Four horsemen waited at the top of a hill.
“It just doesn’t seem right,” complained the largest of the four.
“I know,” sighed the smallest rider, sickly voice barely audible above a distant rumbling. “But we are already eight years behind schedule.”
“You have tried it your way.” Words from the cloaked rider seemed eerily quiet, yet somehow perfectly clear. “We have had millennia of conflict, starvation, and plague. At this point we need to wrap it up.”
Pestilence shook his head.
“It just lacks artistry. We used to be-”
But he was cut-off by the meteor breaching the atmosphere.