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Age of Worms Session Recap: Flight Risk
Previously…
The Ruinlords entered the Champion’s Games as underdogs, but their first battle proved otherwise. Facing the Crowned Conquerors and their champion, Pake Jaul, they did not just win—they dominated. Pake Jaul, the famed pugilist, fell beneath Tike Myson’s relentless assault. The nobles who had hidden behind their wealth and magic crumbled under the Ruinlords’ fire and steel. When the dust settled, only surrender and silence remained.
But there was no time to celebrate. The next challenge awaited—The Mountain’s Fury, stone giants infused with Theyrium, and the Sapphire Squad, mercenaries from Absalom lurking in the shadows.
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Rolling Stones and Broken Bones
The Clash of Giants
The first thing Cal noticed—and the thing he wished he hadn’t—was that these giants weren’t just giants. They were something worse. The former clansmen of Mokmurian, once proud warriors, had been twisted by the abyssal ore Theyrium, their bodies humming with corruption, their strength warped into something unnatural.
And they were angry.
The Stone Giant Warriors didn’t just throw boulders—they summoned them. Great slabs of rock ripped from nothing, their edges gleaming with latent power before being hurled across the battlefield. One struck Vaz’non square in the chest, a thunderous impact that sent him skidding across the sand, gasping for breath.
Then came the Dreamwalker.
Its Dreamwalker’s Charm spread like mist, creeping into the Ruinlords’ minds. Tike Myson never saw it coming. One moment, he was with them; the next, his will bent, his fists clenched against his allies.
But Tike was strong.
The Dreamwalker, battered and desperate, lunged for Tike, the Theyrium in its flesh crackling as it reached for one final curse—to petrify him, absorb him, make him part of the nightmare.
But Tike refused. The Stone Giant Dreamwalker crumbled to the ground.
The Stone Giant Warriors endured longer than they should have, their bodies held together by sheer malice, but one by one, they fell. Broken. Beaten. Their deaths were not quick, and they did not die quietly.
The Sapphire Squad, however, had been waiting. They kept to themselves, watching from the far side of the arena, waiting to pound on the battered survivors. But Cal saw them first. He pushed the light away, drawing the shadows from nothing. Darkness swallowed the battlefield, and when it lifted, the Ruinlords were on the Sapphire Squad before they could mount an offense. Outnumbered and outmatched, the final two survivors threw down their weapons rather than die in a fight already lost.
DAY TWO: Ekalim’s Confession
The air in the Coenoby was thick. The scent of sweat, blood, and something heavier—something like dread—clung to the walls.
Ekalim Smallcask approached, smiling as always. But his eyes told another story.
“I had another reason for entering you in these games,” he admitted. “My sister, Lahaka. She disappeared after last year’s Champion’s Games. I believe she was involved with Loris Raknian.”
He hesitated, the kind of pause a man makes when he’s afraid of the answer.
“I need your help,” he finally said. “If you can slip away between battles and search for clues, I’ll give you all the winnings from these games. I just… I just need to know what happened to her.”
DAY THREE: The Silver Flight Arrives
Saint Alduin was watching.
Seated in the spectator box beside Loris Raknian, his face was still, his eyes unreadable.
Day Three of the Champion’s Games saw the Ruinlords face off against only one team this time. That team, however, consisted of Saint Alduin’s followers, the knights known as the Silver Flight.
The knights moved fast. Too fast. Alfie went down first, blood painting the sand. Vaz’non nearly followed. These weren’t just fighters. They were predators—targeting magic and healing, carving through the team with ruthless efficiency.
The Ruinlords fought back. Hard. And when the tide shifted, when the first member of the Silver Flight fell, something shifted in the spectator box. Saint Alduin’s confidence cracked. Just a little. But Loris Raknian saw it. And he grinned.
Cal saw it too.
Invisible, he watched Saint Alduin’s mask slip. The Azlanti tried to remain composed, but his grief seeped through. And then—
Tike Myson broke Jylen the Inferno‘s neck with a devastating, two-punch combo.
And Saint Alduin’s mask shattered. It took him a long time to recover.
Too long.
Now only the black knight, Korvix the Shadowclaw, remained. He was bloody, stunned, and alone. And he knew it. The Ruinlords surrounded him and gave him an out. “Surrender,” they told him. “You don’t have to die here.”
He turned, one last time, to Saint Alduin.
Their eyes met.
Saint Alduin did nothing. Said nothing.
Korvix looked at Jylen’s lifeless body and stared into the red knight’s glassy eyes as he drew his sword.
It was already broken. A moment later, so was Korvix.
Loris Raknian stood. Whatever his feelings were toward the heroes, he still found himself grinning like a devil. “The winners…”
His voice carried over the deafening cheers. He already knew the answer.
“THE RUINLORDS!”
And in the silence that followed, Saint Alduin placed his helmet back on his head.
Then he took flight and disappeared into the skies.
Age of Worms Session Recap: Ruinlords vs The World
(Editor’s Note – Yes, I know the formatting keeps changing. I’m still trying to find a good fit, so please bear with me. Muchos appreciated.)
Previously…
The Ruinlords, a team of hardened warriors competing in the Champion’s Games, had just rescued their manager Ekalim from the Fixers when they found themselves face-to-face with Saint Alduin.
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Audience with Saint Alduin
The fires of Tent City flickered and spat, throwing long, jagged shadows across the crowded streets. Laughter and drunken boasts drifted through the air, mixing with the scent of roasted meat and unwashed bodies. Then, like a candle snuffed in a storm, everything stopped.
A hush fell over the crowd, thick and unnatural. The kind of silence that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Then came the light—blinding and gold, cutting through the night like a knife through soft flesh. Saint Alduin had arrived.
His armor gleamed as if it had been forged from the sun itself, every polished plate reflecting the flickering flames around him. The air seemed heavier, pressed down by something unseen but undeniable. His purple eyes swept across the gathered crowd, unreadable and knowing. And then, they found the Ruinlords.
“So,” he said, his voice smooth as oiled steel. “These are the Ruinlords.” A smirk twitched at the corner of his lips. Not a sneer, not quite. Just amusement. He nodded, acknowledging their role in dragging the Helm of Titan’s Wrath back into the world. No gratitude. No condemnation. Just fact.
The Silver Flight—his knights, his disciples—had entered the Games not for the thrill but for something deeper. A test. The arena was a forge, and steel that failed the heat deserved to shatter. Weakness was not tolerated. Not by the arena. Not by him.
When he turned to leave, his parting words landed like a graveyard chill. “Tread lightly, Ruinlords. Fate’s a tricky beast, and I hate to see potential go to waste.”
The Feast of Aroden
Days later, at sunset, the arena gates yawned open, revealing the Feast of Aroden—a spectacle of gluttony and excess draped in gold and crimson. Banquet tables groaned under the weight of food, their surfaces slick with grease and spilled wine. Bonfires raged, flickering light catching the edges of polished armor, dancing across the jewels on noble fingers. The smell of roasting meat was thick, intoxicating, drowning out the distant coppery scent of old blood soaked into the arena sands.
Gladiators, merchants, and highborns alike took their places. And then came Loris Raknian.
He walked like he owned the world, his steps slow, measured, every inch of him reveling in the unspoken understanding that, in this place, he did. At his side sat Vixus, the reigning Champion, soaking in the crowd’s adoration like a man convinced he was untouchable.
Talabir Welik, referee of the Games, stepped forward, his voice steady as he recited the Rules of Battle. No betrayals. No flight. Surrender was respected. Death was expected.
Raknian raised his goblet. “Champions of Tymon,” he declared, and the arena roared in response. The feast had begun. But beneath the laughter, beneath the clinking of silverware and the slurred toasts, something cold slithered beneath the revelry. A tension. A watching.
Intrigues of the Evening
Raknian’s Interest: His eyes kept drifting to the Ruinlords, sharp and weighing. Not curiosity. No, this was the gaze of a man measuring meat before the butcher’s knife came down.
Ekalim’s Obsession: The Ruinlords’ coach, Ekalim Smallcask, barely touched his food. His eyes tracked Raknian like a hound that had caught the scent of something rotten.
Tirra’s Proposal: The rogue from Magnimar’s Gilded Claw came bearing an offer. A bet on the Ruinlords, with a generous cut of the winnings—if they could bring down Vixus’s Warband. The price? 2,500 gold up front. And one favor: If you fight them, don’t kill them.
Into the Coenoby
The feast ended, but the night did not. The Ruinlords descended into the Coenoby, the underground lair of gladiators awaiting their turn to bleed.
The air was thick. The walls sweat with the breath of too many men crowded in one place, each carrying the stink of fear and anticipation.
Guards stood at attention, ensuring no battles started before the Games officially began. But everyone knew: come dawn, steel and spell would rend flesh, and only a fraction of them would leave the sands walking.
A horn sounded in the distance, deep and hollow as a graveyard wind. Tomorrow, the blood would flow.
DAY ONE: The First Battle
Morning came slow, dragging itself over the city like a weary giant.
The matchups were posted. Gladiators huddled around, whispering, pointing. The heroes dance card was set:
- The Ruinlords
- The Crowned Conquerors – Arrogant nobles wrapped in wealth and magic, their true strength bought rather than earned. Their hired champion, the pugilist Pake Jaul, was the real threat.
- Sapphire Squad – Fighters from Absalom, slick as oil and twice as slippery. Their leader? A bard with a pirate’s heart and a cutthroat smile.
- The Mountain’s Fury – Three stone giants, their eyes burning with revenge for the death of their lord, Mokmurian.
One by one, the teams rose into the arena, lifted from the depths like condemned men brought to the gallows.
Talabir Welik’s voice rang out over the crowd, naming the warriors, sealing their fates. The stands erupted into cheers. Somewhere in that sea of voices, bets were placed, fortunes made and lost in the span of seconds.
The Battle Begins
The Ruinlords didn’t hesitate. Pake Jaul opened his mouth, and that was enough reason to strike first.
Tike Myson, grown to monstrous proportions, met Pake in the arena’s heart. Their fists collided, thunder on thunder, the crack of impact shaking the air. Around them, mages hurled fireballs, rays of searing light turning sand to glass.
But the Ruinlords weren’t just there to trade blows. Vaz’non answered fire with fire—a draconic inferno that swallowed the nobles whole. One moment, they stood, armored in arrogance. The next, they were charred husks, burnt offerings to the crowd’s hunger. The last survivor fell to his knees, surrendering with eyes wide and white with terror. Cal’s magic missiles ended any second thoughts.
Pake fought on, his fists landing like warhammers, but Tike was relentless. Bigger. Stronger. A wall of muscle and fury. The pugilist staggered, his final breath a gurgle of pain before his body hit the sand.
Across the battlefield, Dunner charged, closing the distance between him and the giants.
Vaz’non lit the way, a fireball blooming like a second sun above the Mountain’s Fury.
The giants, once content to pelt the Sapphire Squad with boulders, turned their attention toward the Ruinlords.
The ground trembled beneath their advance.
And the battle had only just begun.
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