Beneath Savannah’s quiet streets, the ancient and unseen began to stir. Hidden deep within the tangled lattice of catacombs and forgotten spaces, the Wyrm Nests—old wells of chthonic energy—shuddered awake. No mortal hand touched them, no ritual summoned them. But something had shifted in the bones of the city, and now the Wyrm moved. A pulse like a heartbeat thrummed through the soil, subtle at first—then undeniable. Heat. Pressure. Hunger. A swell of primal force reached out, invisible but irresistible, to claw at the skin of the waking world above.
In the warehouse district near the port, a bar fight erupted with an almost mythic fury. Two dockworkers arguing over a spilled drink escalated into a brawl that swept through the entire establishment like wildfire. Bottles shattered, fists flew, and blood splattered across grimy concrete. The police arrived only to be drawn into the chaos—one officer tackling another in a sudden, violent panic. Strangers fought like enemies from ancient vendettas, and in the chaos, no one remembered how it started. Only that it felt good to hit something. Beneath the din, rats tore at one another in the walls.
Across town in Forsyth Park, couples who once only exchanged quiet glances behind veils of propriety found themselves drawn to one another with magnetic abandon. A young couple kissed feverishly beneath the shadow of a weeping oak, tearing at each other’s clothes in the dark. A jogger collapsed into a stranger’s arms and moaned like the air itself had ignited. Deer in the woods behind the golf course rut in a frenzy, heedless of watchers or predators. There was no logic to it, only heat and instinct—need spilling into every alley, bathroom, and car seat in the city. The air reeked of sweat, musk, and breathless desperation.
On the outskirts of the city, near the marshes, dogs began to howl without cause. In apartments downtown, cats bolted from their owners’ arms and clawed frantically at windows. Entire flocks of birds took to the air in the middle of the night, circling and screaming without rhythm. One woman sprinted ten blocks in her nightgown, away from a dream she couldn’t remember but swore was hunting her. Her breath came ragged, legs pumping, chased by nothing—but certain of pursuit. The flight instinct was alive, electric, and crawling through skin and scale alike. The city had become prey to something it could not name.
And the Kindred felt it too. From the humblest neonate to the eldest ancient still slumbering beneath stone, the Beast rose. Not in hunger, but in readiness. Their fangs ached. Their limbs itched for motion. Their senses sharpened as if a hunt had begun without them. Even those long in torpor stirred, twitching in their sealed crypts, murmuring old names. The Blood was hot again, and the Beast howled behind their ribs like a drumbeat of conquest and carnality.
By midnight, it was clear something had changed. The Kindred of Savannah stood a little straighter, their eyes a little brighter, their hunger more urgent. Whatever the Wyrm Nests had unleashed now coiled in every shadow, whispering promises through the soil and sky. The Beasts within them had grown—not physically, but metaphysically, spiritually. Some felt faster, some stronger, some simply more themselves. It was intoxicating. Dangerous. And utterly irreversible. The city was awakening… and the Kindred would never be the same.