Salted Sands (A Caves of Qud-Inspired Cultivation Quest)

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Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Boom.

Burning cordite fills the air as the revolver kicks against young palm. The sharp jolt nearly sends the pistol flying, but a two-fisted grip keeps it firm and steady. The light of the midday sun gleams against finely-polished chrome as a thin trail of smoke spills from the barrel's mouth.

Mouth corners twitch down into the barest hint of a frown as salted eyes narrow; a miss.

A heavy, sand-filled bag dangles from a sturdy tree branch, not a scratch upon its burlap surface. The bark behind it, though, bears yet another bullet hole amidst a sea of similar shapes.

"Almost, Kell, almost," salt-gray hair nearly escaping its knotted prison sways in the dry breeze as a deep voice rumbles free of a thin-lipped mouth. A large hand, rough with callouses from years of hard labor, gently rests on Kell's young shoulder as a broad shadow falls across his vision, "Here, I'll show you where you went wrong."

Another hand—this one missing the first knuckle off the ring finger and half from the pinky—engulfs Kell's own. A fire-blackened thumb thicker than both of Kell's pulls the gun's hammer back as the shining cylinder spins a fresh slug into place. "Your breathing was right, your aim was true, but you still missed." A gleam enters a single dark brown eye, "can you tell me why?"

Kell's mind races faster than a storm across the desert. Where did he go wrong? Father said Kell had done everything right—his breath, his aim—but what else does he lack?

Father chuckles, a wry smile curling the corners of pock-marked lips, "Firing a gun is simple. All you have to do is pull the trigger and the gunsmith picks up your slack. What isn't so simple, however," Father nods to the intact sack still swaying in the gentle breeze, "is hitting what you're aiming at." His grip tightens around Kell's hands as a thick finger slides into the trigger guard, "To shoot a target, Kell, it must already be shot."

Kell stiffens as the gun bucks and hammers strike bells in his ears. Smoke pours from the barrel as burnt gunpowder fills the air, but Kell pays it no heed, for a steady stream of sand trickles free of a damaged sack.

Father steps back as he pulls his hands away, "The moment your finger pulls the trigger, the target must already be dead. Any less and you'll never hit it." Father breathes deep, stuffing his chest to bursting with the cordite-filled air, "That's why, Kell, you must never point a gun at someone if you don't want them dead." His sole eye drills deep in Kell, as if weighing his soul for any hint of deceit, "Do you understand, Kell?"

"I do," Kell's voice is dull, quiet, and monotone, but it's more than enough for Father.

"Good!" A thick hand claps Kell on the shoulder as a grin splits Father's face in two, "Now, finish off the rest of those bullets and we'll go see how your mom's doing, eh?" He shakes his head and laughs, a low whistle escaping his lips, "Already sixteen, can you believe it? I could've sworn you were yeigh high just yesterday!"

Kell, of course, can believe it. It is his birthday, after all. Regardless, he takes aim and does as asked.

This time, four more trails of sand trickle away.

This time, Kell doesn't miss.

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The makeshift shooting range isn't far from Kell's home—on account of it being just behind the building—so it doesn't take long to check in with Mother once Kell completes his task.

The home of Jarek Nakesh, pride of Surran and the finest gunsmith in all of Nareeve, is a deceptively humble thing. Sitting alone atop a craggy hill, the red-clay surface bakes under the heat of the mid-day sun. White strips of cloth numbering in the dozens flutter from their mourning mounts all across the building. A large, centrally-placed dome dominates the structure—once a brilliant blue, the sun has long warped it to its present near-white.

Once, every last room was filled with the sons of Nakesh as they worked the art of their forebear. Dozens of voices, all raised in cheer and good spirits, thundered through the halls alongside the snap-crack of gunpowder. It was a place of chaotic harmony, of ruthless levity, and of joyous malaise. It had that odd, paradoxical nature that only arises when family is gathered.

Now, twenty years after the ill-fated Surranese Rebellion, the house is but another fruit on a tree grown of foolish pursuits—just the same as all of Surran.

The home of the Nakeshi is a quiet place filled with empty halls and dusty rooms. To those who remember the years before the bloodshed, they would surely find that quiet deeply disturbing—a house of gunsmiths is second only to musicians in terms of clamor—but the silence and solitude is a comfort to Kell. It suits him like a soulbound steed does its rider.

Entering the outer portions of the building is as easy as moving aside a blanket, for that is all that stops the outside from getting in—a necessary chink in the home's armor, as Father and Mother are the only two who could otherwise get in or out. Venturing deeper within is, of course, a more difficult task, but the only things there nowadays are barren gun vaults and Father's workshop. Everything else is in the outer complex.

Father leads the way with Kell close behind. Brushing aside the guard cloth with a simple sweep of the broad arm, Father greets the house with a thunderous bellow, "Hail to the House of Nakesh!"

"Hail to the last sons!" A woman's voice answers in turn as Mother sweeps in from a side-curtain, a warm smile on a face creased with age. Stepping into the light proper, Mother pulls her husband into a sunny embrace as she presses forehead to chest and gently hums.

Kell stands off to the side, feeling very much like a wagon's wobbly wheel. Ignoring the love of his parents, he occupies himself with examining the outskirts of his home for the umpteenth time.

A large, central room dominates the locale with a half-dozen doorways lining walls both east and west. The passageways lead off into various rooms and closets with floors lined with threadbare rugs and cold, hardstone surfaces. A table carved and set into the earth serves as both seats and steps for those seeking succor from the table of the Nakeshi. At the fare end of the room sits a small, candle-lit shrine to forefathers come and gone.

The savory smell of roasting meats fills the air as Kell's mouth starts to water. Meat is a rare treat for the House of Nakesh, served only on days of celebration. Fortunately for him, his birthday qualifies.

"Smell it, Kell?" Mother smiles as she ends the embrace, "Your father managed to get his hands on rausen lamb, imported from across the Sands." She laughs, casting fond look Father's way, "how he did it I'll never know, but your sixteenth will be a day to remember!"

Crossing the Salted Sands at all is no easy feat, let alone while lugging a rack of lamb. But, then again, it's possible that the lamb was just a tithe-slave and this is where the corpse wound up. That's the more likely answer, all things considered. Only the truly wealthy can afford the specialty imports and, though Father is a prosperous man, his is a far cry from the fortunes of the Water Barons.

Lost in thought, Kell blinks as his mother's voice calls his attention, "Would you like that, Kell?"

She stares at him with those big red eyes, like a pair of rubies shining in the sands, as she waits for Kell's answer—an answer he's forced to clarify, "Like what?"

"To have one of your gifts early?" Mother turns her gaze to where three item-sets display upon the shrine in a place of honor, "After all, you only become a man once!"

Seeing little reason to refuse, Kell offers a shallow nod as he approaches the shrine. Curiosity brimming in his heart, he peers into each gift-case in turn.

In the end, though, his hand can only reach into one. Only one will he receive at this moment in time.

The only question is: which will it be?
[ ] A pair of chrome revolvers in leather-bound holsters. Stamped with the mark of Nakesh, pistols like these once sent many Nordenites to early graves.
[ ] A cloak emblazoned with the visage of a howling hound in profile, the emblem of the ever-defiant Surranese.
[ ] A twin-set of thumb rings made from twisted vinestalk and bearing eight Holy Names in a protective array.

(Each of these options will put you into conflict with one of three factions. Two are known, one is unknown)
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AN: And so choice of tale must be made.