cql + the four horsemen of the apocalypse - a reinterpretation of this old set with shitty typography
@mdzsbingo • shapes + blackletter font
Pestilence is Jin Guangyao, sick with plans up his sleeves, his ambition a plague that ceaselessly grows, his greed a fatally corrupting disease that conquers his soul and the innocence that once was. Wherever he goes, he spreads his malaise: some are similarly corrupted, avarice blackening their veins; some are asymptomatic, oblivious to the infection that spreads beneath their noses yet culpable in their ignorance; and others die, succumbing to this epidemic, mere numbers in his viral covetousness for power. And so Jin Guangyao is the White Rider, white like the tainted peony embroidered on his ill-begotten robes.
War is Wei Wuxian, for his single-minded devotion, for the beliefs that he fought and died for. He laughs in the face of his enemies even when he stands alone against them all, taunting them to fight and spill blood. Is that the best you can do? Draw your sword and take your best shot, for I will come back to fight you once more. When he raises his weapon and the haunting refrain echoes over the battlefield like a battle cry, blood is spilled – his enemy’s and his alike. And so Wei Wuxian is the Red Rider, red like the bloodied ribbon in his hair, fluttering in the wind like a tattered banner over a pile of the fallen corpses of those who once stood in his path.
Famine is Xue Yang, hungry for violence and revenge, yet starved of attention and love. Behind him, he leaves a cracked desert: people ravished and weakened, tongues stolen, unable to speak, unable to taste, unable to cry for help. Men and women, young and old, rich and poor – he devours them all, licking the meat off their bones like a child with candy, playing with their skeletons when he is done. A hungry wolf prowling in the night, feral and rabid, his cold eyes fixed on his prey, sharp teeth hidden behind a crooked smile. And so Xue Yang is the Black Rider, black like the eyes of the hollow bodies he leaves in his wake.
Death is Nie Huaisang, for his hard work, this backbreaking labour that can never be finished in a day. They say Death is just, but cross him, and he will cross you out. He flits through the unsuspecting living, playing their charades and indulging in their arts, but oh, is he always there, there without them knowing, watching and lurking in the shadows, to take them when they least expect. When it is time to go, he looks at those dearly departed souls with eyes sometimes cold, sometimes resigned, sometimes with a tinge of regret, and then he will carry on with his work, for it will never be done. And so Nie Huaisang is the Pale Rider, pale like the paper of the fan that masks his face.
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