Left forthe Vultures
A Tabletop Roleplaying Game About Losing Everything... and Taking It Back
Your scars are your power, your debts are your drive, and someone is going to pay for what they did.
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A Tabletop Roleplaying Game About Losing Everything... and Taking It Back
Your scars are your power, your debts are your drive, and someone is going to pay for what they did.
Left for the Vultures is a vengeance fantasy TTRPG. Your character isn't a hero, they're a Revenant built from Masteries and Disciplines, shaped by every wound they survived, and driven by debts that don't forgive and don't forget.
In this game there are no classes. There is no predetermined path and there is no role that tells you who to be before you've earned it.
The world of Umbraeth doesn't wait for you to level up. Towns decay. Power corrupts everything it touches. Stay too long in one place and the rot follows you into whatever's left of who you were.
You're not here to save any of it. You're here to collect.
You were left for dead. The game starts there.
Always set at night. Driven by consequence. The world decays whether your characters intervene or not.
The world of Left for the Vultures has one standing rule:
It is always night.
What lives in the dark has had a very long time to get comfortable there.
No classes. No prescribed path. You assemble a character from layered Masteries and Disciplines... building something that fits the world, not a handbook. Full customization with enough structure to stay coherent.
A pool of d4s you spend on damage, mitigation, movement, healing, or conditions. The game doesn't give you resources for being good. It gives you resources for getting hurt... and using that pain as fuel.
Reaching 0 Physical Health isn't just a game-over state: it's a trigger for advancement. Grievous wounds. Madness mechanics. Characters who survive become something harder and stranger than what they started as.
When the dice hit their ceiling, they keep going. Chaos lives in the math here. A desperate peasant can land a blow that cracks armor. A seasoned killer can catch a blade in the throat on a bad roll. Nothing is guaranteed.
Combat leaves marks. Lost fingers. Ruined eyes. Bone-deep trauma that stays. The body keeps score, and the system makes sure you feel every number on that tally.
Surviving a fight isn't the end of the problem. Grievous wounds, madness, and physical trauma accumulate across sessions. The system tracks what your character has been through... and makes sure they carry it.
One day, the sun didn't rise. There was no warning, no explanation. It simply didn't come back, and neither did the light. The world of Umbraeth: There are eight continents, seven bishops, and the night is eternal.
Across the land moves The Despair: a mist of ash and darkness with no fixed home and no pattern of movement. Those caught in it age without warning. Those born inside it come into the world without color, pale and hollow-eyed. They are called the Ashenborn, and the world has made it clear, in every way it can, that they were not expected.
The seven bishops rule their continents in a peace that holds only because open war would cost them more than the scheming does. They smile across the table. They plot beneath it. History in Umbraeth has a pattern: something resembling hope surfaces, and then something larger swallows it whole.
Magick exists as it always has. But the bishops have declared it forbidden across every continent, burning ancient tomes wherever they find them. The rumors blame magick for the darkness: a sorcerer invoking a dead god, his ritual gone wrong. Whether that's true or not, the mobs don't wait to find out. Anyone caught using magick in public won't survive the crowd.
German-inspired and fungal-dark. Trees can't grow without light, so prototaxites cover the wilderness instead. The tribal Ashenborn here: the Grey Sons: harvest their chemicals for poisons, toxins, and salves. The cities of Faulbruck and Valich lie within its borders.
Father Upir rules here. Nobody says out loud what some of them suspect. The land runs deep with Gothic horror, undead, and necromancy, and Father Upir has been in power for longer than anyone finds comfortable to calculate.
French in its bones and cold in its soul. The Black Bishop presides over a continent where madness is a theological condition and the ice doesn't care what you believe. King in Yellow territory, through and through.
Bishop Diallo's continent is the wealthiest in Umbraeth for one reason: bioluminescent ink, produced here and sold everywhere. High alchemy, dark desert, and enough coin moving through it to make everyone else nervous.
Free Adventure
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