A man walks through the fog covered streets of Aftermath. His hood hanged low over his face, and his clothes flowed gently against the cool night air. Gently he placed peices of blood stained papers all over the sheets and walls of the city. On each paper finger marks of blood appeared to be dragged across each sheet some more defined than others. On each paper read this:
Midnight lightning in the sky
Man in black he passes by
It seems to me he is out of place
With the look of death upon his face
Can’t see his eyes, no soul inside
Although he walks, he is not alive
Followed by a pale white horse,
The one called death, he holds his course
The demons gather about his feet
Thunder abates, the lightning streaks
For the hand of death, all souls he seeks
As he paces, paces up and down the street
The fog it creeps, it settles in
In front of a homes, his search it ends
In the still of night, a breath of wind
He climbs on his steed and rides again
Did you hear the small children cry?
As it took the last breath of lives?
One he lives, and one he dies
As away on a pale white horse he rides.