When the crooked horn bellows
Close your doors
Pull down the shutters
Hide your children
And you best pray
for the Hunstman's Jackal is on the prowl
She is swift
She is cunning
She will hunt you down
And your flesh she will take
For the Huntsman's Jackal never tires
She always hungers
When the crooked horn bellows
Her howl will follow
like thunder after lightning
Her claws are felt
before your screams are heard
The tale of the Huntsman's Jackal is a tragic one.
For the Jackal was but a simple farmer's wife before the call took her.
She had a bright eyed son of six winters and she was proud of him.
Yet one fateful evening while her husband and son played, she decided to take a walk alone.
It had been decades since the last "spirit" had roamed and many in the Heartland believed that spirits and the supernatural had long since departed or were entirely made up.
As she traveled their fields of corn, she was ambushed by an unseen force.
Her mind was consumed before she could even scream, and what remained of her was shucked like a cob of corn.
She writhed and growled on the ground before getting up, her beauty already altered and deformed,
Her movements grew inhuman as she crawled on all fours, sniffing the air.
When she caught scent of her son, she howled and returned home.
Neither her son nor husband stood a chance, what remained of them was said to be just bones and a blood soaked house.
It was that fateful evening the Jackal was born, and it was that evening the Wendigos began their massacre.
It wasn't long before the Heartlands was void of life, and the savage howls of the Jackal and her bands moved on, seeking new prey, to satiate their everlasting hunger.
Should you see the Huntsman's Jackal you could not tell she was human, her face is hidden beneath the skull of an unknown creature with antlers raised in pride.
Her body grew long and thin and her hands bore claws.
She moved like a spider, scuttling across the ground.
Whatever was left of Sybil, was long dead and forgotten.
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