The tale goes that there was a strange hooded figure that travelled the world for many years and hardly ever stopped even for a moment. Everywhere the figure went death and misfortune passed in its wake. Crops would fail, children would fall ill, wells would run dry. Villages feared the figure coming into town. One day a village in the hills saw the traveller approaching along a long road beside a cliff face. Fearing for their livelihoods they sent out a group of hunters riding out on the village’s fastest horses and surrounded the figure. They told him they would not allow him to travel into their village.
-Why? The figure asked simply. The hunters replied that he was a bad omen and everywhere he went death surely followed.
-But gentlemen. The figure replied, the shadows parting to reveal a slim smile. –It’s not me causing the death to come.
-Then what is? One of the hunters replied.
As he said this was when a strange cold wind swept along the mountain path and the hunter’s began to die spontaneously.
-The thing chasing me. The figure replied shortly before collapsing.
The tale goes that there was a man who lurked on the edge of a small town in a forest. He would wander through the outermost houses calling out in the night strange prophecies and frightening the children. One of his predictions stood alone in that it was repeated often.
-The village dies when the last man in it hurts his leg.
One day the town became so infuriated with him that they banded together and drove him out into the wilderness. Many years passed before he returned. He reached the edge of the town and the mob returned to confront him.
-I have travelled far and seen much. The man said.
-We don’t care. The mob replied before driving him away again. This time there fury was such that the entire town pursued him so far only a single person was still inside the town’s limits. As he followed the rest of the mob he tripped and made a small scar on his leg before continuing.
The mob returned to find the entire town had burned to the ground. Nothing but ash remained.
The tale goes that a woman lived alone on a mountain and spun a spinning wheel every day.
Travellers and local villages at the foot of the mountain noticed over the years that the woman never seemed to eat or drink anything. Also she stayed there in just a thin shawl even in the very bitter depths of winter when few dared venture far from fireplaces or else freeze to death. Over the years legends built up around the woman that she ate people who got lost in the mountains or that she was actually the devil.
One village became so afraid of her that they offered to give a sizable sum of money to anyone who would kill her and bring them her head on a pike. Three mercenaries came to take up the offer. The first climbed the mountain but there was a snowstorm and he died before reaching the top. The second reached her only to realize he’d been followed by a wolf. The starving animal, faced with the choice between a beefy tough mercenary and a skinny meagre old woman, ate the mercenary and then left satisfied. The third mercenary made it to the top, drew his sword and had the old woman it his mercy on the ground. As he prepared to make the fatal swing he suddenly stopped. He looked up into the sky and questioned the nature of his gods and his life. He looked at the overwhelming nights sky and felt terrible alone. He felt suddenly sure that his life was pointless. His heroism lost all meaning. In that moment he stood up from the old woman, renounced the gods, and killed himself right there on the spot.
The old woman returned to her spinning wheel and the village only became more afraid of her.