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Griffin Tung (Order #31479857)

 chapter one:

The Tide of Fate

A B R I EF I NT RO D U C T I O N

Y ou’re about to review a sample of the art, world-building, and

system elements found within the pages of Blackbirds. This first
chapter is by no means all-inclusive. It’s a sample—a proof of concept
with which to earn your investment. I hope it elicits a similar joyful
response from you as it did our publisher Andrews McMeel Universal.
Blackbirds is our ink-smudged love letter to horrific dark fantasy. And
it’s our unexpected and heartfelt tribute to Kentaro Miura.
The stories we tell around our gaming tables are more than just
childish escapism. Games are art, weird little bits of performance art,
born of an odd amalgam of archetypes and maths intertwined with
humanity’s oldest pastime—storytelling. Instead of painting on cave
walls, we weave tails of hungering giants and corrupt rulers who
might face justice instead of evading it. We become strangers fated
to meet along a dark wooded path who together will face down the
shadows that threaten all.
The gods are dead. The new gods, still feasting on the ashes of
Heaven, have yet to emerge from their swollen chrysalis. In this brief
time between what feels like deific inevitabilities, the Blackbirds
have a whisper’s chance at undermining the disastrous works of the
Oligarchs.

Warm Regards,
Ryan Verniere

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“In this world, is the destiny
of mankind controlled by
some transcendental entity or
law? Is it like the hand of God
hovering above? At least, it is
true that man has no control,
even over his own will.”
—Kentaro Miura, Berserk
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T
he invisible hand of FATE is felt most noticeably when it is absent.
In Blackbirds, there exists an atmosphere of lingering dread ushered
in by the recent destruction of the gods. This abominable act was
executed by a secretive cabal known only as the Oligarchs: pompous
mortals united not only to evade the icy touch of death, but also to destroy and
supplant the deities themselves. And after slaying Heaven’s pantheon, they turned
their dark intentions on the very arbiters of FATE.
The Norns, who once sat amongst the roots of Yggdrasil ruling over the destiny of
gods and mortals, are no more. The three sisters were the last victims of the Oligarchs’
assault on providence. Their deaths unleashed torrents of ungoverned FATE, which
spilled over the world, mingling with lives previously destined for the mundane and
giving rise to the Blackbirds, persons tethered to the frayed threads of destiny. Like the
ravens that scattered from the branches above the murdered Norns, these Blackbirds
have no masters, hold no particular allegiances, and in most cases, are unaware of
their role in the events to come. That the death of the gods irreversibly altered their
lives remains a mystery to them.
Never has there been an age so ripe with unfettered potential. The Blackbirds are
now part of an unraveling prophecy no mortal ear has heard, one that will draw the
ire of Heaven’s new masters. Perhaps the Oligarchs did not factor these interlopers
into their plans. Maybe they did not care, assuming it impossible for the Blackbirds to
be a threat, no matter their metaphysical agency.
In their victory over FATE, the Oligarchs have transformed into entities largely
exceeding comprehension. Mortals can only gaze in trembling awe at what they have
become. We merely apply human desires and motivations to them to better fathom
them. However, it is possible to understand the Oligarchs before their transformations
 the tide of fate 3

because all were people who sought divine power—contemporary figures who saw
themselves as akin to gods even before ascending to their thrones.
The land has become a purgatory brimming with supernatural horror,
unmerciful violence, and endless war. How your character, a Blackbird, will confront
this terrifying reality, is entirely up to you. But remember, more often than not, it is
the world that changes people, not the other way round. A Blackbird’s agency, wit, or
skill will not always protect them from harm. One may die, slaughtered in a back alley,
while another may rise to lead nations against the coming darkness.
Your character’s intrinsic relationship with the threads of destiny is what sets
them apart from everyone else, a blessing and a curse. As a Blackbird, they’ve been
chosen to play a more significant role in the world—a life of paradox, unable to
escape the currents of FATE, yet also able to ply them.

A D A R K E R , G R I T T I E R FA NTA SY
The subgenres of fantasy can be challenging to chart, a labyrinth of interlocking ideas more incestuous
than a pedigreed royal family. Blackbirds is a darker, grittier fantasy, and can be summarised as an
alchemical reduction of three literary styles of fiction: low fantasy, epic fantasy, and grimdark fantasy.
The dead rise, magic is real, and a concealed dagger is as deadly as a polished longsword. Nobility
and morality are in no way related. Every battle is a matter of life and death. Very little is guaranteed,
especially the lives of characters we like. But there are romantic elements, and a doomed world may also
still be beautiful, permeated as it is with melancholic charm.
Low fantasy denotes a sense of grit, excitement, and realism. Toothless highwaymen stalk the
roads, royal families hold each other’s children hostage to gain political leverage, and a pack of wolves
may drag you from your trusted mare straight into an early grave. Armor gives way, swords break,
wounds fester. The Blackbirds setting bears a resemblance to our own world, while possessing a sense
of period-specific authenticity. And when these grittier elements combine with the legendary and
horrific, the world truly starts to shine.
While there are no orcs or dragons to slay, there are numerous epic-fantasy elements to be
found within the pages of this tome. Creatures whispered of in folklore and spun into campfire song
walk among humanity. Long-forgotten doors to the Od clatter open, and the magical locks meant to
imprison unspeakable darkness give way. It is a time of prophecy set in an age where the candle of hope
burns ever lower.
Undoubtedly, the elixir’s most dangerous component is a smoldering portion of grimdark fantasy,
black and endless like a thousand starless nights. Eldritch creatures penetrate the interstice between
realms. The gods humanity worshiped are dead, and a terrifying new hierarchy has taken their place.
Magic suffuses the world, but to delve into its workings requires summoning and bargaining with
mysterious and puissant entities from beyond the confines of reality. The Blackbirds setting is a skin
stitched from cosmic horror gently fitted over a period similar to the Late Middle Ages.

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 4 BLACKBIRDS
The Nature of Magic
T
he world swims in a roiling maelstrom
of Od, a primeval force permeating all
the cosmos. It is a storm that knows
neither beginning nor end. Thought to be the
breath of gods exhaled with each divine word
of punishment and salvation, the Od is why the
lodestone attracts, it is how the dowsing rod finds
water, it is the falcon and the sky. The riddle of the
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Od has perplexed scholars for millennia. Kings
and queens have squandered fortunes in pursuit
of its secrets. Every religion claims it as their own,
and all of them are wrong. It is everything that
has ever been and everything that shall ever be.
To see the Od is to witness the mercurial
nature of forever. The Od can take many shapes,
but most often, it appears as a swirling miasma

of color obeying cosmic winds that may, in turn,
be an expression of itself. Some mortals are born
with the ability to see the Od, while others are
forced to rely on scrying devices such as orbuculi
or still pools of sacred water to witness its glory.
Staring into the Od reveals the truth of things—
the reason for a boar’s moodiness, a duchess’s near
future, or a crumbling ruin’s secrets. Its shades
and texture change with hypnotic vibrance,
pulsing with coded revelation.
Unless someone has gone to great lengths
to conceal themselves from the currents of the
Od, their essence will manifest as part of the
surrounding flow. Take a crowded tavern, for
example: a familiar enough scene filled with a
hodgepodge of human behaviors. To the ordinary
person, it is a gathering of their fellow peasantry—
boisterous arguments crash past a minstrel’s verse,
smells of stale mead and urine assault the nostrils,
spiced wine passes over lips, and floorboards
vibrate with the thunderous energy of a hundred
stamping feet. To those possessing Odsight, there
is so much more to perceive. The joyous laughter
of a child playing a tambourine bubbles into the
air on warbling ringlets of light, the murderous
intentions of a gambler spill from his lips in the
form of shadowy eels, two lovers ponder each
other as drowsy wisps of Od steam off their
hearts. Each expression illustrates feelings—some
obvious, others buried.
But be warned: Those without the Odic gift
still feel an empathetic twinge when someone
spies upon their souls. Linger too long in your
search, and the hairs on the napes of their necks
will stand on end. While most will not understand
what perturbs them, they will at least recognize
the source of their discomfort—an excellent way
for the overly curious to end up skewered on the
tip of a drunkard’s sword.
Supernatural creatures leave signs of their
passing as the Od becomes displaced—somewhat
akin to a mighty ship carving its wake across an
ocean’s surface. The Od can also be an unreliable
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the tide of fate 5
narrator when it comes to abominations that
conceal their ethereal forms. The material and
immaterial comprise neighboring realms, and
the rules that govern each are intertwined. Beings
capable of shaping bone and twisting flesh are
all practiced liars. Some can even repress the
Od around them, if only for a time. The most
insidious fiends literally ride within mortal
hosts, animating sinew and impersonating
consciousness. Rooting these horrors out is like
removing a worm from the center of a human
brain. Their passage often goes unnoticed, and
empires have fallen because of it.
Bending the rules of creation to one’s
personal will has always been a questionable
act. Even before the advent of the Oligarchs,
magic-wielding theurges were mistrusted and
often shunned. Ordinary people are rightly
uncomfortable with the idea of being torn apart
by invisible hands or set alight with a word. Magic
has always had a multitude of uses, of course. It
has easily saved as many lives as it’s taken, but
violence is what captured the imaginations of the
peasantry. Odic power is rightfully scrutinized by
those who witness it, and unfortunately, memory
is a fickle thing, prone to focus on events that
terrify. The narrative that sorcery is an unethical
practice served the royal courts and humanity’s
many faiths, which have always sought to
marginalize those who command more influence
than themselves. So, the witch is feared, perhaps
more so now than in any other age.
Before the Oligarchs slashed their way
through the tapestry of reality, theurgy was more
prevalent than it is today. Magic was a disciplined
and stringent art form practiced by secretive
orders, and humanity’s connection to the Od was
barred only by a conjurer’s will and the depth of
their knowledge. But that age came to a violent
end when the gods were overthrown, as did
the lives of untold magicians. All those whose
thoughts swam within the Od at that fateful
moment perished horribly . . . or so they say.
 6 BLACKBIRDS

There are conflicting accounts of exactly what
transpired, and it is impossible to know how
many magicians died during the so-called
Extinguishing. What is clear is that their numbers
have dwindled to a scant few.
The Od, the essence of all things, was
structured by the will of gods, manifesting in what
humanity observed as the fixed laws of nature.
But now, that tapestry hangs in tatters, and the
dark light that shines through its rents illuminates
hidden motes of dust, each innumerable speck
a visitor from distant elsewheres. Once seen, it
is impossible to unsee. These beings are called
Outsiders, and theirs is a chorus of manipulation
intent on fulfilling the wildest dreams of those
bold enough to listen. In the absence of the
divine, these interlopers have become conduits to
the Od’s power. To seek the arcane is to treat with
the fiends who now govern it. Their appetites are
peculiar—and, now, unavoidable.
Theurges are seldom possessed by the Outsiders
with whom they barter. Their partnership is more
akin to a symbiotic relationship: Sorcerers want
access to the Od, and Outsiders wish to toy with
the material world. This is not to imply that these
relationships are hostile or lacking altogether in
fellowship, or even loyalty. The personalities of
both Outsiders and their ensorcelling counterparts
are unique, and no two partnerships are entirely
the same.
It is impossible not to conclude that a
frightening game is being played by the Outsiders,
one from which the Oligarchs themselves may
not be free. All that remains unchanged is the
Od, silent and eternal.

The World

T
he world of Blackbirds is diverse and
expansive. It ranges from the misty
forests of Thule in the north, down
through the continent of Erebos and across the
Carcass Nations engulfed by unrest and war,
before finally descending to the island city-state
of Corbel, under oppressive military occupation
by Florent, a mighty nation from across the
Azule Sea.

The peoples of Erebos

represent an enormous
tapestry, replete with
variations of culture.
Were the world not
engulfed by the horrors
of war and beset with
the perversions of
supernatural forces,
it would be a majestic
sight to behold. But now
is a time of ill omens
and unlikely heroes. The
world is changing, and
no society will be spared.
A D E C E P T I V E LY M O RTA L W O R L D
The world of Blackbirds is populated by a myriad of human cultures. To gaze upon
an average city square would impart a somewhat false sense that no other beings
inhabit the land. While these bloodlines harbor extreme variations, such as the half-
giant jötunnkin and the Odtouched nephilim, both are, after a fashion, human—
born of this world. Their Fates tethered to it. But, within each blustering crowd are
beings who choose to hide their true natures, those who wish to pass unrecognized,
as well as those whose numbers are so few they are easily overlooked, overshadowed
by the sheer density of human civilization. Most people will never encounter one
of the aes or their more obscure relatives, the daimn, and it is also true that fewer
still even believe in such fantastical beings. Yet, they have been with humanity,
unobtrusively moving through the ages, since the world was young.

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The Carcass Nations and the
War of Empty Thrones
The Republic was cast into a civil war 12 years
ago by the figures who would later transcend and
become the beings now called Oligarchs. This
massive conflict provided the sacrifice of blood,
flesh, and spirit needed for their monstrous
transformation into godlike entities. And the
war rages on, perpetuated by their loyal retainers,
who wait for the Oligarchs’ triumphant return.
The splintered states of the fallen Republic,
once pinnacles of civilization, have been plunged
into chaos, reforged in the twin crucibles of
warfare and suffering into the Carcass Nations. In
these barren lands, only crows feast. The leaders
of these divided states have either fallen to the
Oligarchs or are mustering forces to repel them.
Bonds of fealty that endured for over a thousand
years have been severed. A wave of meticulous
treachery washes over the kingdoms of Erebos
with devilish precision: diplomats poisoned,
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the tide of fate 7
royal families hastily executed—all who might
stand in the way of the Oligarchs are targets for
their servants.
Vichy’s ancient library was burned to the
ground, and with it, the scrolls symbolizing
the Republic’s declaration of unification, the
Conclave of Erebos. Untold scholarly works were
lost in flames—grimoires, relics from ages past,
all gone. And of the friars that tended to them,
little is known. More than one has been found
nailed to a tree or hung from a bridge over the
years. But there may be those who still manage
to elude their pursuers.
Mysterious figures such as the Veteran and her
mercenary company, the Band of the Iron Scale,
make war against the Oligarch’s servants, raiding
their encampments and hunting them with a
tireless zeal driven by the will of gods who no
longer watch over humanity. They serve no crown,
an unsanctioned army of whispers who appear at
twilight and vanish before the rooster crows. No
one has ever laid eyes upon the Veteran’s face,
hidden behind a bronze mask in the shape
of a keening maiden. Her forces have
broken long-held sieges and turned
the tide of countless battles, only to
slip away before the delirium of war
lifts enough to comprehend
the magnificence of her
victories.
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 the tide of fate 9

However, these victories are often short-lived, The Middle Kingdoms of Erebos have been
as the Veteran’s efforts appear to follow no rhyme or irrevocably changed by such conflict. Garia’s
reason, and the war she fights seems to be one of her king is no more. The once-ruler of the ancient
own authoring, divorced from the greater struggle. capital city of Elysium lies dead, struck down by
Perceptive tacticians argue she is striking at the the armies of the religious theocracy Vichy mere
Oligarchs’ network of conspirators, cutting away days ago, with only Princess Osanna Gilead left
the rotten meat that infects the betrayer nations’ to lead the nation’s defense. Hill people stream
courts. Others still claim she is nothing more than forth from a radicalized Caoimhe Clan-Lands,
an indulgent bit of wartime gossip. Nevertheless, having seemingly embraced the brutal “old ways”
all who claim to have fought alongside the Iron of their missing ruler, Caoimhe-Ondrej. Cathia’s
Scale carry an unquenchable ember of hope. borders are eerily silent, with no word sent from
The War of Empty Thrones is unlike any the politically powerful Bardic College as armies
conflict Erebos has ever faced. No one nation is march to retake the region’s former cantons.
to blame, and yet, all are mired in its bloodshed. The hated King Malthus sits unchallenged upon
At first, it was surmised that a maddening the throne of Hyperitus, ordering his soldiers
sickness spread across all the countries of the to slaughter any who cross the border, while
Middle Kingdoms, erupting into civil wars that whispers stir within the Splendid Kingdoms as
careened into neighboring provinces. But this Queen Corinth finds herself surrounded on all
was no illness. The inciting events were too sides by war. There, shadowy forces muster at
specific, too well timed, and too masterfully Baerald-upon-Muse, waiting for the moment
executed. The hands of a young prince are sent to strike.
to his parents, a king throws himself from a Elklund spirals into
tower, knighted generals turn traitor and attack a brutal civil war. Afet’s
their own kingdoms. The pattern repeats with famed markets have turned
dreadful purpose. Society erodes until all that is treacherous, as coin and vile,
left is carnage—this was the birth of the Carcass black-market wares flow
Nations, the byproduct of an unholy conspiracy uninhibited into neighboring
the likes of which this age had never seen. Ipswald’s dangerous criminal
Erebos, a continent once united under the under-world. In the north, “To walk the roads of
banner of the Republic, is now a menagerie of Thule’s capital of Highsalt Elklund is to have a
warring states and burning ruins. Where there swirls with conspiracy as spring in one’s step,
was once free-flowing trade, there is famine. nobles turn upon each other though not so much
Crops wither. Fields go untilled. Rats swarm in dangerous cat-and-mouse from joy as from
through the remains of the dead that clog the games. In the south, an the shifting of the
paved streets of fallen cities. Roads of churned ominous feeling has overtaken cobblestones underfoot
mud that lead away from the Carcass Nations are a nearly abandoned Corbel, as as they’re stirred by the
choked by innumerable refugees dragging along the servants of the Oligarchs unseen fingertips of the
the meager possessions they managed to snatch jockey for power. disquieted dead upon
up before escaping their countrymen’s dark fates. A dark new chapter whom they were laid.”
No direction offers true salvation, however, and in history is being written, —Observations of a
Meandering Squire
conflict surrounds these weary travelers on their untethered from FATE and
dire sojourns. With each passing day, it seems, the inked with the blood of
War of Empty Thrones devours another kingdom. millions.

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 10 BLACKBIRDS

Corbel Or it did, before the war.

The fortress-island Corbel draws its name from
the nation’s long-abandoned
capital, carved into the cliffs
above the Gulf of Echoes—a
historical wonder that predates
the Age of Hyperion. In Corbel,
vast temples dedicated to the
old gods, held aloft on columns
of burgundy marble, loom
“In the city of Corbel, over fragrant marketplaces and
handshakes are always adorn squares. The masts of
performed by clasping what must be hundreds of ships
one another’s forearms, can be seen jostling for position
which makes for a in the surrounding Azule Sea.
heartier gesture, as well Mule-drawn carts and throngs
as a simple way to check of peddlers, speaking a myriad
newcomers for tricks of languages, clog the congested
up their sleeves . . .” alleyways of this mercantile
—Observations of a titan. Corbel enjoys its position
Meandering Squire
as a cosmopolitan jewel nestled
at the foot of Erebos.
A hegemony of five families has ruled over
Corbel for millennia, with each house’s figurehead
serving as one of the city’s Domini. While the
seasons change, the names of Corbellian leadership
remain the same. It has always served the families
best to never choose sides and to remain neutral
in the world’s broader affairs. They concerned
themselves only with trade. But years of war
in the Carcass Nations caused the flow of vital
supplies into Corbel to cease. The population grew
apprehensive as fewer and fewer ships arrived from
far-off ports. Those that did moor upon the docks
carried news of nations laid to ruin by their own
armies, of farmland covered in winter’s frost at
midsummer, of long-forgotten horrors returning
to the world. There are only two things that travel
faster than a well-fletched arrow: the tall tales of
sailors and scandal within a royal court.
Fear became Corbel’s new master.

A s winter set in during the war’s 10th year, an armada of Florentian vessels led by a
hulking dreadnaught took up residence in the waters surrounding the capital. Corbel
was powerless to stop it. The city fell without a fight. While the Domini’s flags still hang over
the Golden Basilica, a foreign nation’s troops patrol the streets. The stockyards lie empty, the
docks groan quietly, and all industry has ground to a halt. Florent’s siege is a military occupation
clothed in pageantry and royal etiquette.
For the first time in a century, Corbel knows hunger. Its citizens adhere to strict curfews, and
gold and finery are traded for beggars’ rations, while shrewder members of the aristocracy seek
ways out of the city altogether. But finding smugglers capable of escaping the fortress-island and
with guile enough to slip past a naval blockade before surmounting cliffs of sea-pounded basalt
is a desperate matter indeed. The only visitors to Corbel now are the gulls that shit on it.
Months of occupation have left the population lean and skittish. There’s not a morsel of rat
meat unaccounted for, with far too many bellies to fill on scraps. And there are whispers of darker
things yet. Rumors have spread of bodies being discovered by Florentian guards, each corpse a
twisted thing reduced to a near-weightless husk. This gossip is gaining merit as anointed clergy
have been seen whirling censers of smoldering sandalwood alongside the night watch, who have
traded in their leathers and cudgels for breastplate and pike.

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Thule
Thule is a domain of seaweed-entangled beaches
and endless fjords, where nature’s rawness is
apparent across every season, be it the eternal
night of winter or the unrelenting dawn of
summer. From the emerald waters of Shallow
Bay in the south to the Lands of Fog and Ice in
the north, the nation and its people are as primal
and proud as a sea cliff enduring the ocean’s
thunderous might.
Nestled among the ocean cliffs of Bowman’s
Perch loom the brine-spattered stone walls of
Highsalt, Thule’s vast capital. It’s a cold place
soaked in the damp mist of the Boreal Sea, whose
architecture bears similarities to styles common
to the southern nations, but with an air of pagan
idolatry that many travelers find unsettling.
Built atop an ancient salt mine called the
Ivory Labyrinth, Highsalt’s long history stretches
through the shroud of time to when the tribes
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the tide of fate 11
of the north were willful opponents untethered
to crown or country. Before the first cyclopean
rocks were laid for the capital’s foundation, the
cliffs of Thule’s southern coast were considered
places of sacrifice sacred to the native people
and their oracles, the Children of the Shallows.
These folk were shamans dedicated to the Rider,
goddess of the sea and all its creatures—a titanic
mare draped in a mane of seaweed, whose gaunt
frame was encrusted with barnacles and starfish.
The corpse of Yggdrasil rests deep within
Thule’s northern territory. The ancient World
Tree splintered when the Oligarchs battered their
way into Heaven during their war with the old
gods. Now, the tree’s remains poison the north
with discordant Od. Dying Yggdrasil calls to
its ancestral caretakers, slowly obliterating their
minds and gathering them to its cracked stump
where they climb like cicada nymphs until they
find a place among the splinters and sap to impale
 12 BLACKBIRDS
themselves on the holy ash. There, their terrible
transformation begins.
Unfettered by the World Tree, the north’s
seasons spin dangerously out of control. Spring’s
torrential rains batter Thule for months only
to break into summer droughts that tear the
moisture from every shred of greenery, turning
great forests into deadly tinderboxes. In the fall, a
putrid rot grips life as if to drag it into the jaws of
hell itself, while winter’s cold bites past the bone
to the very marrow, and endless snow blankets
everything in a sea of silent, sparkling death.
In addition, with each passing day, more things
The Extinguishing
T
here was once a fated order
to things, dictated by
the gods—who largely
ignored humanity, yet did
not spite its existence. Their
concepts of justice were, for the
most part, unknowable, and
thus, cultures created religion
in an attempt to decipher and
appease the gods’ predilections.
Cults and temples have been
constructed to honor their majesty,
and while spiritual philosophies vary
significantly from tribe to tribe, there is
one understood constant: The gods work in
mysterious ways, and all mortals can do
is remain faithful when confronted
with the almighty.
Most of humanity was
content to live under the
spiritual machinations of the
divine. Some took solace in
dutiful worship, while others
put their trust in the steel at
their side or the coins in their
purse. The gods seemed mostly
indifferent. There was no knowing
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relegated to dusty tomes and old legends slouch
outward from the unforgiving wilderness to harry
the north’s besieged people.
Druids of the Elden Tree fled south with the
cuttings of Yggdrasil when it was shattered by the
Oligarchs. Those four cuttings alone can restore
the rightful balance of the seasons. But what
they are exactly, and what form they might take,
remains unclear. Yet, with a foreign ruler upon
the throne of Highsalt, its neighbors engulfed in
open warfare, and armies of chittering nightmares
descending from the far north, Thule can do little
but wait out the violence to come.
how to gain their favor. It simply was or
was not given. To the Oligarchs, this
was unacceptable. If the gods would
not cherish them, they would
instead become gods, and in so
doing, free themselves of the
judgment and vulnerabilities of
their lessers.
Through rock, through
iron, across treacherous seas and
vast continents, the agents of the
Oligarchs searched for a way their
masters might transcend their failing
mortal flesh. Perhaps some vile bargain was
struck, or some unspeakable price was paid,
but in time, they came to learn the secret
that would tear FATE asunder and
send the world careening toward
destruction: Gods could be slain.
And not just one god, but all,
leaving their irresistible power
to be claimed by whosoever
struck them down.
By sacrificing the FATES of
countless mortals, the Oligarchs
armed themselves for a grisly war
against the divine. Steel clashed,

blood was spilled, and countless lives were lost in
the glittering darkness between Heaven and the
mortal realm, concluding only when the ancient
beings who had once quietly governed the order
of the world lay butchered upon the threshold
of eternity. And so the Oligarchs took their new,
hideous thrones, and draped themselves in new,
hideous forms, preparing themselves within
throbbing celestial wombs for the day they
might return, seeking worship as the true rulers
of creation.
With the gods extinguished and FATE torn
from its wheel, humanity is a flock without
even the semblance of a shepherd. Now, the
unfathomable Outsiders—strange, demonic
entities with inscrutable goals and unknown
origins—are left to play with humankind as they
see fit. Sowing chaos wherever they manifest and
offering their strange powers to willing theurges,
Outsiders bend the weft of global events toward
whatever seems to please them, with no mortal
power to stand in their way.
And though the old temples still stand and
the devout attempt to keep the faith, monastic
orders have begun to falter without divine
guidance. The gods are silent, and in their stead
have risen ancient things once restricted to the
darkest turns of campfire tales . . . mere shadows
of the gruesome new pantheon yet to come.
Griffin Tung (Order #31479857)
the tide of fate 13
The Advent of Their Return
As blood spilled and nations fell throughout the
Middle Kingdoms, the ritual that would elevate
the Oligarchs to godhood came to pass, but their
transmogrification did not occur instantaneously.
Each remains sewn into their womb of creation,
where they feed off the fortunes of slain gods.
Fueled by the essence of their murdered quarry, the
Oligarchs’ bodies and souls transform into shapes
better suited for their new stations, revealing the
horrifying truths of their alien desires.
The Oligarchs will return, but not immediately.
For now, they take the time necessary to perfect
themselves, while their dark radiance subtly affects
the minds of those suitable to carry out their work.
These servants hide behind a veneer of power and
wealth, as their progenitors once did, but they
are now beholden to horrors greater than their
mewling minds could ever truly comprehend.
From tax collectors to ambitious royals, lowly
musicians to the rulers of vast kingdoms, the
executors of the Oligarchs’ will now seed Erebos for
their eventual conquest, orchestrating dark plots
and ever grander cruelties before their grinning
masters finally reveal what they have become.
These servants number among the
greatest threats to the shattered remnants of
human civilization.
For now, at least.
 CREDITS
The characters, situations, and world in BLACKBIRDS are works of fiction. This game was designed, developed, and
produced by a multicultural team of diverse beliefs, identities, and orientations

BLACKBIRDS LEAD DESIGNER: Ryan Verniere OBSERVATIONS OF A MEANDERING SQUIRE

POWERED BY ZWEIHÄNDER LEAD DEVELOPER: Daniel ILLUSTRATOR: Evangeline Gallagher
D. Fox CARTOGRAPHER: Francesca Baerald
PRODUCER: Mary Gumport
DEVELOPERS: Bill Bridges, John Chambers, Marguerite PRODUCTION EDITOR: Dave Shaw
Dabaie, Edward Austin Hall, Joseph Limbaugh, Ify PRODUCTION MANAGER: Chuck Harper
Nwadiwe, Zoë Quinn, Jared Rosen, and Eddy Webb
ADDITIONAL CONTRIBUTIONS: Jason Bolte and
KICKSTARTER CONCIERGE: Kate Bullock
Joe Carriker
SOCIAL MEDIA COORDINATOR: Christian Fox
OBSERVATIONS OF A MEANDERING SQUIRE WRITER:
Christian Fox RPG BRAND MANAGEMENT: Daniela Bone

CULTURAL CONSULTANT: Marguerite Dabaie MARKETING AND COMMUNICATIONS: Kathy Hillard

KICKSTARTER BUSINESS DEVELOPER: Tammy Hook

LINE EDITOR: John Chambers SALES OPERATIONS: Lynne McAdoo

EDITORS: Marguerite Dabaie, Edward Austin Hall, and EXECUTIVE CREATIVE DIRECTOR, GAMES: Daniel D. Fox
Eddy Webb CHIEF DEVELOPMENT OFFICER: Fred Nelson
PROOFREADER: Mariah Madsen PRESIDENT OF PUBLISHING: Kirsty Melville

ART DIRECTORS: Mary Gumport, Hannah Hahn, and BLACKBIRDS LICENSING MANAGER: George Ruiz
Rob Sather
GRAPHIC DESIGNERS: Diane Marsh and Rob Sather LEAD PLAYTESTER: Ryan Verniere
COVER ILLUSTRATOR: Dave Rapoza PLAYTESTERS: Ryan Cady, John Cassel, George Finn,
INTERIOR ILLUSTRATORS: Nathan Anderson, Samuel Jon Frank Jr, Sy Harris, Thor Kani, George Krstic,
Araya, ARTeapot, Natalia Bacetti, Clément Blum, Joe Manganiello, Nick Manganiello, Ron Mathews,
Alice Boudry, James Bousema, Xander Brown, Oleg Graham McNeill, Kyle Newman, Chris Prynoski, James
Bulakh, Christopher Campbell, Mark de Bakker, Purdum, Adrian Quinn, George Ruiz, Jody Schaeffer,
Artem Demura, Stanislav Dikolenko, LA Draws, Thea Chelsea Shafer, Odin Shafer, Paul White, Alex Wolf,
Dumitriu, Ken Duquet, Celestial Fang, Florian-Ayala and Ken Wong
Fauna, Jonathan Fernandes Juanieve, Mike Franchina,
Paul Freland, Vlad Gheneli, Goran Gligović, Grady
SPECIAL THANKS: Lauryn Ipsum and Jessica Verniere
Gordon, Asmo Grimae, Sheri Groleau, Hannah Hahn,
Jana Heidersdorf, Cristián Huerta, Ash J, Maxim
Kostin, Maxim Kozlov, Jonathan Kutzer, Tim Liljefors,
Vasco Mariano, Iain Matthiae, Marco Mazzoni, Oriana
Menendez, Felix Miall, Maxime Minard, Alexandria
Neonakis, Joseph Pegg, Ariel Perez, Dave Rapoza,
Paul Reinwand, Adam Rosenlund, Olly Ryder, Roman
Sachnow, Rob Sather, Mariya Sviridova, BW Usagi,
Erin Vest, and Maria Zolotukhina

Griffin Tung (Order #31479857)