Hooves. Beating. Pounding their way across the earth. No stopping. Making time. Keeping stride with the tick tock of the earth's clock. The howling cloak of darkness. Following. Emitting from within. Each step scarring the ground once more. Bringing death's rider closer to settle the score. You can hear the gallop of time ticking against you. Like a fog that settles in without a sound. Surrounding. Leaving no escape. But now you listen. Like a knight on guard, weary in your iron clad boots. Walk briskly. Lightly. Don't alert the hooves silently stalking though the woods. Pause. . . Listen. . . Silence is your hidden ally. The leaves narrate your escape. Led on by the whispers of the wind. Breath carefully. The fog will find you if you give it time. Press on. The trees have become your labyrinth. A misplaced footstep upon a condemning twig. FREEZE. . . Listen to the night. Search the chords of chilling air. . . A faint clap. The hollow sound echoing through the dark, followed by the tendrils of a breathless fog. You must go! RUN! Command your legs through the deadfall! Move your arms in harmony with your calves! Be a conditioned tactician! A clap. . . Then another! No longer faint but a rhythmic thump. You plot your course. The terrain is your chess board. Your movement is quick. Disheveling fear with each step. But the horse replants it four steps at a time. Gaining position with red furnaces guiding its eyes. You make a blind move. Your armor snagging on a limb! The spill sends you crashing down. Spiraling into the earth as you try to stay above. Silence. Your only ally, now against you. The fog lists in. Filling the voids between you and your trees. You can't move, don't dare to move, but you must. You lift your head. Open your eyes. The ghastly white fog has socked you in the course. A figure. So consuming and dark. His approach. No more moves. He has taken you with his horse.



-The Grim Reaper's Horse