Argent meticulously pinned a city map of Veridia to his wall, the cheap newsprint already dotted with small, precisely inked circles. Each circle represented a confirmed or credibly rumored sighting of the "Bleeding Eye" notice. He'd spent days collating data – informant whispers, mentions in the broader city gossip that his landlady sometimes shared, even a furtive early morning trip to Blind Alley to examine Old Agnes's stall after hearing a particularly persistent rumour about crimson-threaded herbs (he'd dismissed it as likely unrelated folk magic, but noted it nonetheless).
His initial hypothesis – that the notices were placed randomly by a disorganized amateur – was beginning to crumble under the weight of perceived patterns. There was a loose geographical clustering, a tendency towards areas of social neglect or historical significance. The symbols, while crude, were consistent.
"No," Argent muttered to himself, stepping back from the map, a compass in hand. "This isn't random. There's an underlying spatial logic, however skewed." He began to draw lines connecting the notice locations, looking for intersections, for a central point, for anything that might suggest a hidden nexus or a deliberate, if unconventional, distribution pattern.
His disgraced theories on the power of belief and resonant Aetheric fields gnawed at him. What if this "Crimson Path" wasn't just a mundane cult? What if its founder, however amateurish they appeared on the surface, had unconsciously tapped into something? The very crudeness, the reliance on primal symbols like blood and shadow, might be more effective at resonating with certain ambient energies than complex, formalized rituals.
He paused, considering the warehouse district by the Southern Docks. One particularly persistent rumour, sourced from a usually reliable pickpocket, mentioned a cloaked figure seen entering a specific dilapidated warehouse – third from the Salt Pier, broken raven weather vane – on several occasions around midnight. The timing was suspiciously specific. The location was suitably shadowy.
Argent drew a bold circle around that warehouse on his map. "If this is a hub," he theorized, "then the notice placements might radiate outwards, or point towards it like spokes on a wheel." He began testing this new hypothesis, measuring distances, looking for angular consistencies. It was, of course, forcing a pattern onto limited data, but the intellectual exercise was stimulating. He decided a discreet, nocturnal observation of this warehouse was his next logical step. He needed empirical data, not just rumour.
***
Zero, meanwhile, was discovering the practical nightmare of running a shadow organization with a membership of two (that he knew of) and no actual communication system beyond initial, one-way scroll delivery.
Anya and Barric had their tasks. But how were they supposed to report? What if they had questions? What if they encountered… other members? (A terrifying thought – he hadn't even considered inter-disciple relations!) He'd given them maps to his new dead drop at the Shrine of Lost Socks, but he'd given those maps to them at the warehouse during their recruitment. He hadn't actually told them to use the new dead drop yet, or how, or when. He'd just handed them the map along with their "Mark of the Path" in a flustered haze.
He groaned, burying his head in his hands. His 'Tenets' said nothing about quarterly reports or secure messaging.
"Right," he said to his dusty room. "Protocols. We need… reporting protocols."
His first brilliant idea was to return to the Warehouse of Silent Shadows himself every few nights around midnight, hoping one of his acolytes might also think to return there to deliver a verbal report. But the thought of more midnight encounters, especially with the stoic, heavily armed Barric, filled him with dread. And what if they both showed up? He'd have to manage a group meeting!
No, the dead drop was better. Safer. More… shadowy. He just needed to inform them.
He couldn't just send another thyme bundle; that was for initial contact. He needed a method befitting a Master communicating with his established Acolytes. He briefly considered trying to find them in the city and subtly slip them a note, but the thought of actively seeking out either Anya or Barric was petrifying.
His gaze fell on his "Masterly" cloak. Inspiration struck, as it often did, in a deeply flawed and overly complicated manner. He would create a new, even more cryptic notice – not for recruitment, but for instruction. He would post this notice in a single, extremely obscure location – perhaps the underside of a specific loose gargoyle on the abandoned Nightwatch Keep (a place Ren had recently, and fruitlessly, explored). The notice would contain a coded message, decipherable only by a true Acolyte of the Path, instructing them to check the Shrine of Lost Socks dead drop.
It was perfect! It tested their perceptiveness, maintained secrecy, and avoided any direct interaction for him. He spent the rest ofoterrainday happily designing the new coded notice, involving phases of the moon, obscure numerology based on the number of syllables in his fake Path's name, and a cipher that relied on the reader knowing the third word of every fifth tenet he'd written. It was, he felt, his most brilliant piece of lore-crafting yet. Completely unusable, of course, but brilliant.
***
Anya, having meticulously documented the smuggler's mark and the movements around the Spice Traders' Emporium, felt the weight of her findings. This was more than just petty graft; it was organized, high-level corruption implicating a Guild Elder. This was the "festering shadow" the Master had spoken of. She needed to report.
But how? The Master had given no instructions for follow-up. Would he simply summon her again when the Path decreed? Should she return to the warehouse at the next "three nights from the new moon's sliver"? That was weeks away. The information felt too pertinent to delay.
She considered the herb stall in Blind Alley. Could she leave a message there, perhaps a crimson-threaded bundle of her own, containing a coded summary? It felt risky, potentially exposing the Master's network, however humble.
For now, she decided, she would continue her observation of the Emporium and Jax's operations, gathering more concrete evidence. Perhaps the Path would reveal the method of reporting when the time was right, or when her understanding deepened. The Master operated on a level of subtlety she was still learning to perceive.
***
Barric, too, felt the need to report. His survey of the Old North Gate had revealed alarming vulnerabilities – rusted weaponry, bribable sergeants, undefended sections of wall. He had expanded his observations to the East Gate, finding similar, if less egregious, issues. This was vital intelligence for any group concerned with the city's true strength, or lack thereof.
Like Anya, he was unsure how to proceed. The Master had been clear about the initial meeting, but silent on future contact. Barric was a soldier; he understood reporting structures. This lack of one was… perplexing. He considered returning to the warehouse on his own initiative, but the Master had specified "Come alone" for the first meeting, implying it was not an open house.
He decided to continue his assigned task meticulously. He would compile a thorough assessment of all major defensive points. When the Master next summoned him, or when the Path provided another sign, he would be ready with a full, professional report. His loyalty was to the Path and its enigmatic leader; he would fulfill his duties to the letter, even if the next steps were unclear.
***
Unbeknownst to any of them, Ren's enthusiastic crusade against the Dyers' Guild was escalating. Convinced their vibrant dyes were a metaphor for flamboyant corruption hiding a dark core (and still sporting his own indigo streaks as a badge of honor), he'd decided on direct action. He'd spent a night "redecorating" the front of their Guildhall with charcoal drawings of what he now considered the true Bleeding Eye symbol – a lopsided circle with a jagged tear and several enthusiastic, if poorly drawn, speed lines indicating righteous fury.
The next morning, the Dyers' Guild Master, a notoriously short-tempered man named Master Borin (coincidentally, Ren's former, abusive master), awoke to find his pristine Guildhall defaced with demonic-looking eyes. His reaction was predictably apoplectic, and he immediately offered a hefty reward for the capture of the "shadowy miscreants" responsible for this outrage.
The bounty notices, featuring a crude sketch of Ren's Bleeding Eye, were quickly posted across the Artisan's Quarter and beyond, adding yet another layer of bizarre, interconnected misinformation to Veridia's already confused undercurrents.