As dawn broke, the Sand Surfers' fleet glided across the dunes, their ships barely disturbing the golden waves of sand beneath them. The sun had not yet fully risen, but its first rays painted the sky in streaks of amber and violet, casting long, eerie shadows over their destination—the great Sand Surfer camp.
What they saw upon arrival was both a testament to their dominance and a reminder of the unforgiving nature of the desert. The camp sprawled across the dunes like the ribs of a great beast, its tents and makeshift wooden structures reinforced with the bones of creatures long since slain. Towering skulls of sand drakes and fossilized leviathans decorated the pathways, their hollow sockets staring blankly into the endless horizon.
But today, the greatest trophy of all lay at the heart of the camp: the carcass of the sand hydra.
The massive corpse, stretched across the central clearing, looked as if it had been dragged straight from the depths of some forgotten nightmare. Its severed necks, still oozing black ichor, curled inward like dead serpents. The scent of blood and scorched flesh filled the air, mixing with the sharp sting of spices and burning incense from the traders' stalls already preparing for the feast.
The captains wasted no time. At Captain Ra'Zir al-Sol's command, the lesser vessels—the great sand skimmers—moved into formation, their crews already preparing for the meticulous butchering process. Armed with curved knives, saw-edged blades, and serrated cleavers, the hunters of the dunes descended upon the hydra like vultures on a fresh corpse.
"Strip it fast! Anything we can't sell, burn!" Ra'Zir called, his golden fangs flashing in the dim morning light. "I want those fangs removed intact. The sorcerers in the east will pay a fortune for them!"
The first to be harvested were the hydra's teeth, massive jagged things that jutted from each maw like crude spears. Crews worked in pairs, using iron mallets and chisels to crack them loose. Every successful extraction was met with a cheer—these were worth their weight in gold, prized by shamans and blacksmiths alike for their supposed magical properties.
Next, the scales—thick, overlapping plates of near-impenetrable armor. They were peeled away with enormous hooked blades, each plate requiring multiple men to lift. Some were to be reforged into armor; others would be sold whole, as shields for the wealthiest warlords in the region.
Captain Ismara the Veil moved like a shadow among the workers, her gaze fixated on the exposed flesh beneath the scales. "Take the softest parts," she murmured to her personal crew, "the meat between the ribs. The merchants of the north call it a delicacy. They will pay handsomely for it."
The hunters obeyed, carving out thick, glistening slabs of meat and stacking them onto salted hides.
The hydra's venom glands were next—arguably the most dangerous part of the harvest. A single mistake could send a man into a painful, writhing death. Captain Vekram the Stormcaller oversaw this process personally.
"DON'T puncture it!" he roared, as his crew carefully extracted the bloated sacs of toxic fluid. "One drop and your lungs will burn like the sun itself!"
The glands were placed in reinforced clay jars, to be sold to assassins, alchemists, and warlocks who dealt in poisons beyond mortal comprehension.
Captain Dhalmok the Black Brand, with his towering frame and battle-scarred body, oversaw the most gruesome part of the operation—the removal of the bones. Unlike most beasts of the dunes, the hydra's skeletal structure was partially metallic, infused with traces of an unknown mineral. This made it valuable, but also incredibly difficult to break apart.
His men swung massive chain-axes, hacking away at the ribcage with deafening CLANGS. Sparks flew as the enchanted blades met the unnatural bone.
"Keep the spinal column intact!" Dhalmok barked. "The priests of the Deep Sands will want it whole for their rituals!"
Despite the brutality of their work, there was an almost reverent efficiency in the way the Sand Surfers dismantled their prize. Every part of the hydra had value—nothing would go to waste.
As the first wagons of harvested goods were loaded, merchants from the surrounding territories began to arrive, drawn by the scent of opportunity. Haggling broke out instantly.
"A fang that size? That's worth a warhorse!" one trader barked.
"Nonsense! The last one I bought shattered after one swing! I'll pay half!"
"Triple, or I sell to the Black Sun Clan instead!"
In another corner of the camp, the hydra's blood—thick, dark, and oddly shimmering—was being collected in clay urns. It was rumored to be both a powerful toxin and a miraculous healing agent, depending on how it was prepared.
Beyond the trading grounds, the fires of celebration were being lit. Though the Sand Surfers saw themselves as ruthless hunters, they were still creatures of indulgence. A successful hunt meant feasting, drinking, and endless revelry.
Ra'Zir, wiping the sweat from his brow, turned to his fellow captains with a grin. "Tonight, we drink to fortune!" he declared. "And to the fools who did not live to claim it for themselves!"
The laughter of the Sand Surfers quickly turned into something more primal. It wasn't just men reveling in victory—it was beasts.
A deep, guttural BARK tore through the camp, followed by another, then another. The men of the dunes were not all men. Among them, their true nature surfaced—mutants, those who carried the blood of the desert's wild things.
Their bodies shifted, bones snapping, muscles stretching as they shed their human forms like a snake discarding old skin. Fur bristled, claws extended, and their jaws widened into elongated snouts filled with jagged teeth. The scent of blood and raw meat had awakened something ancient within them, something no amount of civilization could ever suppress.
And then, they devoured. The carcass of the sand hydra—already being butchered for trade—became more than just profit; it became feast. Those who had transformed tore into its flesh with monstrous hunger, their fangs piercing through thick sinew with sickening ease.
Captain Ismara the Veil stood motionless, watching as one of her own crew—his transformation complete—ripped an entire rib clean from the corpse and cracked it open, slurping the marrow within like a delicacy. Crimson and black ichor dripped from his jaws.
Captain Vekram the Stormcaller, now standing on his ship's mast, raised his monstrous head to the sky. His golden-furred form gleamed under the sun, his claws dug deep into the wood. And then, he howled—a long, haunting cry that echoed over the dunes.
One by one, the others followed. The entire camp erupted into a chorus of howls and barks, a cacophony of wild beasts celebrating their triumph. The sound was both a victory cry and a warning—a reminder to the desert itself that they were its true rulers.
Even Ra'Zir, still in his human form, merely smirked as he watched his kin feast. He crouched by the slain hydra's head, pressing a bloodied hand against its massive skull.
"To the sands that made us," he murmured.
Then, Ra'Zir wiped the blood from his hands and turned toward his men, his voice carrying over the howls and tearing flesh.
"Set the watch! Eyes on the dunes, ears to the wind. We butcher a king today, but scavengers will come sniffing for the scraps."
The Sand Surfers who had not joined the feast straightened. Their eyes gleamed with an unnatural, feral glow as they scanned the shifting sands beyond their camp. The dunes stretched endlessly, golden waves hiding whatever threats lurked beneath. Goblins.
Those wretched little desert rats, the bane of any battlefield aftermath. Goblins didn't fight, they waited. They crept in the dark, watching from the rocks, from the ruins, from beneath the sand itself. When warriors lay spent and bloodied, when corpses cooled, the goblins came like fleas to a dying beast—stripping armor, stealing weapons, even dragging away the dying if they could.
Ra'Zir's lips curled in disgust.
"Let the dogs loose."
A ripple passed through his men. Those stationed as guards let out a guttural growl, their bodies already shifting. Their fingers elongated into claws, their jaws cracked and stretched into canine muzzles.
One of them, a scout named Karesh, sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring wide. His face twisted into something between amusement and malice. "I smell them already."
Another let out a low, menacing chuckle, baring his sharpened teeth. "Filthy little thieves. Let's see how fast they can run tonight."
The watchdogs of the Sand Surfers moved into position, their grins wide, their fangs glinting under the rising sun. They aren't just guarding the camp. They are hunting.
The desert night was still. A heavy silence blanketed the dunes, broken only by the distant whisper of wind curling through the sand. The fires of the Sand Surfer camp burned low, casting flickering shadows across the butchered remains of the great hydra. The air reeked of blood, oil, and the pungent stench of death.
But beneath that— beneath the scent of meat and steel—was something else.
Something foul.
Something rancid.
Something that didn't belong.
The guards stiffened. Their ears twitched. Their slitted pupils expanded in the darkness as their nostrils flared wide.
The goblins were here. A ripple of motion passed through the camp. The Sand Surfer watchdogs—warriors already half-transformed, their bodies caught between human and beast—lifted their muzzles and exchanged silent glances.
Then Karesh let out a low, rumbling growl. The others joined him, a deep, collective snarl vibrating through their chests. The air hummed with tension. They were not startled prey. They were not frightened men guarding their spoils. They were hunters. And the hunt had just begun.
The goblins thought themselves clever. They had waited, as they always did. Hidden beneath the sand, tucked in the jagged remains of old ruins, watching and waiting for the moment when the warriors would feast and drink themselves into exhaustion. But this was not an ordinary camp. This was a den of monsters.
The first goblin crept too close. A shadow in the dark, moving on twisted limbs, its beady yellow eyes locked onto a half-butchered chunk of hydra meat. It slithered forward, its clawed fingers reaching—
SNAP!
Teeth clamped down on its wrist. The goblin shrieked, its scream piercing the stillness—before it was silenced in a spray of blood.
Karesh ripped its arm from its socket, the torn limb still twitching in his claws. The goblin writhed in agony, but before it could utter another sound, another guard dog—Jhalrik—lunged from the darkness, his jaws crushing its skull in a single bite. The body went limp. Blood leaked into the sand. For a single moment, silence returned.
Then—A chorus of screams erupted from the dunes. The goblins realized their mistake. They weren't raiding a battlefield. They weren't creeping upon tired, drunken warriors. They had walked into the jaws of beasts.
The Sand Surfer guard dogs moved as one, their bodies a blur of motion as they burst from the shadows. Fangs flashed in the firelight. Claws gleamed like obsidian blades. The goblins tried to flee. It didn't matter.
Karesh barreled through a cluster of them, his claws hooking into their frail bodies, crushing ribs, snapping bones as he tore them apart. A goblin tried to stab him with a rusted dagger—he caught its throat in his jaws and twisted.
Another one scrambled away on all fours, panting and whimpering—Jhalrik pounced, driving it into the sand. His claws sank deep into its spine as he dragged his fangs across its belly, spilling its guts in steaming ropes.
The screams only fueled them.
They weren't just killing.
They were butchering.
Jaws crushed skulls like ripe fruit.
Claws ripped through flesh, splitting goblins from groin to throat. A dozen goblins vanished beneath the weight of the pack, their twisted bodies pulled apart in an orgy of blood and gnashing teeth.
A goblin managed to break free, sprinting towards the dunes, its tiny legs carrying it as fast as they could. It screeched in terror, hoping— praying—that the sand would swallow it whole before the beasts reached it.
But then—A dark shadow leapt over it. For a moment, the goblin saw the moon behind its hunter—before the beast crashed down upon it.
Karesh pinned it to the ground, his hot breath searing against its face. The goblin trembled, its piss leaking into the sand as it babbled in its broken tongue. "No-no! No eat! No—!"
Karesh smiled. And then he ripped its throat out. When the screams finally stopped, when the last goblin had been torn apart, the watchdogs stood panting in the moonlight, their fur matted with blood.
Karesh wiped a claw across his mouth.
"Disgusting little vermin," he muttered.
Jhalrik kicked a severed goblin head, sending it rolling across the sand. "They should know better than to hunt the hunters."
Another guard chuckled darkly, licking the blood from his claws. "Let them come again. I still hungry."
The rest of the Sand Surfer camp stirred. Some warriors emerged from their tents, weapons in hand, expecting a real battle.
Instead, they found only the remains of the slaughter.
Ra'Zir stepped forward, his golden eyes gleaming. He surveyed the carnage, the shredded bodies of the goblins littering the sands. Then he looked at his guards—his pack.
He smirked.
"Good dogs."