Bastards Reunite. Sand Will Be Spilled.
When Hanh and Deth follow a magical relic to a forgotten shoreline, they don’t just find sunburns and sarcasm — they find Craglor, self-declared King of the Crabs, ruling over a crustacean coliseum with a butter knife and bravado.
What starts as a ridiculous reunion quickly turns into something bigger: a clue tied to a long-forgotten chapter of the Bastards’ past. But first, of course, comes the sand gauntlet, the undead fish, and the ceremonial seagull.
This is Crab Fight at Low Tide — a story of friendship, flexing, and figuring out when the show ends and the truth begins.
A Mythical Bastards Tale
The tide was pulling out when they arrived, dragging kelp and secrets with it. Seagulls barked overhead like they were in on the joke. Deth squinted toward the horizon, eyes locking on a glimmering sandcastle that rose like a false idol from the shore — spires, banners, even a drawbridge made of driftwood and seaweed.
And seated atop the throne of packed grit and broken seashells was a crab — massive for his kind — wearing a belt fashioned from bottle caps and twine, a rusted spoon tucked into one claw, and a dagger strapped to the other.
Hanh adjusted his cloak and muttered, “Gods help me. He’s gotten worse.”
They hadn’t seen the Crab Bastard in months. And somehow, in that time, he had become a king.
The beach was alive. Not with people — but with crabs. Dozens, maybe hundreds, arranged in solemn semicircles around the castle. They weren’t scuttling. They were waiting. Watching.
One near Hanh clicked twice and nodded as if greeting an old war buddy. Another wore what looked like a scrap of parchment tied like a cape.
The whole thing reeked of cult energy.
Deth rested a hand near her bow but didn’t draw. “I think they’re expecting something.”
Hanh sighed. “Yeah. Us.”
With a thoomp, a hatch opened in the castle wall. The drawbridge groaned downward with theatrical flair, crab shells creaking under its weight.
Out stepped the Crab Gladiator himself — smaller than Deth remembered (molting season, probably), but decked out like a champion: a seashell pauldron strapped to one side, a ragged ribbon tied across his eyestalks like a bandana, and of course… the knife. Still proudly lashed to one claw with braided seaweed.
Crab cheers erupted. Hanh muttered, “Oh no. He upgraded.”
The gladiator struck a pose. “YOU DARE RETURN TO MY DOMAIN, WARLOCK?”
Deth leaned over, deadpan. “He’s doing the voice again.”
“He rehearsed this,” Hanh replied.
But the performance didn’t bother them. Not really. They hadn’t come here for sunburns and shellfish bravado. They hadn’t come to mock Craglor’s kingdom, either.
They’d come because something washed ashore — something old. Something marked. And they figured Craglor would want to see it.
The crabs launched a barnacle firework into the air. One blew a conch so loud it made a pelican two beaches over crash into a rowboat.
Before either of them could protest, a gang of armored crabs scurried into formation, dragging seaweed banners and clacking in rhythm.
“Oh no,” Hanh muttered. “He’s stalling.”
Deth folded her arms. “Of course he is. But now I want to see where this goes.”
“I CALL FORTH THE CHALLENGER!” Craglor shouted, climbing atop a raised dais made of a broken surfboard and scallop-shell throne. “WHICH OF YOU DARES STAND AGAINST THE BASTARD KING OF LOW TIDE?”
A single crab began chanting “CRAG-LOR! CRAG-LOR!” The rest joined in like a tiny war choir.
Craglor leaned down toward Hanh, voice suddenly low. “You want answers, warlock? Beat me in the arena.”
The tide rolled back in with perfect dramatic timing as a coliseum wall opened, revealing a rack of weapons — sharpened shells, driftwood spears, and at least one mildly aggressive jellyfish.
“By ancient sand law,” Craglor boomed, “you face the Crab Gauntlet of Reckoning!”
Hanh muttered, “Alright. So… improv it is.”
Craglor circled them like a gladiator-turned-thespian. “You dare crawl into my tidepool of truth with half-hatched secrets and no tribute? I should crack your shells and season you lightly!”
Deth raised an eyebrow. “Are you mad at us, or your dad?”
The crowd gasped.
Craglor froze.
Then, with ceremonial flair, he ripped off his sea fan cape. “BEGIN THE TRIAL!”
A warhorn sounded. Somewhere, a hermit crab fainted.
Craglor leapt like a vengeance pancake, knife claw glinting. “FOR THE SALT AND THE SAND!”
Hanh traced a sigil in the air. “Arise, my salty children.”
Two skeletal fish creatures burst from the sand, stitched together by kelp and bound in dark magic. One hissed in broken seagull. The other tried to bite a banner.
“You’ve really leaned into the beach aesthetic,” Deth said, loosing an arrow that pinned a crab’s flag to a coconut.
“Limited materials,” Hanh grunted, ducking under a crab trebuchet. “Sand necromancy’s a niche art.”
Craglor parried an undead eel’s charge with his ceremonial butter knife. “You summon monsters? I AM one!”
“You’re not a monster,” Deth called out. “You’re a dramatic crab with unresolved issues and a spoon.”
“YOU TAKE THAT BACK!”
Deth flipped over a sand wave, tripping Craglor with a loop of seaweed. “This belt of trophies?” she taunted. “Mostly bottle caps.”
“They sparkle with honor!” Craglor shouted, springing up, sand swirling. “You mock my kingdom! My rites! My ABS!?”
He flexed. His chitinous midsection gleamed in the sun. Crabs cheered. One fainted from shell-based patriotism.
Craglor raised his claws and screamed, “Witness the ancient art… of Spinning Shell Kick!”
He flipped.
Twice.
Mid-air.
A banner unfurled behind him reading “CRAGLOR!” in seaweed calligraphy.
He landed with a perfect three-point stance. “Now,” he declared, “we end this—”
A tiny spectral gull dive-bombed his face with supernatural precision.
“NOT THE EYES!” Craglor howled, flailing backward into a ceremonial driftwood pile.
The crabs fell silent.
Deth raised a brow. “That’s one way to end the drama.”
Hanh dusted off his cloak. “No one survives gullcraft.”
Craglor sat in the sand, panting, the last of the theatrics leaking out of him.
Deth stepped forward, this time with purpose. “Okay,” she said. “Time to be serious.”
Hanh pulled a satchel from his side and unwrapped a bundle — waterlogged cloth wrapped around a sealed object. He handed it to Craglor.
“We found this near the Wailing Bluffs,” Hanh said. “Half-buried. Magic-stamped. It’s… old.”
Craglor turned it over in his claw. A faint spiral emblem—familiar, but weathered—was etched into its side.
The crest of the Mythical Bastards.
But older. Ancient.
“Is this real?” Craglor asked, voice rasping.
“We think so,” Deth said. “It’s not just a relic. It’s a message. And maybe… a warning.”
“We’re heading across the channel,” Hanh added. “Don’t know what’s waiting, but if this came back to shore, it means something’s shifting.”
“You think this has to do with my father?” Craglor asked quietly.
“Not directly,” Hanh said. “But your name’s carved in the same current. Maybe he was one of us. A Bastard from before. Or maybe this is bigger than lineage.”
Deth nodded. “Either way… we want you with us.”
Craglor was silent.
Then he stood, slowly, holding the artifact like a torch. “The crabs shall elect a new regent.”
He looked to the sea. “I’ll sail with you.”
They stood together at the crumbling coliseum’s edge as the last of the sun melted into the water. Around them, the crabs began cheering again—less frenzied, more… proud.
“Just answers this time,” Hanh said. “No dance rituals.”
“No jellyfish,” Craglor agreed solemnly. “No seafoam waltz.”
Deth smirked. “And maybe a bath.”
The tide crept up to their ankles.
Three Bastards.
One artifact.
And a tide that was finally turning.
