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.

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.”

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.