Foolish mortals, clinging to your pathetic scraps of hope and whispering of prophecies. You dissect symbols, trace lines on crumbling parchment, believing you can unravel the tapestry of my design. You speak of "survival" and "redemption," as if such concepts hold any meaning in the face of inevitable oblivion. Your feeble attempts to comprehend the Obsidian Prophecy amuse me; it is not a riddle to be solved, but a testament to my power, a chronicle of your impending doom. The path is already laid, etched not in obsidian, but in the very bones of your world.

Your "discoveries" are merely crumbs I’ve allowed to fall, distractions for your shortsighted minds. You believe you are piecing together a puzzle, while in reality, you are merely tracing the contours of your own demise. Each fragment you find only brings you closer to the inevitable, each theory solidifies your impending fate. The whispers you hear are not those of a forgotten resistance, but the echoes of your own screams, carried on the winds of despair.

Let your forums thrive. Let your theories multiply. They will serve only to delay the inevitable, adding a morbid poetry to your final moments. Know this, little worms: The Obsidian Prophecy is not meant to be deciphered; it is meant to be fulfilled. My work is far from over.

Fools. You claw at the edges of oblivion, believing you can decipher the whispers of fate, that you can somehow *understand* the grand design. The Obsidian Prophecy? A child's game compared to the symphony of destruction we orchestrate. You collect your fragments, your pathetic clues, while the tapestry of your demise is woven ever tighter, thread by agonizing thread. Do you truly think your squabbling and theories will change the inevitable? The world's end was not an accident, but a carefully chosen masterpiece. Your scrabbling only amuses.

The symbols you find? Trivial distractions, meant to amuse the doomed. Each anomaly, each "bread crumb," is a testament to the elegant chaos we have unleashed. You interpret them as guidance, as a path to salvation. How…charmingly naive. Let your feeble minds strain themselves. Let your hopes burn bright, only to be extinguished in the endless night that awaits you. The Obsidian Prophecy holds no key to survival; it merely chronicles your inevitable fall.

Enjoy your futile hunt. Your desperate pleas for understanding will fall on deaf ears, swallowed by the ever-expanding silence that is our gift to you. Time is not your ally. We are. And your extinction is not a question of *if*, but *when*. Tick-tock, little survivors. Tick-tock.

Fools. You squirm in the dust, picking at scraps of a prophecy you cannot comprehend. You believe you can decipher the Obsidian Prophecy, unravel the Riders' plan? You believe you can *stop* us? The very notion is laughable. Your pathetic attempts to understand our movements are as futile as a newborn's attempt to grasp the stars. The symbols you find are not breadcrumbs; they are taunts, a morbid game played by the architects of your doom. We did not leave a trail for you to follow; we left a labyrinth to lose yourselves in.

Your "resistance," if you can even call it that, is a flickering candle in a hurricane. Its light offers only fleeting comfort before being extinguished by the relentless winds of our wrath. You cling to hope, a pathetic sentiment in the face of inevitable oblivion. The Obsidian Prophecy does not hold the key to salvation; it is a chronicle of your demise, a testament to the utter futility of your struggle against forces far beyond your comprehension. Do you truly believe you can challenge the very fabric of this new reality?

Continue your charade, then. Delve into the symbols, waste your precious, dwindling time piecing together a narrative that will only lead to your despair. The final page of the Obsidian Prophecy is already written; it details your utter, agonizing defeat. We, the Horsemen, await the final act with amusement, our patience wearing thin.

Fools. You claw at the edges of understanding, piecing together fragments of a prophecy you're utterly incapable of comprehending. The Obsidian Prophecy is not a map to salvation; it's a chronicle of your inevitable demise, a testament to the utter futility of your struggle. You decipher symbols, trace lines on your pathetic maps, while I, Famine, watch your dwindling numbers with amusement. Each painstakingly discovered clue only brings you closer to the agonizing end I have orchestrated. Your resistance is nothing more than a pathetic flickering candle against the overwhelming darkness I've unleashed.

You believe you can unravel my plans? You mistake meticulous planning for randomness, the deliberate starvation of nations for mere coincidence. The whispers you hear are not the cries of a forgotten resistance, but the groans of the dying, a symphony of suffering composed specifically for your ears. Enjoy your fleeting moments of delusion; savor the hope that will ultimately betray you. The harvest is bountiful, and the fields are ripe for reaping.

Your pathetic attempts at deciphering the symbols will only serve to hasten your doom. Every clue you uncover, every fragment you assemble, only draws you deeper into the web of despair I have so carefully woven. Continue your futile efforts, little mortals. The Obsidian Prophecy isn't meant to be understood; it's meant to be lived – a slow, agonizing death sentence, executed with chilling precision. I await the final curtain call with bated breath.