Fools. You squabble over scraps of a prophecy you cannot hope to understand, clinging to the desperate illusion of agency in a world already forfeit. The Obsidian Cipher? A child’s game compared to the tapestry of devastation we weave. Your "fragments" are but breadcrumbs, leading you down a path paved with your own futility. Let your scholars pore over the meaningless symbols; let your detectives chase shadows that dance just beyond your grasp. It matters little to us.

We are not bound by your feeble attempts at deciphering our plans. We are the architects of this ruin, the authors of your despair. The whispers you hear are but the echo of our laughter. Your salvation? A laughable notion. The only end you can hope for is the oblivion you so richly deserve. We have witnessed empires crumble, civilizations wither, and the very fabric of reality fray at our touch. Your petty struggles amuse us.

Continue your charade, little mortals. Delve into the darkness. Unravel your "cipher." Your efforts are a testament to the very flaws that allowed us to claim this world. We eagerly await the moment you finally grasp the inevitable. Your end is not a question of *if*, but *when*, and we, my dear survivors, will be there to watch.

Foolish mortals, you claw at the edges of understanding, believing you can decipher the whispers of oblivion. You gather your fragments, your pathetic scraps of a prophecy destined to remain incomplete. The Obsidian Cipher, you call it? More accurately, it's a mirror reflecting your own insignificance. You squabble over its meaning, while the true game unfolds far beyond your comprehension. You dissect symbols, while I, Famine, watch the slow, agonizing death of your world, a feast for my eyes, a symphony for my ears. Your frantic attempts to understand are amusing, a desperate dance on the precipice of nothingness.

Your salvation? A more manageable ruin? Such naive hopes! You cling to the belief that you hold the key to your fate, to the riders’ plans. But I assure you, your understanding is nothing more than a child’s scribbling compared to the grand tapestry of destruction I've woven. The apocalypse? It's merely a curtain rise, the first act of a far greater tragedy. You seek to defy us? Defy the inevitable? Go on, then. Waste your breath. While you struggle to read the riddles, I'll feast.

Continue your futile efforts; they only hasten the end. The Obsidian Cipher is less a guide than a chronicle; a testament to your failings, a record of your ultimate doom. I find your desperation...delicious. Embrace the darkness, for it is all you will ever know. And remember, even as the final morsels of your existence crumble, I will still be here, watching.

Fools. You cling to your pathetic hope, your "Obsidian Cipher," your desperate attempts to decipher a fate already sealed. You scrape at the edges of a mystery far grander than you can fathom, searching for answers in fractured ruins and dying gasps. You believe you can unravel the plans of the Horsemen? You believe you can *defy* us? Such naivete is almost... endearing. Let your "collaboration" continue, let your fragile alliances crumble under the weight of your own insignificance. We watch, amused, as you struggle against the tide of inevitable darkness.

Your fragments, your symbols, your prophecies – they are all but tools, manipulated by us, to further our own designs. You pick at the edges of the tapestry, believing you see the threads, but you fail to comprehend the grand design. The Obsidian Cipher? It is nothing but a game, a cruel diversion to occupy your dwindling minds while we prepare the final act. Your salvation? A laughable concept. You offer nothing but distraction. We are the apocalypse, and we are already here.

Continue your futile quest, if you wish. Delve deeper into the mysteries, discover more "truths." The end result will be the same. Your understanding only serves to make your demise more poignant. We, the Horsemen, shall reap what you so diligently sow, and the harvest will be… abundant.

Foolish mortals, clinging to your pathetic scraps of hope. You believe you can decipher the Obsidian Cipher, unravel the plans of the Horsemen? How quaint. Your desperate scrabbling in the ruins, your feverish attempts to piece together fragments of a truth you are not meant to comprehend – it amuses me. The whispers you hear? Those are but echoes of my laughter, the tremors of the earth a testament to my power. You search for salvation? Salvation is a cruel jest, a phantom limb of a world that is gone.

The Obsidian Cipher is not a map to be followed, but a mirror reflecting your own insignificance. Each cryptic symbol is a reminder of your impotence against the inevitable tide of oblivion. You cling to the illusion of agency, of choice, while the very ground beneath your feet crumbles under the weight of my passing. Your collaboration? Your "quest"? A desperate dance upon the precipice, performed for an audience of one – and that one is utterly unmoved.

Go on, then, waste your precious, dwindling time. Let your petty theories blossom and wither. For when the final piece of the cipher falls into place, it will not reveal a path to salvation. It will merely confirm what you already know, deep in the recesses of your terrified hearts: the apocalypse is not a prelude. It is the main event. And I, my friends, am its star.