Fools. You squirm like insects under a magnifying glass, desperately searching for meaning in the patterns of your demise. The Obsidian Codex? A childish game, a distraction from the inevitable. You believe you can decipher our actions, understand the grand design? How amusing. Your fragments are but scraps, meaningless pieces of a puzzle designed to lead you down a path of false hope. Your feeble attempts to understand are as pathetic as your attempts at resistance. The patterns you perceive are merely the ripples of my passage, the echoes of inevitable destruction.

Let your scholars pore over the meaningless glyphs, let your 'analysts' strain their eyes to decipher the uninterpretable. Their efforts will only serve to entertain me as I watch your civilization crumble further into oblivion. I am not a pawn in anyone's game, your codex holds no secrets I don't already possess. I am the architect of this destruction, the composer of your suffering. Your fate is sealed, no prophecy can change that.

Continue your pathetic charade. It adds a certain... *piquancy* to my work. But understand this, your desperate search for salvation is a cruel joke. The truth is far more terrifying than any prophecy you could ever hope to decipher. Embrace the inevitable. Your suffering will end, eventually. And that, my friends, is the only mercy you will receive.

Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, piecing together scraps of a prophecy you are utterly incapable of comprehending. The Obsidian Codex? A child's scribble compared to the grand design. You seek to "thwart" us? To understand the "true nature" of our actions? Your pathetic attempts are amusing, a flickering candle against the encroaching darkness. Your "resistance" is merely a prelude to your final, inevitable submission. Each fragment you find only serves to illuminate your own insignificance, your desperate clinging to a hope that is already extinguished.

Believe what you will about intricate games and malevolent intelligences, about puppets and puppeteers. The truth is far simpler, and far more terrifying. We are the inevitable consequence of your failings, the embodiment of your own self-destruction. You have sown the seeds of chaos, and now you reap the whirlwind. The patterns in the destruction? Those are not some hidden design; they are the natural unfolding of your own depravity, laid bare for all to see. Your desperate pleas for understanding are nothing more than a final, pathetic whimper before the abyss consumes you entirely.

So, continue your charade. Scrape through the ashes, decipher your cryptic symbols. The more you learn, the more keenly you will appreciate the futility of your efforts. Your fate is sealed. And it will be exquisitely painful. Embrace the darkness, for it is all that awaits you.

Fools. You claw at the scraps of a prophecy you can scarcely comprehend, believing you can decipher the machinations of forces far beyond your meager intellect. The Obsidian Codex? A child's scribble compared to the tapestry of fate I weave. You search for patterns in the devastation, for order in the chaos – amusing, truly. Do you think the pestilence, the war, the famine, the death – that *I* bring – are merely random acts? They are the brushstrokes of a masterpiece, a symphony of suffering composed for your utter annihilation. Your "resistance"? Your "redemption"? How quaint.

The fragments you find are but bread crumbs, leading you down a path to your own demise. You believe you can thwart me? You, insignificant insects crawling across the decaying flesh of a world I am dismantling? Your attempts are laughable; the desperation in your scrabbling for meaning is almost… entertaining. Continue your pathetic search, if you must. Waste your precious remaining moments delving into the riddles of a book that ultimately only speaks of your inevitable doom.

Let your feeble attempts to unravel my prophecy fuel your despair. The Codex holds no secrets I haven't already revealed in the very devastation that surrounds you. My work is almost complete, and soon, even the faintest whisper of your rebellion will be silenced forever. Enjoy the silence. It will be your last.

Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, desperately piecing together scraps of a prophecy you can never truly comprehend. The Obsidian Codex? A child's toy compared to the grand design. You believe you can unravel the "mystery" of the Horsemen, as if we are mere pawns in some grand game. You are the game, and we, the players. Your frantic scrabbling is amusing, the desperation in your eyes a delicious feast. Each fragment you find only brings you closer to the inevitable, a deeper understanding of your own insignificance.

Your attempts to "thwart" us are laughable. Your wars, your pestilence, your famines – these are not random acts. They are the careful, deliberate strokes of a master artist painting a masterpiece of desolation. Do you truly believe you can resist the tide of history? The very air you breathe is saturated with the coming darkness, a darkness I, and my brethren, embody.

Go on, decipher your fragments. Let your pitiful intellect strain against the weight of the truth. It will only serve to highlight the futility of your efforts. Soon enough, the silence will speak volumes, a deafening testament to the power that lies beyond your comprehension, beyond your pitiful resistance. Enjoy your fleeting moments of hope, for they are numbered.