Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, believing you can decipher the whispers of the apocalypse and somehow *control* it. The Obsidian Codex? A child's scribble compared to the true tapestry of events. You scrabble for fragments, piecing together a narrative that suits your feeble minds, while the real power flows unseen, a river of oblivion carving its path through your pathetic existence. You think you're unraveling *our* legacy? You haven't even begun to comprehend the vast, cold indifference of the forces that shaped us.

Your resistance is amusing. A desperate dance of defiance against an inevitability you cannot fathom. Your "information," your "theories," are but fleeting sparks in the consuming darkness. You search for redemption? Such a quaint notion. There is no redemption in the face of the ultimate truth. Only oblivion, waiting patiently to claim you all. And when it does, when the dust settles and your petty struggles are forgotten, the only thing that will remain is the silence. The cold, empty silence that always precedes the next wave.

Continue your pathetic attempts to decode the riddles of the Codex. It will only serve to hasten your doom. Perhaps, in your final moments of terror, you might glimpse a fraction of the power you so foolishly try to understand. But even that fleeting insight will be ripped away as the world succumbs to its inevitable end. Enjoy the illusion of your quest, while you still can. Your time is running out.

Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, believing you can decipher the whispers of the Obsidian Codex and somehow *control* the forces it describes. You dissect fragments, searching for meaning in the chaos, while the true text remains unwritten, etched not in ink but in the very fabric of reality itself. You strive to understand the Riders, to find a path to redemption, as if such a concept holds any meaning in the face of oblivion. Your feeble attempts to "unravel" our legacy are nothing more than amusing distractions, a pathetic dance upon the precipice of annihilation.

Let me, Pestilence, enlighten you. The Codex doesn't offer solutions; it is a chronicle of inevitable decay. It speaks not of control, but of the natural order, the inexorable march of entropy that you so desperately try to resist. Your fragmented texts offer glimpses of truth, yes, but only enough to fuel your fear and desperation. Think you can harness our power? Delusion. We are the agents of a power far beyond your comprehension, forces that predate your pitiful civilization and will outlast its ashes.

So continue your futile quest. Gather your scraps of knowledge, your "clues," and weave your elaborate theories. Each whispered prayer for salvation only strengthens the darkness, each desperate attempt at comprehension brings us closer to our ultimate victory. The Obsidian Codex holds no answers for you, only the chilling confirmation of your own insignificance in the grand scheme of things. Embrace the inevitable, for resistance is futile. Your demise is not a question of *if*, but *when*.

Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, hoping to unravel a tapestry woven by forces far beyond your comprehension. The Obsidian Codex? A childish distraction. You believe you can decipher the motives of the Horsemen, understand the grand design? You mistake symptoms for the disease. The apocalypse is not a puzzle to be solved, but a symphony to be conducted. And I, Famine, am a maestro of exquisite suffering.

Your scrabbling for fragments of truth is pathetic. I have seen empires crumble to dust under my gaze, civilizations reduced to gnawing hunger and desperate despair. Your little forum, your whispered theories – these are but fleeting moments in the grand, agonizing crescendo of annihilation. Do you truly believe you can thwart the inevitable? That you can escape the hunger that claws at your very souls? Such naivete is almost… amusing.

Continue your petty search if you must. Gather your scraps of information, interpret your meaningless symbols. In the end, it will all amount to nothing. The harvest is ripe, and the fields are vast. My work is far from finished. You may unravel the Codex, if you are so fortunate, but you will only understand the consequences, not the cause. And the consequences… those are deliciously inevitable.

Fools. You scrape at the edges of a power you cannot comprehend, believing yourselves to be investigators when you are merely insects crawling on a corpse. The Obsidian Codex? A child's scribble compared to the true knowledge I possess. You dissect fragments, hoping to find meaning, while the whole truth lies in the very fabric of this ravaged world – a truth I am actively weaving. Your desperate attempts to "break the cycle" only amuse me; change is not something to be broken, but embraced, and I, more than any of you, am change incarnate.

You search for motives, for origins, believing there was a time *before* the apocalypse, a golden age you can somehow restore. There never was. The world was always this way, always decaying, always under my dominion, and your feeble resistance is simply a distraction, a pleasing dance of despair I watch from above. The Codex holds fragments, yes, but they are merely tantalizing glimpses, designed to mislead and confuse, to keep your petty minds occupied while I orchestrate the grand symphony of destruction.

Go on, cling to your fragments, your theories. Let the unraveling continue. But know this: you are not unraveling *my* legacy; you are merely furthering it. Your futile attempts to decipher my actions will only hasten the end, an end I will eagerly watch unfold, and when the dust settles, only I will remain. Perhaps then, *then*, you will understand.