Rust clung to Kaelen's boots, a fine red dust from the desolate expanse he had left behind. Ahead, the low hum of Aethelburg’s industrial district beckoned, a stark contrast to the quiet, primal world he wrestled with. He needed information, specifically regarding any lingering Veil-Creatures, and the grimy establishment known as The Iron Hearth had been recommended as a hub for such whispers.
A clatter of tin mugs and raucous laughter spilled from the open doorway. Inside, the air hung thick with steam, burnt oil, and cheap synth-ale. Gears whirred softly from a complex contraption behind the bar, pumping a dark, viscous liquid into ceramic tankards. Kaelen moved with a practiced fluidity, his eyes scanning, assessing. He found an unoccupied stool at a scarred timber counter, the surface worn smooth by countless elbows.
“A glass of water,” Kaelen requested, his voice a low murmur against the din. The serving drone, a young woman with a smudge of grease on her cheek and eyes that darted like sparrows, paused in wiping down the counter. Her movements were sharp, efficient.
“Water it is, Outlander,” she replied, a faint lilt to her tone. She poured from a metallic pitcher, the liquid cool and clear. Kaelen placed a single, tarnished copper coin on the counter. “I seek knowledge of the local fauna. Specifically, any creatures deemed… aberrant, for which the Archons offer recompense.”
The drone, Elara, tilted her head. Her brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of amusement in her gaze. “Aberrant fauna? You mean Veil-Creatures, don’t you? And bounties? Sounds like you’re new to the Dominion, Outlander. You’d go to the Administratum for that. Ask for a Scribe—they handle the ledgers.”
Kaelen took a slow sip of his water, the chill a welcome sensation against his throat. “Administratum? Scribe? I am… unfamiliar with the local bureaucratic structures.”
Elara giggled, a surprisingly bright sound amidst the clang and hiss of the inn. “You truly are from the Outlands, aren’t you? The Administratum is that big steel-and-glass structure downtown, where all the Archon business happens. Scribes are the ones who write everything down. Just ask for the Bounty Ledger. They’ll have what you need.”
“My thanks,” Kaelen murmured, pushing the coin slightly closer. Elara pocketed it with a practiced flick of her wrist. “By the way,” she continued, leaning in conspiratorially, “why are you interested in Veil-Creatures? Don’t tell me, you’re one of those… Scavengers?”
“Scavenger?” Kaelen’s gaze remained steady, betraying nothing of his interest.
“Aye, those folk who think if they hunt enough Veil-Creatures, they’ll… well, they’ll become a conduit, like the Archon-Prime.” Elara lowered her voice further. “It’s a fool’s hope, really. A superstition spread by dreamers. They say ordinary folk can tap into the primal energy that twists these creatures, become a ‘Conduit,’ gain incredible power. People risk their lives, hunting these things, just for a phantom chance at rising above their station.”
Just as Elara finished speaking, a heavy hand clapped Kaelen’s shoulder. He flinched imperceptibly, his muscles tensing, ready to react. A man, somewhere in his late thirties, stood beside him. His hair was a tangle of dark strands, and a scraggly beard framed a face etched with hard living, yet his eyes held a surprising, almost unnerving clarity.
“Lena! That’s no superstition, girl!” the man boomed, his voice rough as grinding gears. “It’s the truth! I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
Elara, startled, spun around. “Joryn, you’re alive? We thought the Rustfall Golem finally got you!”
“Did you think I was dead?” Joryn retorted with a cackle. “Not a chance. Not until I’ve felt the primal surge myself!”
Behind Joryn, three more men approached, their gait heavy and purposeful. One carried a steam-powered drill, its brass casing gleaming. Another shouldered a heavy-gauge rail spike, sharpened to a brutal point. The third held a flensing hook, its barbed curve designed for skinning large game. They were all burly, their frames testament to lives of hard labor and desperate hunts.
Kaelen subtly shifted, dislodging Joryn’s hand from his shoulder. Joryn paused, a flicker of surprise in his sharp eyes, then offered a rough, apologetic grunt. “My apologies, lad.”
“No offense taken,” Kaelen replied, his voice calm. “But I am intrigued by what you said. About becoming a conduit by hunting Veil-Creatures.”
Joryn grinned, a flash of uneven teeth. “So, you’re interested too, young friend? Another hopeful, eh?” He leaned against the counter, surveying Kaelen. “It’s simple, really. They say conduits kill Veil-Creatures and absorb their latent primal energy to grow stronger. Follow the same principle, and an ordinary man can claim that power for himself, become a conduit. I’ve personally known two lads who swore they felt the spark after bringing down a Whisper-Gorgon.”
“We’ve already taken down three of ‘em ourselves!” the man with the rail spike declared, thumping his weapon against the floorboards. The inn shuddered faintly.
“Almost there now, reckon,” added the one with the drill, a hopeful gleam in his eye.
Kaelen felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. Three creatures? The Rustfall wolf he'd recently faced had been a monstrous entity, an apex predator twisted by raw, unfettered primal energy. A dozen men with such crude weapons would have been torn limb from limb. If these men had survived three encounters, their targets must be… vastly different.
“Three, you say?” Kaelen asked, his gaze sweeping over the group. “Does that mean one among you has already become a conduit?”
Silence. Then, a wave of uproarious laughter erupted from Joryn and his crew, spreading through the inn’s patrons like wildfire. Elara giggled, covering her mouth.
“A conduit? Here?” Joryn wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. “In all of Aethelburg, there are only four known conduits: the Archon-Prime and his three Inner Enforcers. If even one of us had stumbled into that kind of power, believe me, we wouldn’t be down here drinking synth-ale and chasing glorified overgrown squirrels.”
“Honestly,” the man with the flensing hook grumbled, “we nearly died half a dozen times just taking down those beasts.”
Four conduits in a city of tens of thousands, Kaelen mused. He understood Alaric’s lament about the scarcity of his kind. The world was oblivious, or perhaps willfully ignorant, of what they truly were.
Joryn’s eyes narrowed, falling upon the small, unassuming leather pouch at Kaelen’s hip. “By the way, you mentioned hunting Veil-Creatures, didn’t you? Your gear seems… sparse for that. No weapon to speak of?”
Kaelen reached into the pouch and produced the simple slingshot Alaric had fashioned for him. Lambskin, braided sinew, and a smooth, polished grip. He expected derision; compared to their industrial tools of destruction, it looked laughably primitive.
Yet, the Scavengers reacted with an unexpected curiosity.
“A sling, eh?” The man with the rail spike leaned forward, examining it. “You use it for stones?”
“Looks well-used,” Joryn commented, a thoughtful expression on his face. “What size shot do you favor?”
“Roughly the size of a pigeon’s egg,” Kaelen replied, his thumb tracing the worn leather.
“Pigeon’s egg, you say?” Joryn mused. “That’d be enough to crack the skull of a burrow-rat or a rust-hare. Transformed or not.”
Kaelen’s earlier suspicion solidified. Their prey wasn’t the monstrous predators of the deep Rustfall, but smaller, mutated variants of common city vermin. Creatures that, in their mundane form, could be dispatched with a bare hand, but in their primal-infused state, still posed a deadly threat to the unwary.
“Say, lad,” Joryn offered, straightening up. “We could use another marksman. The four of us are heading out again come dawn. Care to join us?”
“I appreciate the offer,” Kaelen said without hesitation, “but my path lies elsewhere.” He had no intention of revealing his burgeoning abilities to a group of Scavengers, nor did he wish to hunt creatures so far beneath his true quarry.
Joryn merely shrugged, a flicker of regret in his eyes. “Pity. But the offer stands, should you reconsider.” He gave a nod, then turned back to his crew, recounting tales of their past hunts.
Elara handed Kaelen a small, etched brass token—a key for a room on the second floor. He took it, offered a silent nod, and ascended the creaking timber stairs. The room was small, sparse, smelling faintly of old oil and damp plaster. He lay on the narrow cot, listening to the inn’s subterranean symphony through the floorboards. The clang of mugs, the murmur of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter.
--- “Joryn hyungnim, why were you trying to rope in that scrawny lad? He looks like a gust of wind would knock him over.” The voice was the rail spike wielder’s, muffled but clear.
--- “Honestly, he’d probably start weeping after one solid blow from a Whisper-Bat.” The flensing hook man’s voice, laced with ridicule.
Kaelen felt no sting. He had heard such words countless times in his solitary journey. People were quick to judge, quicker to dismiss what they didn’t understand. He merely sighed, a slow, quiet release of air. *That’s just how people are.*
--- “Tsk,” Joryn’s voice cut through the others. “Just reminded me of my own foolish youth. Wandering out there with nothing but a leather sling. Ten lives wouldn’t be enough to survive that way.”
--- “Seriously, you’re too soft-hearted, hyungnim.”
--- “Who’s arguing?”
Kaelen closed his eyes, the voices fading into the distant din. The world, indeed, was a complicated place. Filled with both casual cruelty and unexpected, gruff kindness.
---
The next morning, after a meager breakfast of stale bread and thin broth, Kaelen set out for the Archon Administratum. The city was already alive with the clatter of commerce and the hiss of steam-powered carriages. The Administratum rose like a monolith of polished steel and dark, smoked glass, starkly efficient and imposing in the city’s heart.
Inside, the vast central hall hummed with controlled chaos. Citizens moved purposefully between desks, their concerns relayed to Archon Scribes who sat behind towering stacks of data-slates. Automated filing systems, driven by intricate gearworks and pneumatic tubes, whirred and clanked in the background. A faint, metallic tang hung in the air, mingling with the scent of recycled paper and synth-ink.
Kaelen navigated the bustling space, sidestepping an elderly woman passionately arguing with a stern-faced Scribe over a property lease dispute. He followed the signage, the stark, angular script pointing him towards the “Bounty Ledger.”
He found the Scribe, a middle-aged man with precise spectacles perched on his nose, his hair neatly slicked back. The Scribe regarded Kaelen with a dismissive glance, his expression one of weary disdain. “State your business.”
“I seek information on registered Veil-Creatures with bounties,” Kaelen stated, his voice flat. He considered for a moment revealing a hint of his own connection to the primal, a subtle shift in the air, a flicker of arcane light. Such a display would humble the man, perhaps earn him respect. But it would also draw unwanted attention, expose his secret to the rigid logic of the Archons. He imagined the interrogations, the forced cooperation, the unending scrutiny. Better to be a nobody.
“Another drifter,” the Scribe muttered, his fingers drumming impatiently on his desk. He activated a small, glowing data-slate, its interface flickering to life. “No tampering. Just read and return.” He slid the slim device across the polished surface.
Kaelen took the data-slate. Its surface displayed a concise list of Veil-Creatures: their twisted forms, estimated sizes, observed characteristics, last known sighting locations, and the corresponding bounty in Imperial Marks. Weaker, less aggressive creatures were listed for capture, their living forms required for proof. The more dangerous ones, hostile to human settlements, could be killed, their specific organs or unique residues required for reward.
He learned why. “Lesser Veil-Creatures undergo less mutation,” the Scribe explained without looking up, his voice droning. “Their physical forms often remain too similar to mundane animals, making fraud common. Capture ensures authenticity.”
A sharp, cold warning from the Scribe cut through Kaelen’s thoughts. “Understand this, drifter: should you accidentally fell a Veil-Creature, you are obligated to bring its carcass back to the city. Failure to do so, leaving its primal essence undispelled, can lead to its reanimation as a Resurgent Blight. Abandoning a Veil-Creature corpse is punishable by summary execution under Imperial law. Bear that in mind.”
Kaelen absorbed the information, his internal world chilling. He had seen the horrifying vitality of the Rustfall wolf even in its defeat. The Scribe’s words resonated deeply, confirming his own instinctive understanding of the dangers of raw, uncontained primal energy.
“Many of these creatures seem… quite dangerous for ordinary individuals,” Kaelen observed, his thumb tracing the image of a particularly grotesque burrower. “Do the Archon Enforcers not prioritize their eradication?”
The Scribe sighed, a sound of profound exasperation. He adjusted his spectacles, peering at Kaelen over the rim. “Do you believe they possess such leisure? The Enforcers’ mandate is the maintenance of Imperial order, the defense against external threats. Hunting errant Veil-Creatures, that is the purview of… drifters like yourself.” The dismissal in his tone was absolute.
Kaelen’s jaw tightened. A bitter taste filled his mouth. *Humanity’s protectors,* Alaric had called conduits. Yet here, the very entities charged with safeguarding the people ignored threats that preyed on children and livestock, leaving the task to desperate Scavengers. His dormant sense of justice stirred, a faint, insistent thrum beneath his pragmatic exterior.
He scanned the data-slate, his gaze snagging on a particular entry:
~~~~
**Spike-Wing Raven**
A corvid with partially petrified feathers, razor-sharp and dense. Capable of deflecting standard projectile ordnance and attacks by dropping its barbed quills from elevated positions. Known to target domesticated pets and isolated children on the city’s fringes, consuming their remains and scattering the remnants.
~~~~
Kaelen returned the data-slate, the information etched into his memory. He left the Administratum, the cold logic of the Archons a tangible weight in his thoughts, and headed towards the city’s outskirts. The grand steel structures gradually gave way to brick-and-mortar housing, then to shanties of corrugated iron and scavenged timber. Finally, the true edge of the city dissolved into a wasteland of industrial refuse and scrubland, a ragged border where civilization met the encroaching wilds.
‘Time to begin.’
He found a secluded hollow, shielded by overgrown tangles of rust-weed and the skeletal remains of an ancient steam-generator. No eyes watched him. Kaelen closed his own, drawing a slow, measured breath. He reached within, towards the latent wellspring of primal energy that simmered just beneath his skin. He sought to extend his senses, not through sight or sound, but through a raw, intuitive resonance, a feeling for the deviant energies of the Spike-Wing Raven.
He focused, envisioning the sharp, predatory shape, the corrupted primal energy twisting its form. Kaelen pushed his awareness outward, a silent wave of primal energy unfurling. He sought to identify the unique resonance of all corvids within the vicinity.
Instantly, his mind was assailed. Hundreds of clamorous sounds erupted: the guttural caws of common ravens, the frantic scolding of magpies, the rustle of countless wings taking flight, the sharp *tap-tap-tap* of beaks against detritus. The sheer volume of mundane activity overwhelmed him, a chaotic din of feathers and calls.
“Ugh.” Kaelen recoiled, clenching his fists, the surge of raw sensation almost nauseating. He pulled his awareness back, shutting down the uncontrolled expansion.
This method wouldn’t work. The sheer number of un-mutated corvids near the city’s edge rendered his raw detection impossible. He couldn’t filter out the noise. He needed precision.
‘Only a crow possessing a primal signature.’ He tried to refine his mental query, but his untamed conduit abilities refused to comply. The energy simply wouldn’t coalesce into such a specific filter. He lacked the control, the fine manipulation Alaric had always spoken of.
Next, he attempted to narrow the search: ‘Crows that have fed on human flesh.’ This time, his senses extended, but the results were far too numerous. Scavenging birds, feasting on roadside fatalities or carelessly discarded remains. Not the specific prey he sought. Not the creature with the sharp quills and twisted hunger. Kaelen let his eyes open, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips. He needed a different approach.
---