The Gytrash seeks out the empty novels. Their covers lie abandoned upon the moors of West Yorkshire. Pages scattered and walked in to the mud and manure.
At night, the Gytrash with his yellow eyes and black, furry padded feet, creeps about the paths and hills of the Yorkshire moors, waiting; an unsuspecting man, of Victorian eligance complies to his demands and sits beneath the oak and writes him a fable. The Gytrash reads this, then sleeps in a small cave, his black fur brushing lightly from the wind.
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