"Why did you summon me here?"

The rough voice hisses, glowing eyes glowering at you. You nearly whimper but you sigh and pull at the ends of your hair in defeat.

"Man, you're guess is as good as mine."

It was a Saturday, and the chill of January settled like a veil over everything in sight. Even in your toasty log cabin, things were still cold to the touch even if the fire was blazing all day. Nevertheless, you liked the chill, because with the cold you could bundle up and stay cozy in large over-sized sweaters and sweatpants that were way too big for your small frame. You shudder slightly as you step out of the shower, dry off in your traditional manner and dress in the giant clothes that you set out for the evening: a large navy blue hoodie, and a pair of massive grey sweatpants that were much too large even for the people that the size aimed towards. You love it, and settled into your worn office chair at your oak desk.

Right. You took a break from drawing to warm up a little, and hopefully get the creative ideas flowing from your tired brain to finish the art commission that was due at the end of next week. You had a few ideas that captured nature and still life, and a couple more that was aimed towards action and movement. As great as the ideas were, they didn't jump out at you and you felt no connection to any of them. This causes you to sigh dishearteningly .

"Damn." You mutter, crossing your arms like a child as the ocean of inspiration that flowed the day before was dried up like the Sahara in the middle of August, while suffering an extreme dry spell. There was nothing for your brain to really grab at, and your chances of finding an idea was very small and not worth the effort considering you had all day tomorrow to try motivating yourself.

You instead try writing in calligraphy, it was an art form, and the appealing curves and spirals of the letters were calming and gave variety to the traditional art that you were used to. Soft music played in the background as you continued to draw with your favorite pen, the blue ballpoint in the shape of the blade of the Red Horseman, Chaoseater. It was an awesome pen, and the lifetime of it was incredible. You had the thing for nearly 7 years, and it was still going on strong, despite the abuse it took over the time you possessed it.

A few scratches marred the surface, along with an accidental hit to the hilt of the blade (which caused the pen to not click and push the ink tip down sometimes), but it was sturdy and loved. As you gaze with admiration at your beloved pen, an idea came to mind as you remembered the Horseman who wielded such a weapon. Ah yes, the creative juices were flowing now.

You smirk inwardly as you get to work while the idea was fresh and thriving, finding a clean area on the many doodles you had to sketch out a rough idea of the Horseman's proportions, and determine the space of the bulky armor relative to the camera angle that you were using.

The Red Rider was looking at the viewer at a comfortable three-quarter view, his normal scowl on his face as you looked at a reference picture now and then to get the sizes and shapes correctly. He was just standing, in an intimidating manner that drew upon his features for a powerful and effective pose, yet simple in nature.

You had a very comic book kind of style, which worked great for the Horseman especially since his style was influenced from the graphic novels and the games that you played over 12 thousand times (you were quite enamored with the Darksiders series).

You were humming along to the music and drawing in quick, sure strokes, finally (and momentarily) finding bliss in the fact that you were drawing again, even though it was not relative to the work that you were supposed be doing for your client. You grin and sigh with satisfaction as the shading pulled together to form War, leaning away to gaze critically at the image. You were enjoying the shading that was clean and structured, along with the sense of belonging that the Horseman had in the corner of your paper. You set the pen down and flex your hands, which were trembling a bit from over exertion. Another break was in order, this time, coffee.

As you stand to go to your homey kitchen for a refill, you hear the sound of papers and your pen dropping on the floor behind you. Mildly annoyed, you turn to see the mess, each paper sprawled in chaos and your pen nowhere to be found. You were sure that it was the one to fall as well, because all other supplies were in their respective containers and places. You pick up the papers, reordering them and setting the stack on your desk neatly, heaving a small sigh as you pace away again to go to the kitchen. You'll look for the pen after you get coffee.

The damnable sound again. You barely had a one foot out of your office door.

You groan and turn back to the mess, your brow furrowed in irritation because it kept falling even though you were putting the stack of papers in a secure area of the desk and-

Wait. They keep falling even if you put them away securely.

The superstitious part of you began to kick in, everything falling silent in the space you occupied. Even the crackling fireplace in the room was silent, snuffed out in a chilling whisper. The hell was going on? With the fire out, the room was starting to surrender to the frost, and you felt it prickle on your skin despite the clothes that you wore.

You decide to restart the fire, finding that warmth above all else was important, especially in the deep of winter. A match and some spare paper went a long way, and in no time the fire was ignited. You grunt softly as you rise to your feet, turning towards to the door to leave when a sharp clicking sound drew your attention.

That sound, it sounded an awful lot like your beloved Chaoseater ballpoint pen being toyed around with. You forget about breathing as you turn to the suspicious sound, your face settled into the expression of both curiosity and anxiety. Your eyes caught onto the deep red of a hood and you fell to the floor in alarm.

"Fucking!-"

You scream, causing the blue eyes that were gazing in intense question at the Chaoseater pen to sharply look at you, and the scowl that you drew to look even more menacing in person to deepen. God that face could make the devil himself cower.

"Why did you summon me here?"

The rough voice hisses, glowing eyes glowering at you. You nearly whimper in recoil but you pull at the ends of your hair, sighing in defeat.

"Man, you're guess is as good as mine."

The Horseman growls and takes a pace towards you, but fumbles as his step was incomplete. You almost laugh as the mountain of a man (if he can be called a man given his size) suddenly ends up tripping and off balance, but you quell that urge extremely quick with hopes of keeping your life. You gaze curiously at the Red Rider as he fights for movement, and look at the hardwood floor, seeing the problem.

The massive giant was restricted to only the paper that was on the floor, the area as small as a bathroom rug. As you remember, that was the same stack that had contact with your pen. As the smart side of you recognized that the pen (which was now by your foot as it fell out of his huge hand) is the real reason for why the Horseman is able to only be restricted so such a small area, but your childish side saw the humor in the unfortunate event and took precedence immediately. You felt your lips tug into a bubbling grin, the laugh that you tried to quell just itching to bark out. As the Horseman struggles to move, he gazes at you with wide glowing eyes in shock of his situation, frozen as he realizes that a Horseman of the Apocalypse was defeated by a mere pen. You see him fluster and take a hit to his pride.

That's where you lose it.

The laugh that bubbled in your throat just shook you as it roared out, you core tensing and your cheeks hurting from the smiling. You felt tears in your eyes as the pain was intense, but the laugh was worth it as War's expression was in complete shock of your reaction. That only made you laugh harder, your cheeks basically bleeding from the heat that flushed your skin from the lack of breathing. You remember that it was important to indeed breathe, so you begin to calm yourself and take slow, but incredibly difficult giggling breaths.

If looks could kill, you would be dead at least 20 times by now. You give a sheepish smile and pick up your pen slowly, his intimidating glare white hot on your skin. Christ he could light you on fire from such anger. You muster up enough courage to look him in the eye, despite the fact that your heart was hammering out a war song in your chest.

"Look, I have no idea how you came here," You start to explain with a level of empathy, using the term "here" to generalize the fact that he was in a completely new dimension. The Horseman's scowling face was as cold as the below 20 weather. Damn, that's icy.

"But I have no idea in how you actually showed up. I was just drawing with this pen, and bam," pausing to use your hands to clap and gesture to his current position in your office, standing in an area of scattered paper. "Here you are."

War falls in on himself for a moment, apparently in thought. You assume that he is thinking of a plan to get himself out of here, which is completely reasonable. The better part of you is freaking the fuck out about how awesome it is to have a god damn HORSEMAN of the APOCALYPSE in you office space of your house right now, but the more rational side is scared shitless of potentially being on the working end of the extremely real Chaoseater. You look at your pen as you wait for his response, seeing the actual danger and power in said pen now that you have the Red Rider in your dimension.

"That pen...it drew me out of my realm and into," he glances about your work space with a sense of deprecation. Ouchie, that hurt your pride. Well you did laugh at him, to be fair. "...this one. I will take the chances of that very same pen being the way of which I will depart this world into my own." The horseman breathes, almost in an annoyed and tired manner. You wait for him to continue.

"Quick mortal, draw this spell immediately." War demands, his rough voice spurring you into action. You make a sound of accord and pace over to your desk for more paper, while laying down a few for the Horseman to pace and even sit if he wanted to. You take up residence in your office chair, and take the scrolled up spell from the Rider gingerly, mostly because of excitement and fear, and flash him a bright grin.

"No worries, I'll get you out of this mess, it's the least I can do for this little hiccup." You say, beginning to carefully scrawl out the spell on several pieces of paper that you taped together to fit the spell. The Rider doesn't reply, and if anything just glares at your office space as if it was the most awful place he could be in at this very second. You'd consider that expression a childish pout, which was actually pretty damn cute.

As you drew the Horseman eventually paced about, looking at various things in your work space out of curiosity than actual interest. If you had a light box this would be way more effective, but you had good enough hand-to-eye skill to draw it out directly onto paper after looking at the reference. That fact makes you pause for a moment. What if your cherished skill was complete garbage and you drew the horseman with your pen, and he came out of his world looking completely different.

Different as in...totally different than the (quite honestly) handsome horseman now standing behind you? You imagined him with a rougher style, completely out of proportion, all shakily drawn and grossly out of his canon style, bossing you around to recreate the spell with your special pen. Oh no. You choke on laughter and stop drawing to breathe and collect yourself. The said horseman's rumble of annoyance only added to your giggling fit as he took a single step to your desk.

"Why have you stopped? Keep drawing, mortal." War threatens, but you just howl in laughter as your mental image was too strong, and had you distracted. After being verbally hassled by the Horseman, you straighten and get back to drawing, only to stop again in a cold sweat, the very life blood running through your veins as frosted as the glare that those blue glowing eyes gave you. War loomed over you to inquire why you stopped, again.

"What?" He barks more than asks, his eyes shifting from your hand to the pen to your face. You swallow dryly and cough.

"The pen just died."

Aww man, I had to publish this idea after I doodled the Horseman in my sketchbook. Shoot me a pm or a review about the story, so that I can make improvements and what not to ensure you guys are getting good quality content! Thanks for reading!

Mrs. Dauntless