Category Archives: Campaign
Age of Worms Session 47: Docks and the Dead
Previously…
The Ruinlords faced nightmare made flesh as Tymon fell into darkness, consumed by an ancient prophecy fulfilled. Loris Raknian summoned the monstrous Apostle of Kyuss, sacrificing the arena champion Vixus and unleashing an army of the vengeful dead. With the city spiraling into madness, the Ruinlords narrowly escaped through desperate magic, fleeing toward the harbor. Now pursued by relentless horrors, with Tike’s life hanging by a thread, their only hope lies in reaching a ship to sail from this cursed city. But time—and the Age of Worms—is against them, and survival has never seemed more uncertain.
What’s all this then?
Who are these people, and what precisely the Hell is going on? Read our previous Pathfinder 1e presentation of the Age of Worms campaign sessions right here.
The Cradle of Worms
The Ruinlords ran.
Not from fear. Not from cowardice. But because there was nothing left to save.
Behind them, the Arena of Aroden—once a cathedral of blood and triumph—drowned in silence, broken only by the gnashing of teeth and the rustle of a thousand hungry worms. The stands had become a charnel pit. The screams had stopped. So had the prayers. Tymon was dying.
As the last of the Ruinlords forced open the iron gates and spilled into the streets, the city met them like a fevered corpse—hot, delirious, and devoured from within. Smoke curled through the alleys. The wind carried the copper stench of open wounds. Bells tolled above them, their tones ragged, distorted, already swallowed by the chaos. There would be no last stand. No glorious death. Only the crawl.
Thousands of wights—gladiators, merchants, lovers, and children—emptied from the arena like pus from a wound, moving with jerky hunger. They surged into the streets, dragged the living down, and left nothing but silence. Tymon, jewel of the Sellen River, had become a tomb that still twitched.
The Ruinlords ran for the port.
Tike Myson stumbled as he moved, his breath shallow, his body kept upright by magic that was rapidly expiring. A potion of Bear’s Endurance pulsed through his veins, false strength masking the fact that his wounds should have killed him hours ago. He wouldn’t make the docks—not unless he turned back.
Vaz’non acted quickly. His voice cracked the air, and space tore. A Dimension Door swallowed them. Tike, Vaz’non, and Cal vanished from the stampede and appeared well ahead of the crowd, where blood had not yet painted the stone.
But even here, the city was coming apart.
Tike saw the truth before the others did: he wouldn’t survive long enough to reach the ships. Not like this. So while Vaz’non and Cal pressed onward, he turned back into the wreckage, staggering toward the last people who might be able to save him.
Alfie and Dunner were waiting outside what remained of the Shattered Basilica of Desna.
The great stone sigil of the goddess hung from chains, cracked in half. The once-proud chapel tilted, half-swallowed by a sinkhole, its broken frame groaning with every footstep. A sanctuary built for dreams, now only good for nightmares. The only safe path forward was through its corpse.
Ekalim Smallcask, the Ruinlords’ gladiatorial coach, caught up with them—face streaked with ash, hair wild. “There’s no time,” he rasped. “We’re heading for the Iron Baptistry of Gorum. High Warpriest Drazul Kael may be mad, but he’s still alive. Still has power. If we reach him, we might get the strength to finish this run.”
They didn’t argue. Together, they pushed toward the Baptistry, the Basilica collapsing behind them.
Harbor of the Damned
At the port, the last breath of Tymon clung to the water like oil.
Smoke curled from shattered windows. The piers cracked under the weight of bodies—some unmoving, some not yet still. The river lapped hungrily at the docks, dragging corpses beneath the surface and vomiting them back up green-eyed and gasping.
Captain Joseph Lorune stood at the edge of the pier, encased in the damaged Mighty Maiden, a prototype suit of steam-driven armor. Once, it had been a symbol of magical ingenuity. Now it was a coffin on legs. The suit hissed and leaked smoke. Lorune’s voice, barely audible through the voice-horn, cracked with command and panic.
“Stand down, Ungur… I order you… stand down.”
But Second Nate Ungur—his former officer, now a fast-moving zombie—was already tearing at the armor’s chest. Others joined him, sailors and dockworkers turned into shrieking shadows of themselves, their hands clawing for the soft flesh within.
Lorune’s orders turned to pleading. “Please…”
The Ruinlords reached the docks as the undead closed in. But they weren’t alone.
Three strangers stood their ground beside the wrecked ships. Gar, a grizzled dwarven warrior, held his ground with grim resolve, his axe wet with blood that would never dry. Tam, a young sailor marked by salt and fire, stood barefoot on the boards, one hand trailing steam, the other flickering with flame. Niko, a catfolk therapist of gentle bearing and psionic power, focused his golden eyes on the howling dead—his mind whispering strange truths to theirs, softening their hunger, confusing their steps.
They didn’t know the Ruinlords.
They didn’t need to.
There were still people alive. That was enough.
Vaelin Sunshadow rose from the ruins of a capsized vessel, his noble features twisted by undeath. No longer the man he once was, his body now a mohrg, animated and reinforced by a massive worm curled around his spine like a second skeleton. Chains dragged behind him, and in his hand was a shattered mast wielded like a spear.
Two Spawn of Kyuss dropped from the rigging above—hulking, half-rotted things wreathed in parasites.
The pier became a battlefield.
Vaz’non unleashed gouts of draconic flames, flinging them into the spawn’s bloated torsos. Cal summoned a celestial hound archon to attack Vaelin. Tam met the zombies head-on, fire boiling from his arms as he clashed with the undead. Gar’s axe sang in arcs, carving through the sea-dead as fast as they surged forward. Niko’s mind reached into the horror, stilling some, turning others just enough for a blade to find a neck.
Then came the scream.
Gar staggered. A green worm, slick and glistening, had buried itself in his shoulder and was burrowing toward his heart. He dropped to one knee, face contorted in pain.
Without hesitation, Cal shouted, “Get to the ship!”
The survivors, led by the shaken Captain Lorune, rushed to the ship. Cal stopped Gar as he ran past, drew a dagger, and drove it into the wound.
Gar bit down to keep from crying out. Cal dug the blade deep and dragged it outward. The worm came free—thrashing, shrieking like a thing that remembered being alive. Cal tossed it to the ground, where it ended under Gar’s heel.
Captain Lorune, battered and half-delirious, opened the Maiden’s chest plate and staggered free, blinking at the ruins of his city. He said nothing as the survivors boarded his ship. He just pointed to the wheel and whispered, “Take us out.”
Cal stood at the helm. His hands closed around the wood.
“No,” he said.
Lorune turned, eyes hollow. “What do you mean, no?”
Cal looked toward the dying city.
“We’re waiting.”
Next time: The sea may carry them away—but not all ghosts drown. Some cling to the hull. And some seek salvation Tymon’s ruins.
Age of Worms Session 46: Last Breath of Tymon
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.
Age of Worms Session 45 Recap: Worms Gone Wild
Previously…
The Champion’s Games erupted into chaos as the Ruinlords faced an unthinkable terror—the cursed arcanist Lorien Thalorin, transformed into a colossal titan that nearly destroyed the Arena of Aroden. Only Lorien’s desperate sacrifice prevented annihilation, leaving him broken on the bloodied sands. Saint Alduin mocked the Ruinlords with cryptic delight while Loris Raknian watched from above, fury simmering behind his composed façade.
Not sure how we got here?
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The Arena of Aroden had seen glory before, but never a nightmare like this. The echoes of screams and cheers still lingered in the air, blending into an uneasy hum—a melody composed of wonder, fear, and confusion. Moments ago, an eighty-foot monstrosity of pure annihilation had risen, towering above Tymon like a vision straight from the blackest depths of the Abyss. Lorien Thalorin, the cursed silver-haired arcanist whose veins ran thick with eldritch horror, had wrestled the beast back from oblivion’s brink at great cost. Now he lay trembling on the blood-soaked sand, skin pale as fresh grave dirt, lungs heaving, spent—but undeniably dangerous.
Saint Alduin stood serenely over Lorien’s shaking form, wearing a maddening smile. His eyes glittered with quiet amusement, savoring the moment. “You cannot kill him,” Alduin murmured, almost lovingly. “But tell me…what will you do with him?”
The Ruinlords faced an impossible choice, watched closely by thousands of eyes desperate for an ending—any ending—to the madness. Up in the stands, Loris Raknian stared down with barely concealed fury, his fingers gripping the stone balustrade as if he could crush it into dust. He’d orchestrated a spectacle unlike any before it, but even he hadn’t expected this kind of chaos.
Talabir, the arena referee, finally descended from the VIP box, air-walking gracefully to the bloody sands below. Behind him came Ekalim Smallcask, the bard whose unreadable expression hinted at a thousand hidden calculations. Gasping and struggling, Lorien forced out a weak whisper amid the heavy silence: “Let me go.”
Eventually, Talabir offered the arcanist a Scroll of Teleportation to remove himself from the arena – and the city – without further risk. The Ruinlords watched in tense silence as Ekalim guided Lorien away to an uncertain sanctuary, away from the arena’s glare.
Victory, however strange and bitter, brought rewards. The Ruinlords were presented with golden trophies and coin—but no celebration seemed possible tonight, not after the horrors they’d witnessed.
Nightfall and Secrets
That night, the Coenoby lay nearly deserted, now occupied solely by the Ruinlords and their final opponents—Vixus the All-Mighty and his cunning mage, Khellek. Dinner was sumptuous but silent, punctuated only by the sharp clinks of fine silverware and the pour of expensive wine. Khellek drank greedily, eager perhaps to drown his own nerves.
Cal broke the silence, his voice soft but relentless, asking Vixus about Lahana, Ekalim’s sister whose disappearance had haunted their every step through Tymon. Khellek tried drunkenly to divert the conversation, but Vaz’non’s sharp tongue repeatedly silenced him, allowing Cal to carefully pry open the old wound in Vixus’ pride.
Vixus spoke hesitantly, eyes distant. He’d met Lahana last year, drawn to her beauty—and she, in turn, seemed enamored of him. When he’d won the Champion’s Games previously, Lahana herself had defiantly placed the champion’s belt around his waist, humiliating Loris Raknian publicly. Although there had been no overt threats, Vixus and Khellek felt they had barely escaped Tymon with their lives. Cal thanked Vixus quietly, watching as the champion left his table burdened by memory. The Ruinlords spent the remainder of the evening plotting and preparing, knowing now that their answers—and Lahana herself—would not be found beneath the arena but somewhere closer to Raknian’s heart.
Clash of Champions
Noon arrived, bright and merciless. The city had emptied itself into the Arena of Aroden, filling every seat, each spectator’s eyes wild with anticipation. The Ruinlords stepped onto the sand, met by thunderous roars. Waiting for them was Vixus, cold-eyed and confident, flanked by Khellek and their grotesque creations: the Leatherworks, three towering flesh golems stitched together from death and cruelty itself.
The final battle erupted in savage fury. Vixus surged forward, fists crackling with power, landing devastating blows on Dunner. Khellek ascended quickly, weaving illusions of himself across the sky, directing his monstrous puppets below. But Alfie, ever sharp-eyed, unraveled Khellek’s flight with a precise spell, sending the wizard plummeting into the dirt. Vaz’non seized the opportunity, raining flames from above, igniting wizard and warrior alike, while Cal unleashed barrages of magic missiles, battering Khellek relentlessly.
Tike moved swiftly, fists blurring with supernatural speed, battering the mighty Vixus with a force no mortal should withstand. Yet Vixus endured, a bloody smile crossing his lips—just before the earth itself rebelled against them all.
Blood of a Champion
The arena floor heaved violently, splitting apart in a thunderous eruption. A grotesque colossus, a bloated yellowish grub of unspeakable horror, burst from beneath the sands, scattering gladiators like ragdolls. Silence swallowed the audience for an instant, shock freezing every breath.
Loris Raknian’s voice rose triumphant and terrible above the stunned hush. “Lo! The Apostle of Kyuss is among us!” He pointed at the crowd of gladiators surrounding the creature. “THERE! THERE ARE THE CHAMPIONS YOU SEEK!”
All eyes turned to the Ruinlords, now caught between a fallen champion, Raknian’s madness, and a nightmare made flesh. The crowd erupted into frenzied panic, screams echoing endlessly as terror consumed Tymon for a second time in as many days.
The final battle of the Champion’s Games had just begun—and victory now meant survival against the rising tide of darkness.
Age of Worms Session Recap: The Monster Within
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?”
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.
Rokk Talk 