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

[X] Go with the caravan

The village of Melka is not normally an especially busy place. If Melka had its way, today would be the same as all the days previous. Alas, the strength of a village is nothing to the might of a city, so Melka must bend to the whims of its tyrant.

The merchants of Melka, spooked by the snapjaw raid, determined that it would be wise to send their yearly silk-tithe ahead of schedule, so as to avoid any further risks. As such, Melka is now a village of sound, of men hard at work as they spin separate strands to bolts of silken cloth. Soon, the caravan will leave for Nash with Kell among them.

However, before Kell can take his place in the wood-walled caravan, there is work that needs doing and words that need saying.

The house of Karo as-Kattell stands a ways away from Melka proper, as is the custom for the mist-shamans of Melka, and is built overlooking a shallow ridgeline. The overall structure is of an oversized rectangle consisting of five rooms and one hallway. At the forefront is a large space dedicated to all the needs of day-to-day life. Cushions lay scattered about the room but manage to avoid the ember-filled fire pit set into the centermost floor. The room is bordered with baskets, chests, and other storage containers while tools and myriad equipment dangle from wall-mounted hooks. At the back of the room is a doorway that feeds into the hallway, from which sprout two rooms—bedrooms all—to a side.

"Mama! Cousin Kell's here!" The youthful voice of Sari as-Kattell declares Kell's presence before he even has a chance to so much as darken the doorway. The owner of the voice, a young girl with a smile like a crescent moon, dashes the silken doorcloth aside with an enthusiastic sweep of the theatrical hand—an over-enthusiastic sweep, as it turns out, that has her wristbone striking the solid wooden doorframe. She hisses, teeth clicking shut, but the pain halts her stride for no more than a heartbeat before she's back in action. "Cousin Kell!" She cries, skipping past the pain and landing outside with a cheerful bounce, "Look at me!"

Sari's hands reach to the heavens as her eyes screw shut and wrinkles rise on her brow. The wind whistles ever-fiercer as she sucks down great lungfuls of air, her breathing soon stabilizing into a steady rhythm of ebb and flows. A crackle splits the air as ozone burns and black lightning paints her arms. Jagged bolts of dark electricity, like tears in the fabric of reality, dance across her body like beasts on the hunt. Each jump of shocking force digs the pit in Kell's stomach deeper, hints of envy flickering at the edges of his being.

"Your ka is very impressive, Sari," Kell forces himself to say as Sari's smile spreads like wildfire, her lightning vanishing as her ka runs dry, "You must have great potential to have unlocked your ka at such a young age."

"Eight years, just like Karter!" She stands with hands on her hips, her head thrown back in pride, "Except, I'm not like him, because Mama says he's lazy and I'm not."

"Karter does not seem lazy to me." Sure, there's the stacks of dishes and clothing strewn about the place, but it's not like Kell has a leg to stand on there—not with his workshop taking so much room.

"He's a lazy-bones," Sari insists with a nod, her words matter of fact as she crosses her arms, "I'm a big kid and I know how to fold laundry, but he never does and he's an adult! Besides," she flicks her hair to side, a motion clearly practiced before a mirror, "I'm gonna learn magic and he's not, so there."

"Sari," Karo's voice filters through the doorcloth as it sways in the wind, "go play with your friends, I have some things I need to talk with Kell about."

"But Mama!" Sari clasps her hands together as she begs, "You're gonna do some magic, right? Let me watch," Sari's brow furrows in focus as she takes a deep breath, "please!"

"Magic, Sari," Karo says as she appears in the doorway, her eyes heavy with sleepless nights, "is not something I will perform on this day." She flicks long nails at the space around her, fingers prodding the moisture-laden air, "The mists are much too thick for any work to be done."

"But Mama!"

"Don't 'but Mama' me, young miss." Karo retorts as she presses hand to Sari's back, giving her a gentle push in the right direction, "Now go and, if you can tell me every face you see and how many times you saw them, I will teach you some basic magic techniques when you return."

Sari's face brightens as she eagerly nods. Pivoting on the spot, her curls dance around her head as she launches into an excited series of skips down the pathway leading to town.

Kell watches her go, Karo silent beside him. Neither aunt nor nephew had spoken much in the last few months, so neither had much will to begin now.

Eventually, Karo breaks the silence as she turns, disappearing onto the opening of her home, "Can I get you anything to drink, Kell? Some tea, perhaps? I'm planning on ordering more of Woodsmith's Blend in the next caravan, so you can be certain of the quality."

Following Karo inside, Kell takes a seat on a cushion as he answers, his throat suddenly parched, "Yes, please."

As Karo busies herself with preparing the tea and setting the kettle, Kell casts his gaze about the space. Little has changed since last he was in the space, though a certain workstation nestled in the corner of the room has seen a great deal of work, if the empty inkpots stacking high are anything to go by. Brushes soak in a clay decanter of some unknown liquid, the salted-ink sticking stubbornly to the bristles. Papers high in quality yet low in number sit off to the side while their more numerous and rugged cousins dominate the center of the desk.

Karo sits herself down across from Kell, the crackling of the kettle-topped fire the only source of sound in the room. Removing two envelopes from her robes, she places them before her side-by-side. With that down, she breathes a heavy sigh as her shoulders fall and her head tilts forward, "Firstly, Kell Nakesh of Surran, I owe you an apology." Her hands fold together as her seated bow dips lower, "My actions toward you were, in the most charitable of terms, childish and unprofessional. I did not treat you with the respect you deserve, nor did I welcome you as family should. I spoke words of ill-will when you did nothing to earn my ire. For that, Kell Nakesh of Surran, I offer these words and this," she slides one of the envelopes Kell's way, "as an apology."

Kell is silent as Karo remains in her low bow, eyes locked to the woman he'd been at odds with since the moment he'd stepped into her home. He never wanted this contrition, certainly not with some of his only remaining kin, so his words come easily as he speaks, his fingers lifting the paper from the ground, "I accept your apology, Karo as-Kattell of Melka, and ask that we put this behind us while moving forward."

"That," Karo says as she lifts her head from her bow, "is something I find myself partial to." Chuckling to herself, she gestures long nails to the envelope in Kell's hands, "Inside the envelope you will find some spells I've prepared for you, which you should find rather useful."

"What are they?" Kell asks as he undoes the pin holding the yellow manila envelope in place. The spells, of which there are three, are printed out on small pieces of paper—the same high-quality paper that occupies a place of honor on Karo's workstation—and in clear, consistent brushstrokes. Words written in Alkkene script—the language of Surran and Melka—detail the exact parameters of the spell before delving into a half-dozen lines of what appears to be a one-sided argument.

"I've yet to come up with a snappy name for them," Karo admits as the kettle starts to hiss and she pours both herself and Kell a warm cup of tea. Steam rises from the brown liquid as the comforting scent of a homey blend fills the air, "but the magic is sound, so you need not fear any backlash. As for what they do," a sip of cooled-off tea interrupts her words as a pleased hum of contentment leaves her lips, "they provide you a measure of cover from hostile attack. Cast it with your ka—or Karter's, as the case may be—and the spell will harden a half-dome of air. It will only last five minutes, but that should be enough for your typical firefight."

"Thank you," Kell says as he tucks the spells away.

"Don't thank me," Karo snorts with a wave of her hand, "they're meant to be an apology."

Kell shrugs and takes a sip of tea. Warmth spreads across his body as he breathes in the woody scent. Like a sun-baked blanket, the warmth wraps about his shoulders as he finds himself relaxing into a pleased slouch. "What is in the other envelope?"

"Spells for Karter," Karo says as she pushes them Kell's way, "If you could take them to him for me, it would be much appreciated." Kell nods and makes to take them, only to pause as Karo clears her throat, "It would be prudent of me to warn you, Kell Nakesh of Surran, that you should never cast a spell you have not read in full, even if you scripted it yourself."

"Why is that?"

"Reality hates magic with a burning passion," Karo explains as she rests her hands on her knees, "Magic is, at its core, forcing reality to operate to your desires. In order to do so, a magician must first best reality in an argument over whether or not the spell should work. In that argument, you are limited only to what you can link with your ka, which amounts to being on the same piece of paper. If reality makes an argument you don't have a counter to, you lose," her face darkens as the wisps of long-stored memories surface in her mind, "If you lose that argument, reality will make you suffer. Maybe it'll kill you, maybe it won't, but you always suffer in the process."

Kell nods as he carefully takes the spells and slips them into his robes, "I will remember that."

Karo grimaces, "I hope, for your sake, that you do."

Silence splits the room in two as Kell swallows the sudden lump in his throat, the tea doing little to clear him of his worries. Taking a deep breath, he squares his shoulders and sets his jaw, meeting Karo's eyes with his own, "I came here for a reason."

"Your siblings, yes?" Karo nods her head towards the guest room, "I've finished the counter-spell, you can wake them whenever you want."

"Is it," Kell's lips thin, Karo's words exactly what he hadn't wished to hear, "is it possible for you to keep them under for a little while longer?"

"I suppose so," Karo taps a finger to her chin, curiosity sparking in her gaze, "but, if you'll forgive me asking, why do you ask?"

"I..." Kell swallows, taking a deep breath, "I have decided to go on the caravan, which will take me away from Melka for some time. I would not be able to look after my siblings while gone and a caravan is no place for children. As such, I have little other option than keeping them under."

The lie burns his lips even as he speaks, his selfishness taking a toll on his heart. He's not ready, he's not. To be an adult is to make choices. To be a parent is to make choices for those that cannot. An adult Kell may be, but he's no parent. He's not Father, he's not Mother. He's just Kell, and he's not ready.

Maybe if he keeps telling himself that, he'll actually start believing it.

Karo holds his gaze for a long while, as if looking deep into his soul and plundering his most sacred of thoughts. Eventually, she offers a shallow nod and says, "If that is what you wish, then who am I to argue?"

Who is she to argue indeed...

With little else to do, Kell returns to Karter's house to make ready for the journey.

0~0~0

Having commandeered the village's central square to serve as impromptu staging grounds—the traditional cartyard having been afflicted with a bad case of wood rot that few dare even consider allowing to spread to the silk-carts—the caravan master stands in the center of an eclectic collection of individuals both big and small. With his hands clasped at the small of his back, the shiny-headed man stands taller than his diminutive height should allow. Shrouded in the fine silks of his homeland, he wears the crest of Melka—crossed bolts of silk serving as a bed for the ever-precocious Melkan silverspider—with clear pride on his breast and back.

"Gentlemen, women, and those of indiscernible identity," Tokogawa Philleste, holder of the only gold-standard merchant's mark in Melka, greets his audience cordially from his spot before a large, unfurled table, "shall we begin the negotiation of our route?"

Around him, the gathered faces of the accompanying merchants, warriors, and other well-to-do members of society nod one after the other. Numbering thirty-three in total, the wave of bobbing heads resembles something from an ocean—or, rather, what Kell imagines an ocean looks like. The largest body of water in Nareeve is the Nashvey Lake, from which Nash draws its name, and even that is apparently little more than a shallow puddle compared to the vast expanses contained within certain tales.

Regardless of Kell's musings on lakes, oceans, and the comparisons there-in, more than a few faces shine unfamiliar to his salted eyes. Of the newfound caravaneers, only one serves as anything more than a slight passing interest.

Haladri Rell Lafasta, a psychic with a three-part eye painted in purple upon his brow. His allegiance couldn't be clearer had he climbed to the highest point in Melka and proclaimed it all for the world to see. After all, the Tripartite Eyes have only one master and He resides on His throne. When the Tripartite Lord's normal methods fail—which is a rare enough event as it is—He sends his best. Not only do His intelligence agents solve the issue—as they did to Kell's kinsmen—but they find out the why, how, who, what, where, and when things went wrong, and then they make sure it never happens again.

Lafasta's eyes flick Kell's way, catching them fo—screamingpainagonydaggerstwistingpullingstabbinghelphelphelpehelpejds—r little more than a flash, but even that was enough to send shivers dancing a traditional Melkan Jig of Potential Economic Success on his back. Fortunately, he'd been spared the honor of observing the charitably squat Philleste from performing the series of rapid hops, bounces, and furious shakes of the leg—for now, that is. Who knows what the fates have in store for him?

"Pardon my suggestion," Lafasta's words rip Kell from his thoughts, the gentle clamor of debating merchants silencing with the subtle vocalization of will, "but, perhaps, the most direct route is best? Such as here?" He directs a long, spindly finger towards a canyon that would shorten the trip to a small handful of days.

"You mean," Philleste's lips twitch into a frown, his eyes tracing invisible lines across the paper, "the Canyon-Tomb of Desh-Rovast." He says with a disbelieving finality as he works his jaw. He blinks, once, twice, before rounding on the unbelievably powerful man with an expression that could charitably be described as 'aghast', "Are you insane?! Sure, you might survive, but we're," he wiggles a hand at more-or-less everyone in attendance, "Melkans! The spirits would eat us alive!"

The other Melkans seem to have similar thoughts on the matter, given how they stare at Lafasta with expressions of horror mixed with terrified loathing. Even Karter isn't spared the simple phrase's not-so-simple effects. Bandaged hands twist around saber-grip as he stares the psychic dead-on—the psychic in question either not noticing or not caring.

"The status of a psychic's sanity is never a wise thing to question, Caravan Master Philleste," Lafasta's smile, which does little to soothe the tension sparking in the air, is less a smile and more a horizontal display of well-kept teeth, "not the least because you might receive an answer. Besides," he waves a hand at the numerous armed warriors mingling in the crowd before the hand falls to himself, "I'm sure that the strength of my compatriots and I would be more than sufficient to fend off any would-be pillaging spirits."

What doesn't slip Kell's mind, however, is that of the gathered warriors, Karter is the only proper cultivator among them. The rest are simple caravan guards and, though undeniably strong, lack the sheer versatility that ka brings its wielders. Even he, with his utterly miniscule abilities to sense ka, has enough mastery to tell that. If any of them—or the Eye, for that matter—had taken to concealing their ka, Kell would have no way of knowing.

But even without ka, one can be a formidable combatant—Kell himself evidence of that claim. Still, that's with the assistance of weaponry, something the berobed psychic outwardly lacks. Sure, he might have something tucked away in his robe-folds or hidden up a sleeve, but something says that that isn't what Lafasta is referring to. It's got to be his psychic powers, whatever they are.

Kell stares, wracking his mind for any stories or legends that might give hints as to what a psychic can do. Unfortunately, Surran never had any psychics. Whether by the whims of fate or simple genetics, psionics never developed in Surran. Neither did any stories of them.

"I'm led to believe that His Lordship's Eyes were unsuited for direct combat," Philleste comes to the rescue, curiosity sparking in his eye.

"Most of us are," Lafasta's smile never wavers as he fails to finish his sentence. Instead, he shifts tracks and says, "Now then, shall we take the direct route?"

Philleste sucks down a sharp breath before releasing it in a long, drawn-out sigh, "All in favor of crossing the Canyon, raise your hand."

Lafasta lifts his hand as a forest of arms reach towards the heavens, Karter's bandages among them.

"All in disfavor." Philleste raises his hand alongside a notable minority of arms, amongst them Kell.

"It would appear," Lafasta says, his smile contorting around his words, "that the Canyon-Tomb of Desh-Rovast is our route."

A trickle of sweat paints Kell's brow.

0~0~0

"Well, here we are," Philleste grumbles as the vaguely-marked path through the wastes eventually dips down into a gorge. Half the day had already passed them by when the caravan arrives at, "the Canyon-Tomb of Desh-Rovast."

The canyon itself is much like the surrounding area. Lots of rocks and hardy plants scraping out a life amongst the wastes. Like all oases, Nareeve has only so much life to go around. With that in mind, it's readily apparent that the canyon is on the lower-end of life allotment. The few plants there are cling to the sides of the canyon as they soak in as much light as possible before the shadows fall across them and the drydark war commences yet again.

A shudder passes through Kell as memories of plants at war surface. In places with little water, like the craggy lands of Surran or the Canyon-Tomb of Desh-Rovast, the plants that manage survival can never get enough of it to both maintain and grow. That is, unless they're able to take it from their neighborly rivals.

Sometimes plants scream when they die.

"You're from Surran, yes?" Philleste's words shake Kell of his memory-induced stupor.

"This is true, yes." Kell nods, his eyes darting around the canyon as the caravan slowly trundles down the path.

"In that case," Philleste grumbles as he shifts over to Kell—the pair had wound up sitting in the same cart, "you should be even more wary of the lost souls than us Melkans."

"Why is that?"

"Because it's your ancestors that added the tomb to the canyon." Philleste grunts as he yawns, eyes never leaving the ridgeline. "Given that you asked, you probably don't know the story, do you?"

"I do not. Can you tell it to me?"

Philleste chuckles, "Of course I can."

Taking a deep breath, he launches into a tale of rebellion, invasion, and betrayal. "Once, long before history was ever written, the land of Nareeve was ruled by the warrior-king Desh-Rovast. Uniting the Nareevian tribes, he overthrew the kings of Roval—the city whose ruins Nash was founded upon—and established a powerful kingdom of his own. Desh-Rovast moved his capital from Roval to the newly-founded city of Rovast—named for its founder, of course."

"Though it is said that Desh-Rovast was a good and wise king, his rule would not be for long. Soon came the Alkkenes, the Scourge of the Sands, the Barbarians of the Beyond, and the ancestors of you and me. The Alkkenes wasted no time upon finding Nareeve, quickly overwhelming the defenses of Roval and sacking the city outright. The survivors fled to Rovast, where they were welcomed with open arms soon clad in bronze with the appearance of the Alkkenes in pursuit."

"The Alkkenes, never ones to refuse a challenge as implicit as a locked and barred gate, took blade in hand and laid siege to the city of Rovast. Bolstered by their Rovalite kin, the Rovasti were more than able to fend off the many assaults on their walls. Eventually, two factions arose in the Alkkene camp. One faction desired to make peace with the Rovasti and settle in a not-too-distant valley—which is where the village of Melka has its origins—while the other, the ancestors of the Surranese, refused to make peace with their now-sworn enemies. They settled Surran and harassed all those who would travel to and from Rovast."

"Now, the Rovasti refused to allow the Surranese to do as they pleased, so they assembled a great host under the banner of Desh-Rovast and set out for war. Marching on the Surranese—who they thought had grown fat and lazy resting on their ill-won wealth—it would be a simple matter to overwhelm the meager defenses and lay waste to their enemies once and for all. Attacking at night, through this very canyon, the Rovasti followed the guidance of one named Na-la-Kesh."

"Except, the Surranese were ready for them, for Na-la-Kesh was the son of an Alkkene warrior and had chosen his father's people as his own. Assembling on the ridgeline and blocking the path with fallen rocks, the Surranese rained arrows down upon the heads of the Rovasti, slaying them all to a man. It is said that Na-la-Kesh himself slew Desh-Rovast with a throw of the spear, ending the man and his reign in one fell swoop."

"Now bereft of warriors and one to lead them, the city of Rovast was defenseless to the predations of the conquering Surranese, who sacked the city and razed it to the ground. The survivors, though harried all the way, managed to survive thanks to the efforts of one woman named Nordana, who died just before her people found salvation in a well-defended valley. For the honor of their leader, the now-named Nordanites founded Nordan and swore vengeance on the Surranese, resulting in the rivalry you now know today."

"So," Kell begins as Philleste winds down and takes a healthy drink of water, "you are saying that the ghosts of the Rovasti may attempt to kill us as we are descendants of the Alkkene?"

"Got it in one," Philleste says, the grimace adding a fatalistic tone to the otherwise lighthearted turn-of-phrase. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to focus on the ro-"

Philleste's corpse falls from the wagonseat, blood spraying from the wound in his neck in great spurts. Kell blinks, the gunshot echoing through the canyon walls like a bell rung again and again.

And then the hordes of hell break loose.

Snapjaws, dozens of them, emerge from ambush as the caravan creaks to a halt. Weapons in hand, the armor on their bodies is evidence enough that these are not the snapjaws Kell fought in Melka. Those snapjaws were relatively untrained, largely unfamiliar in combat and Kell had gone through them like a bunker buster does a bunker. These snapjaws wield their weapons with familiar hands and move with a sureness that speaks of long hours spent honing body and mind.

Revolvers fill Kell's hands as thumbs press hammers back, the snapjaws closing the gap far faster than had any right. Fingers find triggers just as the first snapjaw is on him. A well-honed axe in hand, the snapjaw swings the moment his carefully clipped toe-claws touch the wagon's wood, adding weight to already fearsome momentum.

Kell throws himself to the side, rolling off the wagon just as the axe cleaves through once-filled air. Landing in a pile atop Philleste's cooling corpse, Kell glances up just in time for a snapjaw's head to obscure the sun only to receive a faceful of lead for its efforts.

The snapjaw collapses as Kell's revolver belches smoke, his thumb already cycling another bullet into position. He clambers to his feet, hand pressed to the ground, only for his eyes to linger on the shredded face of his adversary.

Ribbons cling to sun-kissed fur, interwoven in a display of tasteful skill. Clothing, though covered by a measure of armor and drying blood, still show pleasing reference to the snapjaw's natural coloration. She had taken great pride in her appearance and kept her teeth white and clean—the little that meant now that they lay scattered across the ground. She loved to keep herself looking good, and Kell had taken that from her.

Just as she wanted to take from him.

The blanket of calm stops his hands from shaking and his breath from catching, but it is a near thing. Swallowing his fear, his pain, and the horror threatening from deep within, he turns his eyes to his surroundings.

And meets the now-purple eyes of Lafasta, the tattoo on his brow glowing with psionic power. His hand lashes out, hanging in the air for a fraction of a second's wait, before a black-furred snapjaw leaps in from beyond a cart's cover. A blocked howl catches in the snapjaw's throat as he freezes, the hand gripping him from a distance.

A twitch of the fingers brings blood spraying from the snapjaw's throat. His jaw snaps open as his mouth splits wide, the maw growing ever-larger as it inverts itself backwards across his body. The snapjaw falls to the ground, dead as the dirt itself.

The psychic's eyes never leave Kell as they travel from his eyes to his revolvers, curiosity sparking behind those purple plates. Kell swallows, the blanket doing little to block the fearful worry from rising.

The skirmish doesn't last much longer after that, not with the Tripartite Eye lending his aid. Words of praise reach Kell's ears as he helps cleaning up, words focused on the wisdom of the Tripartite Lord for providing His psychics with such might.

All the while, though, Kell can't shake the feeling of someone watching him.

(+2 XP)
0~0~0

Nash is a city of plenty. Plenty of walls, plenty of buildings, and plenty of people. Laid out in a simple grid pattern, the city runs along the shore of a freshwater lake serving as the city's main source of clean drinking water.

The main points of interest are the Library, the Baron's Palace, the marketplace—which has a number of goods available for purchase—and the Shrine of Desgata, one of Man's companions.

Kell has a short amount of time before the merchants are done shopping and the caravan returns to Melka. If he wants to return with them, he'll have to do only a couple things.

What does Kell do?
[ ] Write in

0~0~0

AN: Sorry everybody, I wanted to include more but ran out of steam at the end.

No moratorium.

[X] Find Julika Lash at the Library of Nash and talk to her about how to awaken our Ka more quickly than a process of nearly a decade.
Nash is a city of spiraling shells built on the backs of those who came before. The keratin-coated remains of water-creatures pile in calamitous hues of blues, greens, and yellows atop cracked stone and ruined foundations of the once-city. Most buildings have a bulbous base that lazily tapers off into a twisting, spiraling, pointed roof and the Library at Nash is no different.

Renovations are underway as workers clamber over scaffolding, repairing the numerous cracks running up and down the shellbuilt-surface. Layingslugs—most coming up to the workers' thighs—lurch after their minders as their slime-wake sinks into the crevices. Workers bearing half-circle, long-handled scrapers follow behind, smoothing over the obvious pattern-breaks until the whole thing is one, seamless blend of colors feeding into shapes.

Long-yellowed by the sun's relentless intensity, the Library's entryway steps stand as a last remnant of the stone city that once stood here—the city Kell and Karter's ancestors worked to destroy so many generations ago. Still, even with the weight of age, the stairs serve admirably as Kell and Karter climb their length and pass through the entrance unbothered.

The interior is no less colorful than the exterior, with tiles on the floors and paneling on the walls. Tapestries waterfall down the walls, telling the story of Nash from founding to present. A cloudy sculpture clings to the ceiling, serving to remind the library-goers of the world outside. All by its lonesome, a single desk sits occupied by a burly, scar-ridden man who eyes all would-be supplicants with intense distrust borne from beneath a quartet of bushy brows.

"I've been to Nash before," Karter says as his head angles heaven-ward, eyes drinking in the cloud-themed ceiling fresco as his hands find his pockets and a low whistle finds freedom, "but never to the library. Impressive. Easily the best library I've ever visited."

"I have never been to any library," Kell says as his eyes linger on the metal-reinforced beatstick dangling from the librarian's belt. Numerous dents tell tales of those foolish enough to try stealing from the collection.

Karter chuckles, a twinkle in his eye, "Neither have I."

A small smile breaks Kell's face before the librarian clears his throat with a phlegmy grunt.

"To access the collection," the bald-and-shiny librarian says as he sits up in his chair, four eyes blinking one after the next, "I will require you to state the purpose of your visit."

Kell steps forward as Karter steps back, a mimed bow and a wave surrendering the floor, "I am here to see Julika Lash."

"Do you have an appointment?" Two brows arch into crescent-moons as the librarian scans a concealed sheet, his fingers tapping a gentle beat against his desk.

Kell blinks and Karter copies, both cousins looking to the other for absent guidance. "We do not."

The librarian grunts as a subtle smirk flashes across his face for no longer than a second, "Then I'm afraid your visit is denied."

Karter strides forward, bandaged hands planting firmly on the desk as his shadow falls across the librarian's face, "Though we lack the luxury of a scheduled appointment, I think Miss Lash will be most perturbed to learn you turned us away."

Four eyes narrow to slits, contempt glowering in the Karter-cast shadow, "And why is that?"

"I happen to know that her current research centers on those of a more salt-touched persuasion," Karter says, slipping into a theatrical mood as a raised finger dances between Kell and himself, "which is what the both of us are."

The librarian's lips thin, but the slight slouch signals defeat, "Fine, I'll send her a message." He fiddles with a device on his desk that beeps and buzzes.

About five minutes later, the relative quiet of the lobby shatters as Julika Lash takes the stage. A young woman one could charitably describe as 'petite', stubborn baby fat makes a last stand on her cheek as white robes drape across her bony frame. Her hair desperately seeks to escape the messy knot clinging to the back of her head, more than a few strands waving in their freedom as her too-wide eyes scan the room. Locking with Kell's gaze, her pupils dilate to dinner plates.

"Salt-eyes," she hisses, near-teleporting as she closes the distance in a flash. Her hands, no less strong for their otherwise slender shape, take Kell by the shoulders as he stiffens in surprise. Pulling him down to her height, her eyes devour the rest of Kell's vision as she leans in close, her lips a muttering blur, "Slight tinge of blue, a leftover of the original color? Pattern is irregular, a subtle-star blending into chaos. Unmastered, though has tasted ka at least once before. Verdict," her lips peel back into a world-shaking grin, her teeth whiter than the salt of the Sands, "fascinating."

"Julika Lash, I believe?" Karter says as he steps forward, his hand just now leaving the sword at his side as his breathing loses its rhythm, "If you could give my cousin his spa-"

He doesn't get to finish, not with Lash's attention on him. "You!" She shouts, releasing Kell to point a finger Karter's way, "I was told there were two salt-touched! Where's the second?!"

Karter spreads his arms wide as he takes a stage bow, "You're looking at him."

Lash's eyes narrow, "Where? Beneath the mask or under the bandages? Both?"

"The object of your desire is within here," he taps his chest while lifting from his bow. "It's my lungs, you see, that have the touch of salt."

"Rarer than a wet desert," if Lash's eyes had been wide before, now they more resemble a pair of full moons as she leaps away from Kell to land before Karter. An odd pang beats in Kell's chest at her departure, the feeling soon replaced with another sickly oddity as she stands near Karter. She pauses as her hands hover before Karter's chest, her head cocked to the side like a dunedog, "New problem, your lungs are inside you."

"Indeed they are," Karter laughs, his hands finding his hips. "Though, in exchange for you doing us a service, I will allow you to slice me open and have a root around."

Kell blinks, shock radiating his posture to stiffness, "Karter..."

Karter waves Kell off with a wink, "Worry not, dear cousin, for I am made of sterner stuff than you might think. However," he nods towards the researcher, "I believe I may have broken our new friend here."

Julika Lash stands as still as a statue, her fingers barely twitching as her glazed-over eyes stare straight ahead. A slight trickle of drool threatens to spill from the corner of her mouth as her breathing quickens and a tremble washes across her form. "Really?" She manages to squeak out, "you really mean it?"

"With the upmost veracity."

What appeared on Julika's face could be called a smile. It had all the composite parts of a smile, the corners of her mouth tilted up as her lips peeled back to reveal her teeth, but all it took was a single look to tell there was something off, something not quite right. It wasn't that she was missing something, far from it, but the contortion of her face bore some aspect that isn't often found in the expressions of the civilized. An animalistic fervor radiated from the twisting of her lips, a rabid ferocity hinting at the depths of her glee.

"Name your price," Julika Lash smiles and the world recoils.

"Kell?" Karter offers the floor with a wave of the hand. Julika turns her gaze on Kell, who now understands what it's like to stare down the barrel of his gun. His muscles stiffen as a voice in his head screams for him to run and never look back. A dangerous creature stalks here, one who he has no choice but to befriend.

"I am looking for a way to unlock my ka without having to spend a decade training," saying it out loud... Something grumbles in the back of Kell's head, the words triggering some hints of embarrassment from the depths of his mind. Warmth blossoms on his cheeks, a subtle blush dragging to the surface.

Julika's lips twist to the start of a dozen different sentences, her mind struggling to compress her eagerness into a comprehensible form. Eventually, after a fair few heartbeats of silence, she claps her hands, shakes her head, and cups her palms to the sides of her eyes, "You've come to the right woman, Kell!" She cackles as she dances towards where she made her entry, a hand gesturing for Karter and Kell to follow, "Finally, a chance to see if my theories are true!"

Karter and Kell exchange glances but follow despite any feelings of fear either may have. If a shudder happened to crash across their bodies, neither said anything of it.

It certainly didn't help that the bushy-browed librarian hadn't looked away once during the whole exchange.

0~0~0

"The overall theory," Julika explains as she leads Kell and Karter through the winding, twisting halls of the inner library, "is to harness the inherently temperamental nature of the Sands in order to trick reality into thinking that you've done the whole training, which I believe will result in your body retroactively adjusting to fit with what reality says is the case. Effectively," she says, coming to a stop before a door leading to, presumably, her office, "you skip the whole boring breathing exercise stuff and jump right into the interesting meat of it!"

"Hang on a moment," Karter says as Julika fishes a key ring from her robes, something in her words having caught his ear, "you said that you 'believe' that it'll work that way. Have you not actually run any experiments?"

A deep sigh escapes Julika as she unlocks her door and lets it swing open, "Nobody ever wants to participate in my experiments!" She stomps inside, muttering about 'cowardly, unworthy scientists' and that 'science demands sacrifice'. Karter claps Kell on the shoulder, a grim tilt to his posture, before both follow Julika in.

If one didn't know Julika Lash, they'd be able to get a near-perfect read of her just from the status of her office. Weeks and months' worth of clothes lay piled across the floor while stacks of paper both blank and not occupy almost any open surface. Writing instruments war with corked vials containing samples of salt while a microscope battles a dozen other devices for dominance over a plank of wood precariously balanced atop a stack of empty food containers. Despite the chaos of the room, however, if one took the time to read any of the documents—and managed to parse the technical language—they would certainly be struck by the sheer brilliance contained within. At least, that's what they'd say if Julika were standing there, watching them.

Papers fly as Julika roots around her office, eventually yanking a canvas bag out from beneath a pile of wadded-up socks and revealing the couch below. Darting across the room, she shovels item after item into the rapidly-filling backpack as she stuffs pencils, pens, and numerous notepads into her robes. Slinging the now-filled backpack across her shoulders, she turns to Kell and Karter with a broad grin on her face and her hands gripping the straps.

"Well," she says, bouncing on her heels like an over-eager dunepuppy, "are you ready to go?"

"Go where?" Kell asks after meeting Karter's eye-conveyed shrug.

"To the Sands, of course!" She snorts, staring at Kell like he was a silly little animal stumbling around in confusion, "What, did you think you could do the experiment here?"

"What are the risks?"

If Julika's shrug does little to soothe any concerns, then her words only make things worse, "That's what experimenting is for!"

This time, Karter's shrug is physical. It's up to Kell to decide whether or not to go through with this.
[ ] Do it
[ ] Don't do it

0~0~0

AN: Little bit shorter than I would have liked, but I still had lots of fun writing this update.

No moratorium.