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Canada at Midnight 
Changeling: the Dreaming 
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Changeling: the Dreaming 

Kith Guide: Redcap
 
There you are… seems you didn’t get lost in the woods 
after all, eh? Well, now you’re here, might as well 
unfold a chair. Manitoba ice fishing at night ain’t for 
the weak, but it’s better for the crappie and 
walleye—night hunters both. Set your pack down next 
to the others there and bait up a line. No, don’t kill it, 
just maim it like so—we’re fishin’ for hunters, and at 
night, squirmy bait helps ‘em find their prey.   
 
I made some pork stock for us in the Thermoses 
there—Asian style, with rice noodles and local wild 
roots. That and some Kenyan dark roast brewed to 
raise the dead should keep us going a good long while. I’d offer you a cigar, but I’m running 
out until I get back into town next month. I get mine from a Satyr tobacconist in Montreal who 
mails ‘em out to me. Met him at the Second Battle of Thunder Bay some years ago. He had a 
flair for both Turkish Oriental leaf cigars and Turkish cheese-filled phyllo dough “cigars.” 
Interesting people, the Turks: fine tobacco, rich and savory cuisine, bloodthirsty Janissaries… 
good readin’ material. He told me the Turks use the same word for ​“smokin’”​ as they do for 
“drinkin’.”​ Seems about right every time I take a long draw. 
 
Tent? No, I like to pack light. Couple chairs, couple rods, bait and tackle box, some cookin’ 
supplies, kerosene stove, a few Thermoses and some local ​pemmican​, and I’m ready. Anyway, 
whatever we didn’t pack in to eat, we can fish for. Way I hear it, we’re in for some wind tonight. 
We’ll see how you do—think of it as kind of a test, eh? I’m used to it by now. The cold never 
bothered me anyway... 
 
[Content Warning: This document contains references to gore and cannibalism.] 

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 Only One Way to Eat an Elephant 
 
1. ​Sniff​ — With us, it always did start with the air, whether it’s a wintry wind whippin’ away 
the last glow of warmth or a savory and sultry scent seducin’ the stomach. Pay attention to 
which way the wind is blowin’ and what it can tell you. Good advice for anyone who wants 
to remain the hunter rather than the hunted, both literally and figuratively. 
 
2. ​Cut​ — The wind has teeth... The bitin’ wind… It’s always been a part of our nature: the 
invisible bite of a hidden predator. You ​have to​ bite to survive. Sure, sometimes you’ll surely 
get bitten back, and you ​will​ have to watch out for that. But if you never draw blood yourself, 
the only part left for you to play in the theatre of life is the role of the sandwich prop. 
 
3. ​Tear​ — It’s in our nature to rip things to shreds, be they complex carbohydrates or 
political structures. We’ve always been one of the forces eatin’ away at the stability of 
so-called “civilized” life: the fence of the village commons, a careless shepherd lost in the 
trackless forest, the undermined road along the riverbank, any sense of security in a dark 
urban alley… To have somethin’ to fear at the edge of civilization, there must be an ​edge​ in 
the first place. 
 
4. ​Grind​ — Once you pick a fight, be ready to finish it. No mercy, no take-backs. Anyone 
fool enough to stand against you deserves what’s comin’. Just assume they’re thinkin’ the 
same about you: that’s sure to spur you on. Fights are the easiest example that comes to 
mind, but the same holds for any course of action once you choose it. Grind, or be ground. 
 
5. ​Wise​ — This only comes with time—after all, they’re the last teeth to come in! ​Wising​ is 
both somethin’ you ​do ​(​Wise up!​) and somethin’ you ​do to​ (​Upwise that guy, will you?​). You 
won’t survive long if knowledge slides off your brain like rain off an oilskin. Once you ​do 
soak up some wisdom, you best use it to guide others—like, as a corby Boss—or else 
someone’ll figure you’re easy pickins for an ​extraction,​ if you catch my drift. 
 
6. ​Swallow​ — You won’t always have plenty, so get ​what ​you can ​while​ you can. On top of 
that, ​you are what you eat​. Once you’ve put somethin’ in your mouth—a lamb shank or a 
shady deal with a Sidhe—own it. Gettin’ to that point was ​your ​choice, and every choice you 
make is a part of you from that moment on. Only a Pooka looks at you with frostin’ still on 
his cheek and tells you he didn’t eat the last piece of cake. Don’t stoop to that level of 
bullshit. Besides, if you want that cake, you know what you have to do... 
 
 
   

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Winter Tales 
 

Cold 
We were always there, though only our touch, our bite and the signs of our passin’ could be 
perceived. The wind was everywhere, and if you look back far enough, into a time when other 
creatures—even other humans—walked the land, wind was cold, and cold was a threat. They 
didn’t think of cold back then as the mere absence of heat (and indeed, most people ​still​ don’t, 
so strong is our influence even now). No, back then, cold was just as much a predator as any 
wolf on the tundra or lynx in the foliage. Cold sought you out, cold disbursed your precious 
heat, and cold was relentless, seepin’ into your bones. It huffed, and it puffed, and it snuffed 
your life out. Some Kiths claim humble beginnins, but ours wasn’t humble at all: it was the very 
breath of life-threatenin’ sleet, snow, ice and hail—a force of nature that was out to get you, a 
terror proved by how many of your friends it’d already got. 
 

Hungry 
To the foragers and the hunters, hunger was the constant enemy. Frequent expeditions to find 
food for the people huddled in their caves and villages took people far into wild country. 
Hunger drew them out, and if they met somethin’ nasty with claws or teeth out there, or simply 
got lost or injured, then hunger could claim them forever. We were always there with them on 
those days, whisperin’ to their chill-reddened ears the things we would do to them come 
nightfall. In some places, they gathered in larger villages and started raisin’ their food closer to 
home, but even that couldn’t keep us at bay. Even as they worked together to grow a crop or 
tend a flock, we worked together with the harsh winter to freeze the soil and cull the weak in 
the herd. The game was the same, only the stakes—and with cattle, the steaks—were bigger. 
 

Wet 
Large settlements are thirsty. Even if it rains in sheets, most of that becomes mud in the 
streets, and people mostly can’t collect enough from rainfall to slake their thirst. Besides, 
sometimes it didn’t rain anyway. Most villages settled into sendin’ some of their number out 
daily to fetch water from a nearby stream. Water’s heavy, muddy banks are slippery, and 
streams flow cold enough to make you gasp—you can’t help an autonomic reaction like that. 
You know what led to more deaths than anything else in Tudor England? Tragic drownins in 
shallow water. See, we’re thirsty, too, and the local stream is a fine place to swallow a person 
up. All it takes is a nudge or a tug to off-balance someone, and then you just pounce and hold. 
Beavers cold store food underwater too—it’s nature’s way. Before the Interregnum, plenty of 

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Sidhe learned about this up close before their last: lots of fine woolen raiments to drag them 
under once it's waterlogged. Just you never forget: the River Hags taught ​us​ this trick. 

Weary 
Turns out people don’t actually like workin’ all the live-long day. In fact, to avoid havin’ to, they 
eventually developed a whole smorgasbord of production methods that grew from cottage 
industries all the way into the Industrial Revolution and the modern cities we know and prowl 
today. Cities push more people into smaller places for convenience of manufacturin’, but they 
also grind people down like grist in a flour mill. After work each day, many walk out empty and 
unfulfilled, and just dazed and bleary enough to make the urban places an easy huntin’ ground 
for us. What’s a dark alley but a blind gully built out of bricks, anyway? 
 
When the Sidhe returned from Arcadia into a largely urbanized world, they emerged into a 
realm that was fast growin’ weary with itself. Sure, the Resurgence was a bit like a hit of 
opium, helpin’ to dull the pain… for a while. Many of the Sidhe were undoubtedly fatigued 
after their long journey back, and many of our corbies were ready and waitin’ to greet ‘em. (We 
can be patient and still for a long time, you know. Ever laid still in a meadow and waited for a 
bird or a chipmunk to jump into your mouth?—Snap!) Just as we’ve always been there along 
the long highways when travelers weren’t lookin’ too close, we were poised to cull a few tasty 
elves as they migrated back into the chilly climate of this world. Unfortunately, this left only the 
stronger ones in play, and that meant the years of war that followed weren’t such easy pickins 
for us. Even so, we didn’t exactly die out in famine now, did we? 
 

Alone 
Since the end of David Ardy’s years-long banquet and glut of good cheer, much of the 
beginnin’ seems to be coming ‘round again. Despite our urban adaptations, we never lost that 
part of us that howls across the heath beyond the edge of the village and threatens to rip away 
a body’s vital heat. Winter has come, but it’s been here before, and it wasn’t a bad time for us, 
all things considered. Like long ago, once again, we’re not entirely welcome at most 
fires—that’s how much we still chill the blood of even our “fellow” Kithain. 
 
It’s not all the same, though. Where it used to be that we could count on where most any of us 
stood, the strange circumstance of havin’ the Shadow Court at the top is like having the North 
Wind startin’ in the village square. Until now we’ve always been the freezin’, bitin’ wind, the 
wind that tears at the tent flaps and rips at the wicker fence of the village, the wind that carries 
the hungry howls and snarls of whatever lonely death may await beyond the fire’s glow. But 
with the cold of Winter now curled up in the village’s heart, it seems that some of us now 

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believe that a hot summer wind is needed to whip up the stormy weather we’re used to. Same 
goes for a corby or Kith as for your skull, though: division ain’t good for the health. 
 
 

Kith Culture 
The Corby 
Like the wind and the weather, we’re a force in the dreams of the world. Strength in numbers 
is why people started livin’ in villages and eventually cities, and that holds for us, too. When 
we gather in groups, it’s a force multiplier. Only we don’t waste that power huddlin’ around a 
fire eating our daily gruel—we amplify the unease of a whistlin’ wind into the nightmare of a 
hurricane gale and blizzard that drives a body out of sleep and bolt upright in a clammy, 
panicked sweat. One Redcap is dangerous, but a group of us is danger incarnate. Some may 
quaintly liken us to gangs, posses, raider clans or mercenary bands, but most of us find that 
the traditional term ​corby​ works universally to convey the true character of a group of Redcaps 
ready with teeth and blades to extract the sweet marrow from the bones of anyone in our path. 
 

The Boss 
The key to an axe is its bit. See, without the bit’s edge to focus its energy, an axe is just a 
mace—good for bludgeonin’ and splatter, but not so good at slicin’ off a choice cut of meat or 
effectin’ a satisfyin’ one-shot vivisection at the sternum. A corby’s Boss has to be strong and 
sharp like an axe bit, or the whole corby’s less effective. A wise Boss keeps a couple strong 
lieutenants facing the rest of the corby, but also sharpens herself against the stone, grindin’ out 
the nicks and curled edges that would eventually blunt the axe. On the backswing, if the Boss 
gets dulled and softened beyond repair, a solid corby’ll recognize when it’s time to reforge the 
whole damned thing. 
 

Bullying 
Redcaps are by their nature uncouth, brutish, and socially primitive. Explicit in the Kith’s 
concept is the notion that “might makes right,” which naturally draws us to think of bullies. 
Simple social hierarchies, the equivalence of being tough with being in charge—it fits. Most 
of this falls under Standard Content in Canada at Midnight. Even so, it’s incumbent upon the 
Redcap player to make sure their portrayal is also fun for the players around them, and 
bullying is a long-term source of emotional pain, even for experienced adults. Check In 
frequently with others. 
 

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 One way to approach mutually enjoyable intimidation roleplay is to “spread the love” with 
“equal opportunity” shows of strength directed at lots of characters—a boasting style. This 
doesn’t mean you have to be all bark and no bite, but it goes a long way to making sure your 
portrayal doesn’t fall into a rut that dishes out more to anyone than their fair share. In the 
end, unless you have explicit consent to delve into a focused and personal bullying narrative, 
avoid patterns in your roleplay that could make an individual ​Player​ feel singled out. 

The Job 
It started long before even the Shatterin’: the world was full of nasty beasts that even a 
sun-glintin’ Sidhe knight couldn’t topple, so countless Freeholds wet their pants and hid inside 
to avoid becomin’ tomorrow’s lunch for a ​wyrm​ the size of a hill or somesuch. In such rare 
moments of mutually assured satisfaction, the other Kithain hired our corbies to go chop and 
eat some exotic meat. This sort of deal was sporadic employment at best, but led to larger 
and stronger groups, eventually settin’ up the precedent for today’s ​war bands​, when multiple 
corbies gathered, sometimes to literally move a mountain (the coilin’, hungry kind of mountain, 
that is). To some extent this legacy was revived durin’ the Accordance Wars, but it really had a 
comeback in the last couple of Fomorian Wars. It may be cute to think of it like Transformers 
or Power Rangers combinin’ their powers, but there’s nothin’ cute about a wave of 
human-sized maws chewin’ up a Fomorian like piranhas on a clumsy canoer in the Amazon. 
Much to the chagrin of many Sidhe, the recent revival of our war band tradition also woke up 
our appetite for battlefield cuisine. For the time bein’, it smells like war bands are here to stay. 
 

The Gear 
We’re not Selkies. Our soul ain’t tragically missin’ or trapped if we lose the blood-stained cap 
or stash it in our pocket for some reason (like, to get the drop on a fairy-hunter). Think of it as 
traditional garb. Without a single word, it tells everyone who and what we are. But it better be 
authentic, not like some knock-off salsa made in New York City. Real blood, real enemies, or 
you’re just a laughin’ stock (and maybe next in some corby’s stock pot). 
 

The Menu 
Any Redcap worth the name knows the value of cultivatin’ a varied palate. Thanks especially 
to the gulf between the Knights of the Tilted Windmill and the Orthodoxy, we Redcaps seem 
not to be as united in cause as we once were. Frankly, we can lay that at the feet of the 
Shadow Court—we Redcaps barely knew the word ​dilemma​ before they rose to power a few 
years ago. But that’s hardly the end of the world, if you know how to handle yourself. Any 
good hunter knows how to gauge the motivations of others and even predict their next few 

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moves, and observation comes naturally to us after millennia of perfectin’ our ambush tactics. 
Figure out what you ​can​ work with them on, and make sure it’s brutally effective. Even I work 
with some Knights and some of the Orthodoxy when they’re lookin’ to send some city slicker 
on a permanent Canadian wilderness vacation. It’s not hard, and it keeps the larder full. You 
ready for some more soup there? I love the flavour of pork, don’t you? Here’s a Thermos... 
 

The Market 
Think of a hill in the near distance. On a clear summer day, shutterbug tourists might remark 
on the panoramic beauty of the range of mountains faintly visible beyond it, barely noticin’ the 
hill, though it’s right there up close. Thing is, it ain’t Summer anymore. Now cover that image 
with a winter flurry. You can see the nearest part of the slope, clad mostly in white, but the 
more distant slopes are mistily hidden behind the fallin’ snow, and the hilltop itself is 
completely swallowed up by the cold, white sky, formless and seamless as it bends down to 
sample the defenceless bones of the earth. On that hill you can sometimes see a darker blur of 
shadow dartin’ at the corner of your vision, disconcertingly close. Several, even. They’re out 
there. ​We’re​ out there, and that’s our native realm. Worse things, things long unseen but 
glimpsed again durin’ the most recent wars, live out there in the mountains, where we can’t see 
them unless they venture forth. As we look ahead to the rest of Winter, it’s temptin’ also to 
look back at the last one and recall that time long ago, when we rode the Winter winds and 
glutted on the blood and marrow of the stray and the wayward. In the comin’ years, we each 
must decide whether we plan to stay on that hill and harry whatever might come over it or to 
embrace the cold and look for a new—or former?—Boss. 
 
 
   

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Company for Dinner 
Adhene 
We go way back to before today’s lines were drawn with some of the Dark-kin, especially the 
Fir-bholg and Fuath. We’d be wise to bear this in mind as lines are redrawn in Winter ahead. 

Boggans 
Useful for two things: a ready meal and a way to spread your street cred efficiently. Oh, that’s 
three ways, if you count the first one as two ways... 

Eshu 
So many roadside ambushes. So many exotic spices. Yeah, we go way back with them, too. 

Fomorians 
The primitive dark; the dread born of the shadows beyond the firelight. Most Kithain don’t like 
to admit that the Tuatha de Danann and Fomorians were close relations, but the stories back it 
up. We’d have to be blind and deaf to miss the family resemblance we bear to them. 

Ghillie Dhu 
You’d think we could get along better, but they still honour some raw deals made long ago. 

River Hags 
More close cousins. Trolls get a bad rep for lurkin’ under bridges, but it’s most likely these 
guys instead. In fact, we’re likely just different niche specialists from a very recent common 
forebear. Just remember that, like us, they’ve survived by bein’ damn good at what they do. 

Selkies 
They know the cold, unyieldin’ sea intimately, and they don’t flinch. That’s worthy of some 
respect. Keep to the turf and not the surf, and it works out all right between us. 

Sidhe 
Ever seen a ​Wienerschnitzel​ claim to own the whole restaurant? It’s like that. Best when slow 
roasted and basted. Falls right off the bone. 

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Trolls 
The other reason we value our corbies. Walkin’ hills, these Kithain require more than one 
swing to bring down. Expect losses if your Boss ain’t really on his game. 
   

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Naming Names 
 
❖ ​Dax “Le Labrys”​ - Seelie Legend 
➢ Born to be a Boss 
➢ Le Margrave de la Frontière des Fleuves 
➢ Originally from Matagami, QC, Dax’s Chrysalis was in the early 1990s. In the early 
2000s, his Unseelie corby gained fame, unafraid to venture into northern Quebec to 
battle the most fearsome of snow and lake monsters. Their activities also brought 
them into conflict with some Inanimae, and similar clashes with Nunnehi got him 
barred from negotiations of the Treaty of Northern Lights. Surprisingly, he didn’t 
declare for the Shadow Court. His corby apprehended Seelie rebels on behalf of 
Regent Meilge, only to then declare for the Seelie Court at Caer Palisades in summer 
of 2009 before returning to the wilds of Quebec. After years away from the public 
eye, he attended the coronation of Duke Rocco at Caer Frost in 2015 and was 
knighted afterward. In return for his valour at Lake Ontario in the Second Fomorian 
War, he was created Margrave and received his borderland fiefdom at La Frontière 
des Fleuves, where he runs a hunting and fishing guide business for tourists. The 
Knights of the Tilted Windmills regard him as their leader, though this is a appellation 
that he has repeatedly rejected. 
 
❖ ​Ransack​ – Unseelie Errant 
➢ Rabble Rouser; Icon of Iconoclasm 
➢ Randall Sackhoff was born in Chicago from parents who escaped from East 
Germany in the 1980s. His parents’ experience of that oppressive Communist 
regime informed Randall’s upbringing, and he became involved in activist social and 
political causes at a young age. Protests, marches and sit-ins soon consumed him, 
and hardly a month went by without the police escorting Randall home. It was at 
one such protest march—one that turned violent—that Randall underwent his 
Chrysalis as a Redcap. Now Randall—or Ransack—continues in his activist causes, 
but he really excels if the protest takes a dark turn. Ransack is overcome by a desire 
to see the order of the world collapse, and as such, is highly regarded among The 
Horde. 
 
❖ Gerardine “The Abominable” Snow​ – Shadow Court Eidelon 
➢ Problem Solver 
➢ Dame Errant 
➢ Formerly an unknown, since Meilge’s rise, The Abominable has quietly influenced the 
Orthodoxy throughout Concordia. In court, she appears every bit the favoured 
prodigy of the High Regent, but it’s suggested that some Kithain disappearances 
have been a point of contention between the two. 

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