In Nightholme, survival doesn’t always mean hiding in the dark. Some embrace the path of the hunter: pressuring opponents, controlling space, and turning the chase into a weapon. Caution gives way to pursuit, and the hunt becomes sustenance. Every step forward sharpens instinct, every confrontation fuels momentum.
Aggression and relentless pressure can shape the way of playing, where dominance comes not from shadows and silence, but from seizing the initiative and maintaining control. The thrill of the hunt becomes a driving force, shaping decisions and actions at every turn.
Yet survival takes many forms, Both stealth and aggression are tools to wield, and the choice depends on the moment, the environment, and one’s own approach.
We hope you like it.
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Meathook Instinct
This place is alive like the outside world isn’t. Even death has a pulse. My breath rasping through abandoned spaces. Boots hammering the cracked road. That thick, wet thrumming in my ears. The warm gush of blood on my hands.
Life. A banquet for the senses. And I feast.
The district’s misty, quiet like a crypt as I scan for movement. Hunched forward, jaw aching. Don’t remember clenching it. Something’s gotta give.
My pulse kicks, staccato, before I know why. Snaps my focus north. Finally.
Skittering, claws on brick. Something sees me. Something bolts.
Gets my blood right the fuck up.
I spot it down a side street. Newborn thing, still pink with afterbirth. Twisted. Obscene.
Prey.
Other Runners say “patience.” Talk of madness like it’s a predator. Avoid conflict, they say. Pick your battles.
Weak. Madness isn’t the monster here. What I’m chasing? That’s a monster.
But so am I.
I unleash it then. Crack something open inside me, bright and sharp. My anatomy coils around it, tendons scraping over bone. Claws punch through my nailbeds, thick as meathooks.
Hurts like hell. Exquisite.
The city flares to life, new in my enhanced senses. Lamplight off the fog, wails from the sewer grates. Dried blood, coppery-sweet. Fresh blood, gamey, so thick I can taste the clots.
The streets unfurl for me. Shadows shift, restless, drawn by the noise. I bare my teeth at them. Back soon. It’s more like a smile.
The chase ends fast. My prey corners itself, squealing, wriggling. Fish on a hook. It swipes. Clips my snout.
I carve. The first cut kills it. The rest are for me. Savoring. Lingering. Losing time.
Pressure blooms behind my eyes. There’s a sound. Voices on the wind, whispering. Infinitely distant, right in my ear. Distracts me for a second.
I look down. Nothing left but flesh rags and splintered bone.
Fun’s over. Fine. I reach back toward sanity, my old human shape…
But there’s that whispering again. Closer now. Stopping me, pressing at my spine. I catch the words this time: “Behind you.”
Turning, the fog recoils, showing me what’s there. A shape. A tug at my brainstem.
I follow.
The shape is upright, tall. Smells like vitriol and leather. Ozone afterburn.
Grimrunner. My kind.
He’s ghosting along, but I come in low and fast. He senses me. Turns. Raises a hand.
I pause. Something familiar. His face…
But the whispers swell again.
“Blood.”
And the thought’s eclipsed in a glimpse of somewhere vast and cold.
A growl rumbles out of me. The Grimrunner bolts.
Gets my blood right the fuck up.
Down alleys, over rooftops, claws shrieking against stone. The chase goes on and on, until darkness bursts across my vision and the voices become screams. The city shatters. Beyond it, somewhere endless.
Impact. A wet crunch. The Grimrunner’s horror-filled eyes.
A word surfaces too late. Ally. Friend.
“Life.”
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Stay vigilant, Grimrunners,
— Studio Ellipsis Team