Meat over most of surface but the bones stick up. Oceans of spit, mountains of marrow. Over scaly plains crawl inhuman mites, beasts of no storybook. Breathes its weather, sobs its seasons, weeps its frozen heart out when the suns disappear.
We found it during a survey. Scanner immediately identified it as a Flesh Sphere. Albeit a bony, spavined urchin of a meatworld, it was meatworld nonetheless. That was a payday for us.
We touched down on throbbing hills. Readied the cruel probe.
For we would strike gold, of the sort we sought. We were pain miners. And here would be gushers.
We sank a well and the world screamed…