A tale of unforgiving desert.
One hundred sons of Menaphos gathered their gear - sharpened bronze swords and oiled armour, bows strung tighter than a scabarite's wit.
The boys tired of life in the city. They planned to be a mercenary force and seek adventure out in the desert as the generations before them. They called themselves The Sons of the Dunes.
The day they left was much celebration for it was rare to see such a sight. Many mothers and friends asked them to stay, but such is the folly of youth.
As the desert winds kicked up the sands, they climbed upon the backs of their camels and rode out into the harsh desert.
It was just three days later that most of the camels and a single young boy returned. He was bloodied and thirsting for water.
Seems the storm had kicked up so strongly that the group was scattered, and several died to the sands and wind. Barely a third was left when bandits ambushed them, now only a boy and the camels remained.
A tale to remember that even the strength of Het isn't enough for the desert.
Now ninety-nine of our sons truly are Sons of the Dunes, buried forever in the sands.