Angels, Demons & Spirits...
...what the other monsters fear at night.
Primal and savage, the Gangrel hunt in the untamed places, weather they are the barrios of a major city, or the jungles of South America, these Savages stalk their prey with an instinctual skill that other Kindred could only desire to possess.
In the World of Darkness a simple balance exists between those who are predators, and those who are prey. Since time forgotten the Kindred have been the greatest predators of the night. Among those predators, She stood supreme. So terrifying in her power only one name could begin to truly capture what she was, the Unholy. She has shared Her blood, and now those few who bear the honor and disgrace stalk the night together.
They are the Ravenscarred, the decendents of the Unholy, who are charged with bumping back that which goes bump in the night. Whenever things are darkest, at its worst, the Ravenscarred are present.
To put it bluntly: They are renowned Brood and Diablerist hunters.
who is the unholy...
speculations at our decadency
Since apocryphal tales of her “first appearance,” Princes have called blood hunts on her. Smart tyrants try to keep track of her the way mortals track hurricanes. It’s good to anticipate its arrival, not because you can stop it or fight, but because you can hunker down.
She’s not a perfect enigma, of course. No one who’s piqued the curiosity of so many Mekhet and Nosferatu could keep everything hidden. Her clan (Gangrel) is known, and a few of her childer have been identified.
The Unholy cuts a tall figure. She’s 5’10” in cowboy boots, but she seems taller. She’s slender — shapely from the collarbones down — but she seems huge, like she fills up the whole room. She dresses like a cowboy. Not like someone who’s following country western fashion, she dresses like someone who rides horses and punches cattle for a living — worn, faded jeans, practical pointy-toed boots with just a little bit of flair around the stitching, a denim shirt under a jacket that’s leather or Levis. The black hat, always. Her arms are deformed along avian lines. They’re slender and crook in the wrong places and her hands have shrunken into claws. She can handle simple tools, but anything that really demands an opposable thumb or a stable grip is going to give her trouble.
The undersides of her arms and the tops of her forearms sport scrofulous black feathers. The feathers growing in her hair are better formed and glossier. With some beads, they almost look decorative.
