Previously…

Tymon fell. The Ruinlords ran—not from fear, but from finality. The Arena of Aroden drowned in silence as the Apostle of Kyuss was born in blood and prophecy. A thousand undead gladiators poured into the streets. Citizens became corpses. Corpses became wights. The Ruinlords fled through a collapsing city, hunted by death and haunted by everything they couldn’t save. Only magic kept them ahead of the tide—just barely. Vaz’non and Cal vanished through a tear in space. Tike, Alfie and Dunner braved the shattered Basilica of Desna, while Ekalim led the way toward one last flicker of hope. Their destination: the Iron Baptistery. Their goal: survival.

What’s all this then?

Curious why Tymon is collapsing under its own dead weight? Wondering who Tike Myson is and why you should care that he’s coughing up unmentionable content? Catch up on our Pathfinder 1e chronicle of the Age of Worms right HERE, where the gods are distant, the worms are hungry, and the Ruinlords still have dying left to do.

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The Light Was a Lie

Midday over Tymon, but the light was a lie.

Overhead, a cyclone of roiling green storm clouds spun slowly, laced with sickly veins of lightning. Below, in the blood-soaked streets, the Ruinlords moved through back alleys like ghosts trying to outrun the inevitable.

Ekalim Smallcask led them, whispering directions, one cautious step at a time. Alfie, the cleric of Erastil, followed closely with his owlbear companion, Potato. Dunner, warpriest of Gorum, walked as if through water, each heartbeat fainter than the last. Tike Myson, once a juggernaut in the arenas, now stumbled like a man made of brittle sticks. His strength wasn’t just gone—it had been stripped away by the Apostle of Kyuss. He and Dunner were on borrowed time, and the sand was quickly passing through the hourglass.

The Iron Baptistery

Then, looming through blood and ruin: the Iron Baptistery. Once, a temple built for war itself. Now it was little more than a corpse. Its iron pillars shattered. Blackstone floor cracked like a ribcage split by a giant’s hand. And at the center, the Iron Font still bled Gorum’s magic—alone, furious, refusing to die.

Inside, the Ruinlords found Declan, a bard seeking refuge with little more than his name and a lot of fear. He assured the Ruinlords he was famous. Tymon had no time for fame anymore.

Worse waited by the Font. Two Ebon Triad cultists knelt in dark prayer, carving sigils into the bones of the temple, disrespecting any god not of their own design. And with them—Zalrynn the Stormcaller and Jylen the Inferno. Once members of Saint Alduin’s Silver Flight. Now, hollowed out shells filled with worms.

The Battle for the Font

Zalrynn struck first, Lightning-Stepping behind the heroes, her arrival crackling with ozone. Jylen followed with a roar, searing Dunner and Ekalim with his Infernal Optics—flame pouring over them like a broken dam.

Tike surged forward, throwing fists with destructive purpose. Dunner shielded the rear.

Not because he thought he would survive.

Because someone had to.

Dunner didn’t fall easy. His armor was scorched black from Jylen’s infernal blast, smoke rising from the cracks in the plates, but he stood anyway—shield up, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the thing that used to be Zalrynn. When the storm came—lightning flashing, rotting fists hammering down—Dunner didn’t flinch. He planted his boots in the blood-slick stone, braced for the hit he knew he couldn’t survive, and made himself a wall. 

Ekalim was behind him. 

The bard, bleeding, gasping, would have died there, one more forgotten corpse in a forgotten temple. 

But Dunner caught the blow meant for him. Took the full weight of Zalrynn’s rage across his battered chin. And when the second strike came—faster, meaner—he caught that one too. 

The third crushed him. 

It drove him to his knees, then to his back, shattering the last stubborn breath from the dwarf’s body. But it bought Ekalim the moment he needed. Dunner died the way he’d lived: Facing the enemy head-on, too stubborn to bow, too proud to run, bleeding steel and fury until there was nothing left to give. 

Not a prayer. 

Not a plea. 

Just a final grunt, a last broken smile, and the sound of a war god welcoming one more soldier home. 

Worms Beneath the Skin

Alfie felt it first.

A wriggling itch under the skin. Sharp. Cold. A wrongness no prayer could soothe. Kyuss worms burrowed deep, hungry for his heart.

There wasn’t time for magic.

Only the arrow.

He snapped it from the quiver, teeth clenched hard enough to crack. The steel tip gleamed—and then he drove it into his own arm. One cut. Two. Blood everywhere. Bile rising. Pain blinding.

But he found the worms. Tore them out.

One. Then another.

No triumph. No roar. Just a bloody arrow, a shaking hand, and a man too stubborn to die.

The Font Answers

Tike, half-dead, dove into the Iron Font, offering his blood with the hope of Gorum hearing his defiant cry.

It answered.

It purged the worms. Burned the weakness from his blood. Made him more than alive. Made him angry.

He rose, dripping red, and crushed the cultists. Smashed the risen Silver Flight with fists like hammers.

Then the ground shook.

Voragon Descends

Voragon Drakon—High Councillor of the Ebon Triad—descended through the shattered oculus. A burning titan wrapped in Dahak’s fire, holding the Medallion of the Worldbreaker like it was the key to the end of all things.

Tike didn’t wait.

He met him in midair. Fists flashing, hammering the warpriest against stone until cracks spiderwebbed the walls.

But Voragon wasn’t done. One did not ascend to the High Council by being less than. He called on his magical discipline and cast a spell, coating his hand in necrotic energy before driving it into Tike’s chest. Everything tore away. 

The instant Voragon’s magic hit him—cold, wrong, hollowing him from the inside out—he knew. The world narrowed into one sharp, perfect moment: breath ragged in his throat, worms writhing beneath his skin, his heart hammering like a war drum that would soon fall silent. 

But Tike wasn’t the kind of man to wait for death. 

He threw himself forward, every tendon and bone screaming, every drop of strength burning like dry tinder. His fists, battered and bloody, became hammers. Each punch slammed into Voragon’s armored chest, fueled not by rage, not by fear—by defiance. 

Tike hit him again. And again. And again. 

Voragon staggered. Another blow. Another break. 

The dragon-priest’s body gave way, splitting open under the final assault. Voragon collapsed against the blackened wall, sliding down in a smear of blood and fire, still smiling. Still laughing. 

With shaking hands, Voragon lifted the Medallion of the Worldbreaker—his final curse. His final triumph.

He crushed it. 

The Medallion of the Worldbreaker shattered, but the cataclysm it promised never fully arrived. The explosion ignited in a violent surge of fire and force, a scream of ancient fury meant to erase everything in its path—but something, whether the lingering power of the Iron Font, the resistance of the Ruinlords, or the final breath of Dunner’s blessing, clamped down on the blast. The eruption collapsed inward, its strength muted, the devastation contained. Heat rolled through the baptistery like a living thing, but the stone walls held. The Iron Font endured. The city of Tymon, though scarred and crumbling, refused to fall. Voragon’s final weapon failed him. 

Almost. 

Declan dove for cover, tumbling through dust and fire. Alfie, Potato, and Tike stood firm, shielded by some last desperate flicker of magic—but for Tike it wasn’t enough. The blast hit like the fist of a dying god. The shield around Tike cracked, buckled, and finally shattered. The fire rolled over him, through him, stealing the last ounce of life he’d fought so hard to keep. 

He fell without a sound. No scream. No curse. 

Only the silence a warrior earns when he’s given every last piece of himself and asks for nothing in return. 

Tike Myson died standing. Tike Myson died fighting. 

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. 

Then Alfie moved. 

There was no time to think. No time to pray. Only the memory of a spell—a desperate prayer carved into magic—the last thread between life and whatever comes after. Alfie knelt beside Tike’s corpse, pressing bloody hands to his chest. He called on Erastil, on life, on hope, on anything that still listened to this crumbling city. The words spilled out of him, not polished or perfect, but real. Raw. 

Breath of Life flared to life between Alfie’s palms. 

The magic punched down through Tike’s battered flesh, found the guttering ember buried somewhere deep inside. Found it—and fanned it. Not into a blaze. Not into a roar. But into a stubborn, shuddering gasp. Tike’s body jerked once, twice, a ragged breath tearing itself free of his ruined lungs. His fingers twitched, curling instinctively into fists. The fists of a man who wasn’t finished yet. Alfie didn’t smile. Didn’t weep. He just stayed there, breathing with him, refusing to let him slip away again. 

Tike Myson lived. Bloodied. Burned. Hollowed-out and half-dead—but alive.

Alive because a friend refused to let him go. 

Quickly, they gathered Dunner’s body and proof of the Ebon Triad’s treachery. Proof that heroes still walked the ruins of Tymon. Together, they fled to the docks, slipping aboard Captain Joseph Lorune’s ship alongside Vaz’non and Cal, the city behind them burning, the storm still boiling above. 

The Ruinlords were not defeated. 

Not yet.

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.

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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.

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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.”

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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.