Sketch stood in the middle of the road, looking at the cards in his hands and contemplating what had just happened. Had a Grym really found him without him seeking them out first? Normally the lesser Grym couldn’t take on a physical presence without a great deal of fear to feed off, or a great deal of energy from himself. The witch had to have been an incredibly old and powerful Grym to stay physical without anyone nearby.

Once again, the feeling of intense loss filled him as he wracked his mind to remember an important piece of his past he missed. The witch was important, someone from his past. The other name she mentioned, The Unfettered King, that name still shot energy through his body.

He cursed himself for not being able to gain more information from the witch while he had the opportunity. The Grym he could summon to him never talked to him when he asked questions, they always just looked at him with their empty, questioning eyes.

He put the cards in his pack, brushed the dirt off his suit, and continued down the path towards the town again, determined to ask at least one question should he ever run into the Grym again. He pulled out his clay pipe and lit it, letting the rich deep scent of the tobacco calm the anger that he felt.

Sketch walked for a few hours, thinking over the information he got from the witch’s tarot reading. The past and future readings were vague, as tarot readings typically were, but the present card, “The Hanged Man” gave him pause. She’d said that nothing he did, no choice he made, would impact the future that was going to come to him, and his time should be better spent growing and learning. He again absently touched the bruise on his neck, wondering just how close the reading was to being truth.

As the blue sky started to fade and give way to the brilliant orange and pink of dusk, Sketch decided it was time to find a place to stop for the evening. He found a large uprooted oak tree that created a natural campsite in the woods, and laid out a large fire to give him able warmth for the night.

As night came on in its full form, the woods around him settled into a shadowy oblivion in which Sketch’s whole world was only the area that the firelight touched. He made a light meal of dried meat, cheese, and hard bread. He indulged himself with his pipe once more, allowing himself to relax for the evening. He leaned against the side of the tree, putting his cloak over himself as a blanket, and allowed himself the pipe until his eyes felt heavy, and drifted off to sleep.

His dreams were always odd, he felt. He often saw things that would terrify normal men, yet he felt nothing. Sketch had a hard time being frightened, seeing pure raw horror on a regular basis had a way of desensitizing one. He saw the cold, hollow eyes of the Grym all around him, and one pair walked closer to him in a sea of pure darkness.

Sketch held out a lantern in his hand, and shown light over the creature that walked closer to him. The eyes belonged to a Grym that had the warped appendages of a man, with the shoulders looking lumped and broken, yet the head of a chestnut mare. It’s lips split back in an emotionless smile, and the creature spoke, “Once there was a girl, fair and beautiful… her mother so loved the child that she gave her a red cloak to keep her warm…” it’s voice like the rasp of a rusted vice. Sketch held up a hand “My friend, I do hope you aren’t going to waste my time telling me a story that every child knows. I appreciate a good story, but I do hate hearing the ones I already know told back to me.”

The creature cocked it’s inhuman head to the side, “The story you know is incomplete, Teller. For at the end, while the great Beast lay dying, cleaved open by the huntsman, he took the cloak off the scared maiden, and laid it across the beast, to spare the girl the horror of watching it die. That beast was one of the first Grym, Teller. A primal horror born from the fears of wolves that hunted in the night. As it laid dying, it’s lifeblood seeped into the cloak, causing it to change in aspect. The cloak grew dark and twisted, and ended up becoming a Grym in it’s own right. Over time, it was lost, and grew in power as the legend of the girl and the beast became so wide spread that every child knows the tale.”

The horse-headed creature began retreating backwards, it’s legs scraping upon the dreamscape. Sketch knew that the dream was nearing its end. “And what am I to do with this information?!” called Sketch, annoyed. As the piercing, empty eyes of the Grym began to fade, it’s voice echoed out, “Find it.”

Sketch opened his eyes as the last embers of the fire began to die out, and the night had grown the slightest tint of pink amongst navy. He sat there for a moment in disbelief. Never had he been spoken to by the Grym. The relationship between the storyteller and the nightmarish creatures seemed simple, he called them out with his stories, and they responded. But now twice in the span of a day he’d been approached by them first.

He stood up, and walked over to his pack and pulled out one of the long tarot cards he’d received the day before. He stared at “The Hanged Man” as he remembered the dream. “Find it.” Said the horseman, “The actions in the future will happen no matter what choices you make,” said the witch.

Sketch packed up and pondered his next course. On one hand, he was told by the Grym to find the cloak, yet on the other, he was told that his choices made no difference. One thing was clear, that if the cards that were drawn by the witch were true, any choice he made was set to go towards only one direction, and that lead towards “The Devil”.