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By PhiliPPe Boulle, Carl Bowen, ann Braidwood, deird’re M.

Brooks, ken Cliffe, TiM dedoPulos, MiChael lee, MiChael Mearls,
Joshua Mosqueira, sean riley and adaM TinworTh
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 CrediTs
Authors: Philippe Boulle, Carl Bowen, Ann Braidwood,
Deird’Re M. Brooks, Ken Cliffe, Tim Dedopulos, Michael
Lee, Michael Mearls, Joshua Mosqueira, Sean Riley and
Adam Tinworth
Devil’s Advocates: Michael Lee
Developer: Ken Cliffe

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Editor: Ed Hall
Hunter Roster Manager: John Meehan
Art Director: Pauline Benney

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Layout and Typesetting: Pauline Benney
Interior Art: Jason Alexander, Andrew Bates, Maria
Cabardo, Steve Ellis, Larry MacDougal, Rik Martin
and Brad Rigney
Front Cover Art: Glenn Fabry
Front and Back Cover Design: Pauline Benney

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© 2001 White Wolf Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Repro-

duction without the written permission of the publisher is expressly
forbidden, except for the purposes of reviews, and for blank charac-
ter sheets, which may be reproduced for personal use only. White
Wolf, Hunter the Reckoning, Vampire the Masquerade, Mage the
Ascension and World of Darkness are registered trademarks of White
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Wolf Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Hunter Storytellers Com-

panion, Hunter Survival Guide, Hunter the Walking Dead, Hunter
Apocrypha, Hunter Book Avenger, Hunter Book Defender, Hunter
Book Innocent, Hunter Book Judge, Hunter Book Martyr, Hunter Book Redeemer, Hunter Book Visionary, The
Hunters Hunted, The Inquisition and Hunter Players Guide are trademarks of White Wolf Publishing, Inc. All
rights reserved. All characters, names, places and text herein are copyrighted by White Wolf Publishing, Inc.
The mention of or reference to any company or product in these pages is not a challenge to the trademark
or copyright concerned.
This book uses the supernatural for settings, characters and themes. All mystical and supernatural elements are
fiction and intended for entertainment purposes only. This book contains mature content. Reader discretion is advised.
For a free White Wolf catalog call 1-800-454-WOLF.
Check out White Wolf online at: http://www.white-wolf.com; alt.games.whitewolf and rec.games.frp.storyteller

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TaBle of ConTenTs
Prologue: lonely hoMe 4
inTroduCTion
The losT: herMiT
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16
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The losT: wayward 20
ChaPTer 1: BysTanders
Guidance and rules for playing bystanders
24
CNewhaPTer 2: rules of engageMenT 76
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rules for character creation

Customizing Character Creation
Gaining Edges: New Roads
A Question of Faith

ChaPTer 3: new TraiTs 100

Merits & Flaws
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Backgrounds Make the Hunter

CArticles
haPTer 4: The Measure of huManiTy
on expanding character identity
144
Changing Creeds
Hunters’ Triggers
Normal People in Abnormal Times
The Hunter’s Life

CArticles
haPTer 5: Make your own faTe
on player contribution to the story
178
Hunting Alone
Law and Order
Working Together
Monsters in Our Lives
Children as Hunters

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Prologue:
lonely Home
Send therefore now, and gather thy cattle, and all that
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thou hast in the field; for upon every man and beast which
shall be found in the field, and shall not be brought home,
the hail shall come down upon them, and they shall die.
— Exodus 9:19
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Kathy Niven walked through her front door just
after 6:30 Tuesday morning. In her exhaustion, her
left shoulder brushed hard against the doorjamb,
and she wobbled to the kitchen table. Luckily, the
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room was empty and nobody saw her staggering
like a drunk. She didn’t have to skulk in under the
confused and hurt scrutiny of her family. With just
that much in the world going right for her, Kathy
took a deep, shuddering breath and leaned weakly
against the back of a chair.
As she stood propped up, she sagged and fought
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to keep her eyes open. The smell of coffee brewing
helped. The muffled sound of water running in
the upstairs shower helped, too. The steady, stac-
cato rhythm told her that her husband or her son
was awake and would soon make an appearance
downstairs. Someone would come down the stairs
and face her soon. When that happened, Kathy
thought, she would much rather be awake and
moving than slumped insensate over the table like
a half-drowned castaway.
Standing up straight again, she looked up
and down at her reflection in the glass door. Her
ash-blond hair hung tangled and lank around her
shoulders. The plastic clip she’d bound it with was
Prologue: lonely home
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long gone. Dirt and grimy water had stained her
blue jeans and denim jacket. More water squelched
between her toes and made her tennis shoes squeak
on the linoleum floor. The look on her face gave her
the most pause, though. She saw lines reflected in
the glass — beside her eyes, bracketing her mouth,
creasing her forehead— that shocked her. Was this
hag all that had survived last night? Fascinated and
repulsed, Kathy stared at the old woman in the glass
until the rising sun brightened the sky enough to
take the reflection away. When the haggard crone
disappeared, Kathy headed out of the kitchen with
heavy steps. Her family certainly shouldn’t see her
this way.
Underwear, jeans, shirts and towels lay strewn
around the open laundry closet in the hallway that
led to the stairs. Someone had obviously been scav-
enging in the dryer; the machine sat half-open with
a brown sock lolling out like a strangled corpse’s
tongue. Kathy walked right by without stopping
even to close the dryer door. Her husband would
expect her to take care of all this laundry while he
was away at work, but she didn’t have the energy to
worry about it at the moment. In truth, she prob-
ably wouldn’t have had the energy to get moving
again if she stopped. Her right arm was stiffening
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 hunter: Players guide
up at the shoulder where she’d almost dislocated
it the night before. The amount of trust she put in
her left knee diminished with every step. And her
eyelids pressed shut as hard as they could. Her body
wanted to wrap up tight and rest, but she wouldn’t
let it. She plodded farther toward the stairs and left
soggy, dirty footprints on the shirts and underwear.
The steps at the end of the hall loomed up more
daunting than a cliff face, and Kathy stopped. She
stood there trying to decide whether to try to lift
her swollen knee first or to trust it to hold her entire
weight while she led with the other foot. Eventu-
ally, she compromised by leaning on the banister
and hauling herself upward as quickly as she could.
Every shuffling step took an eternity and pulled the
grimace on her face more and more taut.
As she reached the halfway point, she had to
stop. The pain flowed in like water, but she tried
hard to banish all traces of it from her face. Her
son came bounding along the hall at the top of the
steps. He stopped momentarily, then hurried down
with a smile to embrace his mother. His excited ap-
leg, but she bore the pain stoically. She managed
to bite her tongue rather than cry out when the
boy bumped her knee in his exuberance. When he
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proach sent jolts through the steps and up Kathy’s
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finished his hug, Kathy gripped the banister in a
corded, white-knuckled fist.
“Hi, Mom,” he chirped. “You’re home!”
“Yep,” Kathy murmured in a throaty whisper.
She hadn’t spoken in some hours, and she feared
a cold was coming on. She coughed to clear her
throat, then forced herself to swallow the sticky
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mass that came up when she did. “Morning, kiddo.”
“When’d you get home last night?” the boy
said. “Did you make me breakfast? You look tired.
You okay?”
Kathy raised a shaking hand and tousled the
boy’s short blond hair. The kid beamed like a puppy.
“Yeah, a little tired,” Kathy said. “I’m going
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upstairs to bed.”
“You’re going back to bed?” the boy asked. He
scrunched up his freckled nose in innocent confu-
sion. It didn’t occur to him that his mother might
have slept elsewhere that night. “I wish I could go
back to bed. I’ve got a math test today. And pictures.
Picture day sucks!”
The boy stretched his neck, and Kathy realized
that her son was wearing a pressed white shirt with
a clip-on blue tie. His dark-blue polyester pants had
been pressed neatly. He looked nice in a shrunken-
yuppie sort of way.
“Language,” Kathy said, not looking her son
in the eye. “I’ve got to go back to bed. I just came
down to see you before you got your picture taken at
school. You look nice, sweetheart. Just like daddy.”
The boy was so happy to hear his mother make
the comparison that he should have had a tail to
wag. He hugged her again, pulling her dangerously
off balance, then ran the rest of the way down the
steps. Mommy’s little avalanche.
When he got to the kitchen, he stopped and
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said, “Hey, where’s breakfast, Mom?”
Standing rigid with her eyes shut tight, Kathy
didn’t turn more than her head. “Make some cereal,
Bradley,” she said, trying not to spit the words out
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through clenched teeth. “Mom’s got to get back to bed.”
“But we’re out of milk, remember?”
“Then microwave some Pop Tarts, hon,” Kathy
called down. “I’ll get some milk later.”
“What am I gonna drink with ’em?” Bradley
persisted. “We’re out of juice, too.”
“Have some Coke then,” Kathy said. “I don’t
care. Just don’t miss your bus, okay?”
“Wow, thanks, Mom!” Bradley said.
Thrilled nearly to pieces, Bradley made himself
some breakfast and finally left Kathy alone. Facing
the rest of her climb with even less enthusiasm,
Kathy pulled herself up the steps again. Now she
had to use both hands to overcome the inertia of
her rest. She could feel another mass of mucus at
the back of her mouth as well, and she had to swal-
low once more.
When she finally reached the top of the stairs,
she leaned in the direction of her bedroom and
hobbled down the hall. Her knee hardly bent any
more, and she cradled her right arm across her
stomach. The hallway seemed to stretch for miles,
dizzying Kathy for a long spell, but she made it to
her room at last. Maybe God was smiling on her
after all, because the shower was still running when
she slipped in like a thief.
Taking off her dirty, wet clothes after so many
hours made her cry. The fabric clung to her, forc-
ing her to stretch and strain already aching joints.
Pulling her stained and threadbare University of
Kentucky sweatshirt over her head threatened to pop
her right shoulder out of place for the second time
in twelve hours. She would almost have preferred
cutting off her sports bra with her pocket knife, but
she managed to wriggle free of it without crying out
by biting the inside of her lip. Tears rolled down her
face, but her shoulder stayed in place. Her shoes and
socks came off next, followed by damp jeans that
clung to her for all they were worth. Naked and in
more pain than when she’d started, she wadded up
her clothes with her tennis shoes and pushed them
under the bed with her heel.