Table of Contents

The Reunion (Part I) 6 New Devotions 44

Mystikoi 46
Introduction 11 Bloodline Origins 47
In the Covenants 48
Theme: Top of the Food Chain 11 Rumors 48
Mood: This Not Too Solid Flesh 11 Jeremy Wong 49

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A History of Violence 11 Spiritus Sancti 50
What’s in This Book 12
Oberlochs 52
Gangrel Media 12
Bloodline Origins 53
Vampire Media 12
In the Covenants 54
Non-Vampire Media 13

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Rumors 54
Requiem Books 13
Old Alice 55
New Merit 55
The Reunion (Part II) 14 New Devotions 55
Twists of the Blood: Extended Family 56
Chapter One: Packmates 19 Verlice 57
Bloodline Origins 58
Baetyl 20 In the Covenants 59
Bloodline Origins 21
Rumors 59
In the Covenants 22
Missy Barker 60
Rumors 22
Ogre 22

New Devotions
Cerrid 25
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Bloodline Gift: The Bezoar Core 23
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Bloodline Gift: The Ride
New Merit
New Devotions
Vehicle Systems
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Wickers 63
Bloodline Origins 26
Bloodline Origins 64
In the Covenants 26
In the Covenants 65
Rumors 27
Rumors 65
Adamantine Wyld 27
Peregrine 66
Bloodline Gift: The Golden Throat 28
New Merits 66
New Devotions 28
New Devotions 67
Childer of the Morrigan 30
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Yarilo 68
Bloodline Origins 31
Bloodline Origins 69
In the Covenants 32
In the Covenants 70
Rumors 32
Rumors 70
Kira Queen 33
Mother Lux 70
Bloodline Gift: Banshee Crúac 34
New Merit 71
New Devotions 34
New Devotions 72
Daimonion 35
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Bloodline Origins 36 The Reunion (Part III) 74

In the Covenants 36
Rumors 37
Dr. Timothy Avalon 37 Chapter Two: The Passenger 79
Bloodline Gift: An Ear for the Beast 38 The Beast, Arisen 79
New Merit 38 Wings Beneath Your Skin, 1 79
New Devotion 39 To Grandmother’s House We Go 80
Dead Wolves 40 Wings Beneath Your Skin, 2 81
Bloodline Origins 41 Snips, Snails, and Puppy-Dog Tails 81
In the Covenants 42 Wings Beneath Your Skin, 3 81
Rumors 42 The Voice in My Head Doesn’t Like You 82
Rosalina 43 Wings Beneath Your Skin, 4 82
New Merit 43 Me and My Shadow 83

Table of Contents 3
 Wings Beneath Your Skin, 5 83 Three Bloodhounds 127
Regrets 85 New Merit 128
Wings Beneath Your Skin, 6 85 Neo-American Wrestling Alliance 129
Hell Is Other People 85 Where we came from 129
Wings Beneath Your Skin, 7 86 Who we are tonight 129
Me, Myself, and Eternity: Risen Systems 87 Three Champions 130
Risen Conditions 87 Redwater Bay Police 132
Making a Monster 88 Where we came from 132
Roleplaying the Passenger 89 Who we are tonight 132
Crowded Mental Space 89

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Three Rooks 133
You Can’t Hate Me More Than I Do 89 New Merit 134
Never Alone: Sample Risen 90
The Brides of Dracula 135
Alice Barker 90
Count Fucking Dracula 138
Dr. Virgil St. Germaine 91
New Merits 139

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Molly Smith 93
New Devotions 140
Risen Devotions and Merits 94
Devotions 94 The Society of the Accord 141
Merits 95 Sample Hellion: Garret Moore 144
Treaties 144
New Merits 146
The Reunion (Part IV) 96
Blood Mold 147
Background 147
Chapter Three: Tools of the Hunt 101 Rumors 148
Savage Secrets 101 Dallas Xu 148
Archetypes 101
Devotions 102
Merits 107
Crúac Rites
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Systems 149
Gargoyles 151
Background 151
Rumors 152
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In the Flesh: A Players Guide to Protean 112 The Bone Knight 153
Skin Like Quicksilver 112 The Birthing Ritual 153
Bit by Bloody Bit 113 Character Creation 154
Evolution: Playing with Protean 114 Special Systems 155
New Adaptations 115 Aspects 155
Wild at Heart: The Feral Curse 116 Becoming Rampant 156
Just Below the Surface 116 Hunting Grounds 157
Intrusive Thoughts 116
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Background 157
Weapon of Last Resort: Playing the Bane 117 Rumors 158
Common Banes 118 Three Badlands 159
Systems 159
The Reunion (Part V) 120 Narya 162
Background 162
Chapter Four: Interloping Predators 125 Rumors 163
Voivod 163
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Midnight Wolves 126 Systems 164

Where we came from 126
Who we are tonight 126 The Reunion (Epilogue) 166

Index of Conditions
Beastless 39 Posture: Symbiotic 87
Cathectic 165 Posture: Unleashed 88
Posture: Hostile 87 Risen Beast (Persistent) 87

4 Wild Hunt: Gangrel

 THE REUNION
by kelly j clark

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 part one: the daughter
There are places outside the big cities where the blood collects in the slopes of dirt roads and pools
near the foul compost of forgotten towns. You know these places even if you’ve never been to one
— main streets lined with boarded-up shops, buildings with sunburnt tin roofs, and trailer parks
overflowing with the desperate squalor of domestic violence and meth labs. Places where churches
dominate every corner like franchise fast food joints, and where it made front-page news when the

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first traffic light was installed in 2014. You get there by following the interstate to where sex-toy
shops line the road beneath billboards proclaiming Jesus supports your right to bear arms.
I come from one of these places.
Down in the southeast armpit of Illinois is a town called Lockwood Hollow. It isn’t on Google

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Maps, so don’t even try. They wouldn’t send one of their fancy vans down those old roads, which
is probably for the best. The folks in Lockwood are hospitable, but they also don’t take kindly to
strangers, let alone nosy ones. I should know. Before the blood took me, I was one of them. Before
I was Lainey Hendrix, there was Melissa Elaine Henry.
Melissa was a chubby girl with tangled dishwater hair, thick plastic glasses, and a terminal case of
shyness. She would’ve never thought about leaving the comfort of her small-town life, with its beer
runs for dad and Saturday nights hanging out with her brother and his friends at the Pit Stop. And

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yet, Melissa wasn’t really alive except on Sunday mornings. On those days, she’d put on her Great
Value Sunday best and head to Cornerstone Baptist, where she’d sing her heart out in the choir
next to the cutest girl in her grade, Andrea Hannah — making sure not to outshine the diva when
the Reverend Hannah was watching. No, she never would’ve left, but it’s when shit goes sideways
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that you find out who people really are. And Melissa? Melissa was a coward. When things got bad,
she paid a local boy fifty bucks and a handjob for a ride to the nearest Greyhound.
Lainey Hendrix was born the moment her feet touched the hallowed pavement of Chicago, and she
bleached Melissa away along with her brown hair. Music is the only blood we share, and if there’s any
part of Melissa left, it’s just kindling to the fire in my songs. Melissa is dead and gone… but the dead
have a habit of coming back when you least expect them.
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I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let’s start over: It’s the Ordo Dracul’s fault.
Don’t act so shocked. I just said what we’re all thinking. If something goes wrong in the All Night
Society, you can trace it back to the Dragons and their secret society bullshit. Take Chicago, for
example. Whole city is going to hell and — surprise, surprise — it’s the Order’s fault. Some nerd
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awakened something or someone and it’s tearing a hole through the city and the Masquerade, and
it’s so bad even the two idiots fighting over praxis called a truce to figure it out.
I should be there right now. I know this in my heart. But instead, I’m driving down the backroads
of Illinois and letting my mind drift to places I don’t normally let it. I blame the moon. I forgot
how dark it gets out here, and besides my headlights, the moon is the only illumination: low, full,
and the pinkish red of a peach. Ever since I met Miriam, and later Rowen, the moon’s always made
me reflective in a way that never sits right.
My sire abandoned me, but I wasn’t in Chicago long before I met Miriam. She was a Savage like
me, but, more than that, she was our leader. At that point, I barely knew what it meant to be a
vampire, so words like Primogen meant a lot more than they do now. Miriam was hot — not just
in looks, but from the boldness that comes from knowing your own worth, and she caught my

6 Wild Hunt: Gangrel

 attention the second I smelled a new Lick in the room. She didn’t look much older than me, but
there was a definite mommy vibe there. And when she offered to help me, I think a sliver of Melissa
convinced me to accept; I needed a sire, and Melissa always wished she’d had a mother.
Turns out, I was about to get two. A few weeks after she took me in, Miriam brought me to a
scuzzy apartment building on the Southside. Down in the basement, the laundry room hid an
entrance to a ceremonial chamber. Every surface was covered with candlewax, dry gore, or both,
and standing behind a stone altar was a figure who took up the entire room. I don’t think I’ve ever
been quite as startled as the first time I saw Rowen. Seven-feet tall, face and body wildly deformed,

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mouth a graveyard of hungry teeth, and all wrapped in a bloodstained robe. In the darkness, her
eyes were black as a shark’s.
“Her claws bite?” she said with no introduction, her voice like an earthquake in her throat.

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Miriam nodded and grabbed my hand. “Deep. And not like they should.” I had absolutely no
fucking clue what they were talking about.
“The price?”
“Deep. Wants to know her sire.”
Rowen appraised me. “Don’t be so sure.” She spat on the altar, then reached into her robes. With
long, curved fingers, she withdrew a huge constrictor, its tongue lashing out to taste the darkness.
She motioned to Miriam, who grabbed me by the wrist and held my hand out for the monster

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standing before us. Rowen squeezed the snake’s jaw open, then let it clamp its hooked teeth around
my palm. She drew a gnarled, curved nail down the full length of the snake’s belly, emptying its
guts onto the altar. It bit into my flesh as hard as it could as it writhed in its death throes.
(That’s the exact moment I decided to join the Circle of the Crone, incidentally. It’s a hell of a
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recruitment strategy.)
Rowen picked through the offal on the table, making thoughtful little noises as she inspected the
entrails. Finally, she looked up at me and whispered in that creepy rasp of hers, “Drink the moon
as the blackbirds fly, and the mother shall return for her daughter.”
I still have no idea what that means, though on nights like this, the moon does look pretty tasty.
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Weird fortune or not, I wouldn’t have survived a year, let alone twenty, without Miriam, Rowen,
or the Crone, and I should be back there standing beside them. But I’m not, and I know I’ll live to
regret it. Maybe they’ll feel charitable about a fellow strong woman making her own choices, but
probably not. They’ll probably kill me, but only if I’m lucky.
I’m driving through southern Illinois because my daddy’s dead. My cousin left me a voicemail
saying the cancer got bad and it’d be soon, but by the time I checked my messages, it was too late.
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I didn’t even know he was sick. So, here I am, racing through God’s Own Country that He hasn’t
turned an eye to in generations, trying to remember the way after two decades and hating every
minute of it.
I was blessed with a lot. Perfect pitch, an internal metronome. But out of all my innate gifts, a
sense of direction was never among them, and like I said, Google Maps doesn’t come down here. So
that’s why it’s on the far side of midnight and I’m still looking for a turnoff I only half remember.
I’ve got a Depeche Mode cover (a really good one by my friend Micah) playing over the speakers of
the car I borrowed from Koko, my drummer, and I’m bludgeoning my steering wheel to the beat
of “Your Own Personal Jesus.” That would be the only thing keeping me from frenzy, except for
one thing: I refuse to. Twenty years dead, and I’ve never lost the fight. Maybe Melissa was a coward,
but Lainey Hendrix is in control. Always.

The Reunion 7
 But whether I’m in control or not, I’m looking up at the moon instead of the road, so I don’t see what’s
coming till it’s too late. A shadow stretches ahead of me, all the way across the faded yellow lines to
the weeds on the inbound side of traffic. Even if I’d seen it coming, I wouldn’t have had time to brake.
I sail over it, and four bangs ring out like gunshots as my tires explode, the naked wheels screaming
sparks down the road. Without tires, I slide like I’m on ice, and my attempt to correct with a sudden
turn sends me airborne over a drainage ditch. The world spins as the car hits the ground hard and
rolls. Safety glass fractures, then explodes as I slam into a tree. My seatbelt can’t quite hold me right,
and the momentum spikes my head into the steering wheel. Everything goes dark for a moment.

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When my vision returns, the world is crooked. I’m upside down, the seatbelt holding me tight
and my head dangling at a bad angle where the impact snapped my spine. The car isn’t faring much
better. The engine is struggling, and a cloud of gray smoke is billowing into the night. The crash
collapsed the steering column into the dashboard and cut off any access to the ignition — I can’t

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turn it off, and I’m starting to smell gasoline.
I have a thing about car accidents, and my Beast tries to take the wheel when I realize this thing
is minutes from blowing up. But if there’s no room for Jesus as my co-pilot, there’s absolutely none
for the feral asshole in my head, so I force it down and look for an escape route. There’s no way
the Beast is going to be smart enough to escape a seatbelt.
I realize I can’t feel my legs, which is a problem. I try to look up at them, but my neck won’t move.
The pain roars as I try, and I realize I can feel a breeze inside my upper chest. Please let it not be
that bad,
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bad, I think as I raise shaky fingers to the spot. It feels like wet newspaper and broken chicken
bones. Man do I miss being able to go into shock.
The smoke thickens; I don’t have a choice.
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I push the exposed bone back through the skin with one hand while I wrench my neck back into
place with the other. Vitae fills in the broken spots, and the worst noises I’ve ever heard reverberate
through my body. I don’t want to scream — but I’m not getting much of what I want tonight. Shame
burns up my chest, and the sound of my own voice hurts more than the wreck.
My senses reset, as do my broken legs, and I get my hands to stop shaking long enough to thumb
the seatbelt open. I fall hard, landing on the roof. The doors are wedged shut, so I raise my big-ass
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boots and hammer them into the glass. Between the smoke and cracks, I can’t see anything on
the other side, so when my foot punches the panel out, I’m caught off guard by a sudden shooting
pain. Something tears into the flesh above my boot, and when I try to pull my leg back inside the
car, it’s heavier than it should be.
There’s a fucking raccoon on my leg, biting and clawing like it wants to rip it off. What the fuck
did I do to you? I try to shake the rabid critter off, but it holds fast, and I can hear the chittering of
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more approaching.
The Beast has been trying to ride shotgun all night, and it’s not whispering anymore; it’s yelling,
but I can’t give in. I won’t. I try to shake off the stupid raccoon again, but two more swarm toward
the door. They snarl up at me, all fangs, claws, and fur, and I snarl right back.
Nice claws. Mine are better.
A minute later, I’m running from the car with a pile of furry bodies behind me. Thanks for the
drink, fellas.
fellas. I take cover in the ditch near what’s left of my tires, stretched across the road like shed
snakeskin. I make it right as the car and tree both go up in a fireball, like the burning bush talking
to Moses. The fire roars at me, and I stumble as the panic rises up. I keep hold on my Beast’s leash
with a little compromise, keeping the fire in sight as I back away — neither of us trust it.

8 Wild Hunt: Gangrel

 As I shuffle back, my boot catches something hard and sharp. I look down, and a chill runs
through me: Lying across the road is a spike strip, the kind cops use to stop high-speed chases.
Someone put out a full anti-tire trap in the middle of a country highway, and it would’ve killed me
if someone hadn’t already beaten them to it. The hell is going on?
As I collect my thoughts, I hear someone coming through the fields across the highway. No —
several someones, I realize as two breaks form in the field. Locals who heard the crash? Melissa’s
voice whispers that maybe they’re here to help. I glance back to the tire strip. Not likely.

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I crouch and listen at the edge of the road. Two voices, male and female, call back and forth in
sharp hisses. He doesn’t sound happy, but she’s laughing. As they near the edge of the grain, I can’t
quite make out what they look like, but I finally catch what the woman is saying.
“—just hope whatever’s left is warm enough.” Her words are punctuated by the chambering of a

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shotgun shell. I brace myself. As much as I don’t want to hurt anyone, I can take on two people if
I have to.
But that’s when I see half a dozen more waves in the field, all headed my way.

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The Reunion 9
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 Introduction

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The wilderness needs your whole attention.
Jeannine Atkins, “Shears”

The Gangrel aren’t fucking around. whole. It comes down to assessing risk, see. Know your limits —
The beast that creeps from its den to hunt the wayward. The then, kill them. The trick is never getting too attached, be that
lupine hulk that thirsts for blood and marrow. The slavering, to Kindred and kine or hearth and home. Be too beholden to
pitiless thing that tears itself loose from human skin. Only fools anything and you’ll find yourself shackled when you most need
say there’s no such thing as the Big Bad Wolf; he’s still out to move to higher ground. Right above the prey.

Gangrel, and he’s no fairytale.

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there, snapping at heels and baying at the moon. His name is

Masters of the flesh and feral as they are canny, the Savages
have been hunters since humans first gathered ’round the camp-
fire, and they’ve evolved along with their prey. Some still haunt
Mood: This Not Too Solid Flesh
So many things in this world are fragile, and flesh is the
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most brittle of all. But when has true change ever come about
the black forests and high crags, while others stalk alleyways,
without breakage? Become what the Beast needs you to be
tenements, and nightclubs with equal ease, but in temperament,
through shifting skin, and all the wonders and wrongs of death
they’re still better suited to the beasts of their stomping grounds.
will be yours to reap. Let it reflect the truth of your heart in
They aren’t about to start putting on airs for anyone. The world
the mutable tumor you call a body. That’s no funhouse mirror;
may have modernized, but the Gangrel have never lost their link
that’s you. All horror show, distended and jagged and unfurled.
to the animal within. So heed their warnings: They don’t give
So what if you can never be human again.
second chances.
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Wild Hunt is the definitive sourcebook for every grisly

detail you wanted to know about the Gangrel in Vampire: The
Requiem Second Edition. In addition to new Savage fiction,
A History of Violence
systems, and bloodlines, it includes a complete update of the The Gangrel of Vampire: The Masquerade were “were-
mechanics in their original sourcebook, Savage and Macabre. wolves” among vampires, so tied to the wilds that they became
This book is the final in a series that began with Strange physically animalistic. In some ways, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix
Shades: Mekhet and continued on with Better Feared: it. In Vampire: The Requiem, the names of the Disciplines
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Nosferatu, False Gods: Ventrue, and Sin Again: Daeva. More shifted, but the core of the clan was unaltered. Sure, the Savages
than Clanbook: Gangrel Revised, it’s a Savage celebration, a are a more urban bunch than the Outlanders, moving through
chance to pick at dry scabs and draw fresh blood. So, one more sprawls as easily as barrows, but they’re just as self-possessed
time, take a deep dive with us through this last clan of the and versatile, and they still represent the vampire-as-predator
Damned. Just be sure to bring something sharp. archetype. The Gangrel know the Beast better than any Lick,
though whether that means they can handle the leash is another
question altogether.

Theme: Top of the Food Chain Later on, Savage and Macabre: Gangrel showcased the
depths of Savage psychology. All roads lead to the Beast in one
We bit, clawed, and ravaged our way up to this pinnacle, and way or another, whether that’s through vampire primitivism
it’ll take more than pampered bitches like you to tear us off the or the worship of primordial blood gods — or perhaps it’s just
throne. You think the Lords run this show? Fucking wrong. We’re a willingness to become a monster to protect the things that
the muscle moving beneath the skin, the maw that swallows you make you human.

Introduction 11
 Finally, Vampire: The Requiem Second Edition pushed • No doom is written in stone, but the Wickers exact a ter-
the clan’s proximity to the Beast into slasher-movie territory, rible price to unseal one’s fate. Still, they’re the only ones
shifting their bane from mental fuzziness to a hairpin trigger with the will to do it — just so long as they don’t attract the
(taking a page from another Masquerade clan). Second Edition Owls’ attention.
Savages also expanded their shapeshifting abilities, boiling over
• Nature abhors a vacuum, and the Yarilo are happy to fill it.
with body horror mutations that give even other Kindred the
Their mindless minions will help them build a new Eden on
shivers. No longer just claws and animal skins, Protean is about
earth, whether the Kindred want it or not.
taking the shape of nothing less than the apex predator of the
Damned. Savage and macabre indeed. Chapter Two: The Passenger reveals ways to turn one’s
dark side into a whole different animal. The Gangrel are the

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Kindred most in touch with the Beast, but it’s a crude relation-
ship: The “Beast” is just a conglomeration of primitive drives,
What’s in This Book and it has no wants beyond the hunt and the kill. Most of the
Wild Hunt: Gangrel is for players and Storytellers alike. time. A few Savages make a devil’s bargain, granting the Beast

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Inside, you’ll find all the material you need to prep your Savage sapience in exchange for greater control, and here you’ll read
characters for whatever’s gunning for them tonight, from all the gory fine print.
bloodlines, Merits, and Devotions to a new system for the Risen Chapter Three: Tools of the Hunt is Clan Gangrel’s stock-
Beast, the lucid internal monologue Gangrel awaken in order pile. In addition to new Archetypes, Devotions, and Merits, we
to stand above other Savages. include Second Edition updates for mechanics in Savage and
However, you’ll also need to survive the night with Lainey Macabre. You’ll also find an in-depth look at Protean and the
Hendrix, Savage rock star. Lainey’s about to meet a true preda- Feral Curse, with tips on incorporating the Savages’ predatory
tor, but even if she can make it out in one piece, she still might fury into your chronicles.
not escape her past. Chapter Four: Interloping Predators takes a look at the

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Chapter One: Packmates revisits four classic Savage blood-
lines and introduces six new members of the pride.
• The Baetyl know the wisdom of stones isn’t mere metaphor.
It’s real, and anything a Termite can touch is hers to feast
upon and take communion with.
competition. Along with new ghoul families and covenants,
you’ll find a whole gang of horrors ready to match your Gangrel
characters blow for bloody blow.
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• Music can soothe a savage beast, and the Cerrid ply their Gangrel Media
musical trade on the one clawing at their flesh to escape. When people think of vampires as ruthless predators, they’re
• God is angry, and She sent the Childer of the Morrigan to thinking of the Gangrel. From shapeshifters to pack hunters,
spread Her rage. Warriors and chaos witches, the Stormcrows depictions of the Savages abound, and although such media
will answer any slight against the Crone with death. often fail to provide a motivation beyond insatiable hunger,
most Gangrel would tell you that’s more than enough.
• The Beast speaks; the Daimonion listen. Using modern and
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not-so-modern psychological techniques, the Counselors

serve the Damned as confessors, therapists, and blackmailers.
Vampire Media
• Many vampires compare their Gangrel Kindred to the
30 Days of Night, directed by David Slade: Proving even
wolfman of myth and legend, the shifting creature who feasts
Savages can have a plan, 30 Days explores what happens when
on human flesh and howls for the moon’s favor. The Dead
vampires arrive in the Arctic Circle, where they have the free-
Wolves say they don’t know the half of it.
dom to move about unchecked during seasons where the sun
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• The Mystikoi are heretics, but heresy is relative when you’re never fully rises. While the vampires are painted as little more
already Damned. There’s nowhere to go but up from Hell, than a band of murderous hunters, their wolf-like pack shows
and if that means devouring every last spirit they can sink a more calculated, survivalist side of the clan.
their fangs into on the climb to Heaven — well, God forgives, The Lost Boys, directed by Joel Schumacher: Lost Boys is
doesn’t He? what happens when Gangrel get social. From the devil-may-
• Appalachian Kindred keep to the cities: Other predators rule care attitudes of its teenage bloodsuckers to the chaotic way
the forgotten backwaters hidden in the hills, and Lord have they exist in a sunny 80s world, this film proves that not
mercy if you cross them. These are the Oberlochs, and their all vampires are brooding over the nature of their damna-
gnarled fists are the only law in their awful fiefdoms. tion; some joyously embrace it. From trying to gross each
other out to testing their own invulnerability, the allure of
• Over highways, over city streets, over country roads, the immortality hasn’t worn off for this gang of misfits. In every
Verlice drive through the dark looking for the next adven- raw-throated whoop, you can hear the Beast champing just
ture. The Needles follow their own compass in the All Night below the surface.
Society, and it always points toward blood.

12 Wild Hunt: Gangrel

 Midnight Mass, created by Mike Flanagan: Take a Savage’s and the infamous Ed Gein, it brought horror into the realm of
Humanity down to zero, fill his ghouls with Catholic guilt, and reality. These weren’t supernatural beasts, just people who see
you’ve got Midnight Mass. A Gangrel might don a mask to fool other people as prey — and that’s the foundation of all Gangrel.
its herd, but in the end, only the next meal matters, and the
“angel” of Crockett Island is absolutely famished. Between its
atmosphere of isolation and doomed applications of religious Requiem Books
authority, this show delves into the dark depths of faith, com-
“Lullay, Lullay,” by Joshua Alan Doetsch: We all look up to
munity, and the feral desires lying in wait within even the most
see my little girl perched at the open window, barefoot in her oversized
civilized people.
red hoodie. It’s her joke. The punch line is brutal. Collected in The

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Near Dark, directed by Kathryn Bigelow: Another 80s take on Strix Chronicle Anthology, this short concerns Little Red,
vampires, Near Dark offers us a Savage still clinging to Humanity Sheriff of the Four Fiefs. As told by her faithful ghoul/adoptive
for all its worth. Here we see the cost of living through wars and father, Red is Savage in every sense of the word, but containing
disasters and the urge to still search for someone to share that that animal cunning in the body and mind of a lost little girl
isolation with. Regardless of the possibility that vampirism can be makes death… complicated, especially when even wilder things

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cured, these monsters display a willingness to scorch themselves take an interest in her welfare. (Onyx Path Publishing)
in order to keep going. That stubborn will to survive, no matter
Night Horrors: Immortal Sinners offers an unblinking
what, is quintessentially Gangrel.
closeup of the Unholy, the signature Gangrel of Vampire: The
Requiem First Edition (the well-endowed lady on p. 107). More
than a vampire, the Unholy is chaos incarnate, a larger-than-
Non-Vampire Media death reminder to Kindred of what they really are. Whether
The Brood, directed by David Cronenberg: While Gangrel a bride of Dracula or the Mother of Monsters’ only begotten
don’t typically use Protean to craft other bodies (emphasis on daughter, the Unholy glides above the Danse Macabre on black-
“typically”), the grotesque embodiment of wrath depicted in winged nightmares. (White Wolf)

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The Brood captures the ways Savages are willing to discard the
human form and the terrible consequences of that predilection.
The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, directed by Tobe Hooper:
A family of cannibals who wear the skins of their victims? The
Last but not least, Savage and Macabre cuts out the Gangrel
heart and holds it aloft for all to see. In addition to a brutal view
of the Savage Requiem in multiple shapes and horrible sizes, this
supplement introduced several more general concepts carried
pl
only thing missing is the fangs. Texas Chain Saw kickstarted over into Vampire: The Requiem Second Edition, particularly
the slasher genre, but it was smarter and cannier than many in its presentation of draugr, the wretched Kindred who lose
of its imitators. Inspired by killers like Elmer Wayne Henley all Humanity to the Beast. (White Wolf)
m
Sa

Introduction 13