A thick scent of stale ale and pine smoke hung in the Wayfarer’s Respite. Fionn sat at a scarred oak table, nursing a cup of watery broth. His gaze drifted across the common room, observing the hushed transactions and boisterous boasts. It was a larger settlement than any he usually frequented, this Riversend, a knot of wood and stone clinging to the edge of the sprawling Heartwood.
Eventually, Lena, a young woman with nimble fingers and a kind smile, cleared his empty bowl. He spoke softly, barely above the hearth's crackle. "The whispers spoke of a place, a hall, where the Steward keeps account of... burdens on the land."
Lena chuckled, a bright, melodic sound. "You mean the Warden's Hall, honored guest? And the Steward's Clerk, who lists the bounties?" She leaned closer, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Are you truly from so deep in the wilds you don't know such things? The old tales hold true, then."
Fionn offered a small, rare smile. "The ways of the ancient trees are different from the ways of men."
Lena explained, her voice dropping a notch. The Warden's Hall stood stout in the settlement's heart, where the Steward's folk managed the land and its troubles. The Clerk was the one to speak with, listing the beasts that preyed too boldly, the encroaching shadows.
"By the by," Lena murmured, refilling his broth. "Why ask after such things? Are you one of the Wildwood Stalkers?"
"Stalkers?" Fionn's brow furrowed.
"Aye, those who hunt the Shadow-Touched Beasts," she clarified. "Some believe if you fell a beast, you can claim its power. Absorb its essence, they say, become something more." Her tone was dismissive, but a flicker of yearning crossed her face. "Like the ancient keepers, who could command the very woods."
Fionn listened, his mind sifting through the crude echoes of forgotten truths. His gifts were not about absorbing, but about awakening, a subtle communion. Yet, this coarse understanding likely fueled many a foolhardy venture.
A heavy hand clapped Fionn's shoulder. He flinched, not in fear, but from the sudden, jarring contact. His shoulders stiffened.
"Lena, lass! Still spinning those old wives' tales?" The speaker was a burly man, mid-forties, with a tangled beard and eyes that missed little. He smelled of sweat, damp earth, and dried blood. "It's no superstition, girl. It's the truth. I've seen it, felt it. The wildness flows into you."
Lena rolled her eyes. "Bran, you old fool! Thought you were dust by now."
"Not 'til I call the forest to my side, I won't be!" Bran guffawed.
Behind him, three more men, younger but equally hardened, pushed into the common room. Torvin, a brute with a heavy axe slung across his back; Roric, gaunt but quick-eyed, carrying a long hunting spear; and Kael, whose shortbow was strapped tight to his frame. Their gear was practical, worn, and smelled of the forest.
Fionn gently pushed Bran's hand from his shoulder. Bran recoiled slightly, a flicker of surprise in his sharp eyes.
"Pardon, lad. Didn't mean to startle you."
"No harm," Fionn murmured. "But your words... tell me more of this 'wildness flowing' into a man."
Bran grinned, a flash of uneven teeth. "So, you're keen too, eh, young one? Smart lad. Hear this: the old stories say the Wardens of Heartwood, the true keepers, could draw the strength from a fallen beast. Not just its hide or meat, but its very spirit. We hunt, we claim that spirit. That's how a man becomes more than just a man."
"Three we've brought down already!" Kael boasted, thumping his chest.
"Almost there, we are," Roric added, a hungry glint in his eye.
Fionn felt a knot tighten in his gut. Three Shadow-Touched Beasts. The only one he'd truly faced had radiated a raw, ancient power, enough to shatter a dozen such men.
"Three?" Fionn asked, his voice quiet. "Does that mean one of you has already... become a keeper?"
A roar of laughter erupted from Bran's group, echoing through the common room. Even Lena stifled a giggle.
"Keeper?" Bran wiped a tear from his eye. "Bless your heart, boy. There's only the Steward, and his four sworn Wardens, who hold any of that old magic in Riversend. If one of us had found it, you think we'd still be sharing a mug with the likes of you?"
"Near died on each of them," Torvin grumbled, rubbing a bruised arm.
Fionn finally understood the whispers of scarcity he sometimes heard from the folk of the outlying hamlets. Such immense strength, yet so few to wield it.
Bran's gaze fell on the simple, smooth oak staff Fionn leaned against his chair. It was just a sturdy walking stick, worn smooth by his palm, imbued only by his own quiet connection.
"Say, lad, for someone asking about the hunt, your gear looks a mite... lacking. Where's your blade? Your bow?" Bran asked.
Fionn held up his staff. "My tools are the forest's own."
Bran's eyes narrowed. "Just wood, eh? No steel? No string?" He turned to his men. "What do you make of that, lads?"
"Looks like a sturdy stick, Bran," Roric scoffed. "Good for poking badger holes."
"He means he talks to the trees, maybe," Kael sneered, elbowing Torvin.
Bran shook his head. "Aye, a bit green, but perhaps you have keen eyes, lad? We've been looking for a tracker, someone who can spot the subtle signs. Fancy joining the Wildwood Stalkers for a spell?"
"No," Fionn said, his refusal firm but soft. "My path lies elsewhere. And my hunt is for a different kind of shadow."
Bran sighed, a sound of regret. "A shame. But the offer stands, if the wild bites you hard enough." He clapped Torvin on the back, heading to the bar for another round.
---
Later, Fionn lay on a thin straw pallet in a small loft above the common room. Rough-hewn planks offered little insulation. Below, he heard the muffled voices of Bran and his men.
"...that twig he calls a weapon? He'd be crushed by the first charge!" Torvin's voice was coarse, full of scorn.
"...scrawny thing. One swing from a Shadow-Boar and he'd be crying for his mother," Kael added.
Fionn closed his eyes. He recognized the pattern, the swift change from camaraderie to contempt once he was out of sight. It was the way of many settlements, many men. He simply breathed, allowing the slight, familiar disappointment to drift away like smoke.
Then, Bran's voice, surprisingly thoughtful. "...He's got a fire in his eyes, though. Reminds me of myself, chasing whispers in the woods with naught but a sharp stone. The lad's green, aye, but sometimes the quiet ones surprise you. Don't write him off so fast."
"...Always too soft, you are, hyungnim," Roric grumbled good-naturedly.
Fionn allowed himself a small, private smile. The hearts of men, like the forest, held both thorny thickets and unexpected clearings. He drifted into a fitful sleep.
---
Morning brought a chill mist that clung to the rooftops and swirled through the narrow lanes of Riversend. Fionn ate a simple breakfast of dense rye bread and hot berry tea, then set out.
A robust structure of ancient timbers and fitted stone, the Warden's Hall stood like a guardian at the nexus of Riversend's trade routes. People bustled in and out: a farmer complaining about wolf-penned losses, a merchant arguing tax levies, a young woman seeking a permit for a new forge.
Fionn found the Steward's Clerk behind a tall, scarred desk. A portly man with tired eyes and an air of weary authority, he barely looked up when Fionn approached. "State your business, drifter." His voice held a dismissive edge, as if Fionn were just another burden on his already full day.
"Seeking information on bounties for creatures of the wild," Fionn said, his voice level. He sensed the faint but constant hum of activity in the hall, the currents of human intent, but kept his own presence veiled. Revealing his connection to the anima here would only complicate matters. The Steward would see a potential tool, a rare asset to be leveraged. He wished only to seek the source of the growing imbalance, not to become entangled in the politics of man.
"Don't touch it. Read it, then hand it back," the Clerk grumbled, sliding a thick scroll of cured vellum across the desk. Descriptions of creatures, crudely drawn images, locations, and coin offerings were neatly penned. Weaker creatures, those merely vexing, required live capture. But the truly dangerous ones, those that preyed on humans or livestock with malicious intent, earned their bounty only with a corpse.
"Careful, greenhorn," the Clerk warned, without looking up. "Don't leave a body to rot. If the Wardens don't ritually cleanse it, a Shadow-Touched corpse can fester, draw worse things, even rise as a mindless Hollow. That's a hanging offense, leaving such a thing to corrupt the land. Remember it."
Fionn nodded, his face grim. He knew the truth of those words. He'd seen the lingering blight of neglected death, the subtle corruption seeping into the earth, stirring quiescent anima into monstrous forms.
"These creatures," Fionn ventured, tracing a finger over a particularly gruesome sketch of a slavering, horned beast. "Many seem... beyond the common man's reach. Do the Wardens not hunt them?"
Clerk finally looked up, a scowl on his face. "Do you think they have nothing better to do? The Wardens protect Riversend, keep peace within these walls, stand against invaders. The true threats, the ones that slip in from the deep woods... those are for foragers like you. If you're lucky, one of the Steward's four gifted Wardens might take an interest, but they have their own duties." He waved a dismissive hand.
A familiar pang of frustration tightened Fionn's chest. The land itself cried out, yet the chosen protectors were too often occupied with the squabbles of men.
Fionn returned the scroll, his gaze lingering on one entry.
---
*Shadowwing Corvus*
*A crow, unnaturally large, with primary feathers hardened and sharpened like obsidian shards. Its wings beat with a guttural rasp. Known to drop these bladed feathers from above, striking livestock and lone travelers. It preys on the young of beast and man alike at the forest's edge, leaving only scattered bones and crimson smears.*
---
He left the Warden's Hall, stepping back into the bustling street. Stone buildings thinned as he moved towards the settlement's western gate, giving way to rougher tracks, then finally the wild, untamed expanse of Heartwood Forest. A familiar scent of damp earth and growing things filled his lungs, calming the unease the settlement always stirred in him.
*Time to begin.*
He found a quiet clearing, ringed by ancient oaks whose lowest branches brushed the mossy ground. No human eye watched him here. He closed his eyes, centering himself, reaching out. His gifts were a subtle whisper, a tracing of the spirit that flowed through all living things.
"Corvus's Sight," Fionn murmured, a soft invocation. He sought the anima of the corvids, the black-feathered watchers of the sky.
Immediately, a thousand thousand echoes flooded his mind. A sharp, intelligent caw of a common crow perched on a distant pine. The frantic flutter of a fledgling trapped in a thicket. Rhythmic beats of countless wings as a flock moved through the upper canopy. Subtle ripples of life force, each distinct, each mundane.
"Too many," Fionn breathed, a faint tremor running through him. The sheer volume was deafening, a cacophony of normal life that obscured the subtle distortion he sought. He cancelled the ability, the flood receding, leaving a dull ache behind his eyes.
A direct search would not work.
*A Shadowwing Corvus.* He focused on the details from the scroll: *unnatural size, bladed feathers, preys on the young.*
He tried again, refining his intent. "Corvus, touched by shadow. Corvus, that carries the chill of corruption." He sought the stain of the blight, the anima warped by malice.
Forest remained silent, unresponsive. Or rather, it responded too broadly. The sense he gained was not of a single creature, but a pervasive, subtle disharmony at the edge of the woods, a general unease, not a specific beast. Blight seeped, it did not manifest cleanly. And the hunger for the young... many animals knew such hunger. It was not unique enough.
Fionn opened his eyes, a thoughtful frown on his face. This would require a different approach. He was hunting a shadow, not just a beast.