No Man’s Land.
From the mist, a Horse and Rider emerges.
Gemini.
Pestilence.
“It isn’t just a matter of saddle and hoof,” she utters, “More than the physical tangle of reins and stirrup. Horse and Rider—it’s more than just a communion between flesh and blood—it’s a fusion of souls, a testament to existence.”
Her steed moves beneath her, a creature birthed from the very wound of pestilence itself. Gemini strokes its neck, their connection humming, vibrant as a lit fuse.
“While others put faith in machines, gears and cogs, they have bound themselves to an artificial pulse that knows no fear, no triumph, no pain,” she says. “They grapple for control as their drones, needless puppets, churn blind and unfeeling across the battlefield. A machine knows not the scent of bloodied earth, nor the taste of victory. It does not recognize the resonance of its rider’s heartbeat.”
“The same holds true for those who bank on blood, who believe kinship can safeguard victories,” she continues, the tone of her voice splintering like fractured bone, “Blood, like water, slips through the fingers. Shared lineage does not guarantee shared valor. It’s a fragile leash that snaps under the weight of treachery.”
“And those who have common cause are no different,” she murmurs, casting a sidelong glance at the horizon swallowed in darkness, “It’s but a candlewick burning on both ends. Common cause can be manipulated, twisted until it becomes a weapon pointed not at the enemy, but at the ally’s heart.”
“But this,” she gestures to her Horse, one hand sweeping through the air in a tender arc, “This is our salvation, our prerogative. My pestilence, my bond—it is strength born from ash and decay. It’s the understanding that to ride is to embrace who we are. To find victory in every fallen, every ruin.”
Her gaze is drawn to a shadow moving beside her. A second horse and rider emerge from the wisps of dust, a grim silhouette against the twilight.
Drewitt.
War.
Upon his own fierce Horse.
A determined fire lights up Gemini’s eyes, her hand caressing the mane of her living, breathing Pestilence.
“We are Horse and Rider, living pulse against living pulse. We are more than simple puppets of war, more than fragile bonds of blood, more than fleeting alliances,” she proclaims. “Our connection reverberates through sickness and decay, an echo of our shared strength and resilience. It’s a bond tempered in the fires of pestilence and refined through the endless grind of war. It’s a bond our foes can never replicate, never comprehend.”
Musing over the desolation around them, Gemini turns to Drewitt. “They will flounder, shatter against our unyielding ride. For their steeds are lifeless and insipid beneath the weight of their command. They ride with desperation, and they will fall. They will fall because they are alone.”
With a nod to her fellow Horseman, she spurs her steed forward.
“Together, we ride on. To Pestilence. To War.”
As they move into the blanket of darkness together, she leaves behind the chilling echo of her words—a final, devastating promise.
“Together.”