Wesraaks hears of agreements made with House Kings, permitting them to settle a number of miles away from the city limits. The House of Gentle Weavers forgo the offer of permanent residency, with their sights set to primarily occupy a dwarf planet named 'Ceres'. Why they would want to be hundreds of millions of miles from the Great Machine and their own people after spending so long in isolation adrift, he does not know.

He assumes that humanity's presence on Earth is a contributing factor. Human existence proves difficult to stamp out entirely. Pockets of survivors turn up in the most unlikely of places. Where one dies, another ten take their place. They rally, and stage feeble attempts at rebellion against their oppressors. In the shadow of their Whirlwind, however, offensive measures are laughable.

A bizarre solution that gains traction is to round the survivors up, and learn from them. Ask to be taught about the city they took from them, rather than guess and assume and ruin it further. Once the humans realise they won't be hurt, they tend to cooperate. Some have more cultural knowledge than technological, and vice versa, but their utility is undeniable. With their assistance, and as divisive a strategy it is, the city and efforts to rebuild its infrastructure begin to take shape thanks to them.

But like thousands of others, Wesraaks is lost within it all.

While evident that he is no warrior, and therefore unfit to patrol the edges of their territory to cull the survivors, Wesraaks hops from role to role. He moves from construction, to street cleaning, to ship maintenance, to trying his hand at weaving alongside his parents. No task suits him as well as mining, but a planet plentiful in resources removes the need to venture out to the stars. The rubble from destroyed buildings is predicted to sustain the Servitor network for years.

Varzis's glare grows fiercer with each request raised to change jobs.

As he travels the city, picking up jobs and tasks here and there from whoever might have use for a Drekh, signs attract his attention. On the side of buildings, scrawled over partially destroyed murals and images, lit up on screens, and flickering on holographic displays. The space they occupy across London's streets goes mostly ignored. There are more important things to focus on than whatever information someone insists on sharing, and which will only get covered over or replaced at a later time.

It is not until he stands on a train platform, waiting to go home after a day of entering data for a Captain, that he reads the signage properly. The vast black screen of what was once a billboard shows the largest message he has seen, painted in thick white lettering.

The Kell Guard requires Trappers. No restrictions on applicants. No recommendations required. Multiple recruitment opportunities. Bring only the drive to work hard and learn. Go to the western city gate, and ask for the Hunter.

The next morning, under dark grey clouds and constant drizzle, he makes his way to that district. Constant movement of Pikes, Eliksni, and their cargo churns the wide dirt track leading to the city's wall into nothing more than ankle deep mud and pale brown puddles. Each footstep leaves him fearing he may get stuck and never escape, even when tiptoeing across the remaining slippery patches of grass.

Where he stumbles, wrenching his lower legs free of the mud and windmilling his two arms for balance, he feels eyes upon him. The Dancers and Weavers occupying the area know to take shelter, and to find entertainment in watching newcomers struggle. He curses the country's weather, silently wishing to return to the stability of Sepiks-Fel's steel floors while he fights along the trail in search of the right Eliksni.

By the time he has trawled along the many stalls, traders, and their attendees, the rain eases. It isn't until he reaches a large food cart that he finds the most likely candidate sitting on a stool, hidden beneath the cover of a canopy.

They are a Vandal wearing a set of human clothes and a fur mantle over one shoulder, as well as the top half of his helm. The circle of gold emblazoned in the centre of it indicates his rank as part of the Kell Guard. Their rebreather and Ether lines meant to be attached as the lower half are slung over the mantle, hanging down his back.

Their gaze scans over the moving crowds, focused yet somehow distant at the same time. Lost in thought, to a point. Beside them, a bowl with wisps of steam circling off into the cold air sits untouched. Instead of eating, their hands are occupied beneath their coat by holding a four legged, brown furred creature on a chain leash.

As Wesraaks approaches, It looks up at him, pointed teeth visible and pink tongue lolling from a long snout. He assumes it is smiling - an expression he hears that humans make to express well wishes or amusement.

Chittering to catch the Guard's attention, he holds his hands open in greeting when he glances over. "Are you the Hunter?"

"I might be," the Vandal's head turns, and he does a double take. Looking him up and down, he says, "You are tall for a Drekh."

Wesraaks sighs through his nose, arms falling to his sides. "I hear that a lot."

"No, you're the size of a human. You're perfect," his eyes glitter, and he slips from the stool. Mandibles flexing to join his furred creature in an unnerving approximation of a smile, he reaches out and runs both upper hands down his arms, before taking the right one and giving it a firm shake.