The Caller

The Caller appears as someone irresistibly familiar or eerily perfect—a childhood friend never mourned, a lost love returned, a stranger who says exactly what you needed to hear. Each face is a crafted illusion, built not from glamour or disguise, but from the desires and vulnerabilities of the one being hunted.

• To some, they are a warm-hearted traveler with shared memories.
• To others, a charismatic leader, a weeping widow, or a child lost in the woods.

This form is never random. The Caller becomes exactly who you’d invite into your home, into your confidence, into your life.

No matter their form, something is always just slightly wrong. Their shadow stretches in the wrong direction. Their breath never fogs, even in deep winter. They never blink. Animals shy away. Mirrors grow cloudy in their presence.

• Food spoils where they walk.
• Letters from loved ones stop arriving.
• A cold wind seems to follow them, even when doors are closed.

And then they ask, in some innocuous way: "Will you come with me?"

The Caller wants something—but what, no one can say. Some believe they collect names, not souls. Others say they’re seeking a perfect companion, a twin of thought, or perhaps merely an audience.

• Those who accept the Caller’s invitation are never seen again.
• Those who refuse are plagued by misfortune, nightmares, and vanishings among their loved ones.
• A few have escaped, but they return changed—hollowed, frostbitten, and obsessed with candlelight and silence.

The Folktales Say…

• “The Caller waits in the third silence.”
• “They knock only once, and only for you.”
• “The Caller’s story begins when yours ends.”
• “They don’t lie. They only tell truths you were too afraid to speak aloud.”

Some say the Caller is a fey exile, others, a ghost story the Mists made flesh. A few whisper that the Caller doesn’t come from the Mists—but from whatever’s deeper. Older. Colder.