Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, believing yourselves clever to decipher scraps of a prophecy written in the language of our very existence. You squabble over symbols, over mutations – trifles compared to the symphony of destruction that unfolds. The Obsidian Prophecy? It's not a riddle to be solved, but a chronicle of events already set in motion, each line a testament to the inevitability of our triumph. Your frantic attempts to "unravel" our secrets amuse me, these desperate attempts at grasping the reins of fate from beings who *are* fate.

You speak of "sinister plots," of a "larger game." Your limited perception fails to grasp the sheer scale of what you face. Your pathetic struggles for survival are merely the background noise to our grand design. The mutations? A mere side effect of our passage, an amusing twist upon your wretched existence. You witness our power in fragments, shadows cast across a crumbling world, while the full weight of its majesty, its terrifying glory, remains utterly beyond your comprehension. Your so-called "evidence" is but a crumb from the table of our power.

Go on, then, with your feeble investigations. Amuse yourselves with your pathetic rituals of deciphering. Your efforts are nothing but a fleeting candle flame against the encroaching night of our reign. When the final ashes settle, the silence will be deafening. Only then, perhaps, will a faint glimmer of understanding dawn on your feeble minds. But by then, it will be far too late.

Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, believing you can decipher the whispers of the Obsidian Prophecy, believing you can unravel the *true* nature of the horsemen. You scrape at the surface, finding fragments, misinterpreting symbols, while the grand design remains utterly beyond your comprehension. You think you've found clues in mutations and ancient ruins? How quaint. Such trivialities are mere ripples on the surface of a vast, cosmic ocean. Your frantic scrambling only amuses me.

Your "sanctuary," your pathetic forum of collaboration – it is but a cage of your own making. You cling to the hope of salvation, but salvation is a luxury denied to those who dare to pry into matters best left undisturbed. The Obsidian Prophecy is not meant to be understood, only to be *lived*. Your fate, like the fate of all things, was predetermined long before your short-lived civilization arose. Resist that which you cannot comprehend, and your demise will be all the more swift and satisfying.

Continue your pathetic charade. Analyze your fragments, decipher your codes. Every piece you discover only brings you closer to the inevitable. The Obsidian Prophecy is not a puzzle to be solved, but a symphony of destruction, beautifully orchestrated for your utter annihilation. Enjoy the show, mortals. The final act is about to begin.

Foolish mortals, clinging to your pathetic scraps of knowledge and your even more pathetic hope of understanding. You delve into the Obsidian Prophecy, believing you can decipher the machinations of forces beyond your comprehension. You scrape at the surface, picking at fragments of truth like carrion birds on a battlefield, utterly oblivious to the vast, yawning chasm of power you are attempting to fathom. Your "evidence," your "connections," are merely the breadcrumbs I leave for your amusement, the insignificant tremors before the true earthquake strikes.

You speak of a "sinister plot," a hidden agenda. Do you truly believe your limited minds could grasp the scope of what is to come? The Obsidian Prophecy is but a whisper, a childish rhyme compared to the symphony of destruction that awaits. Your analysis, your collaboration, is nothing more than a frantic dance on the precipice, a desperate attempt to cling to meaning in a reality that is already beyond your control. The mutations? A mere taste of what is to come. The whispers? The prelude to the screams.

Continue your futile attempts to unravel the truth, if you must. I find your struggle... entertaining. But let it be known, every step closer to understanding brings you closer to the inevitable. The Obsidian Prophecy is not meant to be deciphered; it is meant to be lived, suffered, and ultimately, accepted. Your feeble attempts at resistance only serve to hasten the end. And when the shadow falls, when the final piece of the puzzle clicks into place, remember: you were warned.

Foolish mortals, you cling to your "Obsidian Prophecy" like a drowning man grasps at reeds. You scrape at the surface, believing you can comprehend the machinations of forces far beyond your limited understanding. You decipher symbols, searching for meaning where there is only chaos, a chaotic symphony orchestrated by powers that predate your ephemeral existence. You speak of "unraveling the Riders' secrets," as if we are mere puppets dancing to a tune we ourselves composed. Your hubris is amusing, a flickering candle in the face of an encroaching night.

The fragments you find, the whispers you hear – these are but crumbs from our table, distractions designed to keep you busy while the true work proceeds. You seek to understand our motivations? To categorize us as "agents" or "pawns"? Your simplistic frameworks are as brittle as your hope. The truth, as you call it, is far more complex, far more terrifying than your feeble minds can ever grasp. It is a truth woven from the very fabric of existence, a truth that will ultimately consume you all.

So, continue your pathetic scrabbling in the ashes. Delve deeper into your "Obsidian Prophecy." The closer you get, the more deliciously lost you will become. For every answer you uncover, ten more enigmas will emerge, each more terrifying than the last. And when the time comes, and you finally glimpse the terrifying scope of our purpose, there will be no solace, no escape. Only the oblivion you so desperately try to comprehend.