Open Chronicles Lords of the sand

[Diabando The bone chewer]

They hunted during storm. Ten desertskimmers strong. Boasting five hunters per. The storm coaxed beasts to surface. Sandwyrms. Wingless dragons who feasted on the energy that the storms shepard. That energy was coveted, and provoked a hungrier foe to come out of hiding. The free men of Malakath.

Amongst those free men were the Darktide. Formidable bloodthirsty villains of the sands. Their ships were fashioned by the wyrms they hunted. The winds of storm kept them aloft. Their sails, large fins, directed their orientation. Storms energy propelled their vessel, gave their oracles prescient eyes, and bolstered their economy. This storm, a clamoring gargantuan, was sure to persuade the largest of the wyrm breed to surface. The matriarch. It wasn't who got to her first. Nay. Its who stayed alive long enough to harvest.





"HAHAHA! My TURN!" With a bloodlust cry he ripped the serrated arrow from his hand and leapt onto the opposing sand-ship. The wind was harsh. A culmination of sand and rock whipped at him with a frenzy. If it wasn't for the wyrm armor he'd have no skin left on his bones. He swung his jagged make shift cudgel, one built from the sharpest objects he could find, into the face of the archer. A thud, like an axe to a tree, followed by a shriek of pain. He turned the cudgel over cutting the inside of the man's cheek, hooking onto teeth, and yanked, ripping the skin of the man's face. He drank in the agony before delivering a push kick that sent the meek fucker overboard. The storm collected its tithe. "HA! MERELY AN APPETIZER!" He shouted at the remaining crew. Frothy spit following his words. The enemy scrambled to meet him at the stem of the ship. "ITS TIME TO FEAST, BROTHERS OF THE DARK TIDE!"

 

[Zidane Al'Yildiz Chahal]

Sand spat against the bone hull of their skimmers. Sails full of wind. Decks slick with blood.

ITS TIME TO FEAST, BROTHERS OF THE DARK TIDE

A shout in unity. Fervor rose to boil.

"DARK TIDE!" Came the shout from Zidane's throat.

With a stone-headed club, Zidane cracked open bare skull. With a straight blade he ran through the soft flesh about another man's liver. With a swing of the club Zidane knocked the dying man off the long blade as the desert howled by them.

A lancer swung from one mast to the other. Jagged tip of his polearm aimed for the sails. He leapt from his line, drove the pole in, and gouged a tear into the sailing fin.

"Fuck," Zidane cursed, took aim, and hurled his club, end over end. It walloped into the lancer, but the man stayed with his spear. Zidane reached for a horn at his belt as their skimmer slowed from its point in the pack. A blast called out from the wyrm spine instrument.

A short note. A long note. A short note. A long blast.

Sail damaged. Skimmer boarded.

Other horns blasted like calls.

Crew ready. Skimmer boarded. Enemy boarded.

The lancer leapt down from the sail, spearpoint driven down to skewer Zidane.