Snippit. Just a Muse exercise.

    The sound of hoof beats where peels of thunder through the cobbled pathways of the castle courtyard, breaking the otherwise illusion of a peaceful tea time. The white horse, once proud and majestic was lathered in sweat, it's sides heaving with exhaustion and looking near collapsing in the heat of the summer air. The Rider upon it's simple saddled back slid boneless off of its perch, as serving hands materialized from the leaves of the tree's that shaded the courtyard, moving to perch and hold the cloaked figure. Simplicity in white, the rider bore only a golden insignia sewn into the long hem of the cloak that draped over slouching shoulders, proudly emboldened if not for the touch of forest life smearing the hems and exposed area of the clothing.
    For a few moments, the only movement in the courtyard was the frenzied steps of servants and hands, holding the rider, taking the horse away as peacefully as possible, and the ladle of water offered to lips burnt from sun exposure and lack of hydration. Lips devoid of even the moisture of blood grimaced in pain as the cool water dribbled down the cloaked rider's mouth, more of the liquid coating the garments than moisturizing the mouth that caught it greedily for a moment. In tune with the horses heaving sides, the Hands let the panting Rider fall to it's knees before the three women and stepped back as if there had been the order spoken though not a single word had been uttered, disappearing as if they'd never been present in the illusion that good servants often had.
    The air, thick with both heat and tension held now the air of silent demanding expectancy. In the Presence of Three, one did not simply leave them waiting. No word should ever need be uttered, the demands of the three where well known amongst the understanding of the tempers and reprimands if those needs ever be spoken. Such trivial things as health, and the physical possibility were no excuse. At last, hands wrapped in blood soaked cloths reached up to push down the hood that coated it's face, and the Rider looked up through a veil of fired curls to stare at the three, a touch of reptilian violet eyes nearly blind in one stared through it's milky veil at the face of the Center of the Three, the woman of White.
    “Death. Death is coming, the war has breached the walls of the Kingdom, and they are marching before the next full moon. There will be no prisoners, there will be no captives, only Death will follow in it's path.”