Perchta: Dawn

The myths of midwinter recall a time of reckoning: gifts for the good, retribution for the bad. The reckoners, few and far between, have been softened by time. But not Perchta, from ancient alpine valleys, where punishments are dealt with a blade at dusk, and trees gifted with rotten garlands at dawn.

Perchta: Dusk

In midwinter, the days are short, and it is the dusk and dark that rules over the dawn and light. Perchta only grows more feverous as the days shorten, for in the dark her truest form takes hold, and the light cowers from her fury.

Midwinter Tusk

Runed with lost symbols of power, the teeth inlaid into this Martini-Henry IC1 belong to no living beast. It's said that at the lightest touch they evoke overpowering illusions of blizzards, avalanches, and children lost to a blanketing white. Ancient memories and inescapable prophecies.

Unkempt

Old stories tell of the terror Perchta would instill on those who’d been bad. Whoever wears the mask of Perchta today deals her punishments out with this LeMat Mark II revolver, using both barrels on the particularly deserving.

The Avalanche

When Perchta comes, this Frag Bomb thunders with the force of an avalanche, decimating those in its wake.

Old stories and grim fairytales speak of midwinter reckonings that reward the good and punish the bad. Foulest amongst this pantheon is the creature known as Frau Perchta, unsoftened like others of her ilk by the passing of time. A thing made of fur and tusk, fang and terror, who, in form of a woman, slits the abdomen to pull out the innards. A beast that changes from dusk to dawn.

Those that stand against corruption, from forgotten valleys to glacial peaks, are made of harder stuff. Stories reached Louisiana of one – one who’d lost themselves amongst the blood in the snow, and who had donned the mantle of Frau Perchta, inhabited the children's tale meant to terrify.

The daughter of a peasant high in the mountains, all that remains of that life are half-forgotten memories of taking the cattle to graze. In midwinter, a father returning home at dusk, a silver coin promised to a good daughter wasted on drink, a hand raised to a protesting mother. A hand raised one too many times. When the sun rose at dawn, a corpse was found with its abdomen slit in two, entrails feasted on by beasts.

From Louisiana, Perchta was sent for, and only silence answered. Those who had whispered of Perchta were called fools, and those that believed were laughed out of town. But in the depths of winter, when dawn broke in the bayou, garlands of innards were found strung on trees. The bad faced retribution every dusk. An old story was taking on new chapters, and the hunt was growing wilder by the day.