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.
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