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

Polished hardwood graces the pistols' grips in the perfect contour of the palm. Though the size is too big for Kell's young hands, his thumbs have next to no trouble in working the glimmering hammers. Six-slug cylinders spin smoother than a sheet of spun silk as they follow hammers' guiding motion with laser-like precision. Chrome barrels—each as thick as two fingers and half-again as long—shine in the lamplight as they eagerly wait to be used, their iron sights as straight as any arrow.

The pistols are mirror images of each other. Like a saltfly's gossamer wings, they are perfectly symmetrical in both form and function. The left-hand thumb finds the chamber's release just as easily as the right. Flicking the cylinders open, Kell peers through six perfectly clear channels to gaze upon the floors below. Had the chambers held spent shells, it would have taken but the depress of the ejection rod to ready them for more.

Directly above where the crook of the thumb meets the hardwood grip of the pistol is the knot-like stamp of the Nakeshi gunsmiths. Four overlapping loops in a circular formation serve to decorate and advertise the effectivity of the gunsmith's art. A declaration of skill and craftsmanship, the Nakeshi tradesmark is a recognized symbol of quality even beyond the Oasis of Nareeve.

In the Days of Defiance, many Nordenite lapdogs found early graves at the end of guns just like these. Should Norden and Surran ever come into conflict again, it will be these guns and others like them that send the Nordenites to meet their forebears.

Kell breathes deep the scent of oiled leather as he slides his pistols away in tanned hide homes. Hooking the holsters to his belt, he tests the weight on his body as he practices draw and stow—after all, a speedy unholstering can be the difference between life and death. A fraction of a second too slow and a razorwolf could cut you down or a spitterleaf might plant seeds in your brow, not to mention the potential threat of other children of Man, honor to the forebear.

"So, I take it you approve?" Father is all smiles as he breaks Kell of his thoughts. "It's not often I catch you smiling like that, or at all," he absently adds as a half-thought.

It takes Father pointing it out for Kell to notice, but the truth is as self-evident as the sun. Kell is smiling. The corners of his mouth twist towards crinkling eyes as lips peel back to reveal now-dry teeth. A cursory prod of his suspended cheeks fails to dispel the illusion, proving the veracity of his smile for all to see.

"I," Kell says with an unsure stiffness to his lips, "thank you, Father. Your craftsmanship is as masterful as always."

"I'm glad you like them," Father's grin could light up a room as he points a finger at the now-emptied box. "There's some slugs in there as well, in case you missed them."

Sure enough, a small tray of twenty-four rimmed bullets sits at the very bottom of the box. A swift swipe of the hand sees the slugs finding a new home in Kell's belt pouch. Thumbing the release, he goes to load the revolver only for a clearing throat to stop him in his tracks.

"My advice?" Father's voice draws Kell's salted eyes, "Leave the first chamber clear unless you're expecting trouble. That way, you won't accidentally shoot yourself if the gun should, for any reason, go off."

"But," Kell is hesitant to question Father's advice, but sometimes needs must, "but doing that would mean not shooting back as fast if you come under attack, would it not?"

Father shakes his head, "By all means, keep your gun loaded if you're moving through dangerous territory. But if you're just resting at home and not expecting a fight, then you'd probably not want to shoot your unmentionables off, right?"

"I suppose you have a point," Kell cedes the conversation with a nod of the head. Salted eyes dart across the now-emptied room—Mother having left to keep an eye on the roasting lamb—searching for a conspicuous void in the soundscape of the house. When he fails to find the usual suspects, he turns to the only other option available, "Father, where are Rattle and Itta?"

Just as Father goes to answer, the sudden sound of shoes against the shoutstone-surface of the building's entryway shuts him up. Father and son alike narrow eyes as breath catches in throats. Silently, Kell fills the empty space in his cylinders as Father retrieves a brass-gilded, lever-action longarm from inside the forebear shrine.

The world has a funny way of turning one's fears into realities when put to spoken word, as the oft-repeated campfire tales are fond of saying.

"They should be with your cousins, as there's a band of traveling troubadours playing in the square," Kell doesn't miss that, despite the calm levity of Father's words, his fingers are hard at work loading slugs into the rifle's undercarriage. "Didn't ask if you wanted to go, because I knew you wouldn't."

Kell shrugs and says nothing more. It is, after all, the truth. He still can't deny the hint of pain sprinkling in his chest, though.

The sheet sheltering the house from the outside swings open as a sun-reddened man stumbles inside. His face is contoured in a visage of fear as he wheezes, leaning against the doorframe. In a flash of ka—cultivation made manifest—Father is across the room and supporting the man in an instant. As Father helps him to a chair, Kell is already unscrewing the cap on his canteen and offering it his way.

"What's wrong, Kattil?" Father is careful to ask only after Kattil drinks his fill, "What brings a watchman to my door in such a rush?"

"It's your children!" Kattil wheezes as a dark shadow falls across Father's face. The rifle creaks in his hand as a sharp breath escapes through tight teeth. "Itta, Rattle, th-the troubadours, they were Nordenites!"

A dropping pin would be heard in the silence that follows. Only the voice of Father, utterly lacking in his normal jovial tone and now a thing of cold fury, is allowed to break the quiet, "What happened, Kattil, in detail."

"I-I," Kattil shakes his head, struggling to find his calm, but manages to do as asked, "The troubadours came in last evening and requested a place to stay in exchange for music on the morrow. We accepted and, in the following morning, they did as they said and played their instruments for all who would listen. It was good music, it was."

A sharp hiss cuts Kattil off as Father's brows furrow, "Get to the point, Kattil, how does this involve my children?"

"R-right," a shaky nod accompanies Kattil's answer as he continues, "well, after they left, your brother noticed that the children were too! I tried to stop him, I really did, but he said that he'd shoot me if I tried!"

The slightest hint of a frown tugs at Father's mouth as a sharp snort escapes his nose, "That idiot," he pinches his nose as the frown deepens into a full-blown scowl. "I'm going after him," Father's eye falls to Kell, Kell and the gun in his hand, "Kell, you're not quite a man, but you're close enough to spill Nordenite blood."

Kell can only nod as his twitching thumbs toy with tiny hammers.

0~0~0

The trail of wagon tracks is easy enough to follow as it leads away from the cluster of houses and into the surrounding sprawl of ruined buildings and empty streets—all that still is of the two-thousand people that are no more.

Joined by a dozen of Surran's noble defenders, Kell follows in Father's footsteps as he moves with great haste—Father had summoned his Guiding Hand and was using it to track his brother's signature. Fourteen sets of boots pound a steady staccato against the rocky dirt of once-full streets. Eyes stay locked to the shadow-filled ruins of days gone by, for men and monster alike use these grounds as cover from the ill-fortuned sun. It wouldn't do to be ambushed by uninvolved bandits or beasts, not while after quarry of their own.

All the while, as Kell runs at a steady pace alongside Father and allies, he occupies his mind with the details of the chase. Including his Uncle Let, the Surranese would number fifteen, a full half again more than the Nordenites they're after. It's unlikely that the Nordenites have much in the way of weaponry, certainly not anthing more than the bows, spears, and muskets they carried with them on arrival. Compared to the rifles and swords of the Surranese, that's not much at all—certainly not enough to close the gap in numbers. The only thing that could pose a problem is if the Nordenites threaten their hostages.

The corners of Kell's mouth twitch in a semblance of a frown as that thought crosses his mind. Not much draws anger from his heart—or much in the way of other emotions—but a sharp flash of white-hot rage threatens to spill over at the thought. Threaten his siblings, will they? May the Sands hear their final pleas.

Infrequent clouds stumble across pinkish-red twilight horizons as the Surranese approach the outskirts of the once-thriving town. In the hour of travel, house clusters start to give way to underkept and overgrown fields as broken roads melt into a slurry of red dirt and shallow hills. Father's Guiding Hand, wreathed in the faint blue orbit of his mist-like ka, twitches to the right before vanishing as the whole convoy slows to a halt—which is a welcome relief from having to keep up with more than a dozen realized men.

"Lett," Father's sudden sharp hiss catches Kell off guard, the entire trip had been in near-complete silence, "do you yet live?"

"Keep your voice down, Jarek," the gravelly voice of Lett Nakesh rumbles from the ruins of a half-collapsed farmhouse sitting just before a narrow hill. The shadows shift and change as a humanoid shape stretches and pulls free. Like a waterwalker shedding their raincloak, the darkness falls away to reveal a gaunt face with eyes like a hangman's noose. Only a very little of Uncle Lett can be seen from the ever-present inky blackness clinging to his form. "You'll give us away."

At the sound of Uncle Lett's voice, some of the stiffness in Father's form seems to bleed away. His shoulders fall ever so slightly as a heavy breath leaves his lungs. "I'm glad to see you alive and well," he says as he takes long strides Uncle Lett's way, "I'd feared you'd try to fight them all yourself."

"Save your words for after," Lett says as he waves a shadow-trailing hand through the air, the motion ending in a point towards the distance. "Our foes are just beyond the hill, preparing for nightfall in the foundations of the Kistil Estate."

Father's eyes turn to the hill in question as his next words come quickly, "Did you see the children?"

Lett shakes his head and all hearts sink, "I only saw them for an instant, as they were taken from wagon to tent, but they were asleep. The Nordenites must've wrapped them in a spell of slumber or something."

"Small mercies," Father sighs as he rubs at his eyepatch. Shaking his head, he fills his lungs with fresh air as he waves a hand to the hill, "Come, let us see our foes for ourselves."

Quickly clambering up the hill, the fifteen Surranese take shelter on the ground just before the hillside crest. Lying flat on their bellies, they peer with eyes of vengeance at the camp of their hated rivals.

Nestled in the ruined sandstone foundations of the old Kistil Estate—the home of a prominent landowner before the Days of Defiance—is a collection of small, two-man tents all clustered around a much larger, central tent. Two wagons sit at the edge of the ruins, right beside where a quartet of six-legged strider-mules graze amongst the overgrown grasses.

The camp has clearly seen residents, as still-burning campfires and open kegs of rockswill can attest, but it's clear that there's something off. After all, it lacks the most important part of any camp: the people.

"I count ten," Father says as his one eye stays narrow, "anyone else differ?"

Kell frowns as nobody challenges the number. Father counts ten Nordenites? But, where? Where are these Nordenites that Father so sees? Is Kell just missing some vital angle or is there something more nefarious afoot?

"No?" Father asks once more and, when nobody speaks up, he carries on, "In that case, does anyone have any ideas? Kell?"

All eyes fall on Kell as, like magic, every thought flees his mind. Scrambling for any hint of intelligent life, he says the very first thing that comes to mind: "Where are the Nordenites? I cannot see them."

A long, drawn-out silence follows his words as lips press thin and sweat beads pool on brows.

"Eyes of salt..." somebody, Kell doesn't catch who, whispers the thoughts on everyone's mind. The moment those words reach Kell's ears is the moment he realizes the truth: he can't see the Nordenites because none are there to see.

"Clever bastards," Uncle Lett mutters as pooling shadows writhe beneath him, "they were gonna ambush us."

"Good work, Kell," Father's praise sends warmth flying through Kell's chest as he turns back to observing. After a moment, he speaks again, "I see 'em now, hiding out in the ruins." Flicking his rifle's safety off, Father cracks a blood-thirsty grin. "So, what do you say to ambushing their ambush meant for our ambush?"

Lett chuckles, "Did I ever say how much your humor tickles me, Jarek?"

A simple but effective plan is quickly hashed out after that. Six men will flank from the left while six flank from the right, leaving three men to fill in the gaps as they come. Volunteers announce themselves for various roles as Kell considers his options.

Father will be staying in reserve, as his lacking eye makes it difficult for him to aim effectively. Uncle Lett will take the left flank, as he says he spots a familiar face amongst the Nordenites.

Where does Kell decide to go?
[ ] Stay in Reserve, with Father (Low Risk (1 Success, 60+), Low Reward (0.5x Roll)
[ ] Take the Left Flank, with Uncle Lett (Medium Risk (2 Successes), Medium Reward (1x Roll))
[ ] Take the Right Flank, where none of your kin are (High Risk (3 Successes), High Reward (2x Roll))

0~0~0

Your rewards come in the form of XP and, on occasion, loot. Most loot you come across in the world is little better than garbage and will be represented by monetary gain. When you acquire good loot, you will have the option of converting it into valuables, XP, or just taking it as is.