Under the heat of the sun on high and deep in the heart of the Salted Sands, a newborn infant breathes deep of the hot desert air. Despite what should otherwise be an occasion of celebration, the parents bear faces of ash and stone, for they, like all else, know what it means to be born on the Sands.
Like all the unfortunate few unlucky enough to be born beyond the protections of an oasis, the Sands shall leave its mark, its claim on the life newly wrought. The child shall wander the salt dunes until the day they die. Never will they know peace and solitude, for the desert's call shall find them always. No matter the oasis, the child will always return to the Salted Sands.
The only thing that matters now is the nature of the Salted Mark. What form has it taken, what price has it reaped, and how the child shall live.
The Form:
[ ] Eyes of Salt; Never shall illusions cloud the vision, nor shall sandstorm close one's eyes.
[ ] Heart of Salt; Never shall terror grip tight nor shall heartbreak ever take hold.
[ ] Hands of Salt; Never shall one's fingers slip, nor shall one ever shake.
[ ] Tongue of Salt; Never shall one's words go unheard nor shall one's voice be muffled.
The Price:
[ ] Cost of Motive; Your legs have been taken from you.
[ ] Cost of Emotion; Your feelings are dampened; your emotions go unkindled.
[ ] Cost of Breath; Your lungs struggle with every breath, dulling your ability to cultivate.
[ ] Cost of Creation; Never shall you bring life to this world, not in any form or in any magnitude.
The Child's Life:
[ ] One of Farming; The Child grew up the offspring of a farmer and learned the art of coaxing life from the earth.
[ ] One of Powder; The Child grew up the offspring of a gunsmith and learned the art of firearms.
[ ] One of Swords; The Child grew up the offspring of a warrior and learned the art of combat.
[ ] One of Pain; The Child, cast aside by hateful parents, grew up a slave and learned the art of spite.
Please vote by plan.
0~0~0
You will learn more of the setting through the story, though I will answer any questions you may have.
The next update will introduce the world in more depth and will provide an opportunity to set your character's goal, which the story will then follow until completion. You are not guaranteed survival. Death is an ever-present specter in the lives of all those who call existence home. Pick your choices wisely and be sure to ask questions.
This is a quest that utilizes d100s and exploding dice. Every point in a skill provides you with an additional d100 while equipment, items, and consumables provides numeric bonuses to the first roll. Every result totaling 100 or greater will result in another d100 being rolled with overflow added on top of that. The more explosions, the more successes, and the better the result.
Skills can be upgraded during Downtime, which is the time you get between lesser arcs. At the end of a lesser arc, depending on how well you did, you will receive XP which you can then dedicate towards upgrading your stats. Completion of a greater arc will result in much grander rewards.
This quest is separated into two categories; 'lesser arcs' and 'greater arcs'. Lesser arcs consist of branching paths made up of choices while greater arcs are made up of a collection of lesser arcs.
Fanwork will provide you with Reward Dice, which can be used to rig rolls through adding d100s.
You make your choices day of and the day after the update; I write what happens over the week following that. This schedule may change upon feedback and as my IRL situation develops.
Please allow me to make a post for the future character sheet as well as two buffer posts before you begin posting.
The year is M3C1Y82 and you are Kell Nakesh of Surran, a small village of roughly a hundred-and-thirty people in the Oasis of Nareeve. At sixteen, you are the eldest son of Jarek Nakesh, a gunsmith, and Vaya as-Kattell, a seamstress. You have two younger siblings: Rattle Nakesh, your twelve-year-old brother, and Itta as-Kattell, your six-year-old sister.
Coinpurse: $46
Traits:
Eyes of Salt; Never shall illusions trouble sight, nor shall sandstorms close one's eyes.
Cost of Emotion; Your feelings are dampened; your emotions go unkindled.
One of Powder; The Child grew up the offspring of a gunsmith and learned the art of firearms.
Like all the other youths of Surran, you have not yet awoken your cultivation. The reason for this is because of the Surranese Rebellion, as the Baron of Nareeve wished to punish the Surranese for their rebellious desires and did so by restricting their ability to cultivate.
Ashen Surran
Surran is gone and your people with it. But all is not yet lost. You live, your siblings live, blood still pumps through your bodies. The end has not yet come, for your story has only just begun.
Puzzles yet to solve:
Who was responsible?
How will you take vengeance?
Achieving Ka
The first step in taking vengeance is to unlock your ka. This is easier said than done. It took Karter eight or so years to unlock his ka. You don't have eight years, so you'll have to find a quicker way.
Puzzles yet to solve:
(Solved) What is the process of unlocking ka? Breathe the tides by inhaling the in-tide and exhaling the out-tide. This means you will take two complete breaths over the course of an entire twenty-four hours.
Is it possible to unlock ka quicker? What is the cost if so?
Equipment works in manner similar to Qud, if slightly modified.
You can wear something on your head, your face, your back, your body, your arms, and your legs. You have three weapon slots (one for each hand and one easily accessible, typically your ranged weapon.
0~0~0 Nareevian YouthRobes (1 Defense)
-A colorful mix of green and red, the traditional robes of Nareevian youths are bound at the waist with a length of leather or cordage. A small satchel hangs from the hip, providing enough storage for most anything a child would need. OutriderCuirass (3 Defense)
-A piece of armor traditionally worn beneath one's robes, the cuirass is enough to protect against most light arms. Sturdy Boots (+3 to Movement)
-These boots are quite sturdy, allowing one to walk further, for longer. ChromeRevolvers (+20 to Combat, will upgrade as you grow into them)
-Chrome barrels gleam as a six-chambered cylinder spins with every cock of the hammer. A deadly pair of weapons, many lives have been lost from hands bearing these tools of death. Combat Knife (+8 to Combat)
-A long, thick-bladed knife that's seen more combat than most people have years.
0~0~0
Items
0~0~0 Multitool (+10 to Crafting)
-This multitool bears the symbol of Melka on it. It has no use in combat, but the many tools tucked away in its folds do provide plenty of help when crafting. Utility Knife (+2 to Combat)
-With a blade as tiny as this knife has, it is good for little more than light daywork. Using it in combat is not recommended.
Sunglasses
-Provides no protection in combat, but allows Kell to use his salted eyes easier.
Clottundium Injector
-A needle filled with clottundium, a red dust-like substance. Using this injector provides the user with enhanced blood clotting as well as a minor regenerative effect. Armor-Piercing Rounds
-This box of ammunition will allow one's firearm-based attacks to pierce through thick skin and armor plating. There are only enough rounds for a single combat encounter.
Unspent XP: 6
0~0~0
Combat
0~0~0
Gunplay (XX): +2d100 when using firearms.
-Longarms (X): +10 when using longarms.
-Handguns (X): +10 when using handguns.
One-Handed (XX): +2d100 when using one-handed weapons
Unarmed (XX): +2d100 when fighting with an empty hand
0~0~0
Non-Combat
0~0~0
Crafting (XX): +2d100 to crafting
-Gunsmithing (XX): +20 when crafting firearms
Social (XX): +2d100 to socializing
-Negotiations (X): +10 when negotiating
-Empathy (X): +10 when being empathetic
Movement (XX): +2d100 to moving
-Riding (X): +10 when riding
-Sneaking (X): +10 when sneaking
Perception (XX): +2d100 to perceiving
-Scouting (X): +10 when scouting/spotting hidden enemies
-Tracking (X): +10 when following tracks
-Scavenging (X): +10 when scavenging
Reputation ranges from -999 to 999 and changes with your actions. The higher your reputation is with a group, the better they will treat you while the opposite is also true. Improving reputation with one group can lower it with another while lowering it with one can also improve it with another.
If you have -300 or less reputation with a faction, they will attack you on sight. At -600 or less, they will put a bounty out on your head. At -900 or less, they will send kill teams after you.
If you have 300 or more reputation with a faction, they will help you if they see you being attacked. At 600 or greater, they will respond favorably to requests of aid. At 900 or greater, they will give you special items and/or other boons.
0~0~0
City of Nash
Baron of Nareeve: -200
-Citizen of Nareeve (+300)
-Son of Gunsmith (+100)
-Cost of Emotion (-100)
-Rebellious Surranese (-500)
Nobility of Nash: 0 (Unknown)
Merchants of Nash: 0 (Unknown)
Lower Classes of Nash: 0 (Unknown)
Nareeve Villages
Surran: 300
-Hometown (+300)
-Son of Gunsmith (+100)
-Cost of Emotion (-100)
Norden: -300
-Hometown's Rival (-200)
-Cost of Emotion (-100)
Kordel: -200
-Cost of Emotion (-100)
-Filthy Peasant (-100)
Asketen: -100
-Cost of Emotion (-100)
Melka: 500
-Mother's Village (+300)
-Cost of Emotion (-100)
-Clearing a Monsterhive (+200)
-x2 Did a Job (+50)
Karter of Melka is a young man in his early twenties. Though he hides his face and covers his whole body in bandages, he is a man who enjoys any opportunity to test his skills in combat or otherwise. He is cousins with Kell Nakesh.
Combat Dice in Optimal Conditions:
10d100 + 130
Traits:
Shattered Eyes: Your eyes are shattered, providing you with the occasional peek behind the curtain.
Sharp Mouth: Your teeth and tongue are sharper than most, providing you with great taunting ability, though you may find your words getting away from you.
Bonded - Nero: You and your mount, Nero, have a very strong bond. Should one of you die, however, the other would struggle to live on without the dead.
Extraordinary Potential: Your potential for ka is, by all estimations, a thing of legends.
Lungs of Salt: Your lungs have been strengthened by the touch of the Sands, making each breath that much greater. Allows the user to use two techniques at once, three when fueled with ka.
Cost of Judgement: You struggle to judge your limits, the strength of your foes, and the intentions of others.
Active Patterns: 4
Ka Color: Blue - Blue ka is seen as naturally supportive.
Ka Shape: Mist - Ka in the shape of mist lends itself to illusions and trickery.
Known Techniques:
Deep Breathing (XX): +2d100 ka dice when patterns allow
-The most basic of all breathing techniques. Following a pattern of deep inhales and equally long exhales, this technique is the basis of many patterns and techniques.
Flash Staccato (XX): +2d100 ka dice when patterns allow
-A long inhale followed by a sharp series of stuttering exhales. Fast-attack and movement patterns are available with this technique.
Edge Infusion (+Combat)
-Infuse the edge of a cutting weapon with ka.
Fist Infusion (+Combat)
-Infuse one's fists with ka.
Grasp the Distant (Anti-Projectile, Escape Disabler)
-Allows one to use their ka to grab objects at a distance, thus defending against ranged attacks. Some foes may be vulnerable to being restrained.
???
Mist Skip (+Movement, Escape Enabler, Damage Denier)
-Disappear in a burst of mist to reappear a short distance away.
???
???
???
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Totals:
+60 to Combat
4 Defense
0~_~0
Melkan Outrider Rifle (+25 to Combat)
-Polished wood reflects the face of those about to die as an elegant barrel seems to drink of all light that touches it. A perfect weapon for laying ambushes in the mists of Melka, it is often found in the hands of outriders as they patrol the mists.
Jewel-encrusted Saber (+35 to Combat)
-A long-bladed saber with a guard encrusted with all myriad of jewels. This specific saber has the traces of Karter of Melka's ka all over it, signifying his preference for melee combat.
Melkan Mask (+1 to Defense)
-White-painted wood sits against the face without a visible seal. The sole break in the otherwise continuous surface are the two eye-slits carved into the wood.
Outrider Cuirass (+3 to Defense)
-A piece of armor traditionally worn beneath one's robes, the cuirass is enough to protect against most light arms.
Unspent XP: 4
0~_~0
Combat
0~_~0
Gunplay (XX): +2d100 when using firearms.
-Longarms (XX): +20 when using longarms.
One-Handed (XXX): +3d100 when using one-handed weapons.
-Swordplay (XXX): +30 when using swords.
--Sabers (XX): +20 when using sabers.
Unarmed (X): +1d100 when fighting with an empty hand
0~_~0
Non-Combat
0~_~0
Social (X): +1d100 to socializing.
-Hostile (X): +10 when socializing in a hostile manner.
--Taunt (X): +10 when taunting.
--Intimidation (X): +10 when intimidating.
Movement (XX): +2d100 to moving.
-Riding (XX): +20 when riding on a mount.
Perception (XXX): +3d100 to perceiving.
-Tracking (XX): +20 when following tracks.
-Scouting (XX): +20 when scouting/spotting hidden enemies.
[X] The Sand's Gunman.
-[X] Eyes of Salt; Never shall illusions cloud vision, nor shall sandstorms close one's eyes.
-[X] Cost of Emotion; Your feelings are dampened; your emotions go unkindled.
-[X] One of Powder; The Child grew up the offspring of a gunsmith and learned the art of firearms.
0~0~0
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.
0~0~0
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)
0~0~0
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.
[X] Take the Right Flank, where none of your kin are (High Risk (3 Successes), High Reward (2x Roll)
Roll 1: 131+32=163, X
Roll 2: 67+63=140, XX
Roll 3: 14+40=54, End
Fail by 1. Defense absorbs the hit. Lucky, lucky
0~0~0
The Living Saints say that twilight is the time of death. Sunup and sunset are the two most dangerous times of the day, for they are when cultivation is weakest. Transitions and crossing thresholds rapidly sap strength from soul and there are no greater changes than day to night and night to day.
Why, exactly, twilight times made cultivation weak is a mystery to Kell, but he's seen his parents in the mornings and evenings enough to make an educated guess. If cultivation is breathing, then yawns are chokepoints. Steady breathing is the key to good cultivation, at least from what Kell has gathered. Any disruption of breath disrupts the ability to cultivate. Disrupting cultivation evens otherwise unbalanced odds.
Regardless, twilight is when men across all the lands are most on-guard. It is the time when paranoia reigns supreme and tension builds endlessly to ever-greater heights. Stress floods the body as eyes trace the horizon, searching eternally for an invisible foe that may never surface. Gray hair at a young age is a common sight for those on the path of the watchman and few have an easy time making friends.
As Kell and five others take position on the right flank, he sees for himself how stress and anxiety twists the Nordenite mind.
"I feel like I'm being watched," one of the three soon-to-be-ambushed Nordenites grumbles as he clutches his musket tight to his chest, pale eyes scanning across the rocky, arid hills. With a smoothbore weapon like that, the man probably couldn't hit the broadside of a canyon at thirty paces.
"Probably are," another of the men, this one fiddling with a crank-assisted crossbow, replies as he carefully oils and cleans the iron limbs of his weapon. "Surranese mutts have no idea how to properly clear out monsters." He turns his head to the side and spits, the ground sizzling from where the acidic glob splattered. "There's probably a half-dozen suckle-snakes just waiting for you to close your eyes so they can fill you with their digestive juices and drink you from the inside out."
The first man shivers as he growls, rounding on his nominal ally with balled fists and twitching eyes, "Man Alive, will you just shut up?! You always do this, always! Always talking about how there's monsters in the wilderness just waiting to kill me! Well, I'm sick and tired of it!" He stamps a foot against the ground, eyes falling away from the horizon and to his relaxing ally.
To Kell's immediate left, Surt Korlesh—a man of a somewhat dour disposition—shoulders his rifle and carefully lines up a shot on the tall musketman. Likewise, the other firearm-wielding Surranese all pick targets and wait for attack. The few melee-specialists among them—a pair of burly twins by the names of Kol and Kal Indesh—ready their swords and spears for the coming rush of violence.
For Kell's part, he pulls back on the man who had yet to speak. Cradling a bundle of javelins in the crook of his elbow, he sits with his back to the others and his eyes fixed firmly on the setting sun. Cylinders spin into place as he recalls the day's earlier lessons.
Breathe in. Breathe out. In his mind's eye, Kell pulls both triggers in a synchronized dance. Hammers kick as guns jump, flying bullets leaving spiral-tails of disturbed air in their wake. Flowers blossom from the man's side, staining the dark green robes a foul brown in their passage. He slumps, spears falling from his arm as he spills across the ground.
"In three," Surt's whisper draws Kell from his thoughts, "two," Kell's fingers tighten around the triggers as his heart thunders like clouds in the sky, "one," breathing picks up as death rears its ugly head and the man-his-target uncorks a water lung to take a shallow swig.
"Go."
Guns roar to life as bullets fall like rain. Kell's triggers touch metal as hammers swing forward and twin revolvers buck in his hands. Bullets buzz like angry hornets as they kick up dirt and sand in their passage.
Water spills from uncorked pouch as listless fingers spasm. Javelin collapses in on himself as his namesakes tumble free from his grasp and bounce all over the ground. His jaw goes slack as eyes turn glassy and a final breath escapes his lungs. Red, brilliant, lively red, leaks from the ragged holes in his robes—exactly where Kell had imagined, exactly over the spinal column.
Crossbow falls as well, having been the target of both Surt and another rifleman. One slug took him through the chest and sent him spinning to the ground while the other—originally aimed at center mass—carved a canoe through the top of his head.
Musket, however, has a significantly better reaction time than either of his now-dead compatriots. The moment thunder roared in a clear blue sky, he threw himself to the ground and away from the hail of gunfire. Weapon in hand, Musket rolls around as he tries to shoot back.
Leaping to his feet, Kell's thumbs crank hammers back as he tracks the Nordenite's movements. Twin pistols follow salted eyes as sights fill with center mass and fingers tighten around body-warmed triggers.
In his mind's eye, Musket falls back as bullets crunch through his chest. It would be so easy, so, so easy, to pull the triggers and end it here. All it would take is a twitch of the fingers and Musket would be dead, his ka failing him in the sundown time.
So, why can't Kell pull the trigger?
Kell looks down to his hands to see them empty and his pistols nowhere to be seen. He's on his back, head turned to the sky, as an odd warmth pools against the front of his body. Fingers throb with sharp, stabbing pain and cold, unnatural numbness in equal measure as he pokes and prods at his breast. His fingers find the ragged hole in his robes and, through it, feel the odd wet warmth spreading across his chest.
Like all emotions, his horror is an odd, muted thing. Where others may scream and sob at the prospects of looming death, Kell tightens his jaw and focuses on his breathing. In and out, over and over again. His heart hammers, his head throbs, but his lungs are still intact—though every breath sends shivers of sharp pain shooting across his ribs. But as long as his lungs work, as long as air flows through his blood, his ka—even as unrealized as it is—still fills his body with strength.
Because he can breathe, because his ka still flows, means that his lungs are undamaged—a statistical improbability given where he'd been hit. As he lifts his fingers to his eyes, the lack of telltale red shines stark.
It was water, water from his water skin. Thank the Gods and all their Saints, and thank Man, honor to the forebear.
"You live, Kell?" Surt's face blocks out the sun, bushy brows folded down in concern.
"I am fine," Kell replies as he picks himself up, every motion of his forefingers sending shockwaves of pain shooting up and down his spine. They're swelling up an ugly shade of purple, a poor omen for his hands. "How goes the battle?"
"It's over and the children are secured," Surt frowns, his brows staying steady, "but, you're sure you're fine? That ka-shot hit you dead on and that's not something an un-realized just walks off."
A flicker of a frown crosses Kell's face as, with a tilt of the head, he considers the question, "My fingers may be broken, I assume from the force wrenching my pistols from my grip, but I imagine that twilight-time sapped the ka-shot of enough power for me to survive."
Surt's frown deepens, but he lets the topic drop. His hands disappear into the folds of his robes as he rustles around for a scant few heartbeats. Finding whatever it is he's looking for, his hands reappear with a pair of familiar—if dirtier—revolvers, "I grabbed your pistols for you."
"My thanks," Kell bows his head as he gingerly tucks the offered weapons into his holsters. "What condition are the children in?"
Surt glances towards the top of the hill, where Father is just now cresting, as renewed respect floods his gaze, "Jarek knows more than me, though they're all alive and breathing."
A flicker of fear creases Father's face as he lays single eye on Kell's dark-stained clothes, but fades as he recognizes that it's only water. Dashing across the short distance as ka clouds swirl around him, his thick arms pull Kell into a tight embrace that has his ribs singing songs of pain, "Oh, Kell! It's my fault and I'm sorry for it!"
Kell's brows twist in as he ignores the pain in his ribs, "Father, I do not understand. What are you sorry for?"
Father pulls back, relieving the pressure on Kell's ribs in the process, but leaves his hands on Kell's shoulders, "You aren't ready and I'm sorry for bringing you here when you're still just a boy. "
"Jarek," Surt's voice is steady and level, but with a slight edge, "Kell slew a foeman before the eyes of his people. By word of our forebears, he is a man with all that entails."
Father stiffens as his eye widens, equal measures of pride and worry warring for dominance in his dark gaze, "I... I see." Swallowing his apologies, Father stands straight and, after a moment's hesitation, releases his hold on Kell's shoulders. "Kell, your actions are now your own and I can no longer bear weight for you."
"I will make you proud, Father," a deep bow of the head follows Kell's words, though a flicker of something indiscernible passes across both Father and Surt's faces. "But, I must ask after my siblings. What is their condition?"
"The spell is strong and difficult to break," Father scowls as he focuses on the new subject with all his might. "We can do it, though we'll have to bring them back to Surran first." His eye scans the horizon as the sky grows ever-darker. "It won't be safe with all the bodies, not with sundown soon approaching." Nodding to himself, Father turns his gaze on Kell, "Kell, I won't tell you what to do, but I recommend resting your injuries in the wagons."
Kell nods and does just that. All the while, the events of the day play out over and over again. He could've done better, so much better, but his inexperience found him lacking.
Resolving to do better, he turns his salted eyes to the horizon, to Surran.
Where a pillar of black smoke now floods the sky.
A voice, Kell doesn't catch who, screams fear into the twilight hour, "Saints' Bones, Surran is burning!"
In the chaotic frenzy that follows, the men of burning Surran decide to rush back as quickly as they can. Surt and two others are staying behind to guard the sleeping children, but the rest will return to Surran.
Of course, as a man in truth now, Kell has final say in where and what he will do.
[ ] Return to Surran and face the dangers there
[ ] Stay with the children (Arc End)
(+3 XP for surviving)
(You have 0 Defense remaining, next combat failure will have lasting consequences)
0~0~0
AN: And so Kell becomes a man in the eyes of his people, but all is not well for Surran.
The morning tide brings the telltale taste of ash to their lips.
Kell hadn't even bothered trying to sleep, knowing that he'd struggle to even close his eyes let alone drift off to slumber. Not only because of the monstrous threats lurking in the shadows, but because the fires in the distance burned the whole night long.
Why would the fires still burn if there was anyone left to put them out?
It was the question that kept him up, the words playing through his head over and over again stripping him of any hope of sleep. By the time the dawn-edge pierced the horizon, the fires had only just began dying down.
The trip back was done in silence, for there was nothing to say when surrounded by the ruined dreams of past, present, and future. A single cart was all it took to carry the children, so it was all the men of Surran took with them from the once-Nordenite campsite.
It was only as Surran came into view that the blanketing silence was ripped asunder. A choked gasp slipped free of someone's throat as the taste of ash mixed with the smell of charred flesh. Bodies, dozens of them, litter the black-burnt rubble of a village called Surran. Some large, some small, all once someone with a name, with a story, with hopes and dreams, only to be reduced to piles of blackened flesh and scorched cloth.
Hundreds of black-feathered carrion birds circle overhead as they sound their cries of joy. One lands on a corpse, just before the horror-stricken cart, and swallows the morsel of flesh in its beak, "Behold, men of hope, and witness all that remains of your futile efforts!" The taunting crow dips its beak and rips free a fresh chunk of meat from the too-small body, "Nothing but a feast for my kin and me!"
A rifle barks and the crow disappears in a cloud of feathers as a cawing chorus echoes. Surt steps forward and cycles his weapon's bolt, the spent shell falling to the ground in a sharp clatter as he fixes each and every carrion-feeder with an evil eye, "Begone, spirits of ruin, and go bother some other poor soul!"
Mocking laughter is all he receives as the flock takes wing and retreats on their black feathers of death. Surt waits until they've all disappeared before his head and shoulders fall together. Lifting a hand overhead, he waves it in a broad circle, "Go... I don't know, go see if there's any survivors. Maybe the gods know mercy?"
Kell stares at the retreating forms of his comrades as they do just that. Each heads towards their familial home, each hoping to find any shred of hope in a burnt-out ashtray. Deep down, they must know they walk to hellish sights, but not a one can bear not knowing.
Which is exactly why Kell's feet take him towards the hillside house—his house.
Except, except it's not there. Where once stood—and should still—the proud home of the Nakeshi, now is but an empty lot of barren soil. Kell stares, brows furrowing deep crevices on his face, as the wind whistles in the distance.
There's nothing left of his home.
Kell is far from certain on how he's supposed to feel about this. Relief that he doesn't have to see his dead mother? Sorrow that there's no body to bury? Anger at whatever took his mother from him?
All Kell really feels is that odd emptiness inside, the same that arises whenever something truly awful happens. Like when his dog got picked off by a mountain beast. Not even the faint swirls of feelings that swirl about his being have anything to say.
The sharp report of a single gunshot breaks the silence as one of the once-defenders takes his own life. A tragedy, but understandable in the face of such despair.
As Kell gazes upon the empty ground of his once-home—his father, uncle, or any of the other men who went back nowhere to be seen here or in Surran—he's left with a list of responsibilities.
First and foremost, before any idea of revenge can be had, bodies must be buried. After that, though, Kell has a choice to make: north or south?
Shelter can be found in Nash to the north, where the Baron's rule is strongest. Though there is no love lost between the Surranese and the Baron, he is honor-bound to look after those under his care. He will provide what little aid he must.
However, the village of Melka to the south is both closer and will provide far grander aid to Kell and his sleeping siblings, thanks to their connection through their mother. Unfortunately, that same aid will likely not be extended to the other Surranese, forcing them to go north to Nash while Kell and his siblings go south.
What does Kell do?
[ ] North, to Nash
[ ] South, to Melka
0~0~0
+3 XP for surviving a battle
+1 XP for surviving the intro arc
Final XP: 4
How do you wish to spend your 4 XP?
[ ] Write in
(Please vote by plan)
0~0~0
AN: And so, Kell finds his home gone and Surran a pile of ash. Will he go north, to the Baron's Nash, or will he go south, to his kin's Melka?
As the intro arc is now over, the update rate will slow down to the stated weekly. Sometimes, things may proceed differently, but that's what I'm aiming for.
Explanation of Stats and Skills and how Leveling Works
Stats govern how many dice you roll when doing the relevant activity (Every X = +1 Dice). Skills govern the numeric modifier that is added to the roll (Every X = +10). Purchasing a new Stat or Skill costs 1 XP, with every level after that costing an additional 1 XP.
Stats are more general than Skills. For melee Stats you have 'One-Handed', 'Two-Handed', 'Polearm', and 'Unarmed'. For ranged Stats you have things like 'Archery', 'Crossbows', 'Firearms', and 'Throwing'. For noncombat Stats you have 'Social', 'Craft', 'Movement', and 'Perception'.
Skills are more specific than Stats. To use Movement as an example, you might have 'Acrobatics', 'Swimming', 'Athletics', and 'Stealth' as Skills.
If something is not represented here, you may make it up yourself (pending approval from me, of course).
Sun-baked red clay crunches underfoot as Kell staggers across the wastes. Sweat drenches the scarf wrapped about his head, but it still serves to keep the hellspawn sun from blistering his skin. Though Nareeve's waters reach far, not every patch of ground beneath its aegis receives equal moisture. Had it been so, there wouldn't be nearly enough for the residents of Nareeve to survive let alone thrive.
Still, the lack of water doesn't make Kell's passage any easier. His lips crack like the ground beneath his feet as his tongue fills his mouth like some great thirsty worm. It had only been a few hours since he set out on this journey, but it had been a full day since he'd last felt water in his mouth.
His shoulders burn with every step, the weight of his still-sleeping siblings heavy on his mind and body. Wrapped in the folds of a makeshift sled—fashioned from some of the wagon's blankets—his siblings follow along as Kell drags them towards Melka.
A boy would falter under the weight of responsibility, but Kell was no boy, not anymore. He slew an enemy in open battle, witnessed before his people's gaze, and so he stepped into manhood. He can do this, he will do this, for he must. A man is free to make his own choices and live his own life, but he must stand by his decisions no matter the struggle. Kell chose to bring his siblings to Melka, so that is what he will do. May the Sands swallow him whole should his words turn to lies.
But how much longer can he go? How many more steps will his feet take him? Kell had made this journey twice before, both times under the guidance of Father. He knows the path, the route to take, but will his strength see him through? Both times previous, Father's ka had kept Kell steady. Without that, can he make it all the way?
Sun-dried teeth clench tight as a flicker of a scowl passes Kell's face. Begone, foul thoughts of ill-will! Begone, cruel specters of dark futures never to pass! May the Sands take his traitorous thoughts, lest he be forced to kill them himself. The Sands' embrace would be a tender mercy compared to what he'd do to them.
This so-called struggle is nothing compared to crossing the Salted Sands! If he could do such a feat with newborn strength, then crossing from one village to the next is entirely within his grasp.
Driving his feet hard against the earth, Kell forces himself onwards with renewing strength. He will not fail, not here, not now. His life has only just begun, it can't end so soon!
A flicker of movement draws Kell's salted eyes as his hand darts to the pistol hanging off his hip. As if by instinct, Kell draws, sights, and fires the chrome revolver, all in one smooth motion.
In a great heap, the stalker-beast collapses to the ground—a perfect hole drilled straight through the cat-like monster's sloping forehead. With foot-long claws like that, it would've ripped Kell to shreds had he missed his shot.
"And that, Father," Kell whispers to nobody as he stares at the monster's still-warm corpse, "is why you don't leave the first chamber empty."
Slipping the pistol back in its home, he steps on to the rest of his life.
(+3 XP)
Spotting the stalker-beast. DC 2/1
Roll 1: 49+10=59, Failure
Fighting the stalker-beast. DC 2
Roll 1: 168+32=200, X
Roll 2: 30+100=130, XX
Roll 3: 89+30=119, XXX
Roll 4: 26+19=45, Stop
3 Successes
0~0~0
Mist spills up from the lowlands as red clay turns to fertile soil. Large rocks line the path-turned-road, each marked with a name, a place, a date, and the feat worthy of carving a story-stone. The road leads down a narrow crevice into the mist-choked landscape of the Melkan wilderness. In the center of the tree-swamped forestscape lies Melka, village of the mist-dwellers, and the birthplace of Mother.
Shouldering the sibling sled, Kell grits his teeth and presses on—the mist on his skin a welcome respite from the harsh heat of the wastes. It wouldn't be long before Melka greeted a kinsman, not because of any effort on Kell's part—far from it—but the Melkan outriders are keen scouts and keep careful watch of all those travelers who enter and exit the swirling mists.
Sure enough, Kell hadn't made it ten minutes into the mist-drenched forest before a voice cleared its throat.
"Heed warning, traveler, for you come to Melka at a poor time," a shadow shifts in the mist as a form takes shape. Riding on the back of a bipedal lizard with an elongated maw, the cloak-dressed outrider guides the creature along with reins and gentle heeltaps. A long rifle sits across the outrider's lap as he brings his mount to a halt, a gem-hilted saber dangling from the saddle. Not once does the outrider's eyes—the sole facial feature visible under their white-painted, featureless mask—stay in one place for long. "A monsterhive has taken root and brought many a traveler to gruesome ends."
"My name is Kell Nakesh, son of Vaya as-Kattell," the outrider's head tilts as recognition flashes behind those eyes, "and I come seeking aid for me and my siblings."
"As-Kattell? Then you are my kinsman," the outrider announces as they dismount with a sweep of the leg before making their way over, "Tell me, cousin, what terrible tragedy has befallen you and yours?"
"Surran burns," the outrider's eyes close in silent respect as Kell speaks, "many are dead. I and my kin are of the few that remain, now scattered to the winds."
"My condolences," the outrider offers a shallow nod before directing a cloth-wrapped hand at the sled, "And what of the little ones?"
"A spell of slumber, laid upon them by Nordenites," Kell's trigger fingers twitch, "I lack the strength to break it on my own."
"I see," the outrider is silent for a moment as thoughts turn in their mind, "I will bring you to my mother, Mist-Shaman Karo as-Kattell, and she will break the spell." Waving a hand at the lizard beast, the outrider gestures towards Kell, "Come, rest yourself upon Nero while I bear the burden of the sled." A chuckle escapes the outrider's mask as Kell hesitates for a split second, "Fear not, dear cousin, for Nero only bites those she sees as enemy."
Nero rolls her eyes as a snort mists in the air, "Karter, dear-heart, don't you worry the boy overmuch."
"I am a man," Kell is quick to correct as Nero and Karter both stare at him, "I have seen battle and killed."
"Then I apologize, cousin," Karter offers a deep, sweeping bow as he corrects his words, "would you like my mother to break the spell and would you prefer to rest on Nero's back?"
"I would, yes," Kell nods as he does just that.
0~0~0
"Surran burns?" A thin trickle of smoke trails from the end of a long, slender pipe hanging from the mouth of Karo as-Kattell, one of the Mist-Shamans of Melka, "Dark clouds gather on the horizon, an ill omen for all of Nareeve."
Karo as-Kattell is a tiny woman of advanced age. Wrinkles crawl across her face like worms through the dirt, leaving her gleaming blue eyes twinkling from the shadows of her heavy brows. Blankets of all colors and patterns wrap around her body in a shroud of seemingly endless layers. Her hair is gray and wispy, falling about her face like the branches of a weeping willow.
Kell sits across from Karo, both cross-legged and resting on floor cushions—his sleeping siblings between them. The rotund room isn't especially large, but it is filled with treasures and memories of a life long lived. Photographs line the walls, some showing pictures of adventure while one in particular draws Kell's eye. It's of a smiling, teenaged Karo holding a grumpy bundle of baby-fat and cloth—presumably Mother at an infant age.
A sharp breath spills smoke as Karo sighs, her eyes rolling across the picture frames, "I'm sure Vaya spoke little of me, our last parting wasn't on the best of terms, and I can only wish our meeting was at a better time, but, alas, the fates would have it no other way," Karo shakes her head as she shrugs, "Regardless, I am your Aunt Karo."
Kell's lips twist in the memory of a frown, "It... It is nice to meet you?"
Karo snorts, a gleam entering her gem-like eyes, "Lying is beneath you, Kell, speak truth or not at all."
"I was not lying?" Kell blinks as his brows furrow.
Karo's eyes narrow as her smoke thickens, "Then why is your ka spiking so harshly? Your breathing is regular and a boy your age should have enough control to keep ka calm, unless..." Karo closes her eyes and lets her head hang, an embarrassed sigh fleeing her chapped lips "I apologize, the plight of the Surranese seems to have slipped my mind."
A sudden, spiking jolt of irritation jumps from the depths of Kell's heart, piercing the blanket of calm and bathing his mind with white-hot annoyance, "Enough of this small talk! Can you or can you not break the spell of slumber?"
"Of course I can, child, but no feat of spellwork is without its fair price," her eyes sharpen as she works the pipe's stem. "Though you are my kin, I am bound by the laws of the land just the same as you. Tell me, those pistols at your waist," she wags the pipe at the chrome in Kell's holsters, "how deadly are they in your hand?"
Kell draws himself to his full sitting height as blue eyes meet salted, "I have killed man and beast alike with them."
"Then maybe you are worthy of keeping them," Karo sighs as she shakes her head. "Charity's bane is the Baron, so I must take something of yours to stay within the law. The only thing you have of equal value to the magic I work are the pistols, unless," a flicker of cunning light gleams in her eyes as a sly smile cracks her lips, "of course, you bring me something else of equal worth."
"What have you in mind?" Kell leans in, his eyes equally sharp.
"Many monsters roam these misted lands," Karo wafts pipesmoke all about the room. "Take bullet and gun, slay a beast of great value, and free your siblings of their slumber."
"This, I will do," Kell says as he rises to his feet. Pausing at the doorframe, he looks back over his shoulder, "Thank you, Aunt Karo."
She chuckles, "Don't thank me yet."
0~0~0
"I heard Mother's request," Karter greets Kell from a lean just as he exits the Mist-Shaman's home—a fair distance away from Melka proper—"She expects too much from one without ka."
Kell shrugs, "We all make do with what life gives us."
"That may be true," Karter pushes away from his lean, his mask still firmly on his face, "but that doesn't mean we have to like it."
"That too is true."
"Indeed," Karter snorts as he rests hands on hips, "I, however, have an offer for you."
Kell narrows his eyes, "I am listening."
"I spoke earlier of a monsterhive, how it was killing passerby," Karter folds his arms before him, shoulders set as he, presumably, scowls, "Many times have I requested permission from command to go and deal with it myself, but not once have they granted me leave. I'm the strongest of my generation in Melka!" Karter nearly shouts as his hands curl into fists, "I don't need any of their 'help'!"
"So why are you telling me this?" Kell tilts his head, looking to all the world like a confused dog.
"Because I see something in you, something worth helping," Karter says, fixing both eyes to Kell, "and because I'm going to need help carrying the loot back."
"That does make sense," Kell nods as Karter offers a hand his way.
"So, what do you say?" Karter tilts his head in a 'smile' as his hand hovers before Kell.
[ ] Take Karter's hand and hunt the monsterhive (Guaranteed to be enough value)
[ ] Thank him for the offer, but refuse and hunt monsters of a lesser sort (Uncertain if you'll find enough value)
0~0~0
AN: And so, Kell arrives in Melka, but his efforts are far from over.
A single heartbeat passes as Kell considers the hand before him. Wrapped in overlapping strips of white cloth, most features of the palm and fingers are hidden from view. What would taking it mean? What about if he doesn't? Does it even matter what happens if Kell refuses? It's not like he's got any other real options, nothing that would help him find long life, anyhow.
Making up his mind, Kell nods and meets Karter's palm with his own, "I am in."
"Excellent!" Karter stiffens into a masked 'smile' as he rocks back and forth on his heels, "We'll have to retrieve a mount for you before we embark," he chuckles, running fingers through his wheat-colored hair as he shakes his head, "No matter how entertaining it might be for me, having you run alongside Nero and I isn't the brightest of ideas."
"No, it is no-" A sudden muscle spasm sends pain shooting up and down Kell's legs as his teeth snap shut with a harsh click. Smothering the wince by pressing his lips tight, Kell sucks down a sharp breath of fresh misty air as the activities of the past day and a half start catching up with him. Like someone kicked a chair leg, Kell's knee suddenly gives out from under him and pitches him forwards into a staggering stumble.
Strong, cloth-wrapped hands steady Kell's arms as Karter swiftly steps in, catching him before he can fall. Kell lifts his head to find a mask tilted slightly to the left and bright blue eyes shining with humor yet speckled with worry, "How long has it been since you last laid head to rest?" Karter quickly shakes his head, dashing any chance for Kell to respond, "Don't answer that, the truth is self-evident. You need rest and you need it now, we'll conduct our adventure when next morning comes."
"No!" The intensity in Kell's voice surprises even himself as he pulls away from Karter. Slipping free of his grasp, Kell wobbles on legs made of rubberstalk as he grits his teeth and meets Karter's eyes, "I-I can manage. I made this choice, I will see it through."
Karter stands still for a long moment, just observing Kell as he desperately tries to remain standing. A shrill whistle of wind fills their ears as salt meets blue in a heartbeat-held eternity. The lengths of unwrapped cloth about Karter's body wave as the folds of Kell's robes do likewise, their hair like twisting serpents whipping in the wind. Mist swirls about their bodies as a dark wall of lightning-coated clouds threatens the distant horizon.
A sharp snort breaks the moment with a hearty chuckle close behind. Nodding to himself, Karter wraps one of Kell's arms about his shoulders—Kell's attempts at a struggle completely disregarded—as he snakes a hand around Kell's back, providing the younger man a measure of stable mobility as he guides Kell on, "Come, succor awaits!"
"Bu-but, I am a man," Kell mumbles, his lips suddenly struggling to form the right words as Karter keeps him steady.
"A man you may be, dear cousin," Karter tilts his head in a 'smile' as he helps Kell inside, "but a true man knows when to choose for himself and when to sit back and let others do the deciding. Here's a hint," a wink escapes the mask, "this is one of those latter scenarios."
Kell falls silent as Karter bears him to a spare room with a cot and large chest as the sole furnishings. Blessedly, Karo had little to say as Karter bore Kell past, merely watching the procession with those impenetrable eyes. All the while, Kell strives to stay awake and active in a desperate attempt to convince any onlooker that he didn't need rest or anything of the sort.
The last thing Kell sees before sleeping shadows take him are his holsters dangling from a wall-mounted hook.
0~0~0 Dream Roll: 62
As far as the eye can see, from horizon to horizon, grainy dunes of pure white stretch. The sun, ever-enigmatic, beams from on high as it spills like ink across a canvas of blue. The sole blemish upon the surface of the sky is the black chevron of feathered death as it circles high overhead. Waiting, ever-present and with endless patience, the crow calls words of torment for its soon-to-be carrion feast.
"Your bones will clean our teeth!" The crow casts jeers down from on high. Nonsensical and deranged, but no less strickening for it. "Your hair will adorn our nests!"
Every fiber in Kell's body urges him to put finger to trigger and send the crows straight to hell. Every ounce of willpower musters as his hands begin to move, yet stall as motion comes at a sickeningly slow pace. Like he was swimming through a tar pit's mire, his body moves as if laden down with heavy weights.
The crow disappears in a shower of spiraling black feathers, the crack of a gunshot still echoing. Was it his finger that pulled the trigger? Was it his hand that held the gun?
Maybe, maybe not.
Kell wakes like he always does. His eyes snap open and that's it, nothing more and nothing less. There is no half-awake stumble for coffee. There is no stretch of time spent yawning. There are no bags under his eyes and there is no sleepy feeling in his mind. One moment, he's fully asleep, the next, he's fully awake.
But it was not the familiar sandstone ceiling that he woke to, and it was not the croaking of the dawn-frogs that pulled him awake. It was the shuffling of bare feet on soft wood, the gentle creaking of misapplied weight.
Soft blue eyes meet Kell's as he rolls over in his cot. A young girl, maybe ten or eleven, freezes like a thief caught in the act—her outstretched hand still creeping towards his pistols completing the picture.
"This is a dream," the young girl tries, thinking quickly on her feet, "and you should go back to sleep?"
"No, it is not," the young girl squirms as Kell's eyes stay in a steady lock-stare, "What do you want with my guns?"
The knee-jerk reaction would be to assume that she was stealing them and act accordingly. Strangers are dangerous at the best of times and being unarmed and alone in a foreign village is a far cry from those halcyon days. Most people would grow angry and may even turn violent, but Kell is not most people.
"I-I just want to look at them!" The girl is quick to exclaim as she hops back a half-step, her hands waving before her like vinestalk flowers in the wind, "They're so shiny and pretty and"-
"I understand, they are very fine weapons," Kell climbs from the cot, reaches over, and slides a chrome pistol free. Pausing a second, he regards her with a careful look before, in a series of well-practiced motions, thumbing the release and tucking the slugs into his belt. Clicking the cylinder shut, he spins the gun around so that he holds it by the barrel before offering it her way, "If you promise to be careful, you can look at it."
Her fingers twist together as if string on a weaver's frame as she, almost hesitantly, speaks, "Really?"
"Yes, really," Kell says, wiggling the gun, "but only if you promise to be careful."
"I promise!" The girl is quick to give her word as her eyes sparkle like twin stars in the night sky. Reaching out, she takes the gun from Kell before spinning on the spot and skipping from the room.
Kell watches her leave, an odd pain throbbing in his chest as he does, but the empty doorway doesn't stay that way for long. A handsome young man, tall in stature and graceful in stride, fills the doorway as he steps inside. Hair like spun gold piles on and around his shoulders like water from a waterfall as humor ignites in his eyes.
And what eyes they are! Bluer than any painting and deeper than any body of water, the man's eyes shine as a pair of landmarks on his face. But the most striking details of all are in the iris. Like someone had dropped a pane of glass against the ground, dozens upon dozens of minute cracks dance across his eyes.
"The mask hides much, dear cousin," Karter's moving mouth sends the hint of a chill down Kell's spine as the illusion of a complete face shatters before his eyes. Motionless, Karter appears like any other person, but the facsimile breaks down when he begins to speak. The corners of his lips stretch back too far, revealing far too many teeth. Vaguely pointed and at a slight angle, each tooth is as uniform as the last as they fill every inch of spreading maw. "The Sands are not far from here," he says by way of an explanation, a hand lazily gesturing to his face—the back of each finger and hand reinforced with an outer layer of sun-bleached bone, "which a young me found out the hard way."
"I see," Kell nods before a question comes to mind, "Is that why you wear the mask?"
"Nope." A flicker of humor shines behind those clast-like eyes as Karter claps his hands together, "Now then, shall we go collect your gun from little Sari so we can embark on our hunt?"
Kell nods as he ignores the emptiness in the pit of his gut. He took some rations from the Nordenite camp, which he can eat on the move. He'll be fine.
"It would be prudent to stop by the stablery first," Karter continues, either not noticing or not particularly caring about Kell's thoughts, "wouldn't want you to be running around while I'm on Nero," he chuckles before adding, "after we have breakfast, of course."
"I have rations," Kell is quick to say, "we can start now."
Karter gives him an odd look, "While that's all very well and good, for you, I'm a rather hungry hunter."
"I..." Kell stiffens into a slight frown, "I apologize, I did not think."
Karter chuckles and waves it off.
0~0~0 Tracking roll: 78+10=88, Failure
The cold mud does little to soften Kell's fall as he rolls with it to a halt. Letting his lips thin and his jaw set, Kell climbs to his feet as Karter audibly laughs from atop Nero.
"You really do need to learn how to properly ride me, kiddo," the old, six-legged and three-horned mountain-beast says as Kell clambers up onto the riding blanket splayed across the ridged back. The beast's—who introduced himself as 'Corne'—forepaw tugs at his long beard as Kell takes hold of the reins again, "'Specially if you ever wanna go any faster than a little light trot, which we'll need to do if we get into any sort of tussle."
"I'm sure it'll be fine," Karter—now covered head-to-toe as is his wont—says as Nero's eyes scan the mist-stricken surroundings. At least one cloth-covered hand is always touching either his rifle or his saber, even as he laughs. "The ferals around these parts know not to mess with an outrider and any monster stupid enough to try will soon find out why that's the case."
Kell frowns as he balances on Corne's back, "Speaking of the monsters, do you have enough ka to overload the hive?"
Karter thinks for a moment, his fingers tracing gentle figure-eights on his mask, before his head jolts back and a full-belly laugh rattles free of his mask, "Why don't we find out together?"
Kell stares, a spark of regret igniting in his chest. Is this really the best option? Maybe, maybe not, but it's the one he chose. As a man, no path may be walked other than the one you start down. Such is the way of things; such is how it should be.
Kell chose this road; now he must walk it.
0~0~0
By the time Kell and Karter reach the monsterhive, the sun had already traversed two-thirds of the way across the sky. Laying belly to ground, Kell and Karter observe the monsterhive from atop a shallow ridge—Kell with a set of binoculars provided by Karter and Karter with a ka-pattern to enhance his vision.
"How many do you count?" Karter asks, the momentary hitch in his breathing causes his ka-sight to shimmer and shake. In the shadow provided by the dense canopy of overhead trees, Karter's ka glows a subdued, deeply desaturated blue. On the inhale, his ka gleams slightly brighter while the exhale darkens.
Kell frowns as he lowers the binoculars, the mud clinging to his naked elbows—his robe-sleeves having been rolled up, "The mists are too thick, I cannot get an accurate headcount."
Karter's mask tilts Kell's way, "Aren't your eyes salted? A little bit of power should wipe the slate clean, yeah?"
Kell's frown tugs deeper as he lowers his head, warmth pooling on his cheeks, "I... I lack ka, I cannot pierce the mists."
A low-pitched hum escapes the mask as Karter taps a finger against the white-painted wood, "Well, that is quite the problem." Fingers snapping, Karter nods to himself as he takes a deep breath, "We'll have to unlock your ka after this, but I'll do what I can for now. Hold still."
Lungs expanding to their fullest capacity, Karter's chest fills with as much air as he can stuff in. A slow exhale follows as he breathes it all out before following that with another massive inhale. Over and over, he repeats this process, each time his lungs filling with that much more air. Eventually, his ribs start creaking from the pressure building up in his body.
And then, with a final exhale, he gathers up all the ka generated and pools it between his hands. Like a miniature ball of blue flames, the orb of writhing power clings to his palms like nothing else in the world. Extending it Kell's way, Karter speaks with a slight raspy tone, "Here, this should get your eyes going. Oh, and, you should probably bite down on something."
With a slight push, the ball drifts up from Karter's palm, floats like a leaf in the wind, before alighting against Kell's chest like the gentlest bird in all the lands. The sphere hovers there for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Kell to notice its presence, before the tendril-like extensions of writhing flame grab hold of his body and Karter's ka forces its way in.
Kell's eyes widen as pain rockets through his body. His limbs stiffen as muscles spasm and he collapses fully to the floor. It's all he can do to stop a scream from tearing its way through his throat as the ka merges with his spirit and, like water through a funnel, flows straight to his eyes.
Like a blanket pulled away, the world unveils itself before his eyes. What was once cloaked in mist is now as clear as the sunniest time of day. The monsterhive immediately draws the gaze as the pain leaves Kell's body just as quickly as it arrived.
The monsterhive is an oddly shaped construct. The overall shape is that of an upside down, fully-rooted turnip while the surface resembles that of a heavily-wrinkled, black-colored walnut. Slime seems to drip off the outside as tar-coated creatures—monsters—dart in and out of the many openings.
Coming in every size imaginable—from gargantuan to insect—each monster is as unique as the last. Wings, tails, spinnerets, and stingers rise from every which way as the monsters flow like water through the monsterhive and its surroundings. Sometimes monsters bump into each other and a scuffle ensues. Any fights usually end swiftly and with great brutality, the winner leaving with a full belly and claws bloody.
"There are too many to count," Kell says after observing for several minutes, "at least several hundred, definitely more."
"Damn, so that was a wash," Karter swears as he grips his rifle tight. After a moment's silence, he begins again, "I'm sorry about the pain, by the way, and for not warning you. It's best if you're not tensed when ka is exchanged, makes it easier to recover."
"It is fine, I am not mad," Kell shrugs as he tells the truth, "Pain is only temporary, after all."
Karter snorts, "You, dear cousin, have wisdom beyond your years."
"Thank you," that was something that Kell had heard a lot growing up, but never really understood. Do emotions cloud wisdom? Does wisdom arise from seeing past thought and feeling? Maybe, maybe not, either way Kell has work to do, "How are we going to kill the hive?"
"That's a good question," Karter hums a jaunty tune as he thinks, his head tilted at about thirty degrees, "I suppose we've got a number of options, but none are especially stand-out." Tapping a finger against the ground, Karter starts drawing out a simple map in the mud, "First things first, we've gotta figure out what the objective is."
"Destroying the hive," Kell mutters as he thinks and Karter dutifully scribbles that down, "and there is only one way to accomplish that goal."
"Overloading the spawning pool," Karter says as he writes that under the objective, "since I'm the only one here who has the ka, no matter how we do it, I have to be in the spawning chamber."
"Right," Kell says as he turns his gaze back to the monsterhive. "Nero, Corne, and I could distract them while you slip inside."
Karter shakes his head, "I dunno about that one, cousin. You lack ka and experience fighting on mountback while Nero and Corne are both accustomed to having riders." He does shrug, however, and carry on, "But I won't stop you if you that's the route you want to take it."
"What are the other options? A frontal assault?"
"Sure," Karter snorts as Kell stares, "Don't give me that look! It's a decent idea when you look at our other options, which are jack and shit."
"Not quite," Kell says as an idea comes to mind, "if we can gather enough materials, I can construct a sort of mortar and shell the monsters from a distance."
Karter squints from behind the mask, "How hard would that be?"
"Very, depending on circumstances." Kell shrugs before adding, "I could also build a bomb, which would be easier, but also much more dangerous."
"So, our options are," Karter starts listing each plan off with his fingers, "distraction, assault, mortar, and bomb, right?"
"That is correct."
"Well, which're we going for?"
[ ] Distract the monsters while Karter sneaks in
-Combat, 4 Successes
-Extremely high likelihood of injury, even on victory (80+ to avoid injury)
[ ] Conduct a frontal assault
-Combat, 3 Successes
-High likelihood for injury, even on victory (60+ to avoid injury)
[ ] Build a mortar and shell the monsters
-Crafting, 5 Successes (Difficulty raised due to no Perception (Scavenging)
--Failure means injury
-Combat, 3 Successes
[ ] Build a bomb and blow the monsters to smithereens
-Crafting, 3 Successes (Difficulty raised due to no Perception (Scavenging)
--Failure means injury
-Combat, 2 Successes
0~0~0
AN: Fair warning: Not all options will work, even if you pass all the checks. Conversely, others may work even if you fail.
[X] Plan: All In Bombs
-[x] Spend 1xp on Perception (Scavenging)
-[X] Spend 2xp on Crafting stat
0~0~0
Heavy mist hangs off thick tree-branches as Kell and Karter traipse through the dimly lit forestscape. Their footsteps ring like mealtime gongs in the quiet as their eyes scan each plant, the object of their search escaping them even now. Kell's salt-eyes have long since burnt through Karter's ka, leaving him as blind as any other man in this shrouded sea.
"Remind me again what we're looking for?" Karter asks as he takes a long stride over a bubbling pool of mud, careful to keep his flowing robes from trailing in the boiling muck below. "Something about a 'sparkleaf'?"
"Sulfur is a rare find in Nareeve," Kell says as he gently pushes a low-hanging tree branch from his path, the lessons of the past resurfacing with every step and every breath, "saltpeter even more so. With two ingredients of gunpowder in short supply, how can Surran be home to gunsmiths of any repute?"
Karter's cloth-bound fingers scratch at his stark white mask as he tilts his head to the side, "Now that you mention it, that is pretty damn odd," shattered irises gleam with humor as a chuckle soon follows, "I assume it has something to do with this snapleaf?"
"You are correct," Kell says with a short bob of the head, "Snapleaf, when crushed into a fine powder, has nearly identical properties to gunpowder. Most bullets in Nareeve are made with snapleaf powder."
"Very interesting," Karter says with a slight hop to his step, "Never really gave much thought to where my bullets came from, just that there was always some ready when I go to buy more."
"I can make bullets for you!" The words come so fast and with such intensity that it leaves Kell spinning. It takes him far longer than it should to recognize them as his own.
Karter's broken eyes rest on Kell for a long moment, the emotion behind them imperceptible. Eventually, he offers a nod and voice with slight humor, "That's very generous of you, Kell, I gladly accept." A small chuckle fills the air as Karter wags a hand, "We can talk pricing once we've dealt with the monsters."
Kell only nods at that, seemingly retreating inwards with the betrayal of his voice. Sparks of confusion dance around his mind as his thoughts race with wonder. Kell is nowhere near that energetic, not normally and never that suddenly. Even when his emotions get the better of him and break through the blanket of calm, there's always some warning of the storm to come. Why now was it different? What changed between past and present?
Fortunately, the introspection lasts only a few minutes before the tell-tale scent of gun smoke fills the air. A poignant, acrid stench, there's no mistaking the presence of a sparkleaf when one draws close. The sharp crack of too-close thunder followed by indistinct shouting is all it takes to seal the deal.
"That's right, you gargantuan ignoramous!" The voice clears up with a gleeful cackle as Kell and Karter close in, "That's what you get when you try and eat me!"
Pushing through a hedge-like wall of bushes and low-hanging branches, Kell and Karter stop at the edge of a barren wasteland of a forest meadow. Where once flowers and grass once grew, now all that remains are craters and crevices. Looking to all the world like the surface of one of the moons, the bombed-out craters are testament to the explosive might of an irate sparkleaf.
Smoke billows from the freshest of the plantmade earth-wounds as the sole living thing in the meadow keeps up its tirade of abuse. "Here's a tip for your next cycle, fertilizer-freak, don't steal a sparkleaf from their beauty sleep!"
"It's the middle of the day, for Man's sake!" Karter grumbles as he squints at the sun beaming through the mist-choked clouds. He sighs, shaking his head, "You're going to have to handle this one, Kell, I'm not sure I'll manage biting my tongue."
Kell blinks, slight disbelief curling around his heart. Him? Talking to people? There are many things Kell is good at. He can keep a cool head in tense situations. He is a dab hand at gunplay and knows the ins and outs of firearm construction. He even knows a thing or two about where to source materials!
What Kell most definitely is not, however, is good at talking to people. Whether a result of his lacking emotions or some other uncertain affliction, Kell struggles to make sense of the words and ways and proper proceedings of conversation. Sure, he understands the logical steps one must take to speak well—one person talks at a time, interrupting is rude, asking questions is typically not, that sort of thing—but actually executing those deceiving demands is an entirely different beast.
Alas, with Karter refusing to interact with the plant, it falls to Kell to pick up the slack. With no choice in the matter, Kell makes like a man and does his duty. Swallowing a deep breath, Kell musters up all the information on sparkleafs he's soaked up over the years and steps toward the plant.
The faint words of Father tumble through Kell's head as he focuses on the task before him. Like all gunsmiths in Surran and the other oases lacking in the ingredients of gunpowder, Father spent most of his time outside of the workshop on his hands and knees in the garden. For a gunsmith to be successful in any measure of the word, he must ensure that his end of the bargain is always upheld.
'Sparkleafs,' Father's words nearly send Kell stumbling to the ground, the memory's clarity hitting him like a sandstorm does the desert, 'are nothing if not vain. Should you ever find yourself negotiating for leaf-rights, or for any other reason, remember this lesson well. Appeal to their vanity, shower them in empty flattery and hollow praise if nothing genuine comes to mind—sparkleafs won't be able to tell the difference anyways.'
Nodding to himself and the memory, Kell sharpens his gaze on the otherwise innocent-looking plant. Sparkleafs come in all shapes and sizes, for the title belongs to a family of species rather than any one type of plant. This particular sparkleaf—with its collection of large, starburst-shaped leaves and the sheer amount of space it covers—is no doubt a 'bomberbush', which means that it is in possession of one of the strongest explosives amongst the many sparkleaf species.
Taking a deep breath, Kell drops to his knees a fair distance from the bomberbush, plants his hands against the ground, and lowers his brow until it touches the disturbed earth. Rehearsing his words one last time, Kell grits his teeth, silences the grumbling pride hot against his chest, and lifts his voice to the heavens, "I offer you my good greetings, oh mighty master of munitions!"
Silence reigns as Kell's lips thin. If, for any reason, the bomberbush should take offense at Kell's existence, it wouldn't be more than a swish of a branch before he was nothing more than another crater on the ground. Sparkleafs may be vain, but that doesn't make them any less dangerous should their temper be tripped. With nothing else to do, Kell begins to silently count to ten, his mind focused on keeping time with his breathing.
Karter shifts in the distance, his weight swaying from one foot to the next. His twitching fingers inch towards the saber angled through the sash about his waist, as if wishing to take vengeance for his cousin's injured pride. That, or perhaps he's simply preparing for if the plant takes offense? Either way, Karter stands ready for whatever hell may come.
By the time Kell reaches ten, the bomberbush finally deigns to make a respectable response. "Finally, someone with manners!" A loud, booming laugh thunders across the landscape as Kell's teeth rattle in his head, "Tell me, polite boy, what brings you to the land of Scorch-flo?"
Focusing on his breathing, Kell swallows the sparks of righteous indigance as he responds—after waiting the three seconds true that politeness requires, of course, "I have travelled far and wide in search of the fruit of fire. Long have I wandered, through lands both harsh and harrowing, to find the greatest of the gunsmith's flower. Here, I have come, for you bear the explosives I require."
Three seconds pass as the bomberbush considers Kell's words, "You speak with true respect, honorable child, but I must wonder this: why would it be in my interest to give up my only means of defense? These are troubled times we live in, it would be foolish in the extreme to strip me of all my strength."
"My companions and I," Kell once more silences the burning embers of anger at being called a 'child', "seek to rid these lands of some of the troubles, but to do so we require firepower of a strength only you can provide!"
A rasp starts to creep into Kell's voice as he falls silent, his vocal cords unfamiliar to being used for such lengths, but the plant seems not to notice as it responds in kind, "Your words ring true, brave boy, so I shall give to you what you seek. A single branch is all I can spare, but know that you walk with my blessing and strike fire into horror's heart."
A sharp crack splits the air as, sailing through the light mists swirling about the meadow, comes a leaf-laden branch. Leaping to his feet, Kell focuses on catching the flying missile before it has a chance to hit the ground and send him straight to the afterlife. It won't be easy for him to catch it—unless he suddenly develops a death-wish—so it'll require every drop of focus in his body to remain alive. The slightest pressure and the leaves explode, so he'll have to catch it by the branch and without touching any of the leaves in the process.
His fingers flex and his pulse quickens, the missile closing in far faster than expected.
He need not worry, however, as a bright flash of mist-like blue envelops the missile, stopping it in its track as Karter keeps his cousin safe. His breathing steady and shallow, Karter directs the branch to Kell's arms, who takes it as gently as he can manage. After all, a single branch of the bomberbush is enough to blow up just about any building in a village.
Sharing a somewhat nervous glance between them, Kell and Karter turn their gazes to the leaf-laden bomb resting in Kell's hands.
(+2 XP)
0~0~0
The process of turning the leaves from angry bombs to slightly more controlled explosives is long and arduous. It, however, is far from dangerous—as long as one knows what they're doing—and allows for some time to think, plan, and discuss.
"So," Karter begins as Kell gently removes the well-chewed wad of spit-slick leaves from his mouth—lacking a mortar and pestle, this is the best Kell can do, "I've heard that the Surranese lack ka, but I wasn't all too certain until, well," he waves a hand at the now-barren branch sitting beside them, "you know."
"You said that it was unfair of your mother to send one without ka on this task?" Kell tilts his head to the side, his fingers reaching for the next bundle of bitter, sulfur-tasting leaves, "Why would you say that if you were not certain it was true?"
Karter shrugs, "I dunno, I guess I just didn't really clock exactly what it'd entail." He pauses for a moment, as if coming to some odd realization, before continuing, "Well, not everyone with ka would be able to catch the branch, I guess. You have to train your ability to handle things remotely, which is a bit of a pain and not everyone bothers with it."
"How does one train their ka?" Kell asks just before placing the bundle in his mouth, his face unchanging as he softly chews.
Karter blinks before tapping himself on the foremask, "Of course you wouldn't know!" He chuckles to himself and shakes his head, "Well, before I can answer your question, I've gotta cover some basic info. First of all, there's as many schools of thought on breathing as there are stars in the night sky. Some people profess long, deep breaths, others short and shallow, others still claim that holding one's breath makes the strongest ka." Karter shrugs, "All breathing techniques have their place, though, and some are better for some things while others are better for others."
Taking the now-chewed wad from his mouth, Kell places it with the others as he considers his next question, "How does one unlock their ka?"
"Breathe the tides," Karter's answer is as informative as it is long. He blinks, noticing Kell's stare, "No, seriously, that's how you do it. Breathe in during the in-tide, breathe out during the out-tide. From midnight to the next, you will take two breaths."
"That," Kell's brows twist into a frown as his fingers pause just before the next leafy bundle, "That is impossible. Twenty-four hours with only two breaths? Nobody can do that."
Karter chuckles, a sly gleam in his shattered eyes, "Not without a lot of conditioning, no. Honestly," Karter folds his hands behind his head as he rolls over onto his back, his mask now facing the mist-swirling skies, "I'm a little jealous of you. Imagine how much I could've gotten done if I hadn't spent near half my childhood training my breathing!"
Kell freezes, the bundle falling from numb fingers. Half a childhood? That's... That's eight years. Eight years to unlock ka... Gods, how is he supposed to avenge his family now?
Warmth blossoms in his heart as raw, unadulterated hate tightens in his chest. His breath catches in his throat as tears pool in his salted eyes, his hands twisting into tight balls of fury. Emotions unfiltered by the calming blanket, for the first time in his short life, Kell truly understands why Father always spat at the mention of the Baron's name. It was he who forbade the teaching of ka. It was he who stole Kell's vengeance from him.
The Baron would pay. One way or another, the Baron would pay.
But... But how is Kell to accomplish that without a drop of ka?
Despair, dark and dreary and deadly all at the same time, threatens to rise up from the depths of his soul. The blanket of calm failing him in his time of need, the tendrils of depression slither up to wrap around his heart. There is no hope of revenge, no hope of making things right. It's useless trying, it's a pointless struggle. He might as well just crush some leaves and get it over with, at least then he'd be able to meet his family in the afterlife. Maybe his next cycle would treat him better?
A hand on his shoulder silences his thoughts, a familiar voice cutting through the darkness with a saber's sharpened edge, "Kell, though I know not the thoughts in your head, hear my words and feel their truth. There is life in your limbs, there is breath in your lungs, there is strength in your heart."
Kell turns, red eyes puffy and cheeks slick with freely spilling tears, to look Karter in the eye, "Is... Is that the only path to ka?"
Karter's grip tightens on Kell's shoulder as a second hand finds a home on the other shoulder. Pulling Kell in close, Karter's arms wrap around his cousin as Kell collapses into the embrace, "Cousin, Kell, this I promise you; We will find a way, or we will make one. Come hell, come hunger, come all the horrors of the night, you will have ka."
The blanket of calm creeps in from the edges of Kell's thoughts as he buries his face in Karter's chest. With his last bit of raw emotion, Kell's words find themselves flowing freely, "Th-thank you, Karter."
"Anytime, Kell," Karter's eyes gleam bright, the smile obvious even under the mask. "Shall we go express our feelings through a mutual love of violence and explosions?"
Kell nods, his emotions receding back to the depths, "That sounds good."
0~0~0
Waiting until the flow of monsters in and out of the monsterhive broke—as much as something like that can break—the cousins move like ghosts across the landscape. Karter's ka kept their footsteps silent as blue mists swirled about their feet. The few monsters still outside fell like wheat to the scythe of Karter's sword, completely unaware of how close death was.
Slipping inside the monsterhive was like stepping into a completely alien world. On the outside, the texture of the walls appeared somewhat smooth with the odd wrinkle here and there. The inside, though, was covered in more wrinkles than a sand-strider's knee. The crevices of each wrinkle was filled with a sickly black substance that stunk to hell and back. It wasn't eager to leave them alone, either, as it stuck to their shoes and clothes like a tick on a dog.
The center of the building is a pit which seems to lead deeper into the earth. Taking a spot at the edge, Karter stands with rifle and saber in hand, ready and waiting for any foolish monster to poke their soon-to-be-lacking heads out.
Planting the bomb was as easy as tying one's shoes and Kell mastered both at a young age. Taking a single moment to make certain that the fuse—a length of string soaked in Nero's flammable spit—was set, Kell sends a nod Karter's way and receives one in turn.
In a single bound, Karter closes the gap and, with a snap of the fingers, sets the fuse to spark.
Kell immediately springs to his feet and sprints towards the exit, only to realize that Karter wasn't with him. Skidding to a halt just beyond the entrance, Kell turns just in time to catch Karter's head turning from the bomb to the hole, and then returning to the bomb once more.
In a single, elegant kick, Karter's foot greets the bomb and sends it spiraling right down the pit. Pivoting to face Kell, the shit-eating-grin beneath Karter's mask is as obvious as anything ever was.
The explosion sets the earth to shaking as Karter balances and Kell doesn't. Collapsing against the doorway, Kell stares in abject jealousy as Karter sways in time with the vibrations of the ground, his eyes locked to the fire bursting from the mouth of the hole. Damn cultivators...
It doesn't take long for the explosion to settle down and for the shaking to stop. A massive plume of smoke spills forth from the pit as it pools against the ceiling, eventually amassing enough to overflow out from the entrances.
As the smoke clears, Karter waves a hand Kell's way as he fills his chest with air, "Come, Kell, and shall we go and complete the task set before us?"
Kell snorts, a flicker of humor surfacing in his heart, as he calls an answer, "I think that is a good idea." Now's the chance to tell a joke! "As well as seeing if you can actually overload the spawning pool."
Karter chuckles and Kell cheers—internally, of course.
0~0~0
It looks like a bomb went off in the spawning chamber—presumably because it did. As such, there's not much other than rubble to look at. To be fair, there probably wasn't much else to look at before the bomb went off, either.
The spawning chamber is a large room with a round ceiling and a deep pit of sludge dug in the middle. Karter stands just off to the side as he focuses on his breathing with Kell a fair ways back. There were a few minor monsters that managed to survive the bomb, but none were in any condition to fight back against Kell and Karter, so it was a simple matter to deal with them.
Blue mist pools against Karter's cupped hands as he breathes in and out. Over and over again, with ever inhale and exhale, his ka grows ever-stronger, ever-grander. Deep breathes take his ka to greater heights as he takes a single step forward, twists on the spot, and drives his ka-wrapped hand into the sludge.
Immediately, an eruption of heat explodes from the surface of the pool. The force knocks Karter to the floor as it throws Kell fully off his feet. Just barely righting himself midair, Kell manages to stop himself from slamming against any of the rough-hewed rock walls surrounding the chamber.
"Did you get it?" Kell asks as he picks himself up. A quick once-over reveals that nothing is amiss, leaving Kell to breathe a sigh of relief as he walks over to where Karter clambers to his own feet.
Peering over the edge of the steaming pit, Karter nods both to himself and Kell as he shoots him a cloth-wrapped thumbs-up, "I reckon I did, yeah." Karter's voice is rough and raspy, like he'd been using it at length for hours. "You go ahead and look through the loot, I'm gonna," he coughs, wheezing as he sways back and forth on the spot, "I'm gonna go and take a rest, just over here," he mumbles to himself as he stumbles over to where a boulder sits.
Kell watches Karter go, his brows starting to curve inwards. That was a lot of ka Karter just used, definitely more ka than he should've been able to generate—at least, probably? All Kell really knows on the matter is that if you hold in ka for too long, it turns stagnant, which is supposedly not great for one's longevity.
Regardless, Kell does as requested and climbs into the pit. Dropping down to the bottom, Kell starts picking over the piles of items sitting on the floor.
It doesn't take long for Kell to realize that, much to his dismay, most of the remains littering the ground was little more than garbage. Some might go for a few pennies at market, but the vast majority are too damaged from the monsters to be of any value.
However, after sifting through hundreds of trash pieces, Kell does manage to find four items of actual value. They all seem to be from the same source and are all in surprisingly good condition, especially when compared to the rest of the garbage.
The first two items are a pair of sunglasses and a multitool bearing the symbol of Melka—a bolt of cloth wrapped around a mask. The sunglasses, though providing no real protection, should help Kell use his salted eyes—once he unlocks his ka, anyhow. The multitool isn't meant for combat, but it should help him with whatever crafting needs he has.
The third item is a vial of some kind of red dust. It's made of glass and metal, though any inscriptions have long since worn away. A shame, but such is the way of things. Perhaps somebody in Melka might be able to identify it?
And last, but certainly not least, is the most valuable piece there. A bronze cuirass, forged in a similar manner as Karter's, sits pristine on a pile of garbage. It should provide plenty of protection in battle. The only question is, however, where did it come from? Who was its owner?
"Kell!" Karter's voice pulls Kell from his thoughts as the older man calls over the edge of the pool, "There's something coming, something big. I'm not sure we can take it, but I'm willing to give it a shot if you are!"
[ ] Fight the Monster (Extreme Difficulty)
[ ] Get out of there while you still can (Lesser Arc End)
(+7 XP to Kell, +4 XP to Karter)
(+$32)
0~0~0
Social DC: 1
1, 116+10=126, X
2, 44+26=70, Stop
Final: 1 Success
AN: Good job, folks, you did very well. That many successes on your combat roll means that you didn't have to fight any monsters and your bomb did all the work.
I'll be adding your new items to your sheet shortly
