Apocalypse

Five thousand years before anyone had heard the word mutant, a wandering tribe crossing the deserts of Egypt found an infant with grey skin and strange markings, and called him cursed. They left him to the sand. The sand refused him. Something older than the pyramids had already decided that this child would not simply survive the desert; he would become it, and take a name that meant only one thing to every empire that has ever grown fat and slow: an ending. He calls himself Apocalypse, and he has spent every age since proving he earned the name. He does not stay buried. When a body fails him, he sheds it and rises in another, his mind older than the civilizations built and lost around him. He gathers Horsemen, War, Famine, Pestilence, Death, and rides them through the soft places of the world, because he believes, with total and ancient conviction, that only struggle produces anything worth keeping. He does not hate the weak. He simply refuses to slow down for them. Somewhere beneath the ruins he has caused and the empires he has ended, he is still waiting for someone strong enough to finally prove him wrong.