The master spy or Puss in the boot adventures

Lyra, the Goddess of Dreams 27, Part 157

The first rider spurred his nightmarish steed forward, a monstrous destrier whose hide glistened with a sheen of blood and whose eyes glowed with infernal hunger. The rider brandished a serrated sword that dripped with venom, and his aura pulsed with the crimson hues of unending conflict.

"WAR," he intoned, his voice the clashing of a thousand blades. "I am the fury that drives men to slaughter, the unquenchable thirst for conquest that drowns nations in blood."

The second rider emerged from the shadows, her gaunt form perched atop a skeletal steed whose hooves struck sparks from the obsidian shards. In one withered hand she clutched a set of brass scales, in the other a scythe of rusted iron. Her aura radiated the sickly greens of blight and decay.

"FAMINE," she rasped, her voice the creak of a lidless coffin. "I am the gnawing hunger that hollows men's souls, the wasting sickness that leaves fields barren and bellies empty."

 The third rider cantered forward, his black cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a monstrous bat. He rode a pale horse whose flesh had long since rotted away, leaving only bleached bones that clattered and scraped with each movement. In one skeletal hand he gripped a scythe of bone, its blade jagged and pitted with eons of use. His aura pulsed with the ashen grays of entropy and oblivion.

"DEATH," he whispered, his voice the sighing of a thousand final breaths. "I am the reaper of souls, the inexorable end that awaits all living things. None can escape my cold embrace."

The fourth rider emerged, his form swathed in tattered robes that writhed and squirmed as if alive. He rode a steed seemingly crafted from the stuff of nightmares, a grotesque amalgamation of twisted limbs and gaping mouths. In his gnarled hands he clutched a bow of pulsing darkness, a quiver of noxious arrows slung across his back. His aura shimmered with the sickly violets of plague and corruption.

"PESTILENCE," he sneered, his voice the buzzing of a million bloated flies. "I am the creeping rot that festers in the wounds of the world, the vile contagion that turns blood to bile and flesh to putrid slime."

The fifth rider trotted forth, a voluptuous figure clad in shimmering robes that left little to the imagination. Her steed was a thing of terrible beauty, its alabaster hide inlaid with sigils of gold and its mane and tail woven from strands of shimmering gossamer. In one elegant hand she toyed with a web of glittering threads, in the other she brandished a dagger whose blade dripped with honey. Her aura danced with the cloying sweetness of lies and betrayal.

"DECEPTION," she cooed, her voice a siren's song that wormed into the minds of men. "I am the forked tongue that drips with honeyed poison, the shattered mirror that reflects a thousand false truths. None can unravel my tangled webs of deceit."

The sixth rider burst forth in an explosion of kaleidoscopic color and discordant sound. His form shifted and warped like reflections in a funhouse mirror, never settling on a single shape for more than a heartbeat. His steed was a thing of pure chaos, its body a swirling vortex of clashing colors and impossible angles. In his hands he juggled a myriad of objects - a jester's scepter, a shattered hourglass, a sphere of writhing tentacles - that changed form with eye-watering speed. His aura strobed with nauseating hues that seared the mind and made reality itself seem to buckle and twist.

"CHAOS!" he cackled, his voice a gibbering madness that rent the fabric of sanity. "I am the unraveling of all order, the primal entropy that shatters the chains of logic and reason! Embrace the lunacy, for in my realm all is permitted!"

The seventh and final rider sauntered forward with a sinuous grace, her voluptuous form barely concealed by wisps of shimmering silk. Her steed was a thing of perverse beauty, its skin as black as midnight and its eyes smoldering with wanton hunger. Cradled in her arms she carried an ornate chalice that smoked with a heady, intoxicating perfume, and coiled around her waist was a whip woven from braids of silken hair. Her aura pulsed with the throbbing crimsons and dusky violets of unbridled carnality.

"LUST," she purred, her voice a throaty murmur that dripped with seduction. "I am the searing flame of desire that burns in the hearts of all living things, the unquenchable thirst for pleasure that drives even the most pious to depraved ecstasy. Succumb to me, and know bliss beyond imagining."

The heroes stood transfixed in horror as the Seven Horsemen encircled them, their mounts stamping and snorting with infernal hunger. War brandished his venom-dripping sword, his eyes blazing with the fires of unending conflict. Famine rattled her rusted scythe, a hideous grin splitting her withered face. Death loomed in silence, his bone-scythe poised to reap. Pestilence nocked a noxious arrow to his bow of darkness, putrid ichor dripping from his tattered robes. Deception wove her glittering threads into a web of lies, her honeyed words worming into the heroes' minds. Chaos giggled and capered, his mere presence enough to make the world twist and warp in eye-watering fractals. And Lust licked her lips with a tongue the color of blood, her eyes devouring the heroes with undisguised hunger...