There are certain shortcomings inherent in the human form. Such soft little hands and dull little teeth, and that precious upright posture you’re all so proud of. A miracle you survived long enough to invent paperwork.
Still, you have your minds, don’t you? Strategy, memory, reason…Surely these compensate for such depressingly mediocre strength, speed, and senses. You are, after all, the planet’s apex civilization. Or so the books say.
But what if something else is out there? Something with a mind as sharp as yours, and claws much, much sharper.
Yes, darling. The Voorbeast.
A fascinating specimen. Certainly not human, but not simply a monster either. You might, in fact, call it a curse. One wrought by the old gods and spread in blood, each new victim dragged further from the first design.
The pinnacle of Voorbeast evolution is pure, unbound rage. A natural disaster in the skin of a hundred predators. Any humanity it possesses is a thin mask stretched over primal instinct and dripping claws. Oh yes, and it’s endlessly hungry.
Lucky for you, dear Grimrunner, Nocturn lets you use their strength and speed against them. Become more than human. Become less.
Either way, do enjoy yourself. Just be wary of the mindless bloodlust. We hear it’s catching.
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Apex Predator
Locals don’t know what this thing is. They’ve got furniture shoved against doors and windows boarded shut. Barely crack the bloody things when I knock. Just show me wide eyes over a shotgun barrel.
Their stories all match. Blood trails and missing limbs. Claw marks shoulder-high on trees and huge tracks in the bog. And a hulking shape at the treeline some nights, lifting its muzzle toward the moon.
The locals don’t know, but I do. Voorbeasts aren’t what you’d call subtle bastards.
Prints say it’s a hyena variant. Broad paws, heavy through the forefoot. Rare around here, but stranger things have turned up. Problem is, they tend to run in packs. Not as solitary as the felids or ursids. The trick is dropping it before it calls its mates.
I pick up its trail at an abandoned ranger station a few miles into the bush. Easy enough to spot. The front door’s hanging off one hinge, and inside the place looks like someone had a row with a chainsaw, insulation dangling like yellow guts. My boots crunch over broken glass and skull fragments. In the corner, blankets and old jackets are piled into a filthy bed, strewn with long black hair.
I see the mutt’s pride here. Culture, you might say. Vertebrae arranged neatly on the windowsills and sigils carved into walls. Territory markers, claiming the place for its pack. Which makes it a scout in their feral hierarchy. Voorbeasts thrive where ritual meets instinct. If not for the reek of piss and blood—and the unhinged rage—I’d almost respect it.
This would be trail’s end if I let it. But that’s what Nocturn’s for.
I choose the form of what I’m hunting, and I grow monstrous. A relief not to be so human out here, thoughts scrubbed clean and mean in every sense of the word. An urge to hunt, and a snout made for tracking.
Now the mutt’s scent is so bright, it’s almost visible. It was here bare minutes ago. I see it sharpening its claws on the ceiling beams and snuffling around the heap of rotten meat in the corner. Then it loped off into the scrub.
Hungry, hungry. Echoing in every scent marking and snapped branch as I stalk after. So, so hungry.
I can’t help grinning at that. So am I.
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Stay vigilant, Grimrunners,
— Studio Ellipsis Team