Salvatorin

there is nobody at the reigns.
but imagine that the attached to the reigns are the tips of multitudinous tendrils-
each so long that it becomes obscured in the haze where the appendage originates.
so long and obscured these tendrils are that their owners, for the most part, are willfully oblivious to them. 
occasionally they inspect them with confusion.
They take note. Yes, there is a tendril growing out of my back. That much is certain. 
Yes, it seems very long, so long that it seems to disappear into the horizon, into the sky, even.
But the mist between the confused host and the end of the tendril - it playing slaps with the others to try and hold on to the reigns - the mist is too thick for the host, this enshrined and empowered feller, to glimpse through.