​​

A Burning Herald game

 

A dark fantasy larp set in the disputed lands of the mythical world of Tellus. This vast expanse has been the centre of war, genocide, cruelty and dark magics for as long as records have existed. Those who venture there go with the knowledge that they may never come back; the ones who return are transformed. Only the maddest, bravest and most desperate venture into the disputed lands in search of redemption, coin or power. Some are sent here in exile in order to redeem themselves in the eyes of the faith, quests and missions are offered for these folks to be able to complete prior to returning home.

 

Concept of the game:

This game is set around a large group of rangers, foresters, mercenaries, scholars, soldiers, free riders, physicians and nobles who have all signed varying contracts posted throughout the kingdoms offering rich reward for those willing to venture into the disputed lands to reclaim and defend an outpost against the untold horrors of the wastelands such as orcs, wicked humans and other fouler, darker things that are known only as shadow spawn. Those who venture there often find that the magics and miasma that lurk within twist their minds, making the memories hard to distinguish upon returning to the known world, often falling into mania awaking at night in fits of terror and being suspicious of all those around them.

 

What we want to deliver:

We’re looking to deliver an incredible immersive experience giving players ethical dilemmas, combat, negotiations and physical problems to negotiate with. This will allow for a more engaging game that doesn’t revolve around a single theme, every encounter will be unique and provide options on how to resolve them. Perhaps you’ll pay off the local warlord but at the expense of them going on to cause problems for other allies, perhaps a local murder needs solving, potentially there’s even spies in your camp feeding information to your enemies. We seek to make sure that you have an absolutely incredible weekend of intrigue and excitement!

 

Setting: 

The year is 52AW (After Withdrawal) and times are becoming ever harder and leaner. Opportunity is barren in the capital cities across the face of Tellus, coin and grain that once flowed like a torrent has dwindled to a mere trickle. The free peoples of the Citadel have turned outward looking far beyond the Great Plains and onto the Disputed Lands where promise of salvation awaits. 

 

The Great Plains, once fertile and rich supplying much of the continent with bountiful harvest, are now little more than deserts encircling the Citadel. Dust devils and djinn are the only things that can make a mark on the land now. Fishing vessels once abundant at port and on the Wide Sea are now far and few between. For many years the returning skiffs have had lighter and lighter catches, that is if they return at all. The remaining captains tell tales dockside of waterspouts taller than the great towers of the Citadel and leviathans that split ships in two leaving only red mist in their wake.

 

Out of need and desperation, contracts have been sent as far as the winds will carry them offering inordinate amounts of coin for those willing to take part in an audacious mission to the disputed lands to reclaim a series of ancient and crumbling forts in an effort to establish colonies that may be able to support the growing requirements of the mainland. 

Among the first expeditions to the Disputed Lands, when hope was as scarce as a hot meal, few ships survived the perilous round trip. Those that limped back to port came broken: hulls scoured by salt and storm, crews hollow-eyed or half-mad, their stories filled with shouts of horrors which Tellus had no name for. 

 

All but one.

 

The Wayfarer’s Debt returned with something stranger still. 

Not tales of horrors and damnations, but neither did they bring home maps, or even a clear account of what lay beyond the Disputed Lands. Instead they returned with a twisted little branch. 

It was carried wrapped in oilcloth and reverence, as though it was a relic handed down by the gods. A small sprig of leaves and a few scattered berries. Grey-green in hue, its leaves soft as ash yet still verdant and alive, the sprig had clusters of small golden pearls that were described as tasting sweeter than the divine.

 

The branch became known as the Portent of Dawn.

 

In the years since, its likeness has spread. Rendered in ink, stitched into tabards, hammered into signet rings. To some it is proof that the world beyond the dust still lives. That the Withdrawal did not claim all things. To others, it is a dangerous myth, a lure dragging the desperate to their deaths on the promises carried by madmen. 

 

The Order of the Portent of Dawn bears the branch upon a field of white, believing it a divine covenant. That the land will yield again if reclaimed with faith and sacrifice. Even the Citadel elite have quietly adopted a stylised version in their private seals, a mark of those who would bankroll reclamation, and claim dominion over whatever is found.
True or not, the symbol endures.

A promise that somewhere beyond the vast waste, the world has not yet accepted demise.