There was a story long told in Tamriel's darkest corners, of a child born with a blade in place of a hand. A product of rape and violence, her mother had thought of little else save revenge as she grew inside of her - and when she so gleefully carved her way out of her and into the world, that quest became her's. The child with a blade for a hand cut a bloody swath across Tamriel, and whenever an unfortunate victim asked who she was…she would simply say her name was Hel. Old Yoku for blade.
The horse he rode was black and black was the night and the wind rushed and the road angled and switchbacked down the hill until it plunged into a ravine along the edge of the woodlands where it straightened briefly, then lost itself in the humming field of nighttime crickets. Beyond this stretched a line of blackened treetrunks burned and fire-stormed and branchless like spears stuck into the earth by the gods. He led the horse away from the desolation and away from the road so that he waded through the grass, and here he could feel the horse working over the undulations and the ruts of the ploughed-up dirt, and when the horse stopped to pull fruit from the blackberry brambles, the rider let him, and dismounted.