It started with a mutter. Faint whispers here or there. And like all rumors, it began with a long night of drinking.
A wandering nomad passing by, took a center seat at a local tavern one night. Travelers like him were an exotic sight, always ready to entrance those who'll spare an ear with even more exotic tales to astonish.
This traveler was of no exception.
Drink in hand, and with a tipsy smile on his bearded face, he told his newfound village companions the story of the nearby forest and the little girl with the violet cloak that resides within it.
A simple tale told once, became a story told twice, overnight, two nights… soon it wouldn't just be stray wanderers recounting their own experiences over a drink or two.
The village baker claimed to have witnessed his dearly departed friend shambling around in the outskirts through his window, but before he could have taken a closer look, his friend had taken off in the night with a little girl, his rotting hand in hers.
