Session 47 - Docks and the Dead

General Summary

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. Vaz’non acted quickly. His voice cracked the air, and space tore around them. A Dimension Door swallowed them. Tike Myson, 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 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. 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, Tymon's last breath 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 the 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."