Dust motes danced in the gloom of the tavern, caught in a sliver of light from a cracked pane. Kael settled onto a crude, stone-hewn bench, the weight of the day pressing into his bones. His last encounter, staining the earth with bandit blood, still resonated with a raw, primal echo in his spirit. This, a small holdfast called Rockholm, was a welcome reprieve, if only for its lack of immediate threats. A woman with arms like knotted roots and eyes the color of river stone approached. “What can I get for a quiet one like you, mountain-man?” Her voice was raspy, but not unkind. She wiped down the scarred tabletop with a damp cloth, her gaze lingering on the worn leather of Kael’s pack. Kael unslung his waterskin, a hollowed-out gourd. He offered a small, crystalline shard, pulsing faintly with a cold, inner light. “Information. Of bounties.” The shard was a rare quartz, a tiny piece he’d chipped from a deeper vein only days ago. Its faint glow offered a stark contrast to the dim tavern light. The woman’s eyes widened, a flicker of genuine surprise touching their depths. She took the quartz, turning it over in her thick fingers. “A bounty hunter, then? Not many come through here looking for that. Usually just prospectors or those mad enough to try for a fortune in the Deep Crags.” She tucked the shard into her apron. “Bounties, you’ll find listed at the Warden’s Keep. Center of the holdfast. Official on duty will point you right.” Kael frowned, a subtle shift in his otherwise impassive face. “Warden’s Keep? Official?” He had known only elders and chieftains, not 'wardens' or 'officials.' His world had been simpler, dictated by the turning of seasons and the ancient whispers of stone. The woman let out a short, dry laugh. “You truly are from the outside, aren’t you, lad?” She leaned closer, a faint scent of stale ale and woodsmoke clinging to her. “The Warden’s Keep is where the holdfast’s business is done. Permits, trade, disputes. The ‘official’ is the one paid by the chieftain to see to it all. Like the lord’s hand, but with more paperwork.” She chuckled again, a sound like gravel shifting. Night deepened outside, painting the jagged peaks in stark silhouettes. It would be best to approach the Keep in the morning. Kael nodded, his mind already turning over the new terms. “And why would someone hunt these… bounties?” “Ah, the beasts.” The woman’s gaze grew distant, tracing the rough-hewn beams above. “There’s talk. Always talk. About the Stone-Tongue. The gift.” She looked back at Kael, a glint in her eyes. “Some believe if you slay enough primeval beasts, you can awaken the ancient power. Become a Lithomancer yourself. Touch the earth with your mind, command the stone.” Kael’s grip tightened imperceptibly on the edge of the stone table. The very gift he bore, spoken of as a distant legend, a madman’s dream. He watched her. “Lithomancer?” “Aye. Like the old stories. Those who could shift mountains, hear the very pulse of the Craglands.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “It’s a folly, mostly. Most who try end up as another smear on a rock face. But hope dies hard in the Craglands, boy. Especially for those with nothing to lose.” Before Kael could respond, a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder. He flinched, not in surprise, but from the unwelcome violation of his personal space. His hand instinctively went to the concealed pocket where his favored throwing stones lay. “Brenna, easy on the lad,” a gruff voice rumbled. “The Stone-Tongue ain’t no superstition. Seen it myself.” Kael brushed the hand off, a quick, almost imperceptible motion. The man, broad-shouldered with a tangled beard like a bramble patch, recoiled slightly. His eyes, though, were surprisingly keen, holding a glint of desperation and conviction. “My apologies, young one. Didn’t mean to startle.” The man grinned, showing a gap where a tooth should have been. “Roric, they call me. And what I said is truth. These beasts, they hold the power. Take it for your own.” Three more men, burly and grim-faced, armed with heavy pickaxes and crude long-spears, shifted behind Roric. Crag Stalkers, Kael recognized the type: hardened men, eking out a living on the fringes of the wild. “You too, then?” Roric asked, curiosity warring with a faint, predatory glint in his eye. “Chasing the Stone-Tongue?” Kael studied Roric’s weathered face. “Tell me more about this… awakening.” Roric seemed pleased by Kael’s interest, his grin widening. “They say the beasts carry the echoes of the ancients. When you strike them down, that echo flows into you. Feeds your spirit. Over time, it ripens. Wakes the gift.” He thumped his chest. “Me and my kin, we’ve taken down three. Three beasts. We’re close.” His companions grunted in agreement, their faces grimly proud. Kael’s brow furrowed. Three beasts? The creatures he’d faced, even the lesser ones, had been formidable. His own power had barely been enough to contain the primal force within them. He thought of the bandit attack, the brutal efficacy of his lithomancy. These men spoke of taking down such creatures with primitive tools. “Three? Has one of you… awakened the gift?” Laughter erupted from the other Crag Stalkers, a raw, booming sound that echoed through the small tavern. Even Brenna cracked a smile. “Not yet, lad!” one of the men roared, clapping Roric on the back. “If one of us had the Stone-Tongue, we wouldn’t be hauling our own asses through the Crags, eh?” “Aye, we almost died on each of them,” another added, his voice tinged with the memory of fear. Kael felt a cold pity settle in his chest. They were chasing a phantom, risking their lives for a misunderstanding of ancient powers. He understood now why the elders spoke of the sparse numbers of true Lithomancers. The path was not one of crude slaughter. Roric’s gaze dropped to Kael’s pack. “You’re after beasts too, you said? Your gear looks… light. No axe? No spear?” Kael reached into a hidden pouch, pulling out his lambskin slingshot. The crude leather was worn smooth by countless draws, the pouch itself hardened with resin. He let it hang, inert, in his hand. Compared to the heavy iron tools of the Crag Stalkers, it seemed almost like a child’s toy. To Kael’s surprise, Roric’s men leaned in, their expressions curious, not mocking. “A sling, eh?” one grunted, examining it. “Well-used. The leather’s tough.” “What kind of stone you launch with that?” another asked. “Egg-sized, mostly,” Kael replied, his voice flat. “Egg-sized? Good for crushing the skull of a rock-rabbit, or a cliff-fox turned beast-thing,” Roric mused. He gestled a thick finger into his beard. “Not for anything with hard hide, though. Still, precision. We’ve been needing a marksman.” He looked at Kael, a hopeful glint in his eyes. “Join us, lad? We’re heading out at first light.” Kael shook his head. “I hunt alone.” His path was not theirs. Their quarry was small, twisted creatures, barely echoing the primal power. His pursuit was deeper, into the earth’s own memory. Roric sighed, a sound of genuine regret. “A pity. But the offer stands. Seek us out if the Crags get too lonely.” He turned to his men, a new plan already forming in his eyes. --- Kael took the room key from Brenna, a heavy iron ring clattering against the small, polished stone attached to it. His room on the second floor was cramped, smelling of stale straw and damp stone. As he lay on the rough cot, the voices from below drifted through the floorboards, muffled but clear to his attuned senses. “Roric, why’d you want that scrawny kid along? Looks like one hard knock would shatter him.” That was the voice of the gruffest Crag Stalker. “Aye, he was barely carrying enough for a day out,” another scoffed. Kael heard Roric’s sigh. “Reminded me of my own younger days. Alone, with naught but a sling. Not enough to survive in these lands. Ten lives ain’t enough.” “You’re too soft, hyungnim,” a third voice said, though with affection. Kael closed his eyes. People were like shifting scree, unstable and prone to false fronts. It was a truth as old as the mountains themselves. He was neither surprised nor hurt. Just observed. And then, he slept. --- The next morning, after a breakfast of bitter tea and hard bread, Kael made his way to the Warden’s Keep. It was a squat, heavily fortified building in the center of Rockholm, its walls thick with ancient mortar and scarred by time. Citizens moved in and out, their voices echoing in the central hall. An old woman argued fiercely with a young man over mineral rights, their shouts bouncing off the stone walls. Kael found the bounty official behind a scarred slab of polished dark stone that served as a counter. The man was thin, with pinched features and an air of perpetual annoyance. He looked up, his gaze sweeping over Kael’s travel-stained clothes with disdain. “What do you want, drifter?” “Bounties,” Kael stated, his voice even. He felt the cold, hard anger of his lineage stir, the urge to show this man the raw power under his boots. But to do so would invite questions, obligation, and unwanted attention. He chose the quiet path, the path of observation. “Hold it out. Don’t touch.” The official slid a stiff piece of cured leather across the counter. Scrawled glyphs and crude drawings covered its surface. Descriptions of beasts, their reported locations, and the meager payments offered. Weaker creatures, those that barely strained the veil between animal and beast, required capture alive. More dangerous ones, those that preyed on man or livestock, required a corpse. The official watched Kael’s hands as he took the document. “Weak beasts… their bodies, they look like regular animals. Don’t try to pass off a common goat as a Rock-Gnawer. We’ll know.” He paused, his gaze hardening. “And listen well, mountain-man. If you kill a beast, you bring its body back. Every piece. The Warden’s Knights disperse the lingering magic. Leave it, and it festers. Turns to a Grave-Stone Lurker. An abomination. Leaving a beast-corpse to corrupt the Crags is punishable by the deepest pits. Understand?” Kael nodded, the warning settling deep within him. He’d seen what unchecked magic could do, the way it could twist the very stone and earth into grotesque shapes. The official’s words resonated with an ancient truth. “Some of these… they seem too dangerous for common folk,” Kael observed, pointing to a particularly vicious-looking sketch of a winged creature. “Do the Warden’s Knights not hunt them?” The official scoffed, a dry, rattling sound. “Knights? They protect the holdfast walls, ensure order. The beast-hunts are for folk like you. Drifters seeking coin, or fools seeking… the gift.” He waved a dismissive hand, turning back to his ledgers. Kael’s gaze fell to the description he’d pointed to: ~~~ Gritwing Scavenger A crow-like creature, its feathers honed into obsidian blades. Its wings, hardened with embedded shales, deflect arrows. Preys on isolated travelers and stray children, dropping sharpened feathers from above to incapacitate before descending to feast. Known to leave scattered bones near the Whisperwind Pass… ~~~ A grim bitterness settled in Kael’s gut. If Lithomancers were meant to protect, to shepherd humanity, why were such horrors left to 'drifters'? The very notion seemed perverse. He left the Warden’s Keep, the heavy stone door closing behind him with a resonant thud. The holdfast’s buildings thinned out, replaced by a scattering of rough shelters and then the familiar, unforgiving Crags. The wind began to pick up, carrying the scent of pine and distant damp earth. *Time to begin.* He found a secluded spot, sheltered by a cluster of ancient granite boulders. No one watched. He brought his mind to focus, connecting with the deep pulse of the earth beneath him. “Echo-Sight: Gritwing.” A torrent of sensation slammed into him. The rustle of countless feathers, the sharp tap of beaks on rock, the faint, dry chatter of a thousand crows. They roosted in every crevice, every shadowed crag around Rockholm, a living, squawking shroud. The sheer volume overwhelmed him, a cacophony of small, avian echoes. Kael gasped, staggering back against the granite, pressing a hand to his temple. The raw input was too much. He severed the connection abruptly, his head throbbing. *This method won’t work.* He needed a filter. How to sift through the mundane to find the echo of the primeval? He tried again, focusing his Lithomancy differently. “Echo-Sight: Marked Life-Force.” He sought a life-force with an unnatural resonance, a beast imbued with true, raw earth-magic. Nothing. The Crags remained silent to his focused query. It seemed the beasts’ magic wasn’t distinct enough in its signature to be filtered by his basic Echo-Sight. He tried another approach. “Echo-Sight: Human Sustenance.” Crows that had recently consumed human flesh. This, surely, would narrow the field. Again, a rush of echoes. But far too many. Scavenger crows, he realized with a jolt, were common. They feasted on anything. The waste pits, the unburied dead of the Crags. The filter was too broad. He needed a way to perceive the very *nature* of the beast, not just its diet or general magical presence. The Gritwing Scavenger was not merely a scavenger, it was a predator, a bringer of death, imbued with a darker, more potent energy. The Crags waited, silent and vast. He needed a deeper insight, a more precise connection to the earth's memory.

Stone's Echo and Scavenger's Mark