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Check out our Age of Worms Session Recaps and witness the Ruinlords’ struggle against the rising darkness!

The chamber was deep in shadow, except for the flickering light of the red candles set in haphazard circles across the floor. Wax pooled at their bases, spilling over and solidifying in rough, molten drips. The flames danced, creating an uneven glow that pulsed with life and death in equal measure. In the center of it all sat the Faceless One, cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees, his breathing slow and rhythmic.

He’d been sitting for hours, eyes closed, mind drifting through planes few dared venture into. He was still, like a statue carved from stone, untouched by time or mortal concerns. The faint echoes of distant screams drifted toward him, a dull chorus barely audible over the steady hum of his breath. It was the sound of death, of destruction—and he welcomed it as an old friend.

He sensed the disturbance before he heard it. The clash of metal, the desperate grunts, and the quick, final gasps as life fled the bodies outside his chamber. It didn’t faze him. He was accustomed to the violent sounds that came with his work. It was his world—a world of deals and debts paid in blood.

The door shuddered. He didn’t flinch. It shuddered again, this time harder, and still, he didn’t move, his face hidden behind his iron mask, unreadable, his breath unbroken. The door crashed open, kicked inward with a force that sent splinters flying. The drow Vaelin Sunshadow stormed into the room, his armor splattered in fresh blood, none of it his own. Drops of it slid down the polished steel, catching in grooves and seams, trickling in small rivers. His scimitar, slick with gore, dripped red onto the stone floor.

“Liar!” Vaelin’s voice filled the chamber, raw and ragged, seething with fury. His chest heaved, his eyes blazing with an intensity that almost matched the candles. “Betrayer!”

The Faceless One let out a slow breath, opening his eyes, the faint light glinting off the steel slits in his mask. He took his time, his gaze calm and measured as it fixed on Vaelin, absorbing the fury, the blood, the rage in front of him with a cool detachment. “You’re upset,” he said, his voice low and steady, calm as the surface of a lake.

“Upset?” Vaelin spat, stepping closer. The tip of his scimitar quivered, pointed at the Faceless One’s chest. “You think I’m upset?” He kicked aside one of the candles, and it toppled over, spilling melted wax across the floor.

The Faceless One slowly rose, his robes settling around him, their edges brushing the floor, stirring the stillness in the room. He took a single step forward, his head tilting in a gesture that might have been curiosity, or perhaps amusement. “The worms. Did they not perform as expected?”

Vaelin’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his blade, his knuckles white, his breath coming in harsh, uneven bursts. In a single stride, he was upon the Faceless One, his gloved hand snapping around the man’s throat, fingers digging into the fabric and metal with a force that trembled from the strain. “They killed everything,” he growled, his voice low, choked. “Everything. My people. My soldiers. They tore through them like they were nothing.”

The Faceless One’s eyes glinted beneath his mask, but his voice remained steady, unyielding. “Release me,” he said, his words sharp, measured. “Or I’ll take that hand off your arm.”

For a long, tense moment, Vaelin’s fingers stayed, pressing against the iron mask, his own breath loud in his ears, the taste of betrayal sharp and bitter on his tongue. His grip loosened, just slightly, and then he shoved the Faceless One back, hard, sending him stumbling a step before he regained his balance.

“Your green worms were supposed to kill the serpentfolk,” Vaelin spat. “That was the deal. Not my men. You’ve cursed us to fight a war on two fronts—serpentfolk and the worm-ridden dead. We were fighting a losing battle, and now we are surrounded on all sides because of you!”

The Faceless One straightened, his robes settling, his gaze never leaving Vaelin’s face. “The worms did as intended. They destroyed the serpentfolk, along with anyone else in their path.” He shrugged, the gesture casual, dismissive. “Collateral damage. It happens.”

Vaelin’s fury boiled over, his voice a hiss of barely controlled rage. “Collateral damage? My people are fighting for their very survival. They’re falling, dying, and for what? Because you unleashed these things without control, without care.”

The Faceless One remained impassive, his mask betraying no hint of remorse. He stepped closer, and his voice dropped, low, almost a whisper. “The Age of Worms is upon us. Your people are simply one of many in its path. They will not be the last.”

Vaelin’s hand trembled, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his scimitar. His eyes met the Faceless One’s cold, unfeeling gaze, and he felt something snap, like a thread pulled too tight, stretched beyond breaking.

He lunged forward, his blade flashing in the red candlelight. He drove the scimitar forward, straight through the Faceless One’s chest, feeling the blade sink in, the resistance as it met bone and flesh. He twisted it, his face inches from the iron mask, his voice low and filled with venom. “You betrayed the wrong man.”

The Faceless One staggered, his gloved hand coming up to the wound, fingers curling around the hilt of the scimitar, dark blood seeping through his robes. He took a slow, shuddering breath, and then, with a soft cough, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, he stepped back, sliding himself off the blade. He looked down at the wound, examining it as if it were a minor inconvenience, a simple scratch.

He raised his head, his eyes meeting Vaelin’s, and his voice was calm, almost gentle. “My turn.”

Before Vaelin could react, pain exploded through his head, sharp and blinding, like a thousand shards of glass driving into his skull. His vision went white, and then red, his thoughts scattering, slipping away. His hand dropped the scimitar, fingers slack, numb. A scream clawed at his throat, but he couldn’t release it; his mouth opened, but no sound came.

And then, darkness.

Vaelin’s body collapsed onto the cold stone floor, his limbs twitching, spasming, before finally stilling. Blood seeped from his nose, his ears, and from the corners of his vacant, unseeing eyes. His skull remained whole—intact—but within, his brain had been reduced to a pulped ruin, liquefied by the raw force of the Faceless One’s will.

The Faceless One let out a slow breath, his gaze fixed on the corpse at his feet, the silence settling heavy and thick around him. He lowered himself to the floor, his knees bending, and he sank down cross-legged, the blood trickling from his wound, staining his robes, pooling beneath him.

He closed his eyes, his breathing slowing, steadying. The pain in his chest faded, the flesh knitting itself back together, mending, as he let his mind slip back into the depths, back into the stillness, the darkness.

The candles flickered, the shadows dancing, twisting, wrapping around him, and he was alone again, the silence absolute, unbroken, as he resumed his meditation.

In our latest Pathfinder – Age of Worms campaign session (Editor’s Note: that’s Session 41 for the three of you keeping track), the party’s journey to Tymon for the Champion’s Games took an unexpected turn, plunging them into a tense encounter with desperate mercenaries and unveiling ominous glimpses of the larger threats lurking in the shadows. From a chaotic battle at a forest encampment to the chilling arrival of Saint Alduin and whispers of dark conspiracies surrounding Loris Raknian, this session was packed with drama, danger, and revelations.

For those so inclined, you can find more of our Age of Worms session summaries on our World Anvil page HERE!

The Fixers’ Camp

The day started simply enough. A quiet road, the kind of road that doesn’t give much back—just dirt and trees and the occasional bird. But then Cal’s eyes caught it: a little glint in the dirt, something small that didn’t belong. A poker chip from the Wavestone. That’s the funny thing about small things—they can drag a person into big trouble. Many of the passengers aboard the Wavestone had travelled this road the past day. However, only one had spent enough time in the Wavestone’s casino to still have a poker chip to his name – the Ruinlord’s coach/manager Ekalim Smallcask.

The trail wound into the woods, opening into a clearing that smelled like smoke, oil and desperation. Gears, vials, and half-finished machines littered the place like a junkyard for broken dreams. And there they were, the Fixers—a gang of tinkering misfits who’d bitten off more than they could chew. In the middle of it all was Ekalim, tied to a post but warning the Fixers that they wouldn’t like the outcome if his team were to find him.

The Ruinlords found him. The Fixers didn’t like the outcome.

Tike, Dunner, and Alfie tried to talk their way out of a fight, but Tike’s stare—the kind of thing that makes your skin itch—didn’t do them any favors. The Fixers twitched like over-wound clocks, and then everything unravelled. The fight was short, sharp, and mean like most fights are. When it was over, the ground was soaked, the air stank of burnt metal, and the Fixers were done—most of them dead, one tied to the same post as Ekalim. Fair’s fair, after all.

In the quiet after the storm, the party searched the camp while Ekalim, shaking off his bonds, muttered something about the Fixers’ debts and how the people they owed wouldn’t take kindly to losing their muscle. His voice wavered just enough to let the Ruinlords know he believed it.

Arrival at Tent City

The road ended at Tymon, where the city rose like a promise or a threat—maybe both. The walls were high, the banners snapping in the wind, and the noise was relentless: the clatter of merchants, the shouts of gladiators, the hum of a place that knew something big was coming. Tent City sprawled outside the gates like a carnival gone to seed, colorful and chaotic, with the kind of tension that clings to the skin.

At the Dusty Pavilion, the party met Tessara, a half-elf former gladiator with a bad limp, a sharp tongue and sharper eyes, and Gorik, a dwarf who looked like he could pour a drink and break a nose in the same motion. While Ekalim went off to “gather information” (whatever that meant), Cal leaned on magic to dig deeper into the shadows. What came up wasn’t pretty. Loris Raknian, the man behind the Champion’s Games, was a name people didn’t say too loud. They talked about a ruthless man who feared getting old and kept his grip on power by whatever means necessary. But the whispers went deeper, darker.

Saint Alduin’s Arrival

And then came the night.

The fires of Tent City flickered, casting shadows that twisted and stretched as the crowd pulsed with life. It felt safe enough, or at least safer than it had any right to. But that was before the air changed before the hum of voices stopped dead like the whole place had forgotten how to breathe.

Saint Alduin didn’t just arrive—he descended. Golden armor lit like it had been forged in the sun, radiating power that pressed down on everything like a fist. A gladiator—a man with more pride than sense—shouted something stupid. Alduin didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. A single beam of light erupted from his helm. When it was over, the gladiator wasn’t there anymore. Just a smear of ash on the ground surrounding a few pieces of bone.

The crowd froze. And then Alduin smiled. Not a real smile—it was too sharp, too practiced, the kind of thing that belonged on the face of a man who didn’t believe in kindness. His purple eyes cut through the night like blades, and when they found the party, they could feel the weight of him, the knowing in his gaze.

“I’ve heard about you,” he said, his voice quiet but full of something else. A promise, maybe.

Or a warning.