A cloaked figure approaches from the darkness. “Come, my friend,” he says in heavily accented tones, gesturing with his staff towards a large, peaked canvas tent. Dubiously, I follow, able to catch only a glimpse of his features: his trimmed beard and golden-painted face.
Inside his abode, there are all sorts of medieval-looking weapons and equipment. I sit on a raised camp-bed across from him. He turns to me and removes his hood to reveal a pleasant-looking man in his 40s. “Would you like a zero-zero?” he says, handing me an ice-cold can from a cool box. I relax.
What follows is unlike anything I’ve experienced before. We speak for 20 minutes about our lives and our difficult upbringings. I tell him about my estranged father and in a fit of passion he refuses to let me wallow in pity. I try to match his theatrical prowess, but he’s far more practised than I am. There’s a sense I know much about the man behind the fiery face paint, but in reality, I know nothing at all.
For “larping” (live action role-playing) enthusiasts, such an intense exchange is an intrinsic part of the action. I’m at a scouts’ campsite in Collon, Co Louth, where more than 70 people have rented the space for a weekend of furious battling, medieval intrigue and suspension of disbelief. For them, they are at Five Oaths, in the land of Tirneach, where they play mercenaries – or gallóglaigh, who are hired to do jobs, such as guarding the mouth of a river.
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For larpers, this weekend represents a chance to escape their ordinary lives, play a role and take on new characteristics. Larpers might choose to be jovial or timid, dastardly or heroic – or, in the case of my hooded friend, rather mysterious.
“It’s like Dungeons and Dragons,” says Cian Scattergood (29), who is part of the event team at Five Oaths, an Irish combat larp. “Only instead of sitting at a table rolling dice, you dress up like your character and bate each other with foam swords.”
Larping is a niche hobby in Ireland but is hugely popular in North America and the UK, where thousands of people can show up for a single event. Some buzz of late on social media has broadened the reach of these once-fringe gatherings and led to more and more people around the country giving it a lash.
In an effort to get The Irish Times to start subsidising my weekends away – and, of course, for serious journalistic interest – I embedded myself into Five Oaths to see what the fuss was all about.
Arriving at the campsite on a sunny May weekend, my friend and I slot our car into a carefully organised Tetris of vehicles and erect our tent in the field. To its rear, the campsite enjoys a dense forest where much of the combat occurs. Everyone at camp is welcoming, offering sun cream and introducing themselves to newbies. There’s a nice buzz about the place.
Players gather for a welcome meeting before “time in”, the point at which people will more or less stay in character for the rest of the weekend. Somebody gestures at the new players and makes a joke about it being a cult, which prompts a resounding chant of, “One of us! One of us!” With my tent pitched and my harem pants on, it’s too late to run. Plus the car is thoroughly blocked in.
As “time in” is called, people cautiously approach one another in a myriad of colourful hats, steel chest plates, ragged leathers and heavy chain mail. My shop-bought items pale in comparison to their custom get-ups. And don’t get me started on the make-up and prosthetics.
Still, at least I’ve got my story straight.
I’ve named my character Javier Bard, a story collector from the far-off land of Orohogar who has travelled to Tirneach to pen a heroic tale and win back the affection of his father. He’s a firetouched, which means he is born of the elemental power of fire, so I’m wearing fiery face paint and winged eyeliner (which I spent a silly amount of time practising to get right).
There’s a curious confidence among some, almost like they’ve always been their character, while others – including myself – are tentative. Somebody suggests kicking off the weekend with a ritual of invigoration.
I join nine of my fellow mercenaries around a stone circle (black foam spikes emerging from the ground and lit from within with lights). Rituals are a common event in this world, where players draw on the power of their god, the Shaper, to perform supernatural acts. It’s comical at first, but with their rousing speeches it’s clear the kind of collective effervescence people are chasing here.
I volunteer to join a mission to retrieve some quest items. Our band breaks into two groups and we approach a clearing in the woods. Being in the rear group, we don’t see what kicks things off ahead of us, but it soon becomes apparent that we’re under attack from hounds, the hounds being other players dressed in furs with animalesque face paint. Amid the flurry of foam swords, sponge-tipped arrows and spears jabbing from all directions, we fail to notice some ghastly looking ghouls flanking us (again, played by fellow larpers).
It’s a whimsical sight, but intense when you’re in the middle of it. And there is structure to the scene-playing: knowledgeable players can cast spells in the game, which change the course of play. The bane of my weekend is a spell where I am forced to drop my weapon when an enemy blurts “fumble” in my direction. We manage to escape back to camp.
I approach the bar for some chit-chat. Furs are draped over tables and chairs under a small canopy. We’re encouraged to drink from medieval-looking cups the “travelling vodka” (water, in reality), which is free for members of the band. Impressively, some people brought home-brewed mead and ale to distribute.
It’s about 11pm, and there’s little more than the odd lantern to illuminate the camp. “An attack!” a voice bellows from the edge of camp. I hustle over to the action where a dual-wielding “bush” (a man in a ghillie suit) is laying waste to our guards. We engage in combat, relying on moonlight or the odd glow-stick to see our enemy.
Later in the night, with combat ended for the day, people retreat to various tents to catch up – in and out of character. From my tent I hear a singsong at the firepit.
The next day I try my hand at “monstering”. At every event, larpers must do at least two slots where they’ll play as interactable characters for the remaining players.
At my first monster session, a dozen of us are told to be cats tasked with killing magic rats. I haven’t run around pretending to be a cat since I was a child, but the collective buy-in to the scenario makes it difficult to resist diving in.
Another encounter sees us play bandits hiding in the trees. And later I play a member of a kind of eco-terrorist group seeking to flood a town and restore the lands to their natural state. Often our plans go abysmally. Larping isn’t about winning, but about following the direction the character takes you in.
It’s weird, but it’s the best kind of weird.
Dinner time begins as the sun sets over camp. I barbecue around the fire pit with some new friends, and speak out of character about their larping experiences over the years.
“When your character dies, it can really hurt,” says one veteran of the hobby.
Another adds: “I was fine when it happened, and I had a few minutes to prepare myself for the inevitable death, but when I went home and had to start putting aside parts of her costume, I started crying.”
In larping one is warned about the “bleed”, where, at moments of heightened emotion for their character, the separation between character and player breaks down and people feel their emotions in real life.
In long-running larps held in the UK, people might feel the loss of a character they’ve played or befriended for 10 or 20 years.
At Five Oaths, however, no such demise is on the cards for me this time – although it comes close. On the final day, a climactic encounter ensues with a red-caped pantomime villain, Mac Robin. He’s a recurring character, and a thorn in the side of the gallóglaigh.
The camp is raided by his posse and I’m taken captive. As our band rallies, I am rescued and attended to by a healer. This involves diagnosing my condition by opening up a small, laminated card I was given by a referee, and performing a countdown until I’m patched up. Of course, there has to be a theatrical element, so I’m asked to bite down on a piece of wood and brace myself for snapping my arm back in place.
When it comes to larping combat, how strong you are has little impact. You see players demolish others who are far taller and stronger than them through quick reflexes and an encyclopedic knowledge of in-game spellcasting. It’s a lot to get your head around, but buckets of fun if you just go with the flow.
Larping’s reputation is increasing. “Previously, a lot of media would be like, ‘Look at the nerds doing nerd things. Aren’t they weird?’” Scattergood tells me. “From the outside it looks like that, but once you’re in character and there’s someone twice the size of you coming at you with a big axe, you’re like, ‘Oh, I’m actually f**king s**ting myself here. The hobby [is] more than just sweaty nerds in their mother’s basement listening to old-school metal, drinking Mountain Dew and rolling dice.”
I’m reminded of something the master of camp, Éabha Caerdroia, said over the weekend: “Everyone in the band is an outsider, but that’s what brings us together.”
In their collective eccentricities, these people harmonise over a few short days. They escape their mundane lives as civil servants or software developers to return to an arena where they feel at home. And it’s brilliant fun.
It would make you proud to call yourself a nerd.
For more information and tickets for Five Oaths, visit fiveoaths.com
‘Arcene’
Enda Keane
I am a vartach from Draíod. At a certain point we manifest a mark upon our face. Some see this mark as one’s quality, and mine is that of the sunspear. Aged traditionalists would believe that this denotes I will have a grand destiny and must strive towards it, but recently I have realised the folly of Draíod’s class system. For one’s mark does not denote one’s merit, and I have seen far too many with less desired marks robbed of their own destiny.
‘Maldita’
Sarah Brennan
I’m a weeping firetouched. A weeping person died and wakes up with a completely different personality. I joined the gallóglaigh and found out I’m pretty good at fighting, and I’ve been a warrior ever since. And I recently joined the crew of a privateer – pretty much a pirate ship if I’m honest – and sail with them in between missions with the gallóglaigh. I like singing too. If you can’t hit it, have a drink with it, or have a singsong – there’s not much point.
‘Carn Duilleog’
Liz Dernan
I’m a wildling from the highlands of Baol. My family are clansmen, so I’ve joined the gallóglaigh for some adventure before taking over the family business. As deputy master of camp, I’m tasked with greeting guests and making sure they feel welcome. I’m a healer, but I don’t fight, so I’m worried about being a liability during combat.
‘Deasmunach’
Cian Scattergood
I’m a rat wildling from Bruid. Before I joined the gallóglaigh I was a guide for those who passed through the forest, hunting big game and keeping travellers safe. I joined six years ago when the season of uncertainty began. I have a son – his mother is dead – so I try not making a bones of it. I even tried to marry him off last night. People around here know I’m an open book. And in this life, you have to take what you can get.
‘Éabha Caerdroia’
Siobhán Grayson
I am a leasiar [not too dissimilar from elves]. I’m 75 – but that’s a guess. Controversially, I have been “candled”. The past me decided to do a ritual to forget everything about her life. The most I can remember is a year and a half ago. Leasiar are the memory of Tirneach, so I’m affected a lot by not being able to remember. I feel like an outsider. It kills me that my family are out there and I don’t know them. And I’m worried my acts in my previous life will come back to haunt me.
‘Thick’
Seamus Butler
I am a fathach (a being made of stone, animated by the magic of the vartach – subterranean mages). When I was made, however, something went wrong. I’m as dumb as a rock. Thick likes flowers. Flowers are pretty. When I was almost one year old, my master told me to “go walk that way”. That was the last I saw of him. I don’t talk very fast, and I’m not bright, but I like helping people, like in rituals where I can contribute ancient magic left over from my creation.
