Whispered in fear. Seen only in the corner of the eye.

Shrouded in dusk and drifting fog, the Nightstalker moves where shadows dare not. Its massive wing-arms fold tight against a lean, predatory frame, only to unfurl in sudden, breathtaking silence. Few creatures hunt as it does—slow, deliberate, feeding not on flesh but on the rising pulse of fear itself.

Those who wander the Twilight Cliffs speak of a presence that blinks from sight, reappearing just beyond the lantern glow… watching, waiting, drawing strength from every heartbeat of dread. No one has ever heard it approach. Everyone who survives claims it was already behind them.

In the dying light of the cliffs, courage fades — and the Nightstalker is always hungry.