Pale Horse Rider

Pale horse rider, dripping font of pure overflowing knowledge of life.
You know what I mean friend? Real knowledge, the kind that awakens in the flesh, like when you hear the sound of a rattlesnake in the grass. That's what he carried in his saddlebags, liquid lightning to crack your skull, enough to open thousands of minds and set them free as jackrabbits under a wide blue sky. He had been an angel once and now he roared through the wasteland gathering up the dead and making them quick.
Some might tell you it was chance that led him to each particular individual, but it was something trickier than chance. One might call those meetings synchronistic events. I'll tell you this; he was looking for them, for each of them in particular. Just as a man with a vendetta will go from town to town finding his debtors and delivering them of debt by way of steel, fire, and hot lead, so the pale horse rider went in search of the men deserving of his liquid lightening. He administered his medicine, town by town, man by man, with unrelenting resolve.
And I'll tell you another thing, as important as the last; they were also looking for him. Even if they didn't know his name or face in this world, their hearts were calling to him loud as squawking crows. That's the real way of it. In any encounter of unearthly significance, you can be sure both parties were looking for action.
In his never-ending quest to make the dead lightning quick, he met many a man whose face and name you would recognize. Men of reputation. Dead men trapped in limbo crying out for liberation. The pale horse rider hunted them, patient and steady, a spider. He found them and cracked their skulls wide, tore their ribcages open and let those screaming birds fly.
Each time this was done, the new quick went forth into the world, his apostles. Born in the fire and light of knowledge, rising from the ash of what they had once been, they returned to the wasteland as phoenixes armed with liquid lightening. Hunting heads in the western lands.
Methods vary. Not all of the quick are nomads. Some make their webs and wait in shadowy places for the dead to seek them out. Others call loudly for the dead to gather around. Some hunt one by one by one like the angel of the wasteland that found them.
He is out there still, as he has always been, riding down dusty roads, quest unending, name unuttered, face unknown. He is legend. He is many and he is none. Seeking the seeker and making the dead quick, pale horse rider, angel of the wasteland, ride on.

Evil Queens and Dwarves

I have little to say about the nature of dwarves or evil queens.  I have little to say. I say little.
In regards to dwarves, they are very little if you are bigger than they and quite large if you should happen to be smaller. Evil queens are generally old. That’s all. They want to be beautiful again, and powerful. They don’t care about love because they know better now. They want to be in charge.
Dwarves may sometimes be the servants of evil queens or sometimes they are her enemies. They are fickle folk that way. I imagine that if an evil queen showed up and cleaned their house they’d help her hunt down and kill that pesky maiden with the lips as red as blood and skin as pale as snow.
Evil queens are practitioners of magic. Put  simply, they are witches.
Good queens die in labor or mourn when their children are abducted, or die without mention of the cause. They are disposable.
A word about Kings. They often marry evil queens after their good queen dies. They are generally dupes, loosing their kingdom or wealth to dwarves, wandering soldiers, and evil queens (not to mention witches who never become queens). Only their sons are clever, though generally not as clever as wandering soldiers, millers’s sons, tailors, or talking cats.
Princesses are always fair and must choose between two possible additional virtues; being clever or being kind. (There is a strong possibility that clever princesses will end as evil queens one day.)
Two out of every four princesses  are destined to fall into a sleep like death. (They are usually the kind ones.)
Princes often need the help of  witches or dwarves to get anything done. Witches who help princes and princesses are usually called “good” witches. Nobody feels it’s necessary to call the dwarves “good” dwarves.
(From this one may deduce that the default setting of dwarves is neutral whereas witches are all wicked unless proven to be “good.”)
This is what I know of the nature of dwarves and evil queens. I have said little. I had little to say.