The Arms That Howl

You have all heard stories of unicorns in the past. How men of old would bring ornate gnarled horns to town, and tell of the beauteous creature from which it had come. Usually a white horse, gleaming with radiant innocence, prancing through sunny fields as carefree as the wind.

The truth is no such fairy tale.

The horn those men sometimes brought back was indeed a prize. But a prize of surviving what killed their fellow glory-seekers…not of victory over a magical white horse. The only horse even visible near such a ‘unicorn’ was its previous meal. Torn in half, eyes frozen wide, ears still pricked toward that tiny clicking sound which brought it to the shadows.

The creatures you now call ‘unicorns’ are voracious predators. They are insectoid, not equine. They are large as your hunting dogs, have bulky bodies coated in black chitin…and they enjoy goring into flesh.

Notice I said “are.” That is because they still live.

In Lu’kk-Enoth, they prey upon whatever comes within reach of their eight horned legs and twin fanged mouths. Primarily small, skittering things. Many hunger for larger meals. Meals that run. Meals that boast of taking their wickedly-crooked horns as some sort of honor.

When the only honor is madly running from the wounded ‘unicorn’ before it finishes killing you.

What are they truly? I call them Hessh Scrabblers. They are monstrous beasts. They prowl through swamps and grim-coated forests. Once in a great while they stumble upon a ripple between worlds. And come unto Earth again when the night is black, and the forests whisper.

Nights like those upon us now.

Pray you never see a ‘unicorn.’ For they hunger.