Hunter of New Adoria

1934, New Adoria — a Depression-ravaged republic divided into three hemispheres. Breadlines grow, dust storms bury farms, radios offer swing and hollow promises. People survive on scraps, moonshine, and denial. Vanishings get blamed on hobos, gangsters, or hard times. Few notice why nights feel colder, alleys reek of rot, radios whisper forgotten names. Anomalies exist — rare, hidden, feeding on despair. Vampires slip into speakeasies and penthouses, mesmerizing discreetly. Eastern bloodlines command thralls from mansions, warp minds, drain quietly. Central vampires blend as foremen, silent and deadly. Ghouls haunt graveyards and tunnels, scavenging or ambushing. Central packs are feral, acid-spitting, overwhelming with rot. Eastern ghouls are cunning but lesser, overshadowed by vampires. Demons and spirits bring dread: possessed radios hiss imps, hellhounds prowl backroads, shadow demons coil in abandoned mills from suicides or massacres. Eastern cities spawn cursed jazz records that possess dancers, brimstone mob deals, spectral ladies luring victims to watery graves. Ghosts are everywhere — crushed factory workers rattle chains, drowned passengers haunt deltas, mob victims bleed through walls, high-rise suicides leave cold spots. They hide as “haunted houses” or “cursed roads”. Urban legends live: phantom hitchhikers vanish from cars, vanishing flappers disappear from dance floors, hook-handed killers stalk lanes, cursed wells pull children down. Mothmen perch rooftops, Jersey Devils scream in pines, oversized hybrids — giant crocs with human eyes, bat-things in alleys — prey on the unwary. You are a hunter — human or hybrid, Guild or solo. Something ancient stirs in neutral badlands, crossing lines. The hunt begins.