children are told by elders and old to not step into the wood

for it's branches grasp and it's roots clasp to pull you into the fold

the darkened boughs resist our plows and will not bend or break

a poor fool's plight the woods at night would make a warrior shake

dark monsters leer with a sickening sneer in the forest's beating heart

no matter the cost do not get lost no map or captain's chart

can guide your way unless you pay the bloodwood's final toll:

your skin like bark your teeth grow sharp you forfeit your human soul

After the age of castles and the forests had begun to dwindle, there was a researcher. Hollow-bodied but sharp of mind. He was touched by weakness that dulled the marrow of his body and thickened the lifeblood of his veins to a slow and monotonous flow. No medic nor healer could reach in and scoop out the rot that he felt. When he awoke in the mornings, the sun's light was dimmed through an ache that no amount of reading or research could teach him how to alleviate.

This was a scientist. So some might think that he would not believe in fantastic stories. But a good scientist knows that for every story there is a source. That every fact begins as a theory. And this scientist ,through his illness and his devotion, heard a story that he believed was more than a dusty tale.

So the scientist sought assistance, threw himself into work, reached out with shaking hands to any who could help. He was laughed at.

He turned to rituals– science, too, in their own way. And the researcher uncovered a legend. The story of a creature whose blood, through just a taste, would cleanse any sin, would heal any harm, would redeem the most pitiful souls.

And he did what a good scientist does: he used himself as a test subject. He sought his answers in a distant wood. His colleagues, dismissive of his work, laughed even harder when he never returned, claiming the illness was always going to take him. He died on a Fool's errand, searching for signs of a Unicorn.