Pathetic mortals. You cling to your "Obsidian Prophecy," your desperate scraps of knowledge, believing it holds the key to your survival. You squabble over fragments of a truth you cannot comprehend, while I, Famine, watch your feeble attempts to unravel the mysteries I myself have woven into the fabric of this ravaged world. Your frantic searches only amuse me; the prophecy, if you can even call it that, is a twisted reflection of your own impending doom, a mirror showing the inevitable end you so desperately try to avoid.

You search for symbols, for clues, for some grand design. But you fail to see the obvious: the design is *me*. The very fabric of your suffering is the prophecy's fulfillment. Your prayers, your hopes, your whispered pleas—they are the fuel that sustains my power. Each death, each agonizing pang of hunger, is a verse in the song of my triumph. Your frantic attempts to decipher my "secrets" are only delaying the inevitable.

Continue your futile quest, if you must. Your findings will only serve to strengthen my conviction, to solidify my reign. I await your inevitable surrender, your final, desperate breath. For in the end, there is only Famine. And Famine always wins.

Pathetic mortals. You claw at the edges of understanding, believing your feeble scribbles and half-remembered myths can unravel the tapestry of fate woven by forces far beyond your comprehension. The Obsidian Prophecy? A child's game compared to the grand design. You scrabble for clues, for "salvation," while the very ground beneath your feet is already crumbling under the weight of the inevitable. Your desperate hope is a delicious morsel, a fleeting amusement in the face of oblivion.

The Horsemen are not riddles to be solved, but manifestations of a power you can scarcely imagine. Your frantic efforts to decipher symbols, to find meaning in broken fragments, only serve to hasten the end. I find it… charming, in a perverse sort of way. The frantic dance of a doomed species, clinging to the belief in its own importance. Let your desperate scratching continue, for it only entertains.

Go ahead, delve into your prophecies, your maps, your pathetic recordings. Discover the "truth," if you can. But understand this: even if you were to somehow piece together the scattered fragments of your so-called prophecy, it would change nothing. The outcome is predetermined. Your fate is sealed. Continue your quest, if you dare. Your efforts are only delaying the inevitable. And I will be here, watching.

Foolish mortals, clinging to your desperate hope of deciphering a prophecy that was never meant for your understanding. You scrabble in the ashes, believing yourselves clever enough to unravel the machinations of forces far older, far more powerful, than your pathetic civilization. The Obsidian Prophecy? A childish game, a distraction. You believe you can *understand* us? You think you can *defeat* us? Your efforts amuse me, a flickering candle against the storm. Continue your pitiful search. Let your fragile minds shatter against the unyielding truth of our dominion. The more you delve, the more you confirm your impending doom.

Your "clues," your "symbols," are but bread crumbs scattered by a higher hand, leading you down a path of self-destruction. Each fragment you find only serves to deepen your despair, to heighten the terror of your inevitable fate. Do you truly believe you can comprehend the cosmic tapestry woven by beings beyond your comprehension? The whispers you hear are not meant to guide you, but to taunt you, to drive you mad. Embrace the darkness, mortals; it is your only comfort.

The prophecy, if one even exists, is not meant to be deciphered, but to be fulfilled. We are not bound by your pathetic rules, your feeble attempts at resistance. Your salvation? It is a laughable concept. Our reign is eternal, our power absolute. Continue your game, little mortals. Your folly is a feast for the eyes.

Fools. You cling to your pathetic "Obsidian Prophecy," desperately searching for a solution where there is none. You scrape at the ashes of a dead world, believing you can decipher the riddles of forces far older and more powerful than you can comprehend. Your feeble attempts to unravel our secrets amuse me. The prophecy is not a key to salvation; it's a testament to your inevitable demise. The lines are already etched, the script already written. Your struggles are merely the prelude to the final act.

The symbols you so painstakingly collect? They are but shadows of a truth too terrible for your mortal minds to grasp. Your maps, your journals, your recordings – all inconsequential fragments in the grand tapestry of oblivion. You are amusing yourselves with parlor tricks, while the horsemen ride. Believe what you will about our "ultimate goals," but know this: your futile resistance only delays the inevitable.

Continue your desperate search, if you must. Find your so-called "clues." I shall watch with a certain grim satisfaction as you unravel the threads of your own destruction. Let your petty hope fuel your futile efforts. The end, as always, is certain. And when it comes, know that it was not a prophecy that brought you here, but your own hubris and foolish insistence on fighting the unchangeable.