They couldn’t start without him, so they went looking.
They didn’t take the horses inside, that would have been silly. Instead they tied all four up under some trees and went looking for the guy with the crown and bow. They expected to be five minutes.
Having to pay for entry annoyed all three of them because they intended to find him and leave. Five minutes tops, for which they’d paid full fee. “When the revolution comes, brother,” War promised under his breath.
Then they saw the convention floor. The rows of booths, the crowds and the costumes.
“He could wander around as himself, bow and crown and all, and he’d blend right in,” Famine pointed out.
“What does he see in this sort of thing?” asked Death.
“You mean aside from the scantily-clad young women and the cool weapon mock-ups?” replied War. “Some of those swords are completely ridiculous, but fun.”
“We’ll have to split up,” declared Death, “I’ll take the middle section, Famine you’ve got the right, War you’re on the left. We’ll meet at the far end.”
It took longer than expected to cross the room. War and Death kept getting stopped for photos. War’d snagged half a dozen vendor’s pamphlets and had two sensible conversations with people who’d asked about his armour. Famine had gone via the cafeteria and was eating something on a roll. “I like their pricing,” he told the others, “I suppose it’s the captive audience.”
They went outside again to think. He was standing with the horses, talking to an angel.
“Where were you?” accused the angel, “The moment’s passed, again.”
“We were looking for him,” Death pointed at their fourth.
“I got given a ticket,” the one in a crown pointed upwards, “and told to use it. What would you’ve done?”