Myth Of The Black Unicorn

A cold, but strong breeze swept across the deserted and lonely fields. A dark, empty forest on one side of the huge moors, and a gurgling, dangerous stream, churning on the other side painted the depressing picture of life in the Blacklands’. It was called the Blacklands’ because of the harsh, miserable life the creatures who lived on them had to put up with. The furthest thing that could be seen was the endless marshland and bog that surrounded the entire Blacklands as far as the eye could see, so that none could escape the cruel existence. It was cut of from the world, and none even knew there was life outside of this despair.
    A sudden, sharp cry, filled with pain and sorrow called out across the freezing, frostbitten moors, and then another, filled with fear and anxiety. The time was leaf-bare, when food was not only difficult to find for all, but impossible, and creatures, be they friend or foe, prey or hunter, slept, or just seemed to vanish in this time. But not these creatures. Not the Unicorns.
    A creature, like a horse, burst out from the forest, and came to a standstill just on the edge of the moor, where the trees stopped, and almost endless fields began. But this was not a horse. In every other way it looked the same, but it had a horn, a slender, dangerous but beautiful horn on its forehead, making it a noble and beautiful creature to behold. This was the Unicorn. It nervously looking out across the wintry moor, even though no creature or even Hunter would ever be out there, on the Blacklands’, let alone at Leaf-bare. It whinnied softly, less wild than it had seemed at first, crashing out from the trees, eyes rolling in panic, its sides heaving. It had given up. Unlike a horse, the Unicorn knew when to be calm, and come out of the panic that herd-like prey creatures called ‘‘the terror’’.