Aethelburg hummed with the discordant pulse of a frontier city, a stark contrast to the desolate quiet Joric had left behind. Within the common room of the Wayfarer's Respite, the air thickened with the scent of roasted meat, cheap spirits, and unwashed humanity. He found a quiet corner, near a grimy window, and ordered a simple broth and bread. His gaze drifted, observing the myriad threads of human intent: some clear and direct, others tangled with deceit or desperation. He sought information. Direct inquiry, he knew, often yielded suspicion or misunderstanding. Better to observe, to listen, to let the necessary threads reveal themselves. Beside him, a weathered barman, his face a map of the plains, wiped down the counter with a practiced ease. “New in Aethelburg, eh, master?” the man rumbled, his voice like river stones. “Indeed,” Joric replied, his tone measured. “I seek the administrative nexus for local ordinances, specifically regarding certain... errant fauna.” He avoided the term 'corrupted beasts,' understanding its limited public currency. Barman chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “’Administrative nexus,’ you say? You mean the Archives of the Cindaran Accord. Right in the city’s heart. Ask for an Arbiter, they handle all the city’s ledger-keeping and beast-slayer bounties.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “You one of them Harvesters, then?” Joric’s brow furrowed slightly. “Harvesters?” “Aye,” the barman explained. “The ones who believe slaying a Corrupted Beast can grant them some kind of… primal affinity. Make ‘em like the old tales of the Wardens, eh? Most folks call it folly. But enough try it to keep the Arbiter busy.” He shrugged, dismissing the notion as foolish. Joric held his composure, though a flicker of cold understanding passed through him. This was the distorted whisper of true power, the crude interpretation of a Scion’s subtle touch upon reality. The primal forces *did* resonate, *did* leave imprints. But to believe mere killing could grant mastery over fundamental threads? It was a dangerous, ignorant delusion. Still, it explained the presence of so many desperate souls in a frontier city. A heavy hand clapped Joric’s shoulder, jarring him from his thoughts. “Heard you talking about bounties, young one,” a gruff voice announced. Joric shifted, the subtle vibrations of the other man’s touch an intrusion. He turned to face a man of thick bone and scarred skin, somewhere in his middle years. Unkempt hair framed eyes that, despite the weariness, held a startling, predatory glint. Behind him stood three others, equally burly, armed with blunt, practical axes and long, barbed spears. These were Kaelen and his Harvesters, then. “Midan, at your service,” the leader said, correcting Joric’s silent assumption. “These are my brothers in the hunt. Heard you might be looking for work? We’re always in need of a good hand, especially one who sounds so… educated.” He grinned, a flash of uneven teeth. “My apologies, but my objectives differ,” Joric stated, his voice even. “My path is my own.” He subtly nudged a few ambient air currents, making the Harvester’s rough hand slip from his shoulder without apparent effort. Midan merely raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what do you use for your ‘path,’ then? No weapon on you I can see.” Joric reached into his satchel, producing a small, intricately carved stylus – an artisan’s tool, used for precise architectural drafting. He held it out, a slender shaft of polished darkwood, tipped with a fine point of cerulean crystal. “My tools are for precision, not blunt force.” Midan’s men exchanged amused glances. “A quill? To hunt beasts?” one snickered. “No, no, lads, look closer,” Midan interjected. “That’s a Scriber’s point, isn’t it? Finely made. Used for marking points of strain in ancient stone, or maybe for the finer arts of a cartographer.” He looked at Joric, a spark of something unreadable in his eyes. “You’ve a steady hand, then? Perhaps for ranged work? We’ve brought down three lesser corruptions already. A few more, and one of us might just touch that primal affinity they talk about.” “Three?” Joric asked, a subtle shift in his focus. He knew the sheer, raw power of a Corrupted Beast, even a lesser one. To take three required cunning, or great sacrifice. Laughter erupted from the table. “Aye, three of the smaller ones,” Midan’s men clarified. “A Corrupted Brambleback, an Ashwing Murk, and a Blight-Squirrel! Near took a leg off Faron here, that squirrel did!” “Wouldn’t have wanted to face a true Sky-Predator with just that little stick, eh?” another jested, eyeing Joric’s stylus with renewed derision. “Even if you did mark its weak spots, you’d still have to get close enough to finish it.” Joric remained impassive. Their prey were mutated forms of common fauna, not the towering, elemental monstrosities he had encountered in the wastes. His silent assessment confirmed his decision. “My gratitude for the offer, but I must decline.” He would not endanger others with his true capabilities, nor reveal his subtle manipulations to such a company. Midan clapped him once more, this time on his un-tended arm. “A pity. But the offer stands, if you change your mind.” He nodded, then turned back to his men, their boisterous voices receding as they moved towards their own table. Joric finished his meal, the broth surprisingly hearty. --- Later, as the low thrum of the common room conversations drifted upwards through the floorboards of his rented room, Joric overheard Midan’s men. “—still don’t know why you even bothered, Midan. He looked like he’d shatter if a strong wind blew.” “Aye, all proper and quiet. No good for a true hunt.” A deeper voice, Midan’s, cut through the others. “Tsk. Reminded me of myself, years ago. Too green for this life, too proud to admit it. He’ll learn, or he’ll break. Happens all the time.” A sigh followed, heavy with experience. “Just trying to offer the lad a chance.” Joric closed his eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor passing through the air around him. The complexities of human interaction, the layers of crude perception masking deeper, often contradictory, impulses. The world was indeed a grand, untidy mechanism. --- The next dawn, Aethelburg awoke to a misty chill. Joric consumed the inn’s sparse breakfast, then moved towards the city’s heart. The Archives of the Cindaran Accord stood a block of unyielding grey stone, its facade marked with the intricate, spiraling symbols of the Dominion’s ancient bureaucracy. Citizens bustled in and out, their individual threads of concern knotting and unraveling around the building’s heavy oak doors. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and stale ink. Joric navigated through the labyrinthine corridors, his senses attuned to the subtle flows of authority and order. He eventually located the Arbiter’s desk, a vast, imposing slab of darkwood piled high with scrolls and ledgers. Behind it sat a portly, sour-faced man, quill scratching impatiently across a document. “Yes? State your purpose, quickly. My ledger waits for no man.” The Arbiter did not look up, his voice curt. “I seek information regarding current bounties on Corrupted Fauna within the region,” Joric replied, his voice precise. Arbiter finally lifted his gaze, his eyes narrowing as he took in Joric’s quiet demeanor and simple, travel-worn attire. A dismissive sniff escaped him. “Another glory-seeker, are we? This isn’t a training ground for half-wit heroics. These beasts are dangerous. Not for the faint of heart or light of coin.” Joric felt the slight tension in the air, the Arbiter's thread of disdain. He considered a subtle manipulation, a gentle coaxing of the official’s perception, but dismissed it. Such actions could leave residual ripples, drawing undue attention. His objective was swift acquisition of data, not a demonstration of power. “I merely require the current list, Arbiter,” Joric stated, his calm unyielding. “I understand the inherent risks.” With a grumble, the Arbiter pulled a rolled parchment from a cubby. “Here. No touching it without my say. Read it, then hand it back.” He extended it grudgingly. “Mind the caveats. Some are for live capture, the lesser ones. The true threats, the ones that hunger, you bring back their physical forms. No proof, no coin.” Joric took the parchment, his eyes scanning the precise, elegant script. Descriptions of creatures, their known territories, the scale of the rewards. The Arbiter’s voice continued, a low drone of instruction and warning. “Pay heed, boy. Even a slain Corrupted Beast can be dangerous. The primal energies that bind them don’t simply dissipate. If left to decay un-tended, they can fester, coalesce, and give rise to an Undead Spirit. An abomination. Abandoning a corporeal form after a kill is an offense punishable by the Blade and Ash. This city does not tolerate such carelessness.” Joric absorbed the warning, his mind racing. The Arbiter spoke of primal energies, though he understood them as crude magic. Joric knew the truth: the fundamental threads of life, once corrupted and then severed, could indeed fray into dangerous, reanimating echoes. The Dominion’s law, perhaps unknowingly, contained a deep-seated truth about the nature of his world. “Understood, Arbiter. The threat of secondary corruption is significant.” Arbiter looked momentarily surprised at Joric’s phrasing, but quickly regained his usual brusqueness. “Indeed. So, you comprehend the gravity. Some of these on the list… they’re not for amateurs. Why aren’t the Citadel Sentinels dealing with the more dangerous threats?” “The Sentinels?” the Arbiter scoffed, straightening a stack of papers. “Their mandate is clear: maintain public order, guard the walls against external threats. Hunting stray beasts in the wilds? That’s for opportunists and dreamers like yourself. The Dominion’s heart needs protection, not its frayed edges.” Joric felt a familiar, cold bitterness. The Cindaran Dominion, in its meticulous order, had forgotten its true heritage, its subtle guardians. The very fabric of reality frayed at its borders, yet the official gaze remained fixed on the visible, mundane threats. The ‘frayed edges,’ as the Arbiter called them, were where the true decay began. He returned the parchment. His eyes had already fixed on a particular entry. --- *Skyshard Raven: A large avian, its midnight feathers partially replaced by jagged, crystalline growths. It can launch these razor-sharp quills with surprising force, capable of piercing hardened leather. Known to hunt small livestock and, occasionally, unsupervised children near the city’s northern outskirts. Its nest often contains fragments of polished bone and discarded metal.* --- Joric nodded his thanks, then turned and left the Archives. He moved through the city’s busy thoroughfares, the scent of market spices and stable dung growing fainter as he neared the northern gates. Beyond them, the familiar wilderness beckoned, an untamed realm of subtle energies and growing chaos. The buildings thinned, giving way to sparse scrubland and a low, winding road. ‘Time to begin.’ He stood amidst the whispering grasses, the cool morning air carrying the distant calls of ordinary avians. Joric closed his eyes, extending his consciousness, not casting a spell, but unfurling his perception. He sought the *threads of resonance*, the fundamental energetic signatures of the world around him. He focused on avine life, seeking the precise pattern of a raven. Immediately, a clamor of raw information assailed him. Hundreds of faint, flickering threads of raven-life registered: the distant beat of wings, the subtle friction of feathers against air, the minute shifts in their internal structures as they moved. An overwhelming, chaotic hum of mundane existence. Filtering for a single, *corrupted* thread amidst this raw data was like trying to find a specific grain of sand in a desert by touch alone. He pulled back, the sudden influx of unrefined data almost dizzying. ‘Insufficient focus,’ he thought. He re-centered, refining his intent. He sought not just avine threads, but *distorted* avine threads. Threads bearing the signature of corruption, a jagged alteration in their inherent pattern. And further, threads linked to *predatory intent* directed at human or livestock life. A complex filtering process, a mental gesture of profound precision. Still, the raw, ambient energies of the world proved too noisy. The myriad mundane currents, the faint echoes of past violence, the residual energies of other creatures – they all interfered. He could perceive *something* jagged, a thread of discord, but it was too diffuse, too lost in the background hum of the frontier. The Skyshard Raven was not a singularity of overwhelming power, but a subtle distortion, clever in its concealment. His methods, though precise, needed further refinement for this specific hunt.

Echoes in the Aethelburg Dusk