Death heralded your birth, as you awoke to the world at the last breath of your own kin.
As such, In life, a dark omen was placed upon you; as you were renounced, reviled & rejected by all whom crossed your path.
Yet, in death… In death you are granted access to a world born of the shadowed trails of reality, where the Un-Dead rest in their eternity. & Here, you hold the power of fates, a bridge between realities, where you can wield life as a weapon in this land of the unliving.
How you choose to use this power is yours to divine; being gifted the rarest of freedom to roam this land of torment in search of your own destiny.
As in this life, in this world, you are no longer human,
Here, you are WraithBorn!
WraithBorn is a Grim Folk Fantasy setting for Mörk Borg & OSR TTRPGs; Inspired by Folk Music, Ritual Magic, Grim Dark Fantasy and the Natural World around us. Set in the Veiled Realm of Sgàil, a shadowed echo of a medieval reality where the un-dead & the cursed reside beside the wretched & vile whom call this world home.
You can purchase the core book here:https://theatre-macabre.itch.io/wraithborn
In this book;
Tortured Isle's Campaign Guide Explore the wasted remains of a decaying land, ever striving towards a darkened end that shall never come.
Adventure | Tar & blood -Investigate the Tor Bannyr & the Daemonic secrets of its former master Alaurant of Niève.
The Tortured Isles of S'gath
Tir: A wild isle of grasping Mountains and windswept beaches, is now overrun by feral tyrants from the whispering north. These forces, led by a horde of flesh seekers and blood drinkers, have forced the Tireans in to dominion. No longer free to live as they wish, they are hunted at the will of their rulers. Left but amongst the torment of death to watch as their land grows sick and bloated with the blood they spill, as the sap of the trees bleeds crimson red, and the soil rots to peat and bog around them.
Rhydd: A land of rolling hills, where rock bursts from the earth in grand eruptions of a prehistoric past. Here the people revere the earth and the beasts that dwell upon it. Casting all as sacred, with any attack on them met with ferocious zealotry.
Guarded by the ancient and fierce wyverns of the isle, the people of Rhydd remain free from the tyranny that befell their Tirean neighbours. Yet, the world around them does not excuse them of hardship. As the great storms of the west batter down upon this exposed isle. Forcing those in the Evernight, to hunker down into the mountain rock, & behind the mile high walls of the cities they have built. Only to make leave in the Everdusk, when these urban refuges are left in haste as the people seek life amongst the wilds.
Here in this reverence for the land and the dragonkin that protect them, we find the darkness that lies at the heart of this realm. A debt that is yet to be paid, a force of evil ever to be kept at bay, and an ancient magic of wicked design at its core. All of which is left to be overcome by a society built upon ritual, sacrifice and the dark omens of the past.
Niève: A fae realm, once ruled by the twisted and corrupt Dauphine, Vermillion XI, whom in his wickedness turned the realm in upon itself. As the demons that he brought to bear down upon the peoples, led the charge against their own vile master. Leading to a new awakening under the Papillon Geniève I. Since that fateful day, the gates of the city have been locked shut, as a red glow emanates across the sky above. Any who wish to enter must pass through the only remaining structure to hold free access, that of the Grand Palais. Where in its labyrinthine halls, the tortured remains of Vermillion's experiments wander, seeking out any who dare to enter his temple of brutality.
Iodum: The fires of industry ever burn here. Marked by the scars of a past built on fanaticism, torture, expansion & technology, this land now exists under a rule of order, efficiency and financial growth! Endless growth!
The barons of this once rich and fertile land; seek out all that can be exploited for their goals. As amongst the near ilse spanning city of Iodum, the people are but merely another resource to be exploited. Ever forced to work the furnaces, their only hope of liberation is in death itself. Yet now, a new power gifted to their masters has rendered them eager for rebellion and resistance. For no longer does this death offer salvation, as once their bodies finally succumb to the fires, or break at the spine, they are risen again as mindless thralls to work for another eternity over again.
Some though mistakenly seek hope out in the Moor Bog - the only remaining rurality on Iodum - where lies a rotting palace. As here all there is to find is a past as torturous as the present. Set amongst the grey green rotting oaks that heralded those horrid days long gone; the Old King resides. His bloated corpse traipses across tattered tapestries and moulding wood, as he blabbers to the air: Decreeing laws, declaring wars and demanding taxes of his people. But only does the forest respond. Trees battle earth golems; re-enacting long past wars; as spirits of the wood toil and bow to his pustulant edifice. Nothing good has ever come from him, and nothing ever will...
Fynn: They sought to find escape from this realm, to carve a path to the heavens - if one ever existed? - to only be rewarded with ruin, corruption and despair.
The people of Fynn attempted to effect something miraculous. However, their gift in return covered their land in an explosion of torment, as a cloud of noxious energy blanketed their realms and all that lived upon it.
Thus now, and ever since, this toxicity pervades. So great it is, that its infectious power ignores flesh & bone. Thus, iron & lead are the only protection from the physical symptoms of this curse. Consequently, great mechanised beasts wander the eternal mist covered isles, seeking the fabled Heaven's Gate, battling one another for the small parcels of land that rise above the smog.
Yet this fabric of steel, can do nothing to let them escape the voices that call to them from the deep. The ones who ask them to break free from their metallic vessels, and seek a new existence amongst the heavenly shroud. Those that listen, slowly become twisted by these words, forming iron crusted legions on their skin, that grow as the days pass, into mechanised limbs, new structures to enact torment upon them and others, yet also a gift to powers beyond comprehension.
You can see such unfortunates within the wasteland. Though, I would be cautious of attracting their gaze, as these powerful mechanical beasts can render your mind to cinder, as they tear you body apart piece by piece, with the hundreds of limbs that grow across their warped and twisted metallic carapace.
Death heralded your birth, as you awoke to the world at the last breath of your own kin.
As such, In life, a dark omen was placed upon you; as you were renounced, reviled & rejected by all whom crossed your path.
Yet, in death… In death you are granted access to a world born of the shadowed trails of reality, where the Un-Dead rest in their eternity. & Here, you hold the power of fates, a bridge between realities, where you can wield life as a weapon in this land of the unliving.
How you choose to use this power is yours to divine; being gifted the rarest of freedom to roam this land of torment in search of your own destiny.
As in this life, in this world, you are no longer human,
Here, you are WraithBorn!
WraithBorn is a Grim Folk Fantasy setting for Mörk Borg & OSR TTRPGs; Inspired by Folk Music, Ritual Magic, Grim Dark Fantasy and the Natural World around us. Set in the Veiled Realm of Sgàil, a shadowed echo of a medieval reality where the un-dead & the cursed reside beside the wretched & vile whom call this world home.
You can purchase the core book here:https://theatre-macabre.itch.io/wraithborn
In this book;
Tortured Isle's Campaign Guide Explore the wasted remains of a decaying land, ever striving towards a darkened end that shall never come.
Adventure | Tar & blood -Investigate the Tor Bannyr & the Daemonic secrets of its former master Alaurant of Niève.
The Tortured Isles of S'gath
Tir: A wild isle of grasping Mountains and windswept beaches, is now overrun by feral tyrants from the whispering north. These forces, led by a horde of flesh seekers and blood drinkers, have forced the Tireans in to dominion. No longer free to live as they wish, they are hunted at the will of their rulers. Left but amongst the torment of death to watch as their land grows sick and bloated with the blood they spill, as the sap of the trees bleeds crimson red, and the soil rots to peat and bog around them.
Rhydd: A land of rolling hills, where rock bursts from the earth in grand eruptions of a prehistoric past. Here the people revere the earth and the beasts that dwell upon it. Casting all as sacred, with any attack on them met with ferocious zealotry.
Guarded by the ancient and fierce wyverns of the isle, the people of Rhydd remain free from the tyranny that befell their Tirean neighbours. Yet, the world around them does not excuse them of hardship. As the great storms of the west batter down upon this exposed isle. Forcing those in the Evernight, to hunker down into the mountain rock, & behind the mile high walls of the cities they have built. Only to make leave in the Everdusk, when these urban refuges are left in haste as the people seek life amongst the wilds.
Here in this reverence for the land and the dragonkin that protect them, we find the darkness that lies at the heart of this realm. A debt that is yet to be paid, a force of evil ever to be kept at bay, and an ancient magic of wicked design at its core. All of which is left to be overcome by a society built upon ritual, sacrifice and the dark omens of the past.
Niève: A fae realm, once ruled by the twisted and corrupt Dauphine, Vermillion XI, whom in his wickedness turned the realm in upon itself. As the demons that he brought to bear down upon the peoples, led the charge against their own vile master. Leading to a new awakening under the Papillon Geniève I. Since that fateful day, the gates of the city have been locked shut, as a red glow emanates across the sky above. Any who wish to enter must pass through the only remaining structure to hold free access, that of the Grand Palais. Where in its labyrinthine halls, the tortured remains of Vermillion's experiments wander, seeking out any who dare to enter his temple of brutality.
Iodum: The fires of industry ever burn here. Marked by the scars of a past built on fanaticism, torture, expansion & technology, this land now exists under a rule of order, efficiency and financial growth! Endless growth!
The barons of this once rich and fertile land; seek out all that can be exploited for their goals. As amongst the near ilse spanning city of Iodum, the people are but merely another resource to be exploited. Ever forced to work the furnaces, their only hope of liberation is in death itself. Yet now, a new power gifted to their masters has rendered them eager for rebellion and resistance. For no longer does this death offer salvation, as once their bodies finally succumb to the fires, or break at the spine, they are risen again as mindless thralls to work for another eternity over again.
Some though mistakenly seek hope out in the Moor Bog - the only remaining rurality on Iodum - where lies a rotting palace. As here all there is to find is a past as torturous as the present. Set amongst the grey green rotting oaks that heralded those horrid days long gone; the Old King resides. His bloated corpse traipses across tattered tapestries and moulding wood, as he blabbers to the air: Decreeing laws, declaring wars and demanding taxes of his people. But only does the forest respond. Trees battle earth golems; re-enacting long past wars; as spirits of the wood toil and bow to his pustulant edifice. Nothing good has ever come from him, and nothing ever will...
Fynn: They sought to find escape from this realm, to carve a path to the heavens - if one ever existed? - to only be rewarded with ruin, corruption and despair.
The people of Fynn attempted to effect something miraculous. However, their gift in return covered their land in an explosion of torment, as a cloud of noxious energy blanketed their realms and all that lived upon it.
Thus now, and ever since, this toxicity pervades. So great it is, that its infectious power ignores flesh & bone. Thus, iron & lead are the only protection from the physical symptoms of this curse. Consequently, great mechanised beasts wander the eternal mist covered isles, seeking the fabled Heaven's Gate, battling one another for the small parcels of land that rise above the smog.
Yet this fabric of steel, can do nothing to let them escape the voices that call to them from the deep. The ones who ask them to break free from their metallic vessels, and seek a new existence amongst the heavenly shroud. Those that listen, slowly become twisted by these words, forming iron crusted legions on their skin, that grow as the days pass, into mechanised limbs, new structures to enact torment upon them and others, yet also a gift to powers beyond comprehension.
You can see such unfortunates within the wasteland. Though, I would be cautious of attracting their gaze, as these powerful mechanical beasts can render your mind to cinder, as they tear you body apart piece by piece, with the hundreds of limbs that grow across their warped and twisted metallic carapace.
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