(Tom Clare)

A far hunting horn comes echoing from out across the moor.

Ten minutes later, without warning, a man bursts from a tussock and falls across the path in front of the party. His fine clothes are torn and dirty, and his eyes are wild. He stares unseeingly at them, then staggers to his feet and takes off again almost immediately, being lost to sight among the hillocks and bushes.

If the party stops at this spot for more than a few minutes they are startled again by a pack of hounds, as white as death, and eerily silent. The hounds run around and between the party, and vanish into the bushes. The horn comes again, nearer this time. Those with a high Psychic Talent will feel that something uncanny is coming. And then a party of wild riders will erupt from the empty moor.

The horsemen are all in red finery, that's cut in an alien – almost violent – manner with ragged edges and beribboned tatters flying as they pass. You have the brief impression of bestial masks or helmets… Their steeds are snowy white, but with red muzzles, and you (the PC with the highest Psychic Talent) get the horrible idea that they are red with wet blood…

Each PC has one chance to react before the riders are gone. If they address the riders, they will hear mocking laughter coming back to them in the wind. If they attempt to strike one of the riders, that person will subtly avoid the attack, then casually aim a blow at them with the blunt end of a spear shaft or an empty hand (ATTACK18; (1d3, 2 damage)), knocking them to the ground.

Then the awful riders are gone, and the PCs are alone on a desolate moor. No trace of the hunt can be found (though there are plenty of bogs for those that wish to search). Half an hour later, they may hear a distant cry of anguish. But perhaps it is just some moorland bird.

This article first appeared in Casket of Fays Issue 4.