Amber ale foam settled in Finn's mug, condensation beading on the clay. A copper shard, his payment, rested on the scarred counter. He’d learned the value of small coins quickly in Khem, a lesson delivered through hungry days and quiet observation. "So, the City Registry," he murmured, testing the unfamiliar words on his tongue. Elara, the tavern girl, wiped down the rough wood with a damp cloth, a faint smile playing on her lips. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light piercing the grimy windows. "That's right, stranger. Central in the Grand Plaza. Seek out a Scribe there. They'll know of any marked quarry." Her voice was light, a melody against the low hum of conversation. Finn nodded slowly. "And a 'Scribe'?" Elara laughed, a genuine, bell-like sound that turned heads. Finn's cheeks warmed slightly. "You really are from beyond the walls, aren't you? A Scribe keeps the city's records, tallies its bounties. They work for the Elder Council." She explained, her explanation simple, patient. Already, the sun dipped below the city’s western spires, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges. Night would come swiftly. Tomorrow, then, for the Registry. "Why do you ask about marked quarry, traveler?" Elara leaned closer, her tone softening. "Are you an Abomination Hunter?" "An Abomination Hunter?" Finn echoed. The term was new to him. "You know, those who believe slaying the twisted creatures will grant them power. Turn them into Channelers." She gestured vaguely towards the smoky ceiling. Finn felt a peculiar chill. He already possessed such power, struggled with it daily. The idea of people *hunting* for it, risking their lives… Elara continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "There's a whisper in the city. A superstition, some call it. That an ordinary soul can draw forth elemental might by taking down a Prime-Beast. Many risk their lives chasing this phantom." Most dismissed them as mad, she said, fools chasing impossible dreams. Yet, the desperate flocked to the banner, seeking a path to influence, to a life beyond the dust. A heavy hand landed on Finn's shoulder. He tensed, every muscle coiling. A rough, calloused palm. "Elara, sweetling, that's no superstition." A gravelly, deep voice spoke. "It's the truth. I’ve seen it with my own eyes." Finn turned. A man in his late thirties, early forties, stood there. Unkempt beard, hair like a crow's nest. His clothes were worn, patched leather and roughspun. Yet, his eyes, beneath thick brows, held an unexpected keenness, a glint of something unyielding. "Kael! By the Ancestors, you live!" Elara exclaimed, a flash of relief crossing her face. "Did you think a few overgrown ash-lizards could claim Kael? Not before I command the earth itself!" Kael grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. Three other figures lumbered up behind him. Broad-shouldered, scarred. One carried a massive stone-splitter hammer, another a barbed spear, the third a heavy crossbow. They radiated a rough, dangerous competence. Finn brushed Kael's hand from his shoulder. Not a hostile gesture, but a firm one. Kael flinched, stepping back slightly, a flicker of surprise in his sharp eyes. "My apologies, stranger." Kael offered, a shrug in his voice. "No offense taken. But what you just said… about Channelers and Prime-Beasts." Finn’s gaze held Kael’s. "Can you elaborate?" Kael's grin widened, a predatory flash. "Ah, so the road-dust has gotten into your head too, eh, young one?" He spoke of Channelers, how they absorbed the raw essence of slain Prime-Beasts, deepening their own connection to the elemental core. He claimed ordinary folk, with enough grit and luck, could tap into that same wellspring. He’d seen it, he insisted, men who had started with nothing but iron wills and a blade, only to wield the smallest spark of elemental power. "That's why we roam," Kael declared, thumping his chest. "We’re Kael's Cutters. Hunting the blighted things, seeking that spark." "Three taken down so far!" boasted the man with the hammer, his voice a booming echo in the tavern. "We're close, so close," added the spearman, a feverish glint in his eye. Finn felt a knot in his stomach. He remembered the bandit encounter, the brutal efficiency of his power. A single Prime-Beast had nearly claimed his life in the Ash Wastes, a creature far beyond these men's capabilities. Three? "Three? Does that mean one of you… has become a Channeler?" Finn asked, the words feeling hollow. Laughter erupted across the tavern floor. Elara covered her mouth, stifling a giggle. Kael clapped Finn on the back, the force of it jarring. "Channeler? Oh, young one, if only!" Kael wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "In Khem, only four truly command the deep earth. Elder-Lord Theron, and his three Stone-Guard. We'd have a much easier time if one of us could draw even a lick of spark." "We've nearly bled dry more times than I can count on these hunts," the crossbowman grumbled, nodding in agreement. Four Channelers in a city of tens of thousands? Finn finally understood the laments of an elder he'd once known. True power was scarce, precious. Kael's gaze drifted to Finn’s worn pack, then to his hands. "You talk of hunting, young friend. But your gear seems… light. No weapon?" Finn reached into his inner pocket, pulling out the worn leather slingshot. Lambskin, braided tight. He expected the usual derision, the mocking glances. It felt like a child’s toy next to their formidable steel and iron. A surprising chorus of murmurs rose from Kael's crew. "A sling, eh?" The hammer-wielder leaned in. "Look at the wear on that leather. Seen some use." "What stones do you favor?" The spearman asked, his voice genuinely curious. "Egg-sized, mostly," Finn replied, the words feeling strange in his mouth. "Egg-sized? That's plenty to crack the skull of a burrow-rat gone bad, or a mutated ridge-fox." Kael nodded approvingly. Finn realized then. Their 'Prime-Beasts' weren’t the monstrous things he had encountered in the wastes. They hunted the smaller, lesser abominations – mutated vermin, herbivore distortions. Creatures that, in their un-corrupted form, could be dispatched by a determined hand. Still, even these could be lethal. "Say, you look capable with that sling. We've been wanting an extra eye, a sharp hand with ranged weapons. Care to join Kael's Cutters for a hunt?" Kael offered, a hopeful glint in his eye. "No," Finn said, his voice flat. "I appreciate the offer, but my path is my own." He couldn't risk exposing his true abilities, his connection to the earth. And their prey was too small, too insignificant for his true purpose. Kael's face fell, a brief flash of disappointment. "A pity, truly. But the offer stands, should you reconsider." Finn took his room key from Elara, a small copper tag, and climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor. The floorboards groaned under his weight. --- He lay on the rough cot, staring up at the dark, uneven ceiling. Below, the murmur of the tavern persisted, easily piercing the thin wood. He heard Kael’s crew. "Why bother with that scrawny kid, Kael-hyung? He looked like a stiff breeze would snap him." This was the hammer-wielder, his booming voice barely muffled. "Aye, just a slip of a boy with a child's toy. Wouldn't last a breath against a real Prime-Beast." The crossbowman’s voice, sharp with disdain. Just moments ago, they had been friendly, almost admiring. Finn let out a soft sigh. Such duplicity was familiar. He'd seen it in the small villages, a commonplace aspect of human nature. Then Kael's voice, tinged with a weary paternalism. "Tsk, he reminded me of myself, years ago. Wandering the waste with naught but a hope and a prayer. He wouldn't last a week. Just a soft spot, I suppose." "Too kind, Kael-hyung. Always too kind." The spearman sounded exasperated. Finn closed his eyes. The world, indeed, held both shadows and fleeting lights. He focused on his breathing, the slow thrum of the deep earth beneath the city, trying to find a quiet place within himself. --- Morning arrived, cool and crisp. Finn ate the inn's meager offering of dark bread and thin, savory broth. Then, he navigated the winding, dusty streets towards the Grand Plaza. Guildhall dominated the center, a tiered structure of ancient, bleached stone, busy with citizens and bustling functionaries. Sunlight glinted off its upper windows. He moved past an argument unfolding near the entrance – an old woman and a merchant haggling fiercely over water rights. Finally, he found the Scribe responsible for bounties. "What do you want?" A gaunt Scribe, ink-stained fingers and severe spectacles, peered at Finn over a stack of yellowed parchments. His tone was dismissive, as if Finn were merely another piece of dust blown in from the wastes. Finn kept his features neutral. If he revealed his true power, the man would grovel. But Finn needed no such attention. Posing as a simple hunter, he could find his quarry and move on. He didn't want to be entangled in the politics of Khem, or worse, pressed into service by Elder-Lord Theron's Stone-Guard. Such men were often bound by strict codes of etiquette; refusing their hospitality or demands could cause unwanted complications. "Marked quarry," Finn replied, his voice low. "Any Prime-Beasts with bounties." The Scribe sighed, a long-suffering sound. He rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a heavy scroll. "Hold it flat. Don't touch the ink. And return it when done." The Scribe thrust the document at Finn. It detailed various Prime-Beasts: their twisted forms, estimated sizes, aberrant traits, known locations, and the rewards for their capture or kill. Weaker abominations, less corrupted, often required live capture. Truly hostile ones, threats to the city, could be slain, their essence-cores brought back as proof. "Lesser abominations mutate minimally," the Scribe lectured, not looking up. "Their forms often indistinguishable from mundane creatures. We see endless fools attempting to pass off common sand-hares for marked quarry. Don't be one of them." A chilling warning followed. "Be mindful. Should you strike down a Prime-Beast, never abandon the corpse. Bring it back, no matter its state. If Stone-Guard don’t disperse its latent energies, it can fester, rise as an Ash-Wraith. Leaving a carcass is a capital offense under city law. Remember that." Finn felt a cold prickle. He remembered the bandit camp, the stench of latent corruption. He understood the urgency in the Scribe's voice, the grim necessity of the law. "Understood." The word was a whisper. "But some of these listed… they seem too dangerous for ordinary folk. Do Stone-Guard not deal with them?" Finn asked, pointing to a particularly virulent entry. The Scribe looked up, a flicker of genuine astonishment in his eyes. "Do you think they have such leisure? Stone-Guard maintain order, protect against outside incursions. Hunting wayward Prime-Beasts? That falls to drifters like yourself, young man. The desperate, the foolish, and the hungry." A bitter taste filled Finn's mouth. If Channelers were truly humanity's shield, why did such horrors fall to the likes of Kael's Cutters? Few, it seemed, truly embraced the burden of protection. Finn left the Guildhall, heading towards the city's crumbling outer districts. Grand stone structures thinned, replaced by ramshackle dwellings and then, abruptly, the familiar, unforgiving wilderness. --- ‘Time to begin.’ Alone, with the city a distant hum behind him, Finn focused. A bounty for a particularly nasty creature caught Finn's eye on the Scribe’s parchment: **Flint-beak Corvid** *A raven-like creature, its feathers partially hardened to obsidian shards. It deflects projectiles and attacks by dropping razor-sharp quills from high above. Known to stalk the city’s fringes, preying on stray dogs and unguarded children, leaving only shattered bone and scattered dark plumage…* A cold fury stirred in Finn's gut. Children. "Deep-Echo Sight," he murmured, his senses reaching out, seeking the thrum of life beneath the earth, expanding his awareness. He tried to tune into the avian life around him. A sudden, overwhelming cacophony flooded his mind. Hundreds of distinct sounds: hidden wings rustled, claws scraped dry stone, beaks snapped sharply. Sheer volume of ordinary ravens and corvids in the desert scrub, scavenging near the city, proved deafening. "Ugh." Finn clenched his jaw, the unwanted information like a spike in his skull. He forcibly withdrew his senses, the wave of noise receding. ‘This won't work.’ How could he isolate one, a single corrupted creature, amidst the mundane swarm? ‘A corvid with… a primal resonance?’ He attempted to refine his focus, to filter for any creature carrying the tell-tale hum of a Prime-Beast. The spell faltered. No specific resonance registered. His power was too broad, too raw for such precision. Or perhaps his control too unrefined. Next, he tried to narrow his search to corvids that had consumed human flesh. Again, the result was a chaotic jumble. Far too many targets flickered in his awareness. 'Deep-Echo Sight' simply registered consumption, not the nature of the prey or the hunter's corruption. Finn closed his eyes, frustration tightening his features. He needed a different approach. A more subtle, more precise way to find the Flint-beak Corvid. This wasn't about raw power; it was about finesse. He was still learning.

Dust and Whispers