but their own...
A kingdom in ruins ...
Longing for destruction ...
Lost in the misconception of a year lapsed ...
Ultimately passing the mantle ...

Long time no see...
After proper treatment to long-time upbeat teenage characters in casual attire, looking on to the stories of a past left untold, this here takes a peek in a possible future, one out of many, but which becomes just clearer when covered in darkness, recognizable silhouettes whose detail shines better in the dusk. Meet the Four Riders of the Apocalypse. If the words failed John, making he look like a sycophant pretending to be mad, if he was to warn populations in misery, and had his words betray those to pave the path for them succumbing in ignorance and mysticism, while their supposed enemies, learning such corrosive ways, edificed a church upon the generalized despair and fear of millennium. A rationalized demency, an irrational machination, and we fed memes for over two thousand years. Henceforth, let the picture speak.

The White Rider, or Conquest - maybe mistakenly associated to Pestilence, one trait he'd certainly use in his cavalgade in the Near East.
Other epithets includes Aplu Enlil "Son of Enlil" (Nergal), Dajjal (Deggial, Quran's "antichrist" - given proper differences in description, of course), Nerus Secundus (the second coming of Nero - popularized by fearful followers of the decaying crucified corpse), and out from the northern hemisphere abode (where he used to dwell - in Cennet and Cehennem Caves), known as Punga (god of monstrosities) and Chicopaec.
Crowned in Orichalcum, his right hand is a crab claw, he embodies the monsters of the deep, the predatorial fish who live in loneliness, whose only relation is preying upon anything else. He carries the Apollo's Bow he declared to possess in the past, until it was taken by a local tyrant made international power by a miracle. Maybe one of his first deeds was to take what was his once more, and made sure he defeated the Yellow Knight. For only then could he use the flames of the sun god, the blowing winds, to throw disease and hazard on human popuation, one he could no longer afford to give birth. Birth was the enemy of a pleasant life. Life blooms without requiring a purpose, usually giving it a purpose is what made it numerous, incapacitated and truncated, kneeled at it's own creations, brought forth as worshippers of their self-induced disease. One pleasant life he also denied, for he crush the shipments, intimidates the market, make impossible the trade, taking doubt and fear into the heart of the traveller. Aware time went away, he stopped the sea-faring trade, commerce, the transitions, as people relied as far as their horizon could go, but still dreaming was severe. He denied the empires. But he favored the lone travellers, the nomads. He meant the demons and hordes to force mass migrations, to usher transformation, for he was to make sure no land lot was owned by anyone.

The Fiery Red Rider, or War - Bloodthirsty Violence, Mass Destruction. His sword reads "Holy War", his life and existance has been all about the death of others, the destruction of others, and justification for either side, ennervating those dear to the dead, glorifying those dear to the still living. For no fatal blow happenned solely by killing public key figures - the mass is relevant as is - workforce - and all work, all life in servitude in this world, has been at a war. Without pain, life's not worth living. As so, carrying the sword forged by the darkened sun god the White Wolf, Dazbog, lame shepherd of the south, bright champion of the north. Svarožič, when trapped in the underworld, after his learning experience beside the abode realm of Yav, under Veles, value humans as the choice or reason they aligned with. The Wild Hunt follows and obey him, the first rider opened the path for the war that ensues, for whatever reason - religion, politics, or no reason at all. His blade is sharp, yet not blind. The deeds of the first seal broke the monotheistic lie, showing the most diverging sects on the speech that "all is one", showing the crude pagan heathenry in every ritual of life, turning the fires of the torch, of the hearth, upon those who've cursed it before. Witchcraft and every sect has been springing from the very same source as religion - fear of the unknown, and despair. Despair caused by hunger. Despair caused by birth. Despair caused by Nature. Now, not even ninety percent of the newborn will reach adult age. We're animals, and suffer like them. This is the unescapable truth, if reason alone didn't make it clear, there was no other way but the sword. If all reason is word, reason is sword.

The Black Rider, or Famine - the crude face of Nature, as hazardous unequality, but as well as the sought after Justice, he's the Legislator who takes, because nothing is given. No life's worth of anything, yet the morale succumbs and reason remains, the mereological void is the end to the lazy - here the law is not written, not codified, not spoken, thus unknown - the sole truth remains in the individuum. Succeeding where the second leaves, the war strikes, the hunger comes, no birth has room, for when all lives have been lived in luxury and vanity, the price didn't increase - it's revealed - the true price comes in mind finally, the suffering comes equally to all. Equally unbearable, pushing to limits the whims of surviving, which were intensified after the second seal. A pupil of Veles' kin, he brings not the dead to the world of living, but those who've been stuck between - made of vital liquid, using husks of rocks and trees, aware of the kin cursed with sentience, the conscious, fully aware of their choice, the Leshy knows of it all which itself is a social consequence. Either a blessing or a curse, this fallen god, Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli "Lord of the Morning Star", the "King in the North", holds the balance of Duat, and weighing the heart and the plume, no shallow word may be given to the sacrifices suffered and caused by the victims, then anonymous, now personal and individualized in every killing. Dragging it from Osiris' seclusion in Aaru to roam the world, he freed the Quinames of old and restarted the Age of Titans. Itztlacoliuhqui-Ixmilli, curved Obsidian blade, the God of Frost, who destroy the crops, yet let the weeds grow in the wild. Who've stopped the over-population of humans, and let the beasts run free. Who've taken the beasts' side, and thus won't let even them to be born. A green god turned grey.

The chlorum color Pale Rider, Death - the Destroyer, as unescapability of fate, time and it's wastefulness, the aging and the disaster, that which we see but never avoid. The certainty. While people cling for oblivion, be preaching for peace (individually or not), be preaching for a disaster (avoiding or embracing it), believing it to be consequences and relations where there are none ("karma" or any principle that tries to give theodicy any credit), death consumes all, and while some lay in morose waiting for the time, the events unsealed three times before make no second option. Hades follow him. The bringer of Hel, the Grim Reaper does the final harvest, an Autumn Harvest, of the Giant Moon. The "Saint Dragon" who was spoken by the last monotheists, has been a king among the gluttons, yet he resorted to those the third rider deemed to him. Hailing from beyond the north, he swipes over half of the civilized world, and finally dismantles the untrue conceptions of western civilization, globalization, and finally, freedom - for it becomes what forces such as theirs mean to be. Freedom and self are true and sound only for one another, thus words fail it. Solitude is the only true freedom. Used to the tundra, it knows even there, life and decay remain in unconquerable balance. But balances are shaken, so it always take those which come to meet it, or it's scythe . The desire of solace finds only death.

In a world scarred, who believed to be safe yet systematicaly engulfing itself, proven unable to avoid a catastrophe, who can stand?
It sounds these are forces of nature, yet they're not at all forgiving. The riders are hard to discern, to tell where the work of one is done and the other follow. As a team itself, all they know is that it begins by conquest and end in death, it comes from the wound (a failed biology - or not failed, if you take it was neither 'engineered' nor 'made', and thus never supposed to last - speaking of which no work can ever last as it was conceived first) and to the despair of not avoiding it, culminate in the very ending they've fought against. The end, or escape from their wheel of death, would be to take death as an old acquaintance - life here and now, no spectres of morals based and rooted in a past that was never lived nor on a future that will never come - for time is an illusion - and then, realizing the multitude and not getting afraid by it - as in a deep-rooted individual approach at every momentum.
we're not living forces - our experiences mean no greater than the life of the sentient - we're equally dust

"until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts"
2 Peter 1:19

Who's the Green Rider, if not one who's marked to bring the fatal end, the truth that the legend must die. The history ceases, the elements (matter) remains. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Words are gone. And in the end, no sorrow. Even relief. There's no more room for life and sentience in the universe, yet those that may come in the last era are the ones destined to live a life like no other - shall we make it a true kingdom come, it has no mistake. No new life may usher, so the last ones live in such a bliss, we can't even fathom it in today's misery.

"Death's vastness holds no peace. I come at the end of the long road. Neither human, nor devil... all bends to my will."

Follow works elsewhere : behance | instagram | facebook

Description
Long time no see...
An alternate time-line ...
Preparations for the end ...
Knights of no cause but their own...
A kingdom in ruins ...
Longing for destruction ...
Lost in the misconception of a year lapsed ...
Ultimately passing the mantle ...

Long time no see...
After proper treatment to long-time upbeat teenage characters in casual attire, looking on to the stories of a past left untold, this here takes a peek in a possible future, one out of many, but which becomes just clearer when covered in darkness, recognizable silhouettes whose detail shines better in the dusk. Meet the Four Riders of the Apocalypse. If the words failed John, making he look like a sycophant pretending to be mad, if he was to warn populations in misery, and had his words betray those to pave the path for them succumbing in ignorance and mysticism, while their supposed enemies, learning such corrosive ways, edificed a church upon the generalized despair and fear of millennium. A rationalized demency, an irrational machination, and we fed memes for over two thousand years. Henceforth, let the picture speak.

The White Rider, or Conquest - maybe mistakenly associated to Pestilence, one trait he'd certainly use in his cavalgade in the Near East.
Other epithets includes Aplu Enlil "Son of Enlil" (Nergal), Dajjal (Deggial, Quran's "antichrist" - given proper differences in description, of course), Nerus Secundus (the second coming of Nero - popularized by fearful followers of the decaying crucified corpse), and out from the northern hemisphere abode (where he used to dwell - in Cennet and Cehennem Caves), known as Punga (god of monstrosities) and Chicopaec.
Crowned in Orichalcum, his right hand is a crab claw, he embodies the monsters of the deep, the predatorial fish who live in loneliness, whose only relation is preying upon anything else. He carries the Apollo's Bow he declared to possess in the past, until it was taken by a local tyrant made international power by a miracle. Maybe one of his first deeds was to take what was his once more, and made sure he defeated the Yellow Knight. For only then could he use the flames of the sun god, the blowing winds, to throw disease and hazard on human popuation, one he could no longer afford to give birth. Birth was the enemy of a pleasant life. Life blooms without requiring a purpose, usually giving it a purpose is what made it numerous, incapacitated and truncated, kneeled at it's own creations, brought forth as worshippers of their self-induced disease. One pleasant life he also denied, for he crush the shipments, intimidates the market, make impossible the trade, taking doubt and fear into the heart of the traveller. Aware time went away, he stopped the sea-faring trade, commerce, the transitions, as people relied as far as their horizon could go, but still dreaming was severe. He denied the empires. But he favored the lone travellers, the nomads. He meant the demons and hordes to force mass migrations, to usher transformation, for he was to make sure no land lot was owned by anyone.

The Fiery Red Rider, or War - Bloodthirsty Violence, Mass Destruction. His sword reads "Holy War", his life and existance has been all about the death of others, the destruction of others, and justification for either side, ennervating those dear to the dead, glorifying those dear to the still living. For no fatal blow happenned solely by killing public key figures - the mass is relevant as is - workforce - and all work, all life in servitude in this world, has been at a war. Without pain, life's not worth living. As so, carrying the sword forged by the darkened sun god the White Wolf, Dazbog, lame shepherd of the south, bright champion of the north. Svarožič, when trapped in the underworld, after his learning experience beside the abode realm of Yav, under Veles, value humans as the choice or reason they aligned with. The Wild Hunt follows and obey him, the first rider opened the path for the war that ensues, for whatever reason - religion, politics, or no reason at all. His blade is sharp, yet not blind. The deeds of the first seal broke the monotheistic lie, showing the most diverging sects on the speech that "all is one", showing the crude pagan heathenry in every ritual of life, turning the fires of the torch, of the hearth, upon those who've cursed it before. Witchcraft and every sect has been springing from the very same source as religion - fear of the unknown, and despair. Despair caused by hunger. Despair caused by birth. Despair caused by Nature. Now, not even ninety percent of the newborn will reach adult age. We're animals, and suffer like them. This is the unescapable truth, if reason alone didn't make it clear, there was no other way but the sword. If all reason is word, reason is sword.

The Black Rider, or Famine - the crude face of Nature, as hazardous unequality, but as well as the sought after Justice, he's the Legislator who takes, because nothing is given. No life's worth of anything, yet the morale succumbs and reason remains, the mereological void is the end to the lazy - here the law is not written, not codified, not spoken, thus unknown - the sole truth remains in the individuum. Succeeding where the second leaves, the war strikes, the hunger comes, no birth has room, for when all lives have been lived in luxury and vanity, the price didn't increase - it's revealed - the true price comes in mind finally, the suffering comes equally to all. Equally unbearable, pushing to limits the whims of surviving, which were intensified after the second seal. A pupil of Veles' kin, he brings not the dead to the world of living, but those who've been stuck between - made of vital liquid, using husks of rocks and trees, aware of the kin cursed with sentience, the conscious, fully aware of their choice, the Leshy knows of it all which itself is a social consequence. Either a blessing or a curse, this fallen god, Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli "Lord of the Morning Star", the "King in the North", holds the balance of Duat, and weighing the heart and the plume, no shallow word may be given to the sacrifices suffered and caused by the victims, then anonymous, now personal and individualized in every killing. Dragging it from Osiris' seclusion in Aaru to roam the world, he freed the Quinames of old and restarted the Age of Titans. Itztlacoliuhqui-Ixmilli, curved Obsidian blade, the God of Frost, who destroy the crops, yet let the weeds grow in the wild. Who've stopped the over-population of humans, and let the beasts run free. Who've taken the beasts' side, and thus won't let even them to be born. A green god turned grey.

The chlorum color Pale Rider, Death - the Destroyer, as unescapability of fate, time and it's wastefulness, the aging and the disaster, that which we see but never avoid. The certainty. While people cling for oblivion, be preaching for peace (individually or not), be preaching for a disaster (avoiding or embracing it), believing it to be consequences and relations where there are none ("karma" or any principle that tries to give theodicy any credit), death consumes all, and while some lay in morose waiting for the time, the events unsealed three times before make no second option. Hades follow him. The bringer of Hel, the Grim Reaper does the final harvest, an Autumn Harvest, of the Giant Moon. The "Saint Dragon" who was spoken by the last monotheists, has been a king among the gluttons, yet he resorted to those the third rider deemed to him. Hailing from beyond the north, he swipes over half of the civilized world, and finally dismantles the untrue conceptions of western civilization, globalization, and finally, freedom - for it becomes what forces such as theirs mean to be. Freedom and self are true and sound only for one another, thus words fail it. Solitude is the only true freedom. Used to the tundra, it knows even there, life and decay remain in unconquerable balance. But balances are shaken, so it always take those which come to meet it, or it's scythe . The desire of solace finds only death.

In a world scarred, who believed to be safe yet systematicaly engulfing itself, proven unable to avoid a catastrophe, who can stand?
It sounds these are forces of nature, yet they're not at all forgiving. The riders are hard to discern, to tell where the work of one is done and the other follow. As a team itself, all they know is that it begins by conquest and end in death, it comes from the wound (a failed biology - or not failed, if you take it was neither 'engineered' nor 'made', and thus never supposed to last - speaking of which no work can ever last as it was conceived first) and to the despair of not avoiding it, culminate in the very ending they've fought against. The end, or escape from their wheel of death, would be to take death as an old acquaintance - life here and now, no spectres of morals based and rooted in a past that was never lived nor on a future that will never come - for time is an illusion - and then, realizing the multitude and not getting afraid by it - as in a deep-rooted individual approach at every momentum.
we're not living forces - our experiences mean no greater than the life of the sentient - we're equally dust

"until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts"
2 Peter 1:19

Who's the Green Rider, if not one who's marked to bring the fatal end, the truth that the legend must die. The history ceases, the elements (matter) remains. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Words are gone. And in the end, no sorrow. Even relief. There's no more room for life and sentience in the universe, yet those that may come in the last era are the ones destined to live a life like no other - shall we make it a true kingdom come, it has no mistake. No new life may usher, so the last ones live in such a bliss, we can't even fathom it in today's misery.

"Death's vastness holds no peace. I come at the end of the long road. Neither human, nor devil... all bends to my will."

Follow works elsewhere : behance | instagram | facebook