"What is the plan when we get there?" Kell asks, the wind nearly stealing his voice as he races alongside Karter. Mist entirely shrouds the surroundings, thicker, denser, than it had been that morning. If Karter hadn't been there to guide the way, there's no doubt that Kell would find himself lost amidst the opaque barrier of swirling moisture in short measure—his eyes failing to pierce the magic of the mist-shamans at work.
"Link up with the first squad we find, exchange information, and then spread that information as far as we can, as fast as we can," Karter's matter-of-fact answer nearly sets Kell to stumbling. Splitting up?! But- No, it's the right play. The rest of Melka may know that there's a threat, but they can't know the shape of that threat. The only way to solve that particular problem is to paint a picture and pass it around. As one of the two people with first-hand knowledge of the situation, he has no choice in the matter.
Besides, a more mercenary part of Kell's mind notes, it'll be a good way to earn goodwill amongst the Melkans.
"Understood," Kell nods as he turns his thoughts to the future, his feet pounding a steady staccato against the ground. Every step conjures images of pain, of horror, of ashen Surran. Would he be forced to witness the death of Melka? He wasn't at Surran, his cowardice spared him the agony of witnessing the end. Is this the karmic debt coming to a head? Will the people who took him in be slaughtered to even out the scales?
"You wanted to ask me about mutations and stuff, right?" This time, Kell actually does stumble as Karter's words hit him like a truck-beast's charge.
Catching himself, Kell levels a stare Karter's oblivious way, "I... Yes, that is true."
"Well, we've gotta couple of minutes till we get to Melka, so...?" Karter shrugs as he runs, not breaking stride for a moment.
"Is this really a good time for it?"
"Probably not, but what else are we gonna do?"
"Run?"
"In silence? No thanks," Karter snorts before waving a hand like the imperious monarch with whom he shares a name, "Your questions, dear cousin."
"You called Karo a hypocrite, why is that? I know you have mutations, but those are not the same as saltings. Are you also salt-touched?" It is the logical conclusion, after all.
Karter laughs, "Aren't you a savvy little cousin?" He's not that much older than Kell... "Alas, you've pierced my defenses and plundered my secrets." He presses the back of a hand to his mask's brow, a mock swoon sending him into a seamless twirl as he runs, a final chuckle punctuating his performance. "But yeah, you're right. My lungs are salted."
Salted lungs? If they're at all as effective as Kell's eyes, then what might Karter be capable of?
As if reading his mind, Karter answers, "It lets me breathe two techniques at once, three if I fuel it."
Shallow his knowledge of ka may be, even Kell knows how much of an advantage that gives Karter. Only a single breathing technique can be used at any given time, which severely limits the patterns that a cultivator can wield. That Karter can breathe two techniques—let alone three—sidesteps one of the biggest problems that plague cultivator combat. It also answers a certain question rattling around Kell's mind, a question that had yet to even materialize properly, at that. "I had thought it was odd how you could use a deep breathing infusion while breathing the flash staccato." Deep breathing, of course, being the most standard of breathing techniques, one that every cultivator learns.
"Yep," Karter pops the 'P', "Flash staccato's got some nice patterns, but it doesn't quite have the stand-up, knock-down fighting power of other techniques. Course," he tilts his head in a 'grin', "that's not a problem I have, is it?"
"No, it is not."
"That was a rhetorical question."
"I know."
Karter snorts, "And folks say that those afflicted by the price of emotions have no humor."
"If you do not mind me asking," Kell begins, his words carefully chosen, "what price was paid for your lungs?"
Karter shrugs, "They say my 'wisdom' is lacking, that I don't look before I leap, but I dunno about that."
Kell blinks, "You definitely do not look before you leap."
"What?!" Karter recoils in mock shock, faux-horror playing across his eyes, "Now how can you say such a thing about your favorite cousin? Have you any sense of fraternal love?"
"You did not know if you could destroy the monsterhive until we did it." As if struck by some invisible assassin, Karter presses a hand to his chest as he falls forward—the motion only lending itself to his next stride.
"You wound me!" He cries, his arms spread wide, "Your beloved cousin, laid low by words like whips! The horror! The agony! Oh, what a cruel world we live in!"
Despite the severity of the situation and his darkening thoughts, Kell can't quite keep a smile off his face. It pulls at the corners of his lips, taunting and tugging and threatening ever-further up his cheeks. A laugh slips free, meandering off into the mist in a manner much like the warning-rocket. "Thank you, Karter."
"We all get stuck in our heads," Karter shrugs and waves it off, the weight of the world sliding from Kell's shoulders with the subtle motion, "Don't mention it."
The thumping of claws cuts any further conversation short as figures loom in the mist. A thunderous voice cleaves through fog like an axe through brush, the haze fleeing from the baritone boom. "Karter, my friend! Your call has been answered!"
A gargantuan, bat-like beast slides to a halt as mud splashes up against folded-up, leathery wings. Fangs glisten in the mist-borne dew as the voice's owner leaps free of his mount's saddle. Twisting, twirling, spinning through the air, the figure is little more than a blur as he lands with a gentle hop before them, his hands resting on his scale-laden hips.
Standing before them is a giant of a man easily taller than any person Kell had ever seen. Green scales cling to slabs of muscle like sides of beef as a flowing red scarf serves as the only stitch of clothing above his waist. Long, purple-hued feathers waterfall down the back of his scaly head as the elongated maw of a lizard-like beast peels back in a broad, friendly smile.
"Giden!" Karter perks up as he almost dances forward, the sudden movement leaving an uncertain Kell alone in his wake. "I didn't know you were back!"
"Just arrived this morning," Giden leans over to scoop Karter into a deep hug, tree-trunk thick limbs wrapping tight as Karter's legs dangle off the ground. "But speak of your adventures later, for I hear of dangers in the mists," he says as he releases Karter, who lands with a light hop, "Tell me, dear Karter, what fools would threaten our beloved Melka? Who wishes to meet their cycle's end today?"
"Snapjaws," Karter's reply draws a deep nod from the hulking lizardman, "Kell and I," he gestures to Kell, "my cousin, by the way," Giden offers a pleasant smile and a wide wave, which Kell returns with a stiff frigidness that surprises even him, "we encountered a scouting party, one in force, which we killed."
Giden hums as his mount's ears twitch, "Snapjaws are a troublesome foe, they'll be after the silk."
"Exactly my thinking," Karter says as he takes a step towards Melka, Kell quick to follow.
"You won't make it in time," Giden says as he stands up to his full height, a lengthy tail churning through the mist to his rear, "Not unless something gets in their way." Cracking his neck, a sharp whistle leaves his lizardy lips as he loosens up his shoulders, "Go, my friends, and with great haste! For though I shall slow them down, I am but one man!"
Not waiting for an answer, Giden leaps into the air, flips backwards thrice, before gently depositing himself in his mount's saddle. Taking both reins in hand, the bat-beast launches into the sky, quickly disappearing into the fogbanks choking out the surroundings.
Kell watches him leave, an odd sense of relief radiating from deep within. Shame burns in his gut as Karter turns a questioning look his way but says nothing of it. That's a conversation for later, when time is once more on their side. "We've almost reached Melka, so you'll take the next left while I the right. That way, we'll cover more ground and spread the word quicker."
"I am sorry." Kell says, though he's not quite sure why. Not for why he's sorry or for why he's saying it.
Karter sighs, "Kell, we really don't have the time for this conversation right now."
"Okay."
In the fog-thick silence that follows, the break in the path can't come soon enough.
0~0~0
Gunshots ring like bell-hammers as Kell crouches against a thick, mud-brick barricade, his fingers loading fresh bullets into his guns. The screams and yelps of snapjaws grow ever-louder, ever-more-frenzied, as they devour the gap between them and the barricade with every passing breath.
Closing the cylinders with a click, Kell takes a deep breath—in and out—before hopping to his feet. Arrows whistle overhead as muskets, shotguns, and other crude armaments bang out from the onrushing hordes. Most fall short of the fortifications, but enough impact to keep heads down and guns silent—most guns, anyways.
In half-as-many seconds, a dozen shots clap out downrange as an answering hail of gunfire forces Kell back into cover. He hadn't managed to kill any, not that time, but more than a few had been hit.
"Your bravery is admirable, gun-brother," a shell-backed Melkan waddles over, a shotgun clutched in thick-nailed fingers, "but perhaps your ammunition expenditure is not."
"I do not understand?" Kell tilts his head, revolvers clicking open as spent shells tumble free.
"Usually better to just, you know," the Melkan grumbles as narrow eyes dart to-and-fro, "conserve your ammunition until you know you'll make contact."
Kell frowns, "I disagree."
The Melkan lifts his hands in faux-surrender, "Hey, it's your bullets. Though," he pops his head up over the barricade for a split second, "it's looking like they're just about ready to make their play." He grunts as he breaks open the shotgun, loads two shells, and snaps it shut with a resounding click. "Make ready, gun-brother, for soon your ammunition expenditure shall be put to the test."
Kell's lips thin, the sound of charging snapjaws like nails on a chalkboard, but he does as told. Thumbing the hammers back, cylinders rotate and bullets prime. Any gunsmith's son who manages to run out of ammo should be stripped of the title and summarily executed on the spot.
Mass-Combat Roll: 12 Successes, because I'm not writing all of that
Taking a deep breath, Kell rose to his feet and found his targets. They were too close for him to miss, far too close.
The first snapjaw had a shock of bright white fur on his head. He was thin, but not unhealthily so, with stringy muscles clinging tight to bone. He was dressed in a loincloth and his claws were carefully filed and kept completely clean. He died when a bullet took him in the eye.
The second snapjaw was short and stocky. She wore a grease-stained apron and a necklace of tiny golden seashells about the neck. Her stance suggested she was more familiar with the backlines rather than here at the front, especially with how her spear hesitated. She died when three bullets perforated her lungs.
The third snapjaw was slender with well-kept fur and clean fangs. She took great pride in her appearance and kept her nails painted and her fur free of grease. She was young, too, couldn't be older than Kell. She clearly had eyes for the cook-turned-soldier, given the way she wailed as the cook fell. She died when Kell shot her through the heart.
The fourth snapjaw was big and burly, with a plethora of scars decorating his chest. His fur was matted and his fists were raised, remnants of his last meal still clinging to his teeth. His shoes were well-worn and his toes could be seen through the holes. He died from two bullets to the neck and chest.
The fifth snapjaw was too young for the battlefield, but the blood on her knife—both dried and not—spoke plenty of her willingness to kill. She had a skull on her thigh, tied in place with a strand of human-hair-twine. She died after a bullet cut her femoral artery.
The sixth snapjaw screamed in terror, his hands trembling as he charged. He was thin and reedy, with a face that had taken one-too-many punches. By the look of him, it wasn't friendly sparring that brought him those punches. One of his fore-fangs was loose and hanging by a thread of red. He died when a bullet punched through the roof of his mouth.
The seventh snapjaw was a hollow-eyed elder. He did not fear his death, instead welcoming it with open arms. He was dressed in yellowed robes and had a stuffed parrot on his shoulder. He died of shock, when a bullet passed through his stomach.
And just like that, it's over. The remaining snapjaws sprint screaming back into the mists, too scattered and scared to do anything else but run. Their arms and armor left behind—paltry though they were—they'd be of no threat to anyone, not anymore.
"Good work, gun-brother," the same Melkan from before said as he clapped a hand on Kell's shoulder, "you sure showed your strength, that's for sure!"
"Yes." Kell says, his salted eyes locked to the bodies of the dead, the blood turning the ground to a slick, sticky mire. "Yes, yes I did."
"Want a drink?"
"Gods, please."
Kell would wake up the following morning with a head pounding like a cannon, his breath stinking of alcohol, and pockets full of money.
(+5 XP, +$20, +50 Rep with Melka)
0~0~0
Events in Melka
-The merchants are planning to send out the year's silk harvest early
-The Eldermost has sent word. He, apparently, has been looking into the quandary of quickly unlocking ka and has information for you
-Karter seems to be okay, but you should probably clear up the air with him, at least a little bit.
--In addition, it may be smart to try and figure out why you responded the way you did.
-Nothing's changed as far as shopping is concerned
-Your siblings will be waking at the end of the month, or thereabouts. It's likely a good idea to figure out what you are going to say to them.
You have 8 XP to spend, Karter will be spending his XP on his cultivation
[ ] Write in the next month's plan
0~0~0
AN: Apologies, this update kicked my ass thoroughly
No moratorium
