They say that on the last night of the Las Vegas Age of Chivalry Faire, when the smoke hangs low and the embers glow red against the desert dark, the guilds speak in hushed tones of the Great Flood of Ourrenland.

It began as a faire day touched by sunlight and laughter. The merchants hawked their wares, the musicians played, and the pirates of the Kingdom of Ourrenland swaggered about, oblivious to the black clouds brewing over the distant mountains. When the rain first began, it was almost refreshing—a rare gift in the desert. But soon, the skies broke open, and the faire turned to storm.

The levy gave way.

Water burst across the grounds like a living beast, swallowing tents and paths in minutes. Guild members shouted, hauling belongings to higher ground, while a few brave souls waded chest-deep into the torrent to hold up the fencing with their own bodies. Mud clawed at boots. Tents lifted and twisted like sails in a gale. Through it all came the sound of shouted orders, frantic answers, and the unmistakable heartbeat of a faire refusing to surrender.

And then—something remarkable.

From across the lanes came other guilds, abandoning their own comfort to wade into the chaos. Hands joined hands. Crews from distant camps formed bucket lines, lifted soaked tents, dragged wagons to safety. No banners mattered then—only the shared oath of the fairefolk: we stand together when the storm comes.

By the time the waters began to recede, Ourrenland’s camp lay battered, sodden, and half-dismantled. Yet even in ruin, the spirit held fast. When dawn broke, the guild took one look at the wreckage and did what pirates do best—turned disaster into story.

They hoisted a new sign: “SHIPWRECKED! Donations Appreciated.”

The message spread like wildfire through the faire. Patrons laughed and cheered; other guilds stopped by with blankets, tools, and a few bottles of rum. The crew of Ourrenland leaned into their legend—muddy, ragged, and radiant. They entertained children, played games, and spun tales of having been dashed upon a mystical shore. The faire went on, and the pirates made it magic.

That night, after the final cannon, they gathered around their campfire once more. Exhausted, bruised, and aching in every muscle, they passed food and stories between them, filling in the gaps of those frantic hours. Around that fire sat their strongest sailor—one who had always proudly carried more than his share of the load. And as he looked at his family, both born and chosen, he saw them as they truly were: not fragile, not dependent, but mighty. Stronger than even they had believed.

For when the waters rose, they hadn’t folded.
They’d become legend.

And so, the legend of Ourrenland’s shipwreck was born—not of tragedy, but of unity. The faire will remember their courage, and next year, when the fires burn low and the mugs are raised high, someone will surely whisper:

“Do you remember the flood? The pirates who refused to sink?”

And across the firelight, voices will answer, smiling—
“Aye. That was Ourrenland.”

Hip hip… HUZZAH!

If you would like to help our relief fund you can find the GoFundMe here

Rebuild the Magic of OurRenLand