The Natural Order of Things

Finch had never met a Pendrin.

They eyed the strange man from the safety of their kiosk, fingers gripping the stone slab tightly. It held several handfuls of bone fragments, carefully sorted into little piles, each neatly labeled in fine Cinnish cursive.

Examining the bones, Finch figured that the storyteller would eventually find his way to Finch's kiosk. From a distance, his expression was unreadable, but there was a resigned exhaustion to his posture, a suspicious lurch to his step, though he walked relatively quickly. He was tall, willowy, and yet he did not seem vulnerable.

Finch had never truly understood the Pendrin, though they had heard many a story about them. Pendris was quite far from the rest of the lands; it floated distant in the north, and was not a popular tourist location. As a result, its inhabitants were rather odd. This one seemed no exception.

The Pendrin man stopped at a nearby kiosk. Finch noticed he favored his right leg, bending the left one slightly as he leaned in to speak with the kiosk's owner. Interesting, Finch thought. Though the man carried a cane, he didn't look older than twenty-five.

Finch set the bone tray down on their counter and pretended to look busy, digging a crate of vials from one of the boxes near their feet and tearing it open. A haze of eerie curiosity was blossoming in their chest. That man is no wanderer, they thought. He is here for a reason.

And he was. "'Scuse me," said a voice, rough around the edges, "can you spare a minute?"
Finch's head shot up in surprise. The Pendrin traveller stood hunched at the corner of the kiosk, leaning in to keep his head out of the sun.

"Er," Finch said. "What can I do for you, sir?"

The traveller frowned. "No need for formality, my friend," he said, "I'm probably of lower rank than you are. Most definitely, in fact. You sell bones, hm? What do you source?"

"Medium quality, sir." The Pendrin man frowned again, but Finch ignored it. "I can't offer you human or anything else sapient, but if that's alright, I have a lot to sell."

The man studied him for a few seconds. Then he grinned, extending a hand. "I'm Ferre," he said. "I get the feeling I'll be seeing a lot of you in the next couple days. You see, my friend, I'm on a mission. It's very dangerous, and I don't have the slightest idea what it is." Finch shook hesitantly. Something seemed very, very off about this Ferre fellow, and whatever it was, it didn't sit well with Finch.

"So," Ferre said conversationally, "I'll be needing quite a lot of a perfect thirds Stability mixture, if you will. As much as you feel comfortable selling to a single man in one transaction. Then I'll need you to direct me to the nearest wading dock."

"Wading dock?" Finch queried. "Can't you just hop the fence?"

Ferre grimaced, picking at his left glove with his right. "Not quite," he replied. "I'm not exactly out for a swim. I'm far from the most coordinated person in this city, and I'd rather not take a bath in the sludge at this very moment."

"I'll lead you there," said Finch, setting down the crate of vials and beginning to unpack a few. "Just allow me to bottle this mixture first, then find someone to hold my post. I needed a break anyways." That was a lie. Finch had been doing nearly nothing since they got there. Really, they just wanted to better understand this strange man, whose very presence made Finch uneasy.

Ferre watched in detached interest as Finch measured out bone fragments, ground them to dust, and funneled them into vials one at a time. He made Finch more than a little nervous. Something about the way he spoke suggested he was far, far wiser than he let on. Finch didn't like that.

Finch corked the last bottle and set it in the box with the others, then propped themself up on the table with a dusty hand and scratched the back of their neck with the other. They faked confidence as best as they knew how — they figured that it would help alleviate the discomfort Ferre inflicted, if only a little. "Tanner!" Finch shouted at the next kiosk over. "Keep an eye on my stall for a bit, yes?"

A silvery head popped up from behind a heap of boxes. "Of course," Tanner yelled in reply.

So Finch grabbed their hat and crammed it on, then slipped under the kiosk counter and out the other side in a flurry of scrambled fabrics. They felt awfully exposed in the bright sunlight. "This way," they said to Ferre, gesturing. "You can have your bones when you return."

The mismatched pair made their way down the Boardwalk, farther from the heart of Aurandren. Ferre stood more than a head taller than Finch, and looked quite a bit less tidy. His hair was reddish and windblown, several small scars dotting his face. A thick tear snaked from just below his jaw, disappearing into his collar.

He glanced down at Finch as they approached the wading dock. Finch caught the spark of distrust in his eyes, but it lasted no more than a blink. "I'm afraid I can't have you accompany me to the water," said Ferre, the jovial tone in his voice gone.

Finch gave a start. "Why not?"

"I place great value on my survival," Ferre said. Then he walked the last fifty feet on his own and crouched by the sloping deck, removing his gloves.

Finch hurried after him. "What do you mean?" they demanded.

Ferre tucked his hands into his coat as Finch approached, a vaguely sour expression on his face, but didn't say anything in reply. He simply turned slightly, his back to the bemused merchant, and dipped a hand delicately into the shallow water.

He's Drawing from it, Finch realised. Such an obvious reason. But why did he so fear being watched? Finch backed up several steps, partially out of respect and partially out of fear. Ferre was dangerous, that much was clear.

The air around Ferre's crouched form began to crackle, as before a strike of lightning. This charge came with any Drawing; it was the direct transfer of energy from source to user, but this time it was very strong. Tiny flashes of white danced along the fabric of his coat, his hair lifted strand by strand by the staggering current.

Finch had never seen such a lightshow. They stared, mouth ajar.

On most occasions, making contact with a Drawing Osteovore would result only in a mild shock, unpleasantly numbing. However, something told Finch that laying a single finger on Ferre at that moment could end only in a horrific death, burnt to cinders in a matter of seconds. They kept a good distance, but their curiosity gnawed.

With a sound like a circuit failing, Ferre dropped the Draw and stood up, donning his gloves once more. The tips of his shoes were damp.

The change was visible. He no longer slouched, and the exhaustion in his gaze was gone, replaced by a deadly focus. He retrieved his cane from where he had rested it against the railing and started back towards Finch, who, despite themself, could not shake the feeling of uneasy paranoia that the strange man instilled.

Ferre, however, was all but frightening. He grinned as he arrived at Finch's side, any harshness at Finch's earlier approach gone to the depths. "Sorry you had to be around for that," he said, letting Finch lead the way back to their kiosk on the Boardwalk. "Usually I don't let anyone near me when I Draw. Safety hazard, you know. I tried to warn you."

Something told Finch that the danger of the Draw was not all that Ferre had to hide.