As the moon hung high in the sky, bathing the desert in its eerie glow, a group of massive werewolves, their fur the color of midnight and their eyes gleaming with intelligence, gathered at the wreckage left in the wake of the fierce battle between the pirate ships.
Their breaths hung in the cool night air as they approached the scene, their keen senses alert to any sign of intruders or danger.
The scent of blood and gunpowder lingered like a bitter perfume, evidence of the violent clash that had taken place.
The largest of the werewolves, their leader, known as Ulric, stepped forward, his voice a low, gravelly growl as he spoke to his pack in a language both ancient and hauntingly beautiful. "Search every inch of this forsaken desert," he ordered, his eyes narrowing with determination.
"The cargo must be recovered at all costs."