From the forthcoming Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse Project (more info soon):
A terrible rider sat atop a pale horse.
A harvester of death.
The flesh of his torso had been flayed and cut, as if part of a vivisectionist’s dreams. His arms, a map of torment the skin peeled away, layers of meat and sinew hanging from his blood-red bones. Across his shoulders he wore a black cape, the cowl pulled over his head. But even from the darkness of his cloak, even across the distance, his eyes gripped her with a terror that latched her breath in her throat. In those eyes, she stared at mirrored reflections of herself her true self. Helpless, powerless, feeble — a victim.
In his bony hand he carried an impossibly large sickle, the edge dull and notched. The head had dragged behind him, leaving a furrow in the ground, as if the weight were too much for him to bare.
In its other hand it carried a black chain latched to a slathering beast. Once, perhaps, it had been a man. But its back had been broken and reforged, making it crouch like a dog. Bony spikes protruded from its spine, the wounds weeping. Its face was a patchwork of razors and blades, its tongue lashing the air. Its skin was sickly white, contrasting the furrowed welts left from the lashes of a whip.