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Age of Worms Session Recap: Ruinlords vs The World
(Editor’s Note – Yes, I know the formatting keeps changing. I’m still trying to find a good fit, so please bear with me. Muchos appreciated.)
Previously…
The Ruinlords, a team of hardened warriors competing in the Champion’s Games, had just rescued their manager Ekalim from the Fixers when they found themselves face-to-face with Saint Alduin.
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Check out our Age of Worms Session Recaps to see how the Ruinlords’ journey unfolds!
Audience with Saint Alduin
The fires of Tent City flickered and spat, throwing long, jagged shadows across the crowded streets. Laughter and drunken boasts drifted through the air, mixing with the scent of roasted meat and unwashed bodies. Then, like a candle snuffed in a storm, everything stopped.
A hush fell over the crowd, thick and unnatural. The kind of silence that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Then came the light—blinding and gold, cutting through the night like a knife through soft flesh. Saint Alduin had arrived.
His armor gleamed as if it had been forged from the sun itself, every polished plate reflecting the flickering flames around him. The air seemed heavier, pressed down by something unseen but undeniable. His purple eyes swept across the gathered crowd, unreadable and knowing. And then, they found the Ruinlords.
“So,” he said, his voice smooth as oiled steel. “These are the Ruinlords.” A smirk twitched at the corner of his lips. Not a sneer, not quite. Just amusement. He nodded, acknowledging their role in dragging the Helm of Titan’s Wrath back into the world. No gratitude. No condemnation. Just fact.
The Silver Flight—his knights, his disciples—had entered the Games not for the thrill but for something deeper. A test. The arena was a forge, and steel that failed the heat deserved to shatter. Weakness was not tolerated. Not by the arena. Not by him.
When he turned to leave, his parting words landed like a graveyard chill. “Tread lightly, Ruinlords. Fate’s a tricky beast, and I hate to see potential go to waste.”
The Feast of Aroden
Days later, at sunset, the arena gates yawned open, revealing the Feast of Aroden—a spectacle of gluttony and excess draped in gold and crimson. Banquet tables groaned under the weight of food, their surfaces slick with grease and spilled wine. Bonfires raged, flickering light catching the edges of polished armor, dancing across the jewels on noble fingers. The smell of roasting meat was thick, intoxicating, drowning out the distant coppery scent of old blood soaked into the arena sands.
Gladiators, merchants, and highborns alike took their places. And then came Loris Raknian.
He walked like he owned the world, his steps slow, measured, every inch of him reveling in the unspoken understanding that, in this place, he did. At his side sat Vixus, the reigning Champion, soaking in the crowd’s adoration like a man convinced he was untouchable.
Talabir Welik, referee of the Games, stepped forward, his voice steady as he recited the Rules of Battle. No betrayals. No flight. Surrender was respected. Death was expected.
Raknian raised his goblet. “Champions of Tymon,” he declared, and the arena roared in response. The feast had begun. But beneath the laughter, beneath the clinking of silverware and the slurred toasts, something cold slithered beneath the revelry. A tension. A watching.
Intrigues of the Evening
Raknian’s Interest: His eyes kept drifting to the Ruinlords, sharp and weighing. Not curiosity. No, this was the gaze of a man measuring meat before the butcher’s knife came down.
Ekalim’s Obsession: The Ruinlords’ coach, Ekalim Smallcask, barely touched his food. His eyes tracked Raknian like a hound that had caught the scent of something rotten.
Tirra’s Proposal: The rogue from Magnimar’s Gilded Claw came bearing an offer. A bet on the Ruinlords, with a generous cut of the winnings—if they could bring down Vixus’s Warband. The price? 2,500 gold up front. And one favor: If you fight them, don’t kill them.
Into the Coenoby
The feast ended, but the night did not. The Ruinlords descended into the Coenoby, the underground lair of gladiators awaiting their turn to bleed.
The air was thick. The walls sweat with the breath of too many men crowded in one place, each carrying the stink of fear and anticipation.
Guards stood at attention, ensuring no battles started before the Games officially began. But everyone knew: come dawn, steel and spell would rend flesh, and only a fraction of them would leave the sands walking.
A horn sounded in the distance, deep and hollow as a graveyard wind. Tomorrow, the blood would flow.
DAY ONE: The First Battle
Morning came slow, dragging itself over the city like a weary giant.
The matchups were posted. Gladiators huddled around, whispering, pointing. The heroes dance card was set:
- The Ruinlords
- The Crowned Conquerors – Arrogant nobles wrapped in wealth and magic, their true strength bought rather than earned. Their hired champion, the pugilist Pake Jaul, was the real threat.
- Sapphire Squad – Fighters from Absalom, slick as oil and twice as slippery. Their leader? A bard with a pirate’s heart and a cutthroat smile.
- The Mountain’s Fury – Three stone giants, their eyes burning with revenge for the death of their lord, Mokmurian.
One by one, the teams rose into the arena, lifted from the depths like condemned men brought to the gallows.
Talabir Welik’s voice rang out over the crowd, naming the warriors, sealing their fates. The stands erupted into cheers. Somewhere in that sea of voices, bets were placed, fortunes made and lost in the span of seconds.
The Battle Begins
The Ruinlords didn’t hesitate. Pake Jaul opened his mouth, and that was enough reason to strike first.
Tike Myson, grown to monstrous proportions, met Pake in the arena’s heart. Their fists collided, thunder on thunder, the crack of impact shaking the air. Around them, mages hurled fireballs, rays of searing light turning sand to glass.
But the Ruinlords weren’t just there to trade blows. Vaz’non answered fire with fire—a draconic inferno that swallowed the nobles whole. One moment, they stood, armored in arrogance. The next, they were charred husks, burnt offerings to the crowd’s hunger. The last survivor fell to his knees, surrendering with eyes wide and white with terror. Cal’s magic missiles ended any second thoughts.
Pake fought on, his fists landing like warhammers, but Tike was relentless. Bigger. Stronger. A wall of muscle and fury. The pugilist staggered, his final breath a gurgle of pain before his body hit the sand.
Across the battlefield, Dunner charged, closing the distance between him and the giants.
Vaz’non lit the way, a fireball blooming like a second sun above the Mountain’s Fury.
The giants, once content to pelt the Sapphire Squad with boulders, turned their attention toward the Ruinlords.
The ground trembled beneath their advance.
And the battle had only just begun.
Pathfinder Session Recap: Saints and Sinners
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.
Rokk Talk 