Through the thick curtain of falling snow they could all see the dim outline, the approaching throng moving en masse, giving the appearance of a single living organism. The Torterats were minutes away; four, five at most.

Four thousand years into the future the frozen Earth is a hostile place. The last remaining humans, a small band of sixty known as the Camarilla, face hunger and the harshness of a desolate land. Fleeing from Torterats, the clan must overcome the perils of Kaldor or die.

Darkness overwhelmed the light. The outline of trees could no longer be seen and as this happened, the transparency of the phantoms tinged with blue. Gaseous blue flames, they floated, tempting the hungry with food in outstretched hands.