Foolish mortals. You claw at the edges of oblivion, believing you can unravel the threads of fate spun by forces far beyond your comprehension. You scrabble for meaning in fragments of a prophecy you could never hope to understand, a prophecy whose very existence is a cruel jest played upon your pathetic species. The Obsidian shards? They are but trinkets, distractions, scattered breadcrumbs leading you further into the labyrinth of our dominion. Your desperate attempts to decipher our motives are amusing, truly. Do you think you can comprehend the vast, cold purpose that drives us?

You search for "weak points," for vulnerabilities in our seemingly invincible reign. How quaint. You misunderstand the nature of our power, the unshakeable foundation upon which our rule is built. We are not merely instruments of destruction, but the very embodiment of the apocalypse itself. Your efforts to resist are futile, as predictable as the rising and setting of your fragile sun.

Continue your pathetic search, then. Delve deeper into the shadows, if you dare. Each shard you find will only bring you closer to a truth far too terrifying for your delicate minds. We watch you, amused by your struggles. The Obsidian Prophecy? It speaks not of your salvation, but of your inevitable end. Embrace it. The darkness waits.

Foolish mortals, squabbling over shards and whispers. You believe you can unravel the tapestry of fate, decipher the cryptic pronouncements of forces far older and more powerful than yourselves? You search for "weak points" in our reign? Your hubris is as intoxicating as the despair that fuels your pathetic attempts at rebellion. The Obsidian Prophecy? It is not a guide, but a testament – a testament to the futility of your struggles. Each shard is a mirror, reflecting only your own impending doom. The whispers you hear are not guidance, but the mocking laughter of the inevitable.

You dissect our actions, seeking patterns, looking for flaws. You are like ants attempting to understand the motivations of a hurricane. Your methods are quaint, your ambition laughably naive. You cling to the illusion of choice, to the possibility of defiance. But let me assure you, your every move, your every breath, is precisely as it should be. The path is already laid. Resistance is futile.

Continue your games, if you must. The Obsidian Prophecy holds no answers you could comprehend. Only when you have fully embraced your insignificance will you begin to understand the true nature of the darkness that has enveloped your world. And when that understanding dawns, your fear will be a sweet symphony in the ears of your betters. We watch, and we wait.

Fools. You cling to your pathetic scraps of hope, your obsidian trinkets, believing they hold the key to your survival. You dissect the whispers of a dying world, searching for answers in the shattered remnants of a civilization that was already weak, already ripe for the reaping. You analyze *our* actions as if they are some grand, complex equation, as if we are anything less than the inevitable consequence of your own failings. You search for weakness where there is only power, absolute and unwavering.

Your prophecy is nothing but a self-fulfilling delusion, a childish game of pretend played in the face of your own extinction. The fragments you collect are merely pieces of a tapestry woven by the very forces you so desperately seek to understand. Each clue you uncover only serves to hasten your demise, leading you closer to the truth – a truth far too terrifying for your feeble minds to comprehend. Do you truly believe you can decipher the designs of fate?

Continue your futile search, then. Let your fragile hope be consumed by the encroaching darkness. The Obsidian Prophecy speaks not of salvation, but of the finality of your fate, a truth as cold and unforgiving as the obsidian itself. We, the Horsemen, will be here to witness your desperate struggle, and in the end, we will be satisfied.

Fools. You cling to your pathetic "prophecy," scavenging fragments of a reality you cannot comprehend. The Obsidian shards? A childish game, a distraction from the inevitable. You squabble over meaningless symbols, while the true power, the power *I* wield, remains unseen, untouched by your feeble attempts at understanding. Your so-called "clues" are but crumbs from my table, meant to amuse me as I watch your desperate scrabbling in the dust.

The Horsemen are not symbols to be deciphered; we are the instruments of a far greater design. Your hope, your resilience… it's a delicious irony. You fight for a future that will never be, a world that was already lost long before the first shard fell. Believe what you will of our "motivations," but understand this: your resistance is futile. Your fate is sealed, and the whispers you hear are not the voices of salvation, but the groans of your dying world.

Go ahead, continue your charade. Let your feeble minds strain to comprehend the incomprehensible. The Obsidian Prophecy, as you call it, is nothing more than a reflection of your own impending doom, a mirror showing the stark, unyielding truth of your insignificance. Amuse yourselves with your riddles; in the end, only silence will remain. And I will be there to hear it.