The desert above fell dead silent.
In the pitch-black of the sandstone tomb, the only sound was the shallow breathing of your host. You watched him from the dark, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the ring. He was battered, missing an arm, and nursing a hole in his ribs, yet he slept soundly.
You noticed how he had left tiny, porous sandstone tubes twisting upward through the dune, allowing fresh air to filter in.
You had to admit, he was a good investment. When backed into a corner, he didn't just fight; he adapted. You were glad he was alive. If the Broodmother had killed him, you would have likely been left with a simple buzzard wasp as a host. While easier to manipulate, a bug was far weaker. With the latest trait you bought, Sal could already be considered a strong bender, and alongside the rest of the traits, he was quickly turning into a force to be reckoned with.
Then again, this was natural. Fast gains in strength seemed to be the main thing you were able to grant your hosts, but the bond between you two was also becoming stronger. Even now, if you so desired, you could peer into Sal's mind and peruse his memories, something which yesterday would have been much harder. When the bond reached 100, now composed of both Trust and Control, it was hard to tell exactly what would happen.
Then again, it wasn't even certain that Sal would survive this night. All it would take was a desert worm or some other monster smelling his blood and being drawn here. That would be game over for him. Even if that didn't happen, his wound might very well grow infected, patched with raw sandstone as it was.
As the hours dragged on, the cold of the Si Wong crept through the dunes, but Sal remained insulated within his shell. You monitored his condition as the night wore on. In the end, nobody bothered him, and you just contemplated the future in silence.
You and Sal's common goal was strength, but his secondary objectives were killing his tribe and perhaps taking over an Oasis and ruling it. You weren't sure how you felt about that, especially since Wan Shi Tong's library was likely reachable out here in the sands. And besides that, the whole world was at your feet. A discussion was in order eventually, to decide your true course of action.
**[Host Rested. HP: 5/40 -> 7/40]**
**[Qi regenerated: 0/50 -> 50/50]**
By the time the first rays of dawn warmed the sands above, the lingering sluggishness of the wasp venom had completely burned out of his system.
Sal's eyes fluttered, heavy and crusted with grit, before finally snapping open.
Total darkness. For a fraction of a second, his breath hitched—the instinctual panic of the cellar—but the coarse, comforting grit pressing against his skin grounded him. He wasn't a prisoner. He was the architect.
He moved his left hand, probing his torn side. The pain was a dull ache now. The sand had fused perfectly with his scabbing flesh, sealing the wound tight. He let out a dry, raspy exhale.
"Time to get up," he muttered.
The words felt like sandpaper in his throat. As he tried to shift his weight to rise, the reality of his blood loss crashed down on him. The world spun wildly, even in the pitch black. His thoughts tumbled over each other, fragmented and sluggish. He was incredibly drowsy, a deep, bone-weary exhaustion threatening to drag him back under. He needed water. He needed food. *Phantom Meridian* might slow starvation, but it couldn't replace the raw volume of blood he had left painted across the dunes.
"You're awake," Crow's voice drifted into his mind, smooth and observant. "Barely, from the feel of it. Take it slow, kid. Your Qi is back, but your body is running on fumes."
Sal didn't have the energy for small talk. He just listened, swallowing against the dry dust in his mouth to keep from gagging on his own nausea.
He didn't need to punch or claw his way out. With a subtle, exhausted shift of his will, the rigid sandstone ceiling liquefied. The earth parted around him, spilling golden morning sunlight into the pit. Sal pushed himself up, his arm trembling violently under his weight, climbing out of his grave and stepping onto the cool morning dunes.
He swayed, his knees buckling for a moment before he forced them straight. He looked around, his eyes narrowing against the glare.
The hive was dead. The chaotic, droning hum of the swarm was gone, replaced by the howling wind of the Si Wong. Without their Broodmother to bind them, the surviving buzzard wasps had broken and scattered to the four winds. All that remained were crushed exoskeletons and the pulped carcass of the Queen herself.
Sal's stomach gave a loud, hollow growl.
He considered turning back. His buried stash was miles away, holding the last miserable dregs of his water and a few crumbs. But he'd never make it; his legs felt like lead.
His gaze slid back to the crushed Broodmother, leaking green fluid and thick, amber sludge into the sand.
An idea clawed its way through his hazy mind.
He dragged his feet across the sand, approaching the massive carcass. He dropped to his knees beside the ruined thorax and reached out, scooping up a handful of the thick, sickly-sweet amber sludge leaking from the carcass.
"Are you sure about this?" Crow asked, a rare hint of skepticism in his tone.
Sal gave a weak nod, his hand hovering near his mouth. "The journal," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "The field guide from the campsite... It said the Queen's nectar... royal jelly... is highly nutritious."
Without giving himself time to hesitate or smell it too closely, he shoved the sludge into his mouth and swallowed.
It tasted like rotting honey and copper. His stomach instantly churned, and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead. A mild wave of nausea hit him—a faint trace of residual venom mixed into the jelly—but he forced it down.
It was nothing short of a miracle that no scavenger had eaten it so far.
**[Status Effect: Weak Poison (-5 to rolls)]**
It didn't heal his torn ribs or knit his flesh, but after a while, he felt as the nutritional density of the nectar hit his system like a physical blow. Slowly the dizziness receded.
It was just enough to clear his tumbling thoughts and steady his shaking hand. The metallic tang of the nectar coated his tongue, but the trembling in his legs had stopped.
A laugh bubbled in his throat. It started small, a breathy chuckle, then grew, swelling his chest with sudden, fierce pride. He looked at the pulped carcass of the Broodmother. Who in his tribe could have done this? The Chieftain, maybe. But even the old man, with his decades of surviving the Si Wong, would have bled for it. This power—it was intoxicating.
"Thank you," Sal muttered, looking down at the ring on his hand. "Honestly. Thank you."
Crow materialized at the edge of his vision. The featureless, clay-gray face split into a wide, jagged smile. Oddly, the sight didn't make Sal's skin crawl like it used to. The distrust had eroded. He couldn't explain it, but as he looked at the spirit, he simply *knew* it meant him no harm.
Sal wiped his mouth, leaving a smear across his jaw, and turned his attention back to the ruined hive.
Specifically, the sinkhole where the Broodmother had breached the surface.
It was a jagged wound in the earth, its edges stained with dried ichor. He walked to the rim and looked down. A vertical drop plunged straight into the core of the nest, lost in shadow.
He didn't climb down. He raised his hand.
His Qi had completely recovered—a coiled pressure waiting for release. He extended his will into the pit. The sand answered.
He pulled. The earth inside the crater churned, cycling upward like a dry fountain. He sifted through the debris, dumping the refuse onto the dunes. Petrified roots. Shattered skulls of ostrich horses. Rusted belt buckles.
Then, a heavy thud.
A mass of solid amber rolled onto the sand. It was the size of a barrel, dull orange and semi-translucent. A dark shape rested inside.
Sal knelt beside it, brushing the grit from the surface. It was a man. An unlucky traveler dragged into the depths decades ago, preserved in hardened sap.
"A collector's item," Crow remarked, floating closer to inspect the amber. "Looks like she was saving him for a rainy day."
"Or she forgot about him," Sal murmured, staring at the desiccated face frozen inside. "Why encase him and not eat him?"
Crow didn't respond, knowing it was a rhetorical question. Sal formed a dense spike of compressed sandstone and drove it into a hairline fracture in the amber.
It didn't yield. He grunted, forcing more Qi into the stone, twisting it like a wedge. Eventually, the block split with a sharp crack, but the resin clung stubbornly to its contents. As Sal pried the halves apart, the mummified corpse tore. Brittle bones snapped loudly. Rotted silk and dried flesh ripped, peeling away with the amber. Stale, dead air hissed out.
Sal ignored the gruesome sight, patting down the remains. His fingers brushed hardened leather tucked inside the torn robes. He pulled a heavy pouch free, untied the drawstrings, and tipped it.
Heavy, square-holed gold coins and smooth, teardrop pieces of jade spilled into his palm.
Sal stopped breathing. His thumb rubbed over the engraved earth symbol on the gold.
"I take it that's a good haul?" Crow asked.
"A fortune," Sal breathed, his voice tight with awe. "These are Earth Kingdom gold pieces. Just one could buy a decent ostrich horse. There are dozens here." He picked up a piece of jade, holding it to the light. "And this is Fire Nation money. Jade pieces. I've only heard merchants talk about them. They trade high."
He reached deeper into the split amber. The corpse's skeletal hand was locked in a death grip around a dark, polished scabbard. Sal had to snap the dead man's brittle fingers backward to pry it loose.
He gripped the hilt and drew the weapon. The leather wrap on the handle had rotted away entirely, leaving only the bare, tarnished tang of the metal. But the blade itself was flawless, sealed from the elements by the sap.
It was a Jian. A straight, double-edged sword. The steel was pristine, forged in a folded, rippling pattern that caught the morning light.
Sal gave it a test swing. The moment his left hand tightened around the bare grip, the weapon shifted from an object into an extension of his arm. The blade felt weightless. His hand moved with precision.
He slashed the air. The steel cut a clean, silent arc.
He lowered the blade. A smile spread across his face.
He was, and would always be a sandbender, but who could dislike a high quality sword?
----------
First luck roll - 86 (Not attacked during the night, the Broodmother wasn't eaten by scavengers)
Second luck roll - 92 (dictated the loot found in the nest)
A.N - Going back to the Oasis now is basically a requirement but feel free to propose alternatives. The main question is - go during the day and trade? (Chance to be recognized as a thief, the ability to spend money and gather information) Or go during the night and steal? (Better concealment, small (but not inexistent) chances to be caught)