Usurpers of the throne of Wessex

feared neither fury from Heaven nor the justice of men. When no avenging angel descended from the firmament or hero arose from amongst the citizenry to confront the growing labyrinth of despair, the very earth of England's ancient graves rent open and issued forth a ghostly champion of their own.

Without mercy or compassion, its spectral hooves clattered through the cobbled Gates of Death that flanked the blazing backdrop of Hell and galloped through the blackened night to ruthlessly confront the King's intolerable inhumanity.

As it had since time immemorial, Britain's otherworldly sentinel let slip an unbridled rage mere men could never hope to dampen—a savage, barbaric indignation that relentlessly trampled brutish humanity beneath its chiselled, avenging hooves.