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A creaking hunter among dust and cobwebs, you prowl the night places, seeking the souls on which you feed. You have done this since time immemorial, or so you believe; you have no memories of living as a man-thing like those you catch and eat. But human traces linger; your fingers trace clever arabesques in the dirt of your grave-place and with the flourishes come whispered songs in a language you've forgotten. Far away, in a museum, hangs your portrait in oil by a master five hundred years dead--you might have been lovers but the diary you kept then is long lost.
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188 fancy pages
play in a couple of hours or a couple of weeks
solo play, optional group play
Producer:
21 0823 1072
