Cool night air, crisp with the distant tang of coal smoke, clung to the Veridian Bastion. Kaelen found the common room of the Wayfarer’s Respite a dim, bustling space, alive with the drone of exhausted travelers and the clatter of pewter mugs. Seeking a quiet corner, he offered a polished copper coin to Elara, the inn’s proprietor, a woman with quick, knowing eyes that missed little.
“An Irregularity, you say?” Elara’s brow arched. Her voice was raspy, worn from countless evenings of chatter. “Seeking a bounty, then? The Municipal Ledgerhouse is where you’ll find that. Center of the district, hard to miss.”
Kaelen nodded, a silent acknowledgment. He had little familiarity with Hegemony administrative centers, his life having unfolded largely beyond such ordered structures. He asked for clarification, a quiet inquiry about 'Ledgerhouse operations.'
Elara laughed, a short, dry sound. “You must be fresh from the Outlands, sweetling. Never set foot in a proper city?” Her amusement was not unkind. She explained the Ledgerhouse as the heart of civic record-keeping, where various public tasks were overseen, and ‘Claim Overseers’ managed bounties.
He decided against visiting tonight. The hour was late, the city’s pulse slowing. He settled on seeking information come morning.
“By the by,” Elara mused, wiping down a greasy table, “why do you chase these ‘Irregularities’? One of those Wildling Pursuers, are you?”
Kaelen’s gaze sharpened. “What does that entail?”
“Ah, the old tales,” she said, rolling her eyes with a practiced weariness. “Some folk believe if you hunt these beasts, you absorb their primal current, become… ‘attuned.’ Gain strange powers. Like those Ward-Captains, or the Ward-Master himself.” She shrugged. “Most of us call it a peasant’s fancy. Madness, really, risking life for a myth.”
Movement at the doorway drew Kaelen’s attention. A man, somewhere in his late thirties, stood there, framed by the flickering gaslight. Unkempt hair, a beard thick with dust, but eyes that held an unnerving clarity. His frame suggested a life of hard labor, perhaps in the steam-mines or the harsh Ashfall itself. He wore scavenged leather and roughspun, and a strange, improvised looking steam-pistol was holstered at his hip.
“Lena, now, you know better,” the man rumbled, stepping forward. His voice carried a low grit. “The idea of primal attunement isn’t just some campfire tale. It’s truth. I’ve seen it myself.”
Elara, or Lena as the man called her, visibly brightened. “Orrin! You’re alive, old fool?”
“Did you wish me dead? I told you, I won’t pass until I’ve taken my own attunement!”
Three burly figures shadowed Orrin. Their gear was a mix of Hegemony discards and brutal, hand-forged tools—heavy mallets, barbed spears, even a crude, short-barreled carbine that hissed faintly with escaping steam. Their bulk seemed to suck the ambient light from the corner.
Orrin’s hand clapped Kaelen’s shoulder, a surprisingly firm, calloused grip. Kaelen felt a faint tremor in the local ley-lines as the man’s crude energy pressed against him. He stiffened, then subtly shifted, dislodging the hand with a practiced ease.
“Ah, my apologies, friend,” Orrin said, withdrawing his hand, a flicker of surprise in his sharp eyes. “Didn’t mean to startle.”
“It’s fine,” Kaelen replied, his tone even. “But I found your earlier statement… intriguing. About primal attunement.”
“Ah, so you’re interested in the path, young one?” Orrin grinned, a flash of uneven teeth. He looked pleased, his gaze assessing. “Come, sit. This is the way of it.”
Orrin settled onto a bench, his contingent arrayed behind him. He explained the superstition as if it were established fact: 'Sensates'—his term for primal users—killed 'Irregularities' and drew on their residual current. Common folk could do the same. He claimed personal witness to several who had gained some minor attunement this way, mostly to enhanced strength or resilience.
“That’s why the four of us pursue the Wildlings,” Orrin declared, thumping a fist on the table. “To gain what’s owed.”
“We’ve felled three of the brutes already!” one of his men boomed.
“Almost there, we are,” another added, a fervent gleam in his eyes.
The casual mention of three ‘Irregularities’ startled Kaelen. He’d encountered a single, monstrous corrupted leopard in the Ashfall, a creature of such raw, untamed current that a dozen armed men would have been easily torn apart.
“Three, you say?” Kaelen asked, his voice a low current beneath the din. “Does that mean one of you has already achieved attunement?”
His question triggered a wave of laughter across the common room. Even Lena snorted into her rag.
“Of course not, lad!” Orrin’s laughter was a bark. “In this entire bastion, there are only four true Sensates: the Ward-Master and his three Ward-Captains. A scant handful in a city of tens of thousands. If even one of us manifested true attunement, it’d make life a lot easier for the rest.”
“Honestly, we nearly expired on all three hunts,” a third man muttered, rubbing a scarred arm. “Twice for the burrowers, and once with that blasted Shadow-Stalker.”
Four Sensates in a city of this size. Kaelen recalled Varek’s constant lamentations regarding the decline of those who truly understood the ley-lines. The world was indeed thinning.
Orrin’s gaze drifted to Kaelen’s simple, worn pack. “By the way, you spoke of chasing Wildlings. Your gear seems… sparse for such pursuits. No proper implements?”
Kaelen reached into an inner pocket. He produced the lambskin sling Varek had helped him craft, its leather smooth and dark with use, carefully braided cord still supple. It looked insignificant beside the burly men’s crude steam-weapons and heavy iron tools.
He expected mockery, a dismissive sneer at such a primitive implement. Instead, Orrin’s men leaned in, expressions surprisingly keen.
“A sling, then?” one of them murmured, eyes tracing the worn leather. “You use it for stones?”
“The wear suggests considerable practice,” another observed, a rough finger tracing the groove in the leather cup. “What caliber of shot do you prefer?”
“Stones, roughly the size of a pigeon’s egg,” Kaelen stated.
“Enough to cave the skull of a corrupted rabbit or one of those feathered vermin,” Orrin nodded, a speculative glint in his eye. From their words, Kaelen understood: they hunted 'Irregularities' born of smaller, weaker creatures—scavenging corvids, burrowing moles, perhaps even feral dogs. These were creatures that, as ordinary animals, a strong man could fell bare-handed. Corrupted, they were dangerous, but nothing like the true monsters of the Ashfall.
“Tell you what,” Orrin offered, leaning forward, “we’re always keen for a marksman. Join us on a hunt? Our contingent could use another hand.”
Kaelen’s thoughts drifted to the subtle, almost imperceptible tremor that still pulled at the deeper ley-currents beneath the city, a profound anomaly that held far more interest than any minor ‘Irregularity.’ He shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I must decline.”
He had no intention of revealing his capabilities, not to men who misunderstood the fundamental nature of primal currents so completely. His path lay elsewhere, deeper.
Orrin’s face fell, a brief flash of disappointment. “Tch, a shame. But the offer stands, should you change your mind.” He settled back, accepting Kaelen’s refusal.
Kaelen retrieved a small brass key from Elara, its number cold against his palm, and ascended the narrow, creaking stairs to his room. Sleep came slowly, the sounds of the common room filtering through the floorboards—the rumble of conversation, the occasional clink of a mug. He heard Orrin’s men, their voices a little slurred, discussing him.
“Orrin, why bother with that scrawny lad? He seemed no help at all.”
“Barely a breath of a man, one good shove and he’d crumble.”
The casual derision, following their earlier camaraderie, was not new. Kaelen had seen it often enough in the remote villages of the Hegemony. He felt no offense, only a quiet understanding of human nature. A sigh escaped him, a faint puff of air in the darkness.
A moment later, Orrin’s deeper voice broke through the floorboards. “Foolish talk. Seeing him, with only that sling to hand… reminded me of my own younger days. Barely a thread of good sense. One doesn’t last long out there relying on so little.”
“Always too kind-hearted, Orrin, that’s your trouble.”
“Who’s to say otherwise?” Orrin’s reply was gruff, a mix of acceptance and resignation. Kaelen closed his eyes, the subtle hum of the world’s currents a constant presence beneath the surface of the city’s industrial drone. Good people, bad people, all part of the same convoluted flow.
---
Morning arrived, painting the grimy window with weak, filtered light. Kaelen ate the sparse breakfast provided by the inn—a slab of dark, dense bread and a thin, peppery broth—then made his way toward the Municipal Ledgerhouse. The structure dominated the central plaza, a blocky, utilitarian edifice of dark, soot-stained stone and steel, crowned by a belching steam-vent.
The interior was a low hum of bureaucratic activity. Steam-powered ledger-machines hissed, clerks scratched quills, citizens shuffled through various lines. A tense exchange between an elderly couple and a housing official over lease disputes snagged his peripheral attention. He navigated the crowded hall, following the sparse, official signage, until he located the 'Irregularity Claims' desk.
Behind the counter sat a jowly, middle-aged man, his uniform neatly pressed, his expression a mask of weary disdain. Kaelen, in his travel-worn clothes, was clearly not a priority. “What do you want?” the man snapped, barely glancing up from a sheaf of papers.
Kaelen felt the deep currents of the world, quiescent now beneath the mundane clamor of the Ledgerhouse, stirring faintly at the official’s dismissive tone. He considered, for a fleeting moment, revealing a fraction of his capabilities. The man would undoubtedly fall to his knees, his disdain evaporating into terrified deference. Yet, such a display would invite immediate, unwanted attention. The Hegemony was swift to categorize, to control. To be recognized as a ‘Primal-Sensate’ meant either forced enlistment, endless interrogation, or worse, becoming a prized, paraded guest of some minor noble, trapped in a gilded cage of etiquette and expectation.
No, Kaelen needed to move unseen, to pursue the deeper currents without drawing the Hegemony’s grasping hand. He simply stated, “I am here regarding an Irregularity bounty.”
“Take it, read it, and return it. Do not attempt to abscond with official documents.” A moment later, a thick parchment was pushed across the counter. It listed various ‘Irregularities’—their observed traits, locations, and the corresponding ‘Claim Payments.’ Weaker ones required capture for identification; more dangerous ones demanded dispatch and the presentation of remains.
“A word of caution,” the official droned, his gaze still fixed on his papers. “Even if you merely incapacitate an Irregularity, you must bring it back. Abandoned remains not processed by the Ward-Captains can succumb to ‘Residual Decay.’ They coalesce into an Undead Spirit. Leaving such a corpse is a capital offense under Hegemony Statute 7-B. Keep that in mind.”
Kaelen’s grip tightened on the parchment. He had seen the horrors of Residual Decay firsthand in the Ashfall Expanse. The official’s warning was not simply bureaucracy; it was a grim truth. “I understand,” Kaelen replied, his voice low.
“Some of these entries,” Kaelen continued, pointing to a particularly dangerous-sounding ‘Irregularity’ description, “seem rather severe for ordinary citizens. Do the Ward-Captains not handle these?”
The official finally looked up, his expression one of utter amazement, as if Kaelen had asked why the Ward-Master didn’t personally sweep the streets. “Do you believe they possess such leisure?” he scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “The Ward-Captains maintain civic order, defend our infrastructure from external threats. Hunting common Irregularities is left to… drifters like yourself.”
Kaelen’s eyes dropped back to the parchment. His finger traced an entry near the top:
* **Irregularity:** Iron-Beak Corvidae
* **Description:** A corvid species with feathers partially mutated into hardened, razor-sharp blades. Can deflect low-velocity projectiles and attack by diving and shedding these feathers. Prone to preying on small livestock and unattended children in the outer districts, often scattering remains…
A bitter taste filled his mouth. If the Ward-Captains—the city’s only known Sensates—were meant to be humanity’s protectors, why were such horrors left to fester, to be dealt with by desperate commoners? It was a stark reminder of the Hegemony’s priorities, its careful suppression of true primal understanding, its focus on control over genuine protection. A quiet frustration settled in Kaelen’s chest.
Leaving the Ledgerhouse, Kaelen walked toward the city’s fringes. The imposing stone and steam-powered structures gave way to smaller, ramshackle dwellings, then to fallow fields and wilder scrubland. Soon, the familiar expanse of the Ashfall’s scarred terrain began, stretching toward the horizon.
He ensured he was alone, well beyond the last visible dwelling. The ley-lines here felt thin, frayed by the city’s constant industry, but still present. He considered the ‘Iron-Beak Corvidae’ from the docket. A localized corruption, preying on the vulnerable.
Kaelen closed his eyes, letting his awareness expand, reaching for the subtle vibrations beneath the earth. He focused, channeling his perception through the primal currents, seeking a specific resonance. “Corvid Resonance,” he whispered, a quiet intent, not a spell.
Suddenly, his mind was flooded. Hundreds of tiny echoes surged through the ley-lines—the rustle of feathers, the sharp caw of unseen birds, the frantic beat of wings against the air. An overwhelming cacophony, too broad, too diffuse. He winced, a flicker of pain behind his eyes, and sharply pulled back his awareness.
This crude approach would not suffice. The sheer number of ordinary corvids near the city made such a blanket perception useless. He needed precision.
What truly distinguished an ‘Irregularity’? It possessed a trace of corruption, a faint primal saturation beyond its mundane counterparts. He attempted to filter his perception, seeking only corvid echoes imbued with this subtle, wild current. Yet, no distinct pattern emerged. The corruption was too localized, too thin to register as a separate signature on the ley-lines.
Next, he tried narrowing the search to corvids linked to recent, violent consumption of sapient life. Again, his awareness found too many echoes—scavengers, drawn to discarded remains, carrion. The ‘Iron-Beak’s’ specific depredations were lost in the ambient hum of death and decay. The hunt would require a different approach, a more delicate, precise touch on the world’s currents.
Kaelen opened his eyes, surveying the desolate landscape. A faint, persistent prickle on his skin reminded him of the deeper anomaly still pulling at him from further beyond the city. This 'Iron-Beak' was a distraction, a necessary chore, but the true current demanded his attention.