THE NIGHT IS COLD and bitter, the wind carrying a harsh edge that would cut through even the thickest of cloaks. They cared little- they no longer felt the cold or the heat. Their mount, as black as the sky above them, rides swiftly and smoothly across roads and field alike, soaring through the air to clear hedges and fences, unbound by the constraints of mortal man. They laugh at the pleasure, leaning low against the neck of the beast as it heaves in great lungfuls of air, carrying them closer and closer to their quarry. They straighten, then, lifting their head high up so that they might see the little mouse running up ahead of them. Their other hand, clutching the smoothed bone of the spine whip, tightens around the handle in anticipation. They have no master and no name; they answer to none, and none can escape their grasp.

It was a night such as that on which their name was returned.