Before everything, before the entirety of existence began, there was a low humming sound. Certain texts will contradict this, saying it was nothing and then something, but how can that be? It can't, although the metal image of a whole universe popping into existence is quite an amusing one. No, instead the humming grew to a crescendo, until it was molded into a melody by the darkness, which softened considerably at the enchanting tune swirling about, until the light sprouted, only a little at first, nestled in between the tiny cracks of space that the curling, shifting darkness provided.

From this light came life, the birth of countless beings, the tiniest bacteria to the most almighty celestials; the greatest became the stars, the planets, the suns, the galaxies--the smallest became plants, animals and people. It was of course a process that spanned time humans are yet to comprehend, it was instantaneous and stretched for millenniums. But I digress, there is little point describing the vast expanses of the multiverses and their history, not when there are far more interesting stories to be told on Earth, among the complex little creatures inhabiting it.

When they first came about, minds broadened by psychedelic creative fantasies, humans were nothing more than sapiens with dreams, and of course, this primal form remains in people to this date, though not as rawly as it had been. From these dreams came ambition, from ambition came a strong conflict of interest, and thus the first of four siblings was formed: War.

The eldest and by far the least temperate of the four, War began not with knives or bullets or strategy, but from the spittle flown from seething mouths, the spark of blunt objects being thrown, and violence disguised as a quest for justice. His eyes blazed with a deeply unsettling rage, a blood red fire ever present and prone to seeping into his demeanor.

The second most senior was Famine, who began their existence without malice; the first unsuccessful harvest was, after all, just a spot of bad luck. Their sickle was a sign of solidarity, though it was forged from this 'bad luck', which has since manifested into a tool for tragedy, an intense suffering which Famine relished. Baggy, tattered robes draped over their pale, peeling shoulders, and their form sagged with fatigue, though a gaunt face housed a grin that stretched ill-fittingly, carved into their hollowed cheeks.

Pestilence came not long after, born out of the first fatal illness, born from the long, drawn-out deterioration and immense confusion that came with it, born from the fading of identity and the inevitable manifestation of grief. He appeared, at first glance, rather ordinary, but upon closer inspection one would notice a waxen tint to his skin and watery, yellow eyes. Should one get close enough to notice the faint smell of rot under his breath, it would already be too late.

And then came Death. Gentle and sombre, she'd lift those affected by her siblings to a door, a gateway to the afterlife. Her demeanor had never been on of malice or cruelty as she is so often portrayed, instead a passive quiet surrounded her and, by whatever means possible, she'd comfort those she escorted away, cradling children with a motherly grip, whispering idly with the elderly, and intertwining her fingers with the ones that shook with grief at the life they'd left. Seemingly delicate, her skin was the silvery glow of the moon on a calm sea, and her eyes were deep night skies, the striking ebony that could only be described as that of calming devastation; her hair was an inky pool around her, creating an ethereal normalcy to her form.

Every human has, or will, come into contact with at least one of these entities, though very few have seen them in their chosen form and lived to tell about it, hence the imagery surrounding them and the foolish presumption that the siblings arrived on earth on horseback--it simply isn't true. Fewer still have seen all four, in fact, only one woman has known them all, one woman whose life had been rich with tragedy, and one woman who had managed to survive despite it all. 

Death has found her intriguing, her unrelenting selflessness, and her sad smile kissed with kindness, and thus refused to take her away. Instead, the first time they met, on a mild night with a cool breeze, Death simply sat by the woman, who'd had the misfortune of catching an illness from one of the children she'd been looking after, and they talked. 

"War, I like him the least, I think," The woman had mentioned, with a conversational tone despite the company she was keeping, "I've no idea why he showed up to me, not when I made it fairly clear that I had no desire for his presence if not to spar."

"Well," Death had chuckled lightly, as though her voice was made of silk, "I must admit I do share your sentiment, though presently I am far more furious with Pestilence."

"Why's that, if you don't mind my asking?"

"It's because of him that I'm sitting by you now."

"Is my company so atrocious?" The woman joked, "How does this work then, the whole 'dying' part--are you going to carry me away?"

"No," spoke Death, a firm air of authority permeating her tone, "I shall simply take this matter up with my brother, I refuse to take you. My siblings and I observe every life they are set to ruin and I am set to take; never before have I seen such saturation in a human. No, you will stay, it is decided."

"Are you allowed to do that, miss?"

She shrugged, "I'm their sister, they have to listen to me."

"I very much appreciate this, miss," The woman replied, her face glowing with genuineness, "Though, the next time I see you, I'm afraid I shan't be as radiant." 

She flicked her dark, voluminous curls with a wry smile, her warm brown eyes alight with a charming appeal that, thus far, was incomparable.

"You are mistaken, I promise you." Death smiled, studying every dip and curve and feeling of the woman, before turning her back to find her brother,  and severely reprimand him for his audacity in even suggesting taking this woman away.

A/N: This is a draft! In fact, it's gonna be rewritten as an opening, i think it's too passive and idk if it would work in a longer narrative (a long piece of writing?? Who is she??), even so, let me know what you think, name suggestions for the woman are appreciated :)