I despise unicorns.
They prance around tossing those silver manes and trying to catch the light of the sun on their horn like no creature could hope to match their majesty. They are vain and selfish creatures that will run smaller animals out of their nests to claim the best grazing grounds. They could also get lost trying to walk a straight line. No bard wants to sing about the white beauty that walked circles all day chasing her own tail, though. The humans make up stories about the purity and grace of the glorious unicorn.
About my kind, they speak naught but ill words.
A grymcorn is an omen of death and a mark of evil upon the babe born outside the safety of a birthing circle. We are the red-eyed demons in horse form that go seeking human flesh and that serve as steeds for those who would do battle against heaven. We are the tricksters that lead travelers to their dooms when they wander down the wrong path beneath the blackened trees.
Alright, so perhaps that last one isn't entirely a lie. I will gladly lead a human traveler into the midst of an inescapable bog or over the edge of the cliff, but only those that have not claimed seventeen rounds of the globe. My kind is forbidden to harm children.
The little ones sense my honorable intentions when they lose their grip on the hand of a sibling or tumble from the wagon that was supposed to see them safely beyond war zones and the threat of plague. They lock their bony fingers around my mane and refuse to let go, though I barely feel their hardest tugs. I act as companion and guide to them, seeing them down the right path and giving them a gentle nudge toward their new village or the caravan that seeks them when the edge of the tree line comes into view. There are more paths in this dark forest than a mortal man could walk in a lifetime, yet I know every one and where it will lead.
It is not only the lost children that benefit from my presence. There are those that are abused at the hands of bad parents or masters. These I heal of any wounds of the body, though I am no godling to patch wounds of the spirit. Their heart's desire speaks to me in a silent tongue when they touch me and I take them to a distant sibling or the town where their soldier fathers were last thought to live.
Enemies that think to try the strength of a grymcorn for the prize of a small human to feast on will limp away with poisoned bites or a cracked skull. I will tolerate no interference with the transporting of a child. Even the sabre-toothed cats have learned not to test my patience.
I have never failed to satisfy the desires of one of my charges, though they may only call on my services once. I take them to that place that calls to their forming spirits. What they make of their lives from there, I cannot say.