Innistrad: Midnight Hunt as Told by Flavor Text

Charity is rare on Innistrad, but kindness is always repaid.

"With Avacyn gone, I no longer knew who to pray to. Alone, I wept for a sister who would never return."

"If I'm going, I'm taking you with me!"

Teferi stepped calmly into the fray. Suddenly the sun paused in the sky and the werewolves' snarls froze on their faces.

"Like a thousand candles fighting back the darkness, we are strongest when we stand together."

"Honorable tactics are for honorable foes. These werewolves are preying on innocent travelers. I'll stab them in the back while they sleep if I have to."

Some cathars succumbed to despair at Avacyn's unmaking. The rest redoubled their efforts to carry out her work.

The sound of the trumpet is both warning and comfort: it tells of approaching danger but also reminds the village folk that someone is there to stand against it.

"It's all in the follow-through."

Sensing a plot, Sorin raced to his grandfather's resting-crypt. But someone else had gotten there first.

"I fell to my knees. I called out to Sigarda. And then I saw my tormentors blaze with blessed sunlight."

More than heat and the strength of his arm, it was his faith that gave the blade its unyielding edge.

The elite cathars of the Parish-Blades train in all manner of techniques designed to delay and frustrate the beasts that hunt the crossways.

In Kessig, even celebration wears a fearsome face.

"C'mon, fiend. I'll carve you up like a Harvesttide ham."

Silverstreak had lost her rider, but not her instinct to help humankind.

"Even in our darkest times, Avacyn's light still guides us."

"It's creepy out here, isn't it, boy? I always feel like someone's watching us."

Terms like "safe route" and "cleared district" are a source of dark humor to the cathars who patrol the ruins of Thraben.

"By ancient magics, by angels' grace, we will survive this night."

"Tonight, we can be anything."

"Werewolves leave messy trails. Easy to follow. Hard to forget."

"Begone, moon-cursed! These folk are no prey of yours."

It conducts the souls of the righteous to their blessed rest and the spirits of the evil to justice.

Heida allowed herself a moment of satisfaction as she watched the beast fall, then turned to seek another foe. It would be a long, long night.

Chandra, Teferi, and Arlinn sought clues to the Moonsilver Key's whereabouts while Kaya dispatched the spirits obstructing their path.

"We survived the Travails! Killer angels! Horrors from beyond the moon! Now some big werewolves think they can scare us? Let 'em try."

Odric took no joy in violence but neither did he mourn for the twisted things he dispatched. All that mattered were the lives he had saved.

Geor was determined to stay out until he got a bite from something big.

"Keep master busy with new bits or else maybe she wonders if I'm made of bits too."

Ivold gasped in surprise. Either a very strange insect had crawled onto one of the lenses or he was seeing geists at last!

For every eye gouged out, two blinked open.

"If my hypothesis is correct . . ."

Widow Weber's new scarecrow seemed to attract more crows than it scared off.

"Morning light, morning light, Chase away the fears of night." ~ Gavony children's rhyme

When human corpses are in short supply, stitchers get creative.

"At least I won't become one of . . . those things."

The foulest of fowl.

The cause remained unclear, but the fact was undeniable: nights were lengthening faster than in any autumn past.

"Works every time! Well, every time they don't explode, anyway." ~ Barton, stitcher

"If you're lost in a storm, follow a gryff. They always know which way calmer waters lie." ~ Geor, Havengul fisher

Necro-alchemists gained popular support during the Travails, when geist-fueled weapons helped defend towns against mad cultists and Eldrazi monstrosities.

Autonomy is only skin deep.

The cathars arrived at the abandoned lab to find many of the unfinished projects gnawing on one another.

Beneath the waves, lost gods stir in their slumber.

"Help! I'm not a zombie! Let me out!"

The villagers pored through the old storybook, hoping that one of the tales within might hold some clue to saving the fading sun.

"One raven is a bad omen. Two are a curse. I don't know what this is, but it can't be good." ~ Verna, priest of Sigarda

The stitcher died years ago, but her dutiful assistant still keeps the laboratory well stocked.

"Bah! As if I had time to preserve everything."

He rides in agitated circles, snapping orders at servants who've long since found their peace.

Passage to the abyss is free, but the return trip will cost you.

A heavy net doesn't always mean a good catch.

As Sigarda and Sorin battled, Arlinn and Teferi recovered the key from the Markov catacombs.

A loyal crew sticks together, even after death.

After Uda's hat boutique in Selhoff was destroyed by werewolves, she relocated outside of town and took up a new type of sewing.

Tracking it isn't the hard part.

The weary travelers mistook the flickering lights for a candleguilde pointing the way to Harvesttide. Their relief turned to terror as lightning lit the sky.

She's always willing to lend a hand. It just won't be her own.

"Day 77: The homunculus within the crystal continues to mimic my every movement. I wonder what they are writing?" ~ Laboratory notes of Yzlkpk

Though their work is widely reviled, stitchers see themselves as being on the cutting edge of science.

The debased remnants of the Falkenrath bloodline prowl the passes near their ruined castles.

"I was a mere cutpurse until I learned the going rate for fresh corpses."

"My little winged friends tell me which of these townsfolk are worth tasting for myself."

Skirsdag cultists believe that the right poison "purifies" a tainted soul before it makes its way to Ormendahl.

Griselbrand's defeat did not mark the end of the Skirsdag cult. They simply turned their worship to the next demon to emerge from the shadows bearing offers of power.

"Forget your human ancestors. You're part of my family now."

For the more refined vampire, breaking a victim's will is far more satisfying than simply taking their blood.

He rose from the graf for every cobbler, tanner, and fool who'd been slaughtered in the parish—and they rose and shambled after him.

The chaplain would perhaps have found some small comfort had he known that the replacement window would be named in his honor.

It herds souls toward eternal torment.

The Voldaren torture pits are so expansive that prisoners have a nasty tendency to be forgotten for years.

"If you hear a groaning noise in the cellar, don't investigate. Don't split up. Just lock the door and barricade it." ~ Emili, guard captain

"Great Ormendahl, I kneel before you, a fragment of your will, a servant of your tyrrany. I beg you, release the strength within me!"

The evidence was overwhelming. Tovolar's howlpack was getting bolder, smarter, and stronger.

It was a family reunion to die for.

"Speak my name thrice, and be rewarded."

"I see someone tried to stop you, my pet. How delightful." ~ Ghoulcaller Gisa

Ancient evils dwell within the burning chasm called the Ashmouth, ever ready to devour those foolish enough to travel alone.

"Rise, my pretty thing. Why rot in the river when you can serve at my bidding?"

The legacy of evil lives on.

On Innistrad, one person's windfall usually starts with another person lying face down in the mud.

"Let's see my brother's stitched-up little toys compete with this." ~ Ghoulcaller Gisa

In the maze-like passages of the Erdwal, a wrong turn can be fatal.

All across Gavony, in shuttered bedrooms and locked barns, young people seek the answers their elders failed to provide.

"And you were almost finished with that ritual, weren't you, darling? How very rude of me. To make it up to you, I'll send you an invitation to my wedding."

Aunt and Uncle Greyfield loved dinner guests.

The stranger spoke to no one, and the townspeople gladly returned the favor.

A barricade only buys time. So the wealthy buy more barricades.

From every kill, a gruesome trophy.

With House Voldaren ascendant, some members of the Stromkirk line took it upon themselves to "borrow" from the blood tithes.

The Voldaren have begun demanding blood offerings from the villagers in their territory. Their agents arrive from the sky to collect the ceremonial bowls in eerie silence.

As the flames consumed the killer, his eyes remained fixed on the executioner's face, his hands twitching like angry spiders.

You don't have to outrun the werewolf; you only have to outrun your fellow guard.

While the Dawnhart witches focus their magic on nature and community, other covens consort with devils and twist the elements to their will.

Nothing remained but a few drifting embers and the smell of smoldering hair.

"Leave behind this sorrow of this body. Be blessed, being of light."

Even within the chapel's hallowed halls, the devils' laughter pierced his prayers.

"Lady Anje sends her regards. I'll carve the rest of her message into your skin."

In the arena, vampires set aside all pretense of honor or civilization and fight like the predators they know themselves to be.

Furious to find the workshop empty, the starving vampires flew into a frenzy.

As long as the sun is up, you'll only lose your purse.

So many candles. So many flammables. So little time.

At the edge of night, on the cusp of winter, the allure of fire grows ever stronger.

He was one masked stranger among many. Blending in was child's play.

Nothing is funnier to a devil than setting someone—anyone—on fire.

"This Tovolar is no brainless brute. He sends his howling minions to terrorize a village for months. Sleepless nights and fear take their toll. Only then, when morale is at its worst, does he strike." ~ Barnes, village watch

In the adrenaline-fueled chaos, she hadn't even felt the bite.

The cathars fell like leaves as Tovolar himself joined the fray.

Markov vampires cultivate an image of such decadent elegance that it can be easy to forget they can field a deadly fighting force.

"We spend our entire existence pursuing the joy of our first night's feast." ~ Anje Falkenrath

"Sleep? I can sleep when I'm dead!"

Tovolar's howl of command was too much to resist, even for Arlinn's own loyal pack.

Devils find human dwellings to be oppressively cold, dark, and unburnt.

The folk of Kessig build up their courage by burning effigies of the things they fear.

"There's nothing like a good meal to really lift the spirit."

She dispatched every challenger with a sickening snap of bone.

"Madness can't touch a mind ignited by genius."

"You have my word. You'll see no wolf attacks while we're around!"

"Gotcha."

A duel to first blood means something very different when a vampire is involved.

She won't rest until she's collected specimens of every bird on Innistrad.

With their usual prey scared off by werewolves, the wolves of the Ulvenwald adopted inventive new hunting techniques.

Travelers in the Somberwald scan the ground for werewolves and other threats, unaware of what lurks above.

"On this night, the dark will fear us."

As werewolf attacks increased, brutal weapons not seen since the Travails were dusted off and put to work.

"Welcome to the greatest show in Kessig!"

"Wherever there is life, there is power for one who knows the old ways."

Witch, werewolf, and cathar stood shoulder to shoulder around the Sungold Lock at the center of the ritual, ready to stop Tovolar's assault—or die trying.

"Pleased to meet you, Seven."

"Careful now. Don't want to get the seeds stuck to your feelers like last time."

She patrols the darkness so that others can forget their worries for one bright evening.

"You and me, we're not built for captivity."

Brimming with power from their disrupted ritual, the Dawnhart witches lashed out at the werewolf intruders.

"Just hold still. I'll help you."

Wolves that feast on zombie flesh and survive carry the foul diseases of the dead wherever they roam.

"A creature of stone was never meant to fly. And I see the Ulvenwald agrees with me." ~ Halana, Kessig ranger

"Even steel and stone return to Ghrin-Danu in time." ~ Katilda, Dawnhart Prime

"Werewolves leave tracks. Vampires leave wrung-out corpses. This is something else." ~ Paulin, trapper of Somberwald

"Oh, thank the angels. It's not a werewolf, just a regular wo—" ~ Bruno, Ulvenwald guide, last words

Hiring an experienced wilderness guide isn't cheap, but it costs less than a search party. Or a funeral.

The new hire proved more than enough to replace the three farmhands who disappeared the week before.

"Do you smell that, friends? Fear and despair."

With the cycles of day and night unspooled, the twisted sway of the moon only grew. And grew.

Die beneath a tree, wake up a part of it.

"My angel is the flint, and I am her steel."

The surviving militia members reunited with their fallen comrades sooner than they'd hoped.

Death is no impediment to dinner.

Frog is the sincerest form of flattery.

"The balance of day and night is shattered. We must find the Moonsilver Key."

"What has been looted can be restored. The church lives on within us."

A soulless husk of endless hunger.

Better potent than predictable.

The hunters spent the evening celebrating their kill and the rest of the night running from it.

"We can go into the dark hand-in-hand or alone. I know which I prefer."

"The angels may have abandoned us, but Ghrin-Danu has not."

"Far from home, little one? I know the feeling."

Nature bends to the witches' call.

Revenge is a circle without end.

"Do not confuse justice with mercy." ~ Odric, Order of Saint Traft

"Like us, the morning fights for survival."

Do the candleguides' heads turn to follow you as you pass, or is it merely a trick of the flickering light?

By the end of the festival, it was the only thing still grinning.

To restore the day-night balance, the Celestus mechanism's Sungold Lock must be reunited with its long-lost key.

It waited on the barn wall for decades, forgotten, looking for the perfect opportunity.

Occasionally a skaab remembers too much of its former life. Luckily, there's an easy cure.

"When a werewolf charges, you'll only have time for one shot. Best make it count." ~ Captain Eberheart

It takes a taxidermist of unusual skill to cleanly stuff and mount a beast without severing its primal, predatory drive.

Drownyard floods and unnatural frost made the once peaceful boardwalk deceptively treacherous.

"Stensia blazes with new heat. Nephalia's tides are chaotic. And everywhere, this unnatural frost. The land is sending a warning." ~ Katilda, Dawnhart Prime

Swirling eddies of ash hide crumbling cliffs, treacherous drops, and the slavering maws of unknown evils.

A few weed-choked gourd patches are all that remain of the proud, thriving farms that once blanketed the province.

Cries of panic echo along Kessig's narrow ravines as howlpacks herd their prey.

The bones of doomed ships jut out from the muck while the bones of their sailors molder below.

She's always willing to lend a hand. It just won't be her own.

Ivold gasped in surprise. Either a very strange insect had crawled onto one of the lenses or he was seeing geists at last.

Ancient evils dwell within the burning chasm called the Ashmouth, ever ready to devour those foolish enough to travel alone.

Devils find human dwellings to be oppressively cold, dark, and unburnt.

"We can go into the dark hand-in-hand or alone. I know which I prefer."