The Scourge of God

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Ride, my men, on charcoal steeds and the bones of the decayed. We are the future. We are the four horsemen multiplied. Air stales in our wake, flesh pickles, and blood clumps like the body of overripe milk. We carry the thunder of the ground between our feet and the bane of He in our chests. Ride, my men, for tonight we increase our numbers. --War-cry of the Scourge, recorded by the hand of Bishop Bezel

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