Farnaz’s fingers tightened on the hilt of her broken scabbard, the rough leather digging into her palm. The raw, jagged gash across the commander's forehead, the whimpering of the elite hunters strewn across the scorched ground, the smell of ozone and fear – it all faded to the drone of a memory. A memory of a different kind of shame, a different kind of wound. She saw him again, standing on the rough-hewn platform in the Grand Bazaar of Azmar. Not the Jalil of legend, the celebrated hunt-master, but a younger man, his shoulders slumped beneath a tattered novice’s cloak. His face, usually bright with an earnest, if often misguided, enthusiasm, was pale and drawn. The gathered crowd, a sea of sneering faces, hurled accusations like stones. “Dirt-shaper! Mud-mage! A disgrace to the Vanguard!” His crime? A faulty Earth-Rend spell that had left a gaping, perfectly smooth void in the training ground, swallowing half a dozen prized Truffle-Hogs. No rubble, no displaced soil, just a clean, baffling absence. The same void that now marked the spot where the Citadel’s most devastating spell had been. She remembered the Guild-Master of the time, old Vorlag, his voice booming like a dry storm. “Jalil of the Zohal Clan! For your abject failure and this… this *mockery* of earth-magic, you are hereby cast out from the Vanguard! May the Wastes claim you!” Farnaz had been there, a freshly minted A-Rank, standing beside the squad leaders, her chest aching with cold dread. She had loved him then, loved his clumsy kindness, his ridiculous optimism, his fervent belief in the potential of a stubborn root vegetable. She remembered the words dying on her tongue, fear of council scorn, the pressure of public opinion. She’d stayed silent, watching him walk away, his head bowed, towards the unforgiving Crimson Wastes. That silence had haunted her dreams for years, a cold, festering regret. Now, staring at the figure by the mud hut, the straw hat tilted at the exact same angle he used to wear, the ungodly power emanating from him, cold sweat beaded along her collar. This wasn’t just a monster. This was *him*. Or what was left of him. A soul twisted by the Wastes, perhaps possessed by a Primordial. But it was Jalil, somehow. And this time, she wouldn’t be silent. “Prepare the Colossus!” the commander’s voice, raw and hoarse, ripped her from her reverie. “And send the Shadow-Weavers to flank the main charge. No more blunders! We will burn this abomination to ash!” Farnaz watched the immense, multi-legged war-mech, the Sun-Forged Colossus, begin to unfold its gleaming limbs in the distance. Its arcane furnaces pulsed, casting an orange glow across the dunes. But her eyes were fixed on the hut. “No,” she muttered under her breath, jaw rigid. “We won’t. I’ll save him. Or what’s left of him.” *** Jalil hummed a tuneless melody, the last echoes of the unseasonal ‘hail’ long gone. He’d decided to re-evaluate his angling spots. The oasis pond, while lovely, only yielded small, uninteresting fin-flappers. What he truly craved was the challenge of a proper trophy. And there was only one such challenge in this entire miserable wasteland: the legendary Sand-Trout of the Murmuring Gulch. Drifters spoke tales of its colossal size, its scales like obsidian, and its uncanny ability to swim through solid rock as if it were water. He whistled for Pishak, who, after a brief moment of absolute terror when the orbital bombardment had nearly flattened their home, was now rubbing against Jalil’s ankles with an unsettling purr. The dragon-cat had been acting exceptionally clingy ever since the ‘hailstorm’, which Jalil assumed was a natural reaction to unusual weather events. “Alright, Pishak,” Jalil declared, hoisting his reinforced fishing rod – a custom job forged from the trunk of a petrified Ironwood tree and strung with sun-toughened sinew from a Rock-Crocodile. “Time to hunt some dinner. And maybe a new ornament for the garden.” The Murmuring Gulch was a winding scar across the barrens, notorious for its glinting, deceptive silt-traps. Locals called it the ‘Slithering Maw’. To Jalil, it was a perfectly adequate, if slightly too fluid, river. He cast his line with an easy flick, the barbed hook, baited with a particularly pungent dune grub, arcing gracefully over the churning, sandy surface. The tomcat sat beside him, tail twitching, eyes fixed on the line with an intensity that Jalil mistook for mousing instinct. In reality, Virog was mentally preparing his final goodbyes, certain this was the day the gardener’s ridiculous angling would finally get them both swallowed by the wastes' true horrors. Minutes stretched into an hour. The brassy sun, now high above, beat down mercilessly. Jalil sighed, adjusting his straw hat. “Not even a nibble. Maybe the ‘hail’ scared them off.” Suddenly, the line went taut. Not a tug, but an immense, geological *pull*. The rod bent double, groaning in protest. Jalil’s eyes lit up. “Aha! Finally, a proper fight!” He braced his feet, digging his heels into the churning silt, which offered surprisingly little purchase. The rod hummed violently, threatening to rip from his hands. This wasn't just a big fish; this was a *leviathan*. Pure exhilaration fired down his spine. He leaned back, throwing every ounce of muscle into the struggle, refusing to yield an inch. His familiar, who had been lazily swatting at a fly, suddenly froze, fur bristling as a massive, dark shape began to rise beneath the churned silt. The ground itself began to tremble. A colossal, obsidian-scaled head, easily the size of a mud hut, burst from the silt, showering Jalil and the cat with a gritty spray. Its eyes, twin orbs of ancient emerald, locked onto Jalil’s fishing rod. The beast let out a roar that vibrated through the very air, a sound that could shatter stone. It was the legendary Sand-Trout, and it was furious. “Whoa there, big fella!” Jalil yelled over the roar, a wide grin splitting his face. “Playing hard to get, are we?” With a powerful thrash of its whale-sized body, the Sand-Trout dove, yanking the line with monstrous strength. Jalil, caught off guard, was ripped from his sandy perch. Claws digging deep through Jalil's trouser leg, the black cat was hauled along for the ride. The angler and his terrified feline companion shot across the dry wash, the massive fish dragging them effortlessly. Jalil, refusing to release his prize, found himself skidding along the surface of the Slithering Maw, his feet barely touching the shifting terrain, propelled by the raw power of the Sand-Trout. It was like water-skiing, if the water was sentient slurry and the boat was a furious, gargantuan fish. “This is fantastic!” Jalil crowed, a genuine laugh escaping him as the wind whipped his hair. “Faster, Pishak, faster!” Virog, clinging on for dear life, his fur plastered to Jalil’s leg, could only whimper. Faster was exactly what they were doing. The Sand-Trout, enraged and hooked, wasn’t just swimming; it was carving a direct path, a blindingly fast, undulating furrow, straight out of the gulch and across the open, desolate dunes. In the distance, a faint mirage flickered on the horizon. An army, tens of thousands strong, with the Sun-Forged Colossus leading the charge. And the Sand-Trout, with Jalil laughing on its back, was making a beeline directly for them. “Hold formation!” Farnaz screamed, her voice barely audible over the thundering approach. “Prepare for impact!” The air warped, not with heat, but with raw, building mana. A colossal wave of sand, churned by something immense, was racing towards them. Atop its crest, a nightmare vision. A beast of pure legend, its scales glinting like scattered night. And on its back, a man, wildly, ludicrously, laughing. A man in a straw hat. A man who looked exactly like Jalil, alive and utterly unhinged, riding a primordial terror straight into their ranks.

Water-Skiing on Quicksand