behold, the days are coming

where: the forest

who: open

Viktoria’s ancient mind was turning slowly, methodically, processing the events that had taken place so soon, so close together. Or maybe it hadn’t come quickly enough. It was everything that they represented with their divinity and immortality that created the very foundations of what was occurring. Where there was death there was life. Where there was peace there would be war. Where there was prosperity there would be be destruction. It was the reason why they, the four harbingers of the apocalypse, were created. Famine could not help but wonder whether this was the first signs of changing times, but it was this very kind of sanguine thought that she did not indulge in. So she would focus on the task at hand. Cador.

She found herself walking down a deserted trail through the forest, finding out that after the quiet of Purgatory, Viktoria’s best laid strategies would form when she was away from all. The Horseman’s feet moved noiselessly through the undergrowth which was why she paused when she could sense a slight sliver of emotion a couple of metres behind where she stood. Viktoria adjusted their robes a fraction before turning to address the person who approached. 

WHO: viktoria ( @wantingviktoria )

THE concept that the world would continue to turn even in their presence never failed to identify itself as a failure to the Horsemen’s purpose. They are feared, revered, and sought after by angel, demon, and mortal alike, but to what end? 

Yet, concerning himself with the details of their future seemed inconsequential. Urgency could not be created when forever is preordained without consequence. 

Approaching Viktoria, Ryuk places a hand on their shoulder, grip tight and rife with expectation. “I do wonder how you’ve been able to remain here as long as we have.” they ask, gesturing to the mortal land before them. “There is a lack of blood here that is dark enough to tempt me.”

Viktoria felt a tight grip on their shoulder, she felt herself tense for a split second before she recognised the familiar touch of Ryuk. Viktoria relaxed immediately, she was on guard much more than she was considering recent events. 

Romilda can’t help but liken the Horseman’s face to that of a blank canvas. There was not a single color painting her visage, not even a pale hue that might indicate to Romilda what emotion Viktoria might be feeling other than the customary disdain that she seemed to dole out to all indiscriminately. They supposed that they could not fault her for it, nor complain about the lack of kindness that they received - just as she judged others with rigid indifference, they had others bask in their gilded warmth. Simply because they were different in their interactions with others, didn’t necessarily mean that Viktoria was undeserving of the kindness that Romilda showed her, though she wished it might be reciprocated to some extent. Ever the optimist, she continued to foster the small flame of hope that, perhaps one day, she would receive a gift from Viktoria in turn. The corners of Viktoria’s mouth lifted into something akin to a smile - and those flames of hope rose ever-higher as the knight relinquished their grip on the baked good.

“Immortals remaking themselves into gods is not something that I think would sit well with my mortal brethren,” Romilda mused aloud, their gaze slanting as they tried to determine whether or not the words were made in jest. Truly, they couldn’t tell - perhaps it was Arthur’s deep-rooted tutelage that made them perpetually suspect of all immortal agendas, or perhaps it was their intuition. But something about Viktoria made Romilda think that the Horseman wouldn’t object in the slightest to being venerated. “Whenever I visit someone I try to bring a gift, in case their day has them in need of a little silver lining. But I have never heard of a Horseman having a bad day befall them…”

Their lips pressed together at that, their gaze peering into Viktoria’s. What cogs and gears turned within her mind, Romilda could never know. And that was a blessing, she thought, for the more she considered it, the more it seemed to her that God was a cruel being, who had cursed many with the shackles of immortality. An existence devoid of the vitality of life, the fleetingness of it all making it all the more delectable to bask in. But immortality robbed any such creature of that notion - all things becoming mundane. Romilda couldn’t blame her for the indifference that she suffered. “Would you consider Cador’s fall as a bad day? What are the Horsemen’s stakes in this anyway?” Belatedly, they blanch at their own brazenness, the question out there before they have formed the half-thought of proposing it more tactfully. “I only ask because I wonder at who you would look at for the next Star.”

Romilda’s musings didn’t fail to strike a semblance of incredulity within Viktoria. She never understood the whims or the directions of mortals no matter how interconnected their immortal presence was. Never did she have to. In Purgatory, Viktoria and her brethren provided a place for the lost souls, the forgotten ones where no one else would have them. Not out of sympathy, not out of necessity, but because they could. Why then would mortals complain about the position immortals held, when their mere existence, their devotion, their need for a higher power rendered beings like them to elevated status? Viktoria had no interest in being a god if a prerequisite of that required a steady stream of devoutness. No. She had grander plans then that.

“Is it?” Viktoria challenged. “And why would it not when your kind would readily dedicate their lives to anyone with the slightest indication for divinity,” she said casting an air amusedly at the very temple they were standing in. Romilda was a gifted mortal, but Viktoria knew that their status would raise amongst their own ranks if she reached immortality. 

Viktoria looked at the girl bemused as she stood perplexed, their gaze slanting as they tried to decipher the horseman. She was clever enough to treat Viktoria with such scepticism, yet taking the time to analyse Famine’s own thoughts would leave even the greatest of minds preoccupied for the rest of the length of their short lives. “How...human.” Viktoria said in response. No maliciousness or negativity present in their voice. A mere observation, a study of sorts on how their mind operated, so very different to their own. It was only when Viktoria felt her fingers digging into the morsel in her hands that she realised how ironic it was that Famine was presented with food. Something worth telling Dmitri about she was sure. 

DATE: fifth day of the fourth week of the New Moon

LOCATION: temple of the saints

STATUS: for @wantingviktoria​

There is a certain trepidation that always seems to sharpen her focus whenever she finds herself simmering in the presence of the Horsemen. Whether it be Death, War, or Famine - there seems to be a fear of the divinity that is brought to the forefront of her mind. It is made all the more palpable by the ruthless thundering of their heart as they stand before the door of the Temple, their freshly baked bread in hand - carefully tucked into a towel so that Viktoria might be able to savor its warmth and freshness of flavor. She wondered if this fear is what those of the Old Testament felt when they brought their offerings before their gods. Were they as cold and cruel as the ones that walked among them? 

The wind picked up, as though it were impatient with her dawdling, and so Romilda stepped forth into the Temple, her feet guiding her to the Horsemen that she had bent her knee to. What had possessed her to do so, she wasn’t entirely sure. Was she not already offering her guardianship to Azazel? Her heart to Cassiel? And now she offers her abilities to the most infamous Horseman of all - Viktoria themself. Though she wanted to blame her mother for filling her head with such wretchedly wondrous stories of heroes offering their services, giving their fealty to those who were in need. But gods never needed, did they? They had no need save for worship. Their only want was for the ruin of lessers. 

That is, until they find themselves choking on humanity. 

Until they are suffocated by mortal rage. 

Romilda grimaced at the thought of holding so much unbound rage within her heart. And it is with this twisted expression on their face that they approached the infamous Horseman, holding out their hand to offer the sorry little gift that they had baked. “I am never quite sure what seems to suit immortal palates,” she begins hurriedly, “but if I were to bring you flowers, they would die - and at least with this, you might satiate yourself.” Their eyes widened, and they tacked on hurriedly, “As much as you can, of course.”

Viktoria stood inside the Temple, their gaze casting over the strong marble pillars and tall carved statues of the Gifted. If it were possible for them to willingly admire the craft that mortals had developed and honed over time, she would. It wasn’t the patience and devotion that appealed to them, but the hard-work, the imagery, the creation that she appreciated. If Viktoria was a more inquisitive person than she was at present, she would have mused upon their fleeting lives and the way that they chose to spend the mere moments they had on carving out a place for their kind in history. But she was not. In fact, there was no history, none where even Famine’s own architecture lay buried and useless among the forgotten souls trapped in what was Purgatory. Viktoria looked away from the stone, bored. It was only a matter of time where this piece of art would lie in ruins as well.

Waiting never bothered Viktoria. For the Horsemen, centuries passed within a blink of an eye, yet in this New Order, she felt time on a linear scale, quicker almost as if anything could occur within a moment’s notice. Which is why Viktoria stood in wait for the rabbit-hearted mortal to show herself to them. She could feel the trepidation coursing down the length of their spine, but knew as untrained and volatile the gifted were that Viktoria’s own human frame would not survive under such power.

That is, unless she could control it, twist it to suit her and her purpose.