Previously…

Chaos engulfed the Arena of Aroden as the Ruinlords faced Lorien Thalorin, whose body became a vessel for the monstrous titan, Xaathuun. Lorien barely contained the creature, collapsing from the strain. Saint Alduin mockingly questioned the heroes about Lorien’s fate, as unsettling truths emerged about Lahana’s past defiance of Loris Raknian. During their championship bout against Vixus and Khellek, disaster struck—the ground shattered, unleashing a horrific wormlike apostle summoned by Raknian himself. Panic erupted, leaving the Ruinlords caught between deadly enemies and the awakening nightmare beneath Tymon.

What’s All This About Then?

Read up on our previous Age of Worms campaign sessions right here.

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Sky of Ash and Prophecy

The sky above Tymon was wrong. Not just strange, not just troubling, but deeply, irrevocably wrong—the kind of wrong that crawled inside your skull and scratched at the backs of your eyeballs. Clouds twisted above the city in sick, sluggish spirals colored like bruises gone bad, deep purples and rotten yellows. The sun lurked behind that greasy haze, dull and dying, smothered by centuries of soot and forgotten grief. Green lightning flared silently overhead, flashes illuminating the Arena of Aroden with a jittery, epileptic glow. No thunder accompanied these eldritch lights, only a low, relentless drone felt deep in the marrow, a noise like distant hornets trapped behind thin walls. Above it all, a vortex slowly tightened, like a great eye opening to stare hungrily down upon the world below. From somewhere unseen, a bell tolled once, resonating through bone and soul. As it echoed, the words of an ancient prophecy scraped themselves into the minds of those unfortunate enough to be there: “On the eve of the Age of Worms, a hero of the pit shall use his fame to gift a city to the dead.”

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Death in the Pit

The Ruinlords, battered and exhausted, had stood their ground in the center of the blood-stained sands as that prophecy unfolded in grim finality. Opposite them reared the Apostle of Kyuss, the monstrous ulgurstasta summoned by Loris Raknian—once Tymon’s beloved hero, now its executioner. Cal, ever alert, had seen it coming. The mage shouted a frantic warning to Vixus, the arena’s reigning champion, who stood bewildered, his face pale beneath layers of grime and blood. “Get clear!” Cal screamed, voice tight with desperation. Vixus staggered backward, eyes wide with fear—but fear was no shield. The ulgurstasta opened its maw, impossibly wide, and spewed forth a flood of acidic death, thick as bile and black as tar. It surged outward, stripping vitality and hope from those unlucky enough to be caught. The Ruinlords felt their strength drain away, their limbs heavy as lead. But Vixus, weakened already, took the full brunt. The acid melted through his armor, his skin blistering, muscles dissolving, his scream choking off before it began. He fell, little more than a ragdoll onto the sand, and moved no more. Until he did. Filled with the green worms of Kyuss. 

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Awakening of the Dead

In that terrible silence, the Apostle of Kyuss shivered and shuddered, its ragged flesh knitting together at unnatural speed, as if Vixus’s life had been exactly the feast it needed. And then, the sands began to stir. Faces emerged—spectral, tortured, and furious—from beneath the stained arena floor, rising from shadowed corners, seeping from cracks in stone. The dead of Tymon had returned: gladiators slaughtered for sport, criminals whose blood the crowd had long forgotten, the faceless masses who’d been swallowed whole by sand and spectacle. They poured upward, a shrieking whirlwind of wretched souls. All around, spectators gasped, eyes bulging, fingers clawing at chests as spirits tore the life from their bodies. The dead rose quickly, changed and hideous, eyes burning sickly green, their claw-like hands clutching at anything still breathing, infecting, spreading, turning panic into plague. Chaos surged outward from the arena, unstoppable and ravenous. 

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Raknian’s Triumph

High above, atop the battlements, stood Loris Raknian. His skin blackened, cracking open as armor grew obscenely from bone and marrow. Beneath him appeared a nightmare steed, a creature born from smoke and shadow, eyes blazing red, nostrils flaring with dark fire. Raknian’s voice cut sharply across the screams: “The pit’s debts are paid. The prophecy is fulfilled. A hero of the pit has gifted this city to the dead.” His eyes burned with fanatical triumph. “Kyuss stirs, and the Age of Worms is upon you. No more kingdoms. No more gods. Only the feast!” Laughing, Raknian drove his nightmare steed forward, galloping into empty air and vanishing as if swallowed by a deeper darkness. Tymon fell, and the Ruinlords were trapped in its dying heart. 

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Desperate Escape

In a final act of desperate magic, Vaz’non conjured a roaring wall of flame, shielding them from the advancing horror, if only briefly. He grabbed hold of Tike, whose fierce strength was now fading fast, and Dunner, steadfast and grim-eyed, and whispered words of arcane power. Reality cracked open, and the trio appeared on the far side of the arena’s massive doors. Dunner heaved open the gates. Cal, Alfie, and Potato stumbled through, ragged and gasping for breath. But respite lasted only a heartbeat. Tike, the warrior whose fists had carried them through countless battles, staggered suddenly, face going pale as wax. He stared down at his shaking hands, realization dawning that the potion he’d swallowed earlier—the magic that held his shredded body together—was fading. Without healing, he wouldn’t last the night. 

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Race to the Harbor

There was no time to mourn, only to run. The Ruinlords hastily plotted their escape—reach the harbor, commandeer a ship, and sail far from this nightmare. There, perhaps, they could buy enough time for Tike’s survival. But first, they had to get there alive. Behind them, the dead poured through the open gates, a flood of clawing hands and gnashing teeth. Ahead lay the ruined streets of Tymon, consumed by panic, fire, and unending screams. They ran, because running was all that remained.

Previously…

The Ruinlords faced their toughest battle yet in the Champion’s Games, pitted against stone giants corrupted by Theyrium. Before the dust settled, the Sapphire Squad attempted to strike, but the Ruinlords overwhelmed them, forcing their surrender.

Later, Ekalim Smallcask revealed a personal plea—his sister Lahaka had vanished after last year’s games, and he suspected Loris Raknian was involved. He begged the Ruinlords to help uncover the truth.

Then came the Silver Flight.

Saint Alduin’s elite knights fought with ruthless precision, nearly bringing the Ruinlords down. But the tide turned, and Alduin’s composure cracked. His last knight turned to him for guidance. Alduin said nothing. The knight fell.

The Ruinlords stood victorious once more. The crowd roared. Loris Raknian grinned. And high above, Saint Alduin took flight and vanished into the sky.

Not Sure What’s Going On?

Catch up on the Ruinlords’ journey to stop the rise of Kyuss by reading our Age of Worms Session Recaps!

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The third day of the Champion’s Games in Tymon had come to a close with the Ruinlords standing victorious over the Andoran guardians known as the Silver Flight. Battered but unbroken, they returned to the Coenoby beneath the grand arena, sharing uneasy silence with the remaining two gladiator teams—Vixus’ Warband and Phoenix Fire.

As dusk fell, the fight schedule for the next day was posted. Whispers spread quickly through the underground chambers. Vixus’ Warband and Phoenix Fire would clash for a place in the finals, but the Ruinlords were set to face something else. Something called Madtooth the Hungry. And that wasn’t the only oddity—the previous year’s champion, Vixus, was meant to face the beast, as was tradition. But for the first time in the tournament’s history, that rule had been broken.

No one had an answer.

That night, as the other teams settled into uneasy rest, Cal stole away to the nearby Titan’s Ruins. He descended into the still waters of the pool, studying the ancient stone plug at the bottom. The weight of years lay thick upon it—undisturbed for over a year. If Lahaka, the missing sister of the Ruinlords’ coach Ekalim Smallcask, had vanished after last year’s games, then she had never come this way. The revelation left him with more questions than answers. With a quiet curse, he abandoned the search and returned to the Coenoby.

But the night was far from over.

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The Visions Begin

Dunner and Alfie, their bellies full from a simple meal, heard a commotion from the direction of Phoenix Fire’s quarters. Then, without warning, a force far greater than mortal senses ripped into them.

Dunner was no longer in the Coenoby. He was on a battlefield, surrounded by the dead—hundreds of them. A storm boiled overhead, unnatural green lightning clawing across the sky. Then, movement. The corpses twitched, shuddered, rose—their flesh splitting open, spilling forth writhing green worms. A churning, mindless hunger filled their empty sockets.

And then, Dunner felt it.

The silence of his god.

The Warpriest of Gorum was alone. For the first time, truly alone. The worms swarmed, gnawing, writhing, crawling into his mouth—

Dunner awoke, gasping.

Beside him, Alfie convulsed, lost in his own nightmare. The cleric of Erastil was locked in seizure, his body betraying him, his mind ensnared. The Ruinlords carried him to safety, his faithful owlbear, Potato, standing vigil over him through the long, uncertain night.

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The Library of Dreams

On his way back from the ruins, exhaustion finally took Cal. Weeks without sleep crashed down upon him, and when his vision returned, he was no longer in the Coenoby.

He was in a library.

The scent of parchment, ink, and old leather filled the air. Towering bookshelves stretched into eternity. And before him stood a woman—drow, with deep violet hair, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

His mother.

Eilistrae, cleric of Silthian, took a slow, reverent step forward. “We will see each other again, my son.” Her voice trembled, but her hands were steady as they reached for him. “But listen—your visions of Kyuss are not without meaning. His bonds weaken. He has never been this strong. And if you and your companions have felt him… it means the world will feel him soon.”

And then, the dream collapsed.

Cal awoke on the ground in the tunnel. His mother was gone.

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The Arena’s Greatest Spectacle

The fourth day of the Champion’s Games.

At the eleventh hour, the Ruinlords were once again marched up the long passageways beneath the Arena of Aroden, stepping out onto the bloodstained sands beneath a relentless sun.

The crowd thundered with cheers, their anticipation thick as a storm on the horizon. Their champions had bested the Silver Flight. They had spilled blood in glorious combat.

And today, they would face Madtooth.

But where was the beast?

The announcer, Talabir, filled the silence with bravado, but doubt crept into his voice as the moments stretched long. The handlers were late. Were the wranglers struggling to control the creature?

And then, the sky darkened as a shadow streaked across the heavens. 

A golden light descended like a burning comet, faster than any arrow, crashing into the sand with the force of a divine spear. Dust billowed, the ground trembled, and as the Ruinlords shielded their eyes, the figure straightened.

A red cloak, untouched by the dust. A smile, radiant and unshaken. Saint Alduin.

And in his arms, he carried a massive metal box the size of an ogre’s coffin. The runes on its surface flickered. The reinforced bands of steel groaned. Something inside slammed against the walls, desperate to be free.

Alduin’s voice rang out, commanding, charming, calculated.

“You have proven yourselves against my Silver Flight,” he said, touching his chest in a gesture of mourning that held no sorrow. “But today is not a day for sorrow. No, today is a day for glory.”

The crowd roared.

The Ruinlords waited.

And Alduin rested a hand atop the trembling steel box. “Behold, your true challenge.”

A crash. A snarl. The sound of something not entirely bestial.

Alduin’s smile grew.

“He was resistant at first,” he mused, “but with a little encouragement…” He gestured at the box. “He has found his motivation.”

Inside, a voice howled—not just in rage, but pain.

Alduin tilted his head, playful, cruel. “A special blend of dragon’s blood—black and green, venom and acid—running through his veins, urging him toward his true nature.” He turned his gaze to the Ruinlords. “A fitting test, don’t you think?”

And then, the box burst open.

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The Riftwalker’s Curse

Acidic vapor filled the air. The crowd gasped. A massive clawed hand, covered in warped, pulsing veins, slammed into the sand. A figure staggered forward. 

Dr. Lorien Thalorin. 

But not as he once was. 

His veins glowed black and green. His flesh cracked as jagged scales pushed through his skin. His nails elongated, twisted into claws before retracting. His mind flickered between intelligence and hunger. 

And then, for a moment, clarity. 

His wide, terrified eyes locked onto the Ruinlords. “No… no, no, no. You have to stop this.” 

His body convulsed, his form stretching unnaturally. “GET AWAY!” 

The crowd cheered, oblivious. 

But the Ruinlords knew. The Riftwalker wasn’t a myth. He was real. He was dangerous. And if he lost control, Tymon would be nothing but dust.

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The Legend of Dr. Lorien Thalorin

 Lorien Thalorin had once been a scholar of the arcane, a prodigy from the lost kingdom of Vandekar. He was brilliant—too brilliant. His research took him into forbidden territory, beyond the safe limits of mortal understanding. He sought answers in ancient Cyclopean ruins, delving into the mysteries of dimensional rifts and eldritch containment. 

And then, one day, he found something. 

The texts spoke of Xaathuun, the Unchained Maw—a cosmic predator described as a Tarrasque-like creature with a hunger that could not be satisfied. The ruins were not a tomb. They were a prison. And Lorien, in his pursuit of knowledge, cracked the seal. 

Vandekar was wiped from the map overnight. Not conquered. Not abandoned. Erased. The ground split open. The sky bled. Whatever emerged from the rift devoured the city, leaving behind nothing but scorched wastelands and howling fissures that led to nowhere. 

Lorien survived. But he did not escape unscathed. 

He became a living conduit for the thing he had unleashed—a part of his body and mind permanently fused to the failing containment field. The energy backlash twisted his very being, marking him as something no longer fully mortal. 

He fled, a wanted man. The survivors of Vandekar hunted him, blaming him for their kingdom’s extinction. And in the centuries that followed, stories of The Riftwalker spread. Some claimed he was a sorcerer who had tried to control a god. Others believed he was a mere pawn in a far greater scheme. 

But all agreed on one thing: Where Lorien Thalorin walked, ruin followed.

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The Unchained Maw

The battle was chaos. Tike Myson and Dunner held the line, blades clashing against scaled flesh, while Vaz’non summoned torrents of fire to contain the monster within the arena’s boundaries. Cal’s whip, Whisperlash, glowed with celestial energy, and in his moment of need, he called forth a spectral figure—Eilistrae herself.

But combat only fed the thing inside Lorien.

With a final, agonized scream, his body broke apart.

Something vast rose in his place. Eighty feet of unrelenting destruction.

Xaathuun was free.

If only for a moment.

The Ruinlords dodged, evaded, fought for their lives as the crowd finally realized the horror unfolding before them.

But Lorien was still there. Fighting. Holding the creature back.

With one final, desperate push, the Riftwalker forced Xaathuun back into the void.

Then, he collapsed.

And Alduin?

He only smiled.

“You cannot kill him,” he told the Ruinlords. “But tell me… what will you do with him?”