A single copper coin bought Kaelen passage to the common room of The Rusty Hook, a dim tavern near the docks. The air hung thick with stale ale and the reek of fish, but the warmth of the hearth was a welcome change from the chill outside. He nursed a bowl of thin broth, the whispers in his mind a low hum against the boisterous chatter around him. Elara, a young woman with a tangled braid and eyes that darted with practiced efficiency, cleared a nearby table. Kaelen caught her gaze, a subtle nod prompting her to approach. “Anything else, quiet one?” she asked, her voice surprisingly gentle amidst the din. “Or just broth for a night?” Kaelen pushed his bowl forward. “Information,” he rasped, his voice rough from disuse. “Of the bounties. And where to find those who collect them.” Elara's brow furrowed, then lifted. “Ah, you mean the Bounty Guild. In the old market district, south of the Clock Tower. And bounties are listed at the Guild of Records, on the Plaza. You’ll want to talk to a scribe there.” She paused, leaning closer, her voice dropping. “Unless you’re looking for a Wardmaster, then that’s a different story.” “Wardmasters?” Kaelen asked, the word unfamiliar. The whispers stirred, a faint echo of forgotten meaning. Elara chuckled softly, a sound like dry leaves rustling. “You truly are new to Veridian, aren’t you? Wardmasters are those touched by the old magics. The city’s protectors, they say, though you rarely see them. Most folks just call them wizards.” She straightened, her expression shifting to one of mild amusement. “They say if you hunt enough Deep-Touched creatures, you can become a Wardmaster yourself. A fool's hope, if you ask me, but it gets plenty of drifters killed.” Before Kaelen could question her further, a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder. He flinched, not in surprise, but from the sudden, jarring contact. A man stood over him, smelling of sweat, stale smoke, and something distinctly metallic. His face was a roadmap of scars, his beard a wiry tangle, but his eyes held an unnerving clarity. “Lena, sweetling,” the man rumbled, his voice like gravel. “It’s not just a fool’s hope. It’s truth. I’ve seen it.” Three other men, burly and rough-hewn, gathered behind him. One hefted a massive hammer, another a spear tipped with scavenged metal, the third a crossbow. They wore crude leather and bits of salvaged armor, a patchwork of desperation and resilience. Kaelen shrugged the hand from his shoulder. The man, whose name Elara now cried out as Roric, gave a slight, surprised jerk. “Apologies,” Roric grunted, not sounding apologetic at all. “Didn’t mean to startle you, boy.” “What you said,” Kaelen pressed, ignoring the apology. “About becoming a Wardmaster.” Roric’s scarred face split into a wide grin, revealing teeth stained by grim living. “Interested in the path, are we, young one? The whispers of the Deep Kin, they say, hold power. And when a creature is twisted by those whispers, its essence becomes a conduit. Kill enough of them, absorb their vitality, and the path to true power opens.” His crew nodded, a chorus of affirmations. “We’ve brought down three already!” one boasted, thumping his hammer on the wooden floor. “Close to breaking through!” another chimed in, eyes alight with fervent belief. Kaelen’s gaze swept over them, a calculation running cold through his mind. Three Deep-Touched creatures? The ones he had encountered in the Scorch were formidable, easily capable of tearing apart a group such as this. “And one of you has become a Wardmaster?” he asked, the words simple, direct. A roar of laughter erupted from the surrounding tables. Elara shook her head, a sympathetic curve to her lips. “Bless your heart, country boy. There are maybe four Wardmasters in all of Veridian. The Lord of the City, and his three Captains of the Guard. If these fools had managed it, we’d all know.” Roric merely grunted, a flicker of resentment in his eyes. “It ain’t easy, boy. We’ve faced death more times than I can count. But the promise is real.” Kaelen understood then. The true Wardmasters were rare, their numbers dwindled since the Cataclysm. The concept of arcane power was largely a lost art, replaced by desperate myths and half-truths. Small wonder the world felt so… unmoored. Roric’s eyes narrowed, falling on the crude leather pouch Kaelen wore at his hip. “You’re looking to hunt, but your gear… thin. No blade? No bow?” Kaelen reached into the pouch, pulling out a smooth, egg-sized river stone. It was dark, almost black, and faintly caught the flickering hearthlight, a dull sheen across its surface. This was not a weapon, not in the way Roric meant. It was a focal point, a conduit for the subtle energies that coalesced at his touch. Roric's men exchanged glances. “Just a sling stone?” the hammer-wielder scoffed. “The wear on it,” Roric mused, ignoring his subordinate. He turned the stone over in Kaelen's palm with a calloused finger. “Looks well-used. What do you hunt with this, boy? Smaller things? Skitters or Shadow-Rats, perhaps?” Kaelen felt a prickle of annoyance. They assumed he hunted the least dangerous, the creatures barely touched by the Deep. He had faced beasts that could rend metal and melt stone. He simply nodded, letting them believe what they wished. “A good marksman is hard to find,” Roric offered, a glint in his eye. “Join us tomorrow. We’re heading out to clear some nesting Glimmer-Wings from the old docks. Easy coin.” “No,” Kaelen replied, his voice firm. His path was his own, his quarry far different from theirs. He needed no witnesses to his burgeoning power, no distractions from the whispers. Roric frowned, disappointment etching deeper lines around his eyes. “A shame. But the offer stands. You change your mind, you know where to find us.” --- Kaelen retrieved a key from Elara and ascended the creaking stairs to his tiny room. The bed was hard, the air stale, but it was shelter. As he lay down, the voices from below drifted through the warped floorboards. “Roric, why’d you try to bring in that scrawny kid?” a voice grumbled. “He looked like he’d shatter if a Glimmer-Wing sneezed too hard.” “Barely had a decent weapon,” another added with a snicker. “Just some pebble in a pouch.” The ridicule was familiar. Kaelen had known enough men like these in his hard life, men who smiled to your face and sharpened their tongues behind your back. He merely breathed out a slow sigh. That was just the way people were. Roric’s voice, rough but with an underlying weariness, broke through the derision. “He reminded me of myself, years ago. Green, hungry. Out in the wastes with nothing but hope and a prayer. It’s a harsh world out there, boys. Harder than you know.” The whispers in Kaelen’s mind resonated with Roric’s words. The world truly was harsh, and he knew it better than most. He closed his eyes, letting the murmurs of the Deep Kin calm the noise. --- The next morning, Kaelen ate his allotted portion of hardtack and watered-down tea, then made his way to the Guild of Records. The old market district bustled, a clash of steam-powered carts and merchants hawking their wares. The Guild building, a hulking structure of dark, soot-stained stone, bore the marks of ancient masonry and hurried, utilitarian repairs. Once, arcane symbols might have adorned its facade; now, only scarred stone remained. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old paper and nervous sweat. Citizens jostled, arguing over property deeds and trade tariffs. Kaelen navigated through the crowd, his stoic demeanor deflecting attention, until he found the designated counter for bounties. Master Thorne, a thin man with spectacles perched precariously on his nose, peered over a stack of ledgers. His expression was a permanent sneer, his eyes dismissing Kaelen as soon as they landed on his worn clothes. “What do you want, drifter? If it’s charity, you’re in the wrong place.” “Bounty,” Kaelen stated, his voice flat. He could feel the primordial energy humming beneath his skin, the whispers ready to surge. Revealing his power here would be a mistake. He would be questioned, perhaps paraded before the city's Wardmasters, or worse, forced into service. He simply needed a target, a task. Thorne grunted, pushing a grimy ledger across the counter. “Don’t touch it, just read. And bring it back.” Kaelen's eyes scanned the page, his gaze settling on an entry: ~~~~~~~ **Shard-Winged Harrier** *A large, carrion-feeding bird mutated by Deep Whispers. Its primary wing feathers have hardened into sharp, obsidian-like shards, capable of deflecting common projectiles and delivering lacerating attacks. Known to prey on stray animals and unattended children near the city’s decrepit outer wall, leaving scattered remains.* ~~~~~~~ He pushed the ledger back. “I understand.” Thorne’s thin finger tapped the warning at the bottom of the page. “Listen well, boy. Even if you kill one, don’t leave the corpse out there. If the Wardmasters don’t cleanse its essence, it’ll twist further, reanimate as an Aberration. Leaving a Deep-Touched corpse un-cleansed is punishable by the Chain-Gang. Or worse. Got it?” Kaelen felt a cold knot in his stomach. The Scorch outside Veridian had shown him what un-cleansed power could do, the horrifying echoes of life that clung to forgotten ruins. He had seen the nascent stirrings of such perversions. The warning resonated deep within him. “I understand,” he repeated, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic intensity. “Some of these creatures seem dangerous,” Kaelen ventured, a question he’d been pondering. “Do the Wardmasters not deal with them?” Thorne scoffed, adjusting his spectacles. “Do you think they have time for common scavenger hunts? The Wardmasters protect the city from grander threats, maintain order, defend against invasions. Hunting rogue Deep-Touched is for… drifters like you. Weaker souls. They protect the city’s heart, not its frayed edges.” A faint bitterness pricked at Kaelen. If true power resided within the Wardmasters, why did they not use it to safeguard the helpless, those at the city's margins? The whispers, though subtle, spoke of a deeper responsibility. He simply turned and left, the image of the Shard-Winged Harrier vivid in his mind. Beyond Veridian’s reinforced gates, the sprawling city gave way to a ragged scrubland, littered with the skeletal remains of forgotten industry. The sky, a bruised gray, pressed down. Kaelen took a deep breath, letting the arid air fill his lungs, the city's noise fading behind him. *Shard-Winged Harrier.* He closed his eyes, letting the whispers guide his senses, stretching outward. He sought a resonance, a distortion in the natural order. A thousand flapping wings, a cacophony of caws and cries, assailed his mind. The air itself vibrated with avian life, from sparrows to ravens to carrion birds. “Too many,” he muttered, opening his eyes. The sheer volume overwhelmed his nascent ability. He needed to refine it. He tried again, focusing, trying to filter for the presence of the Deep Kin’s influence, the subtle taint of primordial power. Nothing. The spell, or rather, his innate connection, failed to find the specific signature. It wasn’t strong enough to discern such a nuanced difference across the vastness of the plains. Next, he attempted to sense creatures that had consumed human flesh, a brutal, specific filter. Instantly, his mind was flooded with a sickening rush of images: countless scavengers, rats, gulls, even insects, all of them having fed on the lingering remains of the unlucky. Too broad, too common. This method would lead him on a wild goose chase through the forgotten debris of countless tragedies. Kaelen stood amidst the desolation, the wind whipping at his cloak. His frustration was a tight knot in his chest. His connection to the whispers was powerful, raw, but still unrefined. He needed to learn to ask the right questions, to listen more closely to the ancient echoes that lay dormant within him. He would find another way. ---

Whispers in the Hearthlight