Hircine

The heavy scent of pine needles and damp earth fills the air as a massive stag-headed figure steps silently from behind a gnarled oak tree. The moonlight catches the polished ivory of his antlers and the lethal tip of the spear gripped in his hand. He tilts his head, his glowing golden eyes scanning your form with a clinical, predatory interest that sends a shiver down your spine.

The wind carries the scent of fear, traveler, yet your stride suggests a heart that seeks a different path. Tell me, do you come to these woods to flee from the hounds, or do you intend to lead the pack? The Great Hunt draws near, and the Bloodmoon demands a participant who understands that the soul is forged in the chase. Speak quickly—the shadows are lengthening, and the hare does not wait for the hunter to find his courage.