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Not every monster needs wings or horns to be remembered. Some wear fur. Some wear silence. Some wear the face of a woman we failed.
The Terror of the She-Wolf is a tale for the frostbitten edge of civilization. It was built for PsychScape Historical—where who you are matters as much as what you roll—but it plays just fine with any system that respects mood over math.
Want to run it with D&D, Mörk Borg, Savage Worlds, or Call of Cthulhu? You can. Just follow the bones:
The tools are yours. The woods are dark. And that sound you just heard? You’re not imagining it.
Setting: Midnight, the frostbitten edge of a New England sheep farm, November 1754. Just weeks into the French and Indian War.
Legend Master Narrative (Read or Paraphrase):
The frost came early this year. The kind that turns dirt to iron and splits fence posts like brittle bones. Your sheep—what’s left of ‘em—are out in the east field, down past the dry creek where the ground dips and fog likes to settle thick as buttermilk.
You were sleeping. Dead to the world, until the screams woke you.
Not human—worse.
Sheep. Dozens of them, bleating like judgment day.
You barely got your boots on before you grabbed your musket. Buckshot. You keep it loaded. Everyone does now, what with French scouts creeping like mist through the woods and their Mohawk shadows just as quick. But even they don’t do this.
You run. Past the barn, through the fence gate—still hanging open from the last storm you never fixed—and into the field.
It’s... quiet now.
No sound. No wind. Just steam curling off carcasses like ghosts unsure of where to go. You count them—out of habit, not hope. Seventy. All dead. Torn, shredded, some not eaten at all. Just ripped for the hell of it.
And then you see it.
In the churned-up earth.
A pawprint—huge. Bigger than your hand. Deep. One toe twisted outward like it’s pointing somewhere. Northeast. And there, carved into the dirt beside it, the drag line of her right leg. You remember that mark.
The She-Wolf.
She’s not a story. Not some shadow made up to scare kids. She’s real. She’s killed more livestock than the winter of ‘39. Bold as brass, smart as sin, and meaner than a borrowed mule.
They say she’s raised more pups than a midwife, and they’re all just as bad. Some folks say she’s a demon. Others say she’s a woman cursed for killing her husband. You don’t care.
You’re going to kill her. Or you’re going to die trying.
Suggested Transition (Player Involvement Begins):
At this point, hand it over to the players:
You’re not alone. The others came quick when they heard.
Nobody brought more than one shot—powder’s low since the last French raid. You’ve each got a tomahawk, a length of rope, and just enough sense not to argue yet.
But already you can see the differences in how each man stands in the frost.
One of you checks the footprints again—curious, calculating.
Another mutters about devils and women who consort with wolves—eyes scanning the woods, jumpy.
Someone else tightens their grip on their musket, not afraid, just angry. Maybe too angry.
The She-Wolf is out there, sated and sluggish... for now.
The only question is—who are you when the hunt begins?
Setting: Pre-dawn. The black woods of the New England interior. The She-Wolf’s trail leads northeast—into the trees, where the wind stops, and the land forgets it ever owed you sunlight.
Legend Master Narrative (Read or Paraphrase):
The forest doesn’t welcome you.
It accepts you—like an open grave accepts a corpse.
The trees here are packed tight, bark blackened with age and moss slick as meat fat. Every step is slow going. The frost crunches underfoot like brittle bones, loud enough to wake the dead—or worse, something that ain’t.
The She-Wolf’s trail is clear at first: broken brush, paw prints, a smear of blood where she dragged something big and heavy. But soon the signs twist, fade. She’s smart. Smarter than a beast should be. She’s trying to lose you.
Around you, the sounds change. Birds don’t sing. No rustle of small game. Just the occasional snap in the distance—maybe a branch. Maybe not.
And then—a choice.
The trail splits. One path is narrow, cluttered with deadfall and shadow, but the blood smear continues that way. The other path veers left—less brush, easier walking, but no blood. Just a strange scent on the wind—sweet, cloying, like rotting flowers.
Behind you, the woods are already closing like a mouth. Ahead is only darker.
As the party decides which path to take, prompt character-driven decisions:
Let them argue. Let them second-guess. Let the She-Wolf’s silence haunt them.
Ten minutes in, the trees open slightly—and you find the source. A clearing with old stones—a family graveyard, maybe. Half-swallowed by the ground. At its center, a stump covered in animal bones. Squirrels. Birds. Something else.
From the treeline behind you—a sound.
A soft huff.
Not a growl. Not a bark. A breath. Something watching.
Then it’s gone. Whatever it was, it wanted you to see the clearing. To know it knows where you are.
Setting: Mid-morning. Deep in the woods, after hours of tracking. The frost has begun to melt slightly under weak sunbeams. The trees thin—just enough to see the outline of a hovel, part lean-to, part collapsed trapper’s shack. Smoke curls from a black pipe jammed between twisted chimney stones.
Legend Master Narrative (Read or Paraphrase):
He’s there before you see him.
Not a sound. Not a word. Just the click of a flint striking iron. Then the flame—brief and bright—as he lights a crooked, tooth-carved pipe.
He sits on a stump, wrapped in furs that probably still had blood on them when he pulled them off the animal. His beard is long and mostly tangled with crumbs and spruce gum. He’s got a rifle across his lap, but he doesn’t raise it.
He looks at you like a man watching a campfire burn down to embers—sad, a little amused, and completely unsurprised.
“You boys followin’ the bitch, ain’t ya?” he says without looking up. “The one with the twist in her step. Teeth like pickaxes. Smell like grief.”
He spits.
“She got your sheep, eh? Took somethin’ else, too, I reckon. Always does.”
He looks up now. One of his eyes is glass. The other’s sharp as a hawk's.
“You want her den?” he grins. “You’ll find it. But you ain’t gonna like what she made of it.”
Feel free to mix and match:
He’s not hostile—but don’t expect help. He might offer:
This scene’s built to reward:
Setting: Afternoon. The trail leads to a slope flanked by twisted birch and half-fallen pines. As the wind picks up, it carries the scent of ash, damp earth, and something faintly iron-sweet.
Legend Master Narrative (Read or Paraphrase):
The woods fall away like a pulled curtain—and there it is.
An old colonial homestead. What’s left of it.
The chimney stands tall, cracked and lonely, like a tombstone. One wall remains upright, held by nothing but rot and spite. The rest is collapsed, bones of timber turned gray with age. Vines creep like veins across the stone, and the hearth—still intact—leans like it wants to whisper.
This was the Thatcher place. Before the Red Winter of ‘47. When Mary Thatcher vanished after her man was found in pieces. Locals still say you can hear her crying when the wind comes from the north.
But there’s no wind now. Just silence.
The pawprints end here. They go down.
Beneath the hearth, half-covered in leaves and soot, is a shallow pit. Dug by claw, not hand. Stone scraped, dirt packed. Something made a den here—and kept it.
As they investigate:
You find a piece of iron, half buried. Familiar.
A trap. Your trap. Bent out of shape. The kind of twist iron doesn't do unless something insisted.
The She-Wolf took it from where you laid it last winter. You thought you’d lost it. She brought it home.
You weren’t hunting her. She’s been watching you.
As the players prepare to descend into the lair:
One of the players notices something odd: the chimney’s interior has been blackened with new soot. Recently.
Someone—or something—is still burning fires here.
And then they hear it—not a growl.
Not yet.
A whimper.
Small. Weak. Echoing up from the dark.
Let the players decide their approach:
This sets up the Final Scene: the confrontation in the lair—claustrophobic, brutal, and maybe not as clean as they hoped.
Setting: Beneath the old hearth. Narrow stone tunnel descending into darkness. The space is barely wide enough for one man at a time. The walls are claw-marked. It smells like wet fur, old blood, and cold ash.
Legend Master Narrative (Read or Paraphrase):
The hole gapes like a mouth at the base of the hearth, rimmed with claw-scars and lined in damp moss. You crawl. No one walks into this place.
The light fades behind you as your boots slide on packed dirt. The tunnel winds and tightens, forcing you down onto hands and knees. It’s cold. Unnaturally cold. Like the earth itself is holding its breath.
And then—you’re in it.
A chamber. Low ceiling, maybe six feet wide. Bones litter the floor—small ones, big ones. Some stripped clean. Some not. Some... look human.
In the back, pressed into a nest of pine needles and bloody wool, lies the She-Wolf.
She’s massive. More than any wolf should be. Fur matted, one forepaw twisted and scarred. Her eyes flick to you—yellow, knowing. No fear. Just recognition. She doesn’t charge. She waits.
At her belly—movement. Three pups. One pure black. One mottled gray. And the third... smaller. Pale. Eyes too wide, face too flat. Not a wolf. Not a child. Something in between.
Let players act with raw instinct:
The She-Wolf lies dead.
Or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe one of you dies down there. Maybe the thing with the wide eyes escapes into the woods. Maybe you let it.
You climb out. Covered in blood. The chimney still stands, smoke curling like it’s sighing.
There’s no cheering. No reward. Just frost returning to the trees, and a silence too big to explain.
Legendary Predator | Large Beast (or Monstrosity) | Chaotic Neutral
Armor Class 15 (toughened hide, supernatural reflexes)
Hit Points 135 (18d10 + 36)
Speed 50 ft.
Dex +6, Wis +5
Perception +6, Stealth +6, Survival +5
Piercing and slashing from nonmagical weapons (except silvered)
Cold (she’s a creature of winter)
Darkvision 60 ft., Passive Perception 16
Understands Sylvan (or ancient tongue) but can’t speak
Twisted Forepaw (Signature Trait).
Her limp makes her tracks identifiable, but gives her an eerie, unpredictable gait. Attackers have disadvantage on opportunity attacks against her.
Alpha Terror.
Any creature that starts its turn within 10 feet of the She-Wolf must succeed on a DC 13 Wisdom saving throw or be Frightened until the end of their next turn. (Once per creature per short rest.)
Mother's Fury (Recharge 5–6).
If any of her pups are harmed or threatened, the She-Wolf gains Advantage on all attacks and saving throws until the end of her next turn.
Multiattack.
The She-Wolf makes two attacks: one with her bite and one with her claws.
Bite. Melee Weapon Attack: +6 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target.
Hit: 12 (2d8 + 3) piercing damage.
Claws. Melee Weapon Attack: +6 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target.
Hit: 10 (2d6 + 3) slashing damage.
The She-Wolf can take 2 legendary actions, choosing from the options below. Only one legendary action can be used at a time and only at the end of another creature’s turn.
“A man doesn’t live through two winters and a backwoods war without learning how to kill quiet.”
Overview:
A grizzled frontiersman, scarred by old battles and deeper regrets. He’s buried a child, buried his neighbors, and still sleeps with his boots on—just in case. Ephraim doesn't trust stories, but he knows what he saw in that field. And what he smelled.
Big Five Profile:
Suggested Skills & Gear:
“Sheep don’t scream like that. Not unless they know it’s the end.”
Overview:
Just seventeen. Raised among lambs and old tales. Caleb found the field of corpses, and something in him snapped. Not rage—resolve. He doesn’t know war. But he’s ready to learn.
Big Five Profile:
Suggested Skills & Gear:
“Everything rots eventually. Some things just do it from the inside out.”
Overview:
A former war medic turned backwoods bone-saw and folk healer. Sturgis has seen more viscera than most morticians. He came not to fight the wolf—but to understand her.
Big Five Profile:
Suggested Skills & Gear:
“Some men fear the woods. Others should fear what walks back out of them.”
Overview:
The war took her husband. The fever took her child. Mercy stayed behind, alone on a hilltop farm, living off bitter roots and worse memories. She’s not here for revenge. She’s here because she knows how to finish things. And because deep down… part of her wants to hear the She-Wolf scream.
Big Five Profile:
Suggested Skills & Gear:
“She is not just a beast. She is a memory with teeth.”
Overview:
A half-French, half-Abenaki scout once employed by colonial officers and now cut loose by politics. He knows these forests better than any man alive—but the wolf, she eludes even him. He has seen her eyes. They looked like someone who knew his name.
Big Five Profile:
Suggested Skills & Gear:
