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

The rifle—provided by Noos, one of the outlying farmers—kicks against Kell's shoulder as thunder cracks in a clear sky and a spawnling hits the ground. Shrieks of terror erupt as Kell cycles the bolt, pulls the trigger, and another spawnling meets a swift end. Twice more does Kell fire and twice more do spawnlings die.

Four spawnlings in as many seconds, a good day's work indeed.

A small smile lingers on his face as he rises from the ground, his front covered in dirt and grass. Brushing himself clean, he quickly takes a knife to each of the spawnlings' heads before hooking them to his belt.

It took about two weeks to track down and clear out all the monsters, but that should be the last of the spawnlings.

Palms clap as dust rises, Kell's eyes scanning the hazy horizons for anything remotely out of place. Though no less mist-choked than before, his training with the Eldermost has begun to see fruit. His natural ka, that which all beings generate no matter their mastery, is just enough to fuel a portion of his salted gaze.

The mists fall away, turning semi-translucent to his eyes, as a specter rises from the shadows. Sitting on the back of a lizard-like creature, it takes no time at all to recognize the rider.

Karter of Melka smiles beneath his cracked mask, his mouth missing more than a few sharpened teeth. His armor, normally hidden beneath his folded robes, shines bright in the light of the midday sun. A fist-shaped dent sits deep on his chestplate, the armor having done its job of keeping him safe.

Fractured eyes meet salt as a hand spread in greeting waves above Karter's head, "Greetings, dear cousin! I see you've taken to the hunt."

"I have," Kell says as he shoulders Noos' rifle, his eyes drifting across the battle damage, "You are hurt."

Karter laughs as Nero snorts, her eyes never straying from the swirling mists, "Only superficial, not a drop of my blood was spilled. The same cannot be said of the renegades, for their bodies now feed the crows."

"Renegades?" Surran was never big enough to generate renegades, not within Kell's memory at least. Melka, however, is a different story. In a village, not everyone is satisfied with how things are going. The more unsatisfied people, the more likely they are to take matters into their own hands.

Karter stills at that, his smile slipping for a moment, "Last year, a mist-shaman was ousted from power and some of her supporters responded poorly. They were a thorn in our side for some time, but," he taps the dent on his armor, "this should be the last of them."

"I see," Kell says as silence descends.

Karter purses his lips, breaking the silence before it has a chance to settle, "You know, now that I'm back, what do you say to learning something about ka?"

"I am studying under the Eldermost," Kell's words send Karter's eyebrows sky high.

"Really?" He laughs, slapping his thigh, "Well that's good to hear! I was worried you'd be bored just sitting around shooting things all day."

Kell blinks and tilts his head, "Why would shooting bore me?"

"Well, you know," Karter scratches the back of his head, "shooting isn't nearly as exhilarating as crossing swords."

"Father said that the closer you are to your enemy, the closer you are to your death."

"A sword doesn't need to be reloaded, nor does it jam!"

"Neither do fists, yet you fight armed."

"Yeah, but," Karter pauses as he considers Kell's words, "You know, you do have something of a point." Kell's eyes narrow as a sly smile spreads across Karter's face, "Tell you what, after I get cleaned up and you turn in your bounty, why don't you and I have a spar?"

"With our fists?" Kell tilts his head to the side, "Guns are too lethal, and I have no experience with swords."

"That's what I was thinking, yeah," Karter nods as he plucks a crumpled piece of paper from his torn-up robes. A charcoal pencil soon follows as he begins scribbling something down, "Here," he says, finishing the sketch and offering it Kell's way, "come meet me here, when you're ready."

Kell nods as he studies the paper, committing the rough map-sketch to memory. However, there is just one small problem, "Before you go, where, exactly, is this located? I cannot tell from the map."

Karter blinks, a light flush warming his cheeks, "It, uh, actually I'll just follow you back home and then lead you there, yeah?"

"That sounds like a better idea."

(+$25, +3 XP, +50 Melka Rep)
0~0~0

Kell's fist flows like water through Karter's guard, his knuckles digging deep into his jaw. Shocks of pain radiate up and down his bloodied hands as Karter stumbles back, his split face now leaking blood.

"That," Karter wheezes, his hands gingerly probing his already-bruising jaw, "was a good hit."

"Thank you," Kell replies as he shakes his hand, the pain disappearing with every motion, "Your face is hard."

Karter smiles, but doesn't laugh, his breathing falling into a steady rhythm. "You know, Kell," he says, his words slipping out between breaths, "while an unarmed spar may be the fairest way for us to fight," a glint of cunning enters his eyes as his smile grows, the full-toothed maw spreading wider than any mouth should, "real fights are rarely fair."

It doesn't take a genius to recognize the signs. Kell falls back into a defensive posture, his arms raised and his eyes darting about, searching for any hint of the pattern about to be sent his way. Karter is not what Kell would call a 'ranged combatant', so he likely doesn't need to worry about dodging blasts or anything of that nature. Likewise, most of the patterns Karter likely knows rely on his weapons, meaning he now lacks access to said patterns.

Focusing his mind to a sharpened point, Kell runs through what he knows about Karter's ka as the pair begin to circle about a central, invisible point. Blue mist rises from Karter's body as his breathing repeats a steady rhythm of deep inhales followed by a quick series of short, sharp exhales—the flash staccato technique. Blue is a color best used for support patterns while mist is strongest with illusions, neither of which the flash staccato supports. So, what is Karter's plan?

Mist surges as Karter... vanishes. Kell's brows twist inwards as his mind races faster than any mount. His eyes reveal the truth of the matter, that no illusions are taking place.

In the fraction of a second it took for Kell to react to Karter's disappearance, Karter makes his return. A blast of misty blue heralds his arrival as he reappears just behind Kell's shoulder, his ka-infused fist already sailing straight towards Kell's side.

His eyes widen as shock plays through his heart. There's no time to react, no time at all. All he can do is prepare for the pain—pain that never comes.

"If I had struck you," the glow of ka fades with every whispered word as Karter steps back, his fist never connecting with Kell's body, "you would be dead." Kell turns his head to meet Karter's gaze, his fractured eyes staring straight ahead as his voice follows an empty monotone, "I've seen it happen, more times than I care to count. The fist tears open the skin, smashes through the kidney, the stomach, the pancreas, and the spleen before punching out the other side. The shock kills you before the pain sets in, at least that's what I'm told."

Silence falls as both stand still, the wind twisting through the misty trees. Kell's lips thin, "Karter, are you okay?"

Karter blinks, his vision clearing from whatever haze he'd been in, "Oh, sorry, yeah I'm okay." He steps further back, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck, "Sorry about doing that to you, it was cruel of me."

"No, it was an important lesson," Kell shakes his head, "Before I ever shot a gun, my Father had me study what bullets do to the body."

Karter nods, a sigh leaving his lips, "Well, I guess that's probably a good idea." He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts, before continuing, "Regardless, you'll need to know how to beat someone with ka when you don't have it yourself, which is actually about the same for when you do."

"I am listening," Kell says, though his mind snags on something he's hearing, something rather peculiar—something he can't quite put a finger on.

"With that in mind," Karter hooks his thumbs through his belt as he starts pacing back and forth, "the methods are largely identical for those with and those without; strike before the enemy ever gets the chance to use their ka. If you can do that, you should." Karter then grimaces, his lips thinning as he grunts, "Otherwise, if your initial attack fails, retreat as fast as you can. If your foe gives chase, then they'll probably use a pattern to slow you down or arrest your escape entirely. This is a good thing." Karter taps his brow, a sly grin spreading on his face, "Patterns are quick to prepare but slow to replace. We've all got limited ability to use patterns, so if you can force your enemy to lock one in before the battle even begins, it'll start in your favor."

"I see," it's as Kell speaks that he finally realizes what, exactly, it is that he's hearing—or rather, what he's not. The sounds of the mist-swamped forest, the chirps, buzzes, and swaying of trees, are gone. "It is quiet."

Karter's eyes narrow, his teeth grinding shut as his gaze flicks to his weapons, "Shit."

And that's when all hell breaks loose.

Thunder cracks in an empty sky as a poorly aimed spread of buckshot kicks up a hefty cloud of dust between them. Throwing themselves to opposite sides, Kell and Karter scramble for their weapons as cackling laughter fills the air—snapjaws.

Kell's hands find his revolvers just as an arrow whistles past his head to thump against the ground. Thumbing the hammer back and pulling it free, he pivots into a crouch, finds a target, and trigger meets metal. The gun kicks in his hand as a slobbering, hyena-like snapjaw's head snaps back in a shower of blood. The poorly-carved bow slips from insensate claws as Kell cycles the hammer—one foe down.

Up on a ridgeline, the tree-topped one overlooking the sandy pit selected for the spar, is a pack of snapjaws ready for battle. There's only about five of them—four with the archer's death—but that's still something to be reckoned with. One shoves a handful of clasts down a crude metal pipe as something akin to a stock and trigger presses against the ground—the source of the buckshot, if Kell had to make a guess. The others—armed with clubs, axes, and their fists—hunt for a safer way down the ridge than jumping.

Karter can deal with the melee fighters, Kell reasons as he pulls back on the shotgunner just as the snapjaw finishes reloading, for now, though, he'll polish off the ranged.

The shotgunner doesn't even bother aiming, simply pointing the barrel and pulling the trigger. His laziness costs him, though, as the buckshot flies clear of Kell as he pulls his own trigger in turn. Blood splashes against a tree trunk as the snapjaw slides down its length.

Breathing out in a steady rhythm, Kell cycles the cylinder as he searches for any open targets. With Karter engaging in melee, there's little Kell can do to support—not without risking hitting Karter. All he can do is make sure no further snapjaws sneak up from the ridge.

Karter darts forward, his saber's blade shining bright under the light of the late-noon sun. The first snapjaw leaps with spike-laden club held high and fury in his eyes. Pushing back against the ground, Karter dodges back just as the club strikes the earth. Foot finding stable ground, his next motion takes his sword into the snapjaw's throat and out the other side.

Wrenching his weapon free, Karter sways to the side just as the next snapjaw's axe comes cleaving in. Robes flowing in the wind, his swing flashes like lightning as he takes the hyena-like man's arm off at the elbow. Blood sprays as the snapjaw screams, only for the sound to cut short as Karter's ka-infused fist crashes through his skull.

The last snapjaw, a massive specimen covered in slabs of heavy muscle, roars fury to the heavens as fiery red ka spills forth from his maw. Fists blazing, the snapjaw brute blurs forward at a breakneck pace, his ka fueling his relentless advance.

Karter's eyes narrow as his breathing keeps steady. Just as the brute reaches Karter, he vanishes in a cloud of misty blue as the fists sail harmlessly past. Less than half-a-heartbeat passes before Karter reemerges in a blast of ka with his fist already moving.

The brute freezes as his head angles down, eyes locked to the bloodied fist sprouting from his chest. He stumbles forward as the fist retracts, claws uselessly pawing at the gaping wound. His knees hit the ground as Karter pulls back, his eyes not leaving the snapjaw's body until it finally falls still.

Whipping his hand to the side, Karter flicks blood away as he scowls, "Snapjaws, damn things, never learn when to quit."

"Think there will be more?" Kell says as he opens the cylinder, pockets the spent shells, and fills it with fresh bullets.

"This was just a scouting party," Karter says as he hastens over to his discarded pack. Rummaging around in the pile, he retrieves a long tube painted bright red. Pointing it towards the sky, he twists the bottom and a loud pop! echoes across the now-silent battlegrounds. A miniature rocket screams high into the sky like a meteor in reverse, a thick trail of red smoke billowing in its wake, "They'll be after the silk, now that the harvest is done." Grabbing his rifle and fastening his armor, he offers a hand Kell's way, "I'm not planning on letting them have it, are you with me?"

Kell nods and takes his hand, "Of course I am."

Karter grins, "So, ambush or defense?"

[ ] Attempt to track down and ambush the snapjaws.
[ ] Rush back to Melka to join the defense proper.
0~0~0

AN: I've decided to slightly change how combat works. In mass combat, we keep doing it as we have been. In single combat, however, it's contests without any explosions, done as many times as I may deem it, with as many stats as I feel may apply.

No moratorium.