Argent lay prone on the grime-caked roof of a cooperage opposite the Warehouse of Silent Shadows, a position he'd occupied for the better part of three consecutive nights. A chill wind whipped off the Southern Docks, carrying the scent of brine and rotting fish, but Argent barely noticed, his focus absolute. He was a scholar hunting an elusive theorem, and this dilapidated warehouse was his primary data point.
He'd observed nothing for two nights save the mournful creak of the broken raven weather vane and the scurrying of rats. This, in itself, was significant. Such profound inactivity, such perfect stillness at a rumoured hub, could only mean one of two things: either his information was entirely false, or the 'Master' of this 'Crimson Path' operated with a level of subtlety and patience that bordered on the preternatural. Argent, ever one to favour complex explanations over simple ones, leaned towards the latter. This was clearly not a group that held frequent, boisterous meetings. Their methods were far more refined.
On the third night, his vigilance was rewarded.
A cloaked figure, small and furtive, emerged from the deepest shadows of a nearby alley. The figure moved with a nervous, skittering energy, darting glances left and right before slipping through the collapsed personnel entrance of the target warehouse. Argent noted the time: precisely one hour before midnight. An unconventional hour for a clandestine operation, unless the goal was to avoid even the usual nocturnal traffic.
The figure remained inside for no more than ten minutes. Argent couldn't see what transpired within, but when the individual re-emerged, they seemed even more agitated, practically bolting back into the alley's embrace. Shortly after, Argent saw them scurry away towards the main city, still glancing nervously over their shoulder.
Argent meticulously recorded his observations in his coded notebook. Subject One (designation: 'Shadow-Clerk' due to apparent nervousness and non-combatant build) visited the suspected nexus. Short duration. Purpose: Likely a dead drop, signal placement, or routine security check. Subject exhibited heightened paranoia, indicative of clandestine training or intrinsic cautiousness. Operations are clearly compartmentalized, with operatives visiting at staggered, unpredictable intervals. Masterful.
He had no idea he'd just witnessed Zero's terrified, last-minute attempt to pin his ludicrously coded instructional notice about the new dead drop (the Shrine of Lost Socks) to the inside of the main warehouse door, hoping one of his acolytes might stumble upon it. Zero had then fled, convinced every shadow held a legion of City Watchmen.
Argent, however, saw profound operational security. This 'Crimson Path' was even more elusive and sophisticated than he'd initially theorized. He decided to continue his surveillance, but also to investigate historical records of raven symbolism in esoteric Veridian cults. The broken weather vane felt like another deliberate, if obscure, piece of the puzzle.
***
Anya's patience had reached its limit. Days had passed since her recruitment, and her observations of Elder Theron and the smuggler Jax had yielded a clear pattern of corrupt dealings, symbolized by the serpent-and-spice-bloom crate mark. This information was vital. The Master needed to know.
But the Master had given no method for reporting. The only tangible link she had was the warehouse. Returning there unbidden felt like a risk – a potential breach of protocol for a Path that clearly valued subtlety and obedience. Yet, inaction felt like a greater failing. A true acolyte would find a way.
She decided she would return to the Warehouse of Silent Shadows at the same time as her initial meeting – midnight, three nights from the new moon's sliver, which was still some time off. However, the urgency of her findings gnawed at her. She would go sooner. Perhaps tonight. She would not seek a full meeting, but she would leave a sign, a clear indication that she had significant intelligence to impart.
She prepared a small, tightly rolled scroll, detailing her findings concerning Elder Theron, Jax, and the smuggler's mark, written in the same neat, precise script as the Master's own instructions. She tied it with a single strand of crimson thread. She would find a way to leave it within the warehouse, in the 'Sanctum' where she had met the Master. It was a proactive step, but one she felt a true disciple, dedicated to the Path's enigmatic goals, would take.
***
Whisper sat in her discreetly opulent back room at The Gilded Lily, a delicate porcelain cup of jasmine tea warming her hands. Before her, spread on a low, polished table, were several slips of paper – reports from her informants. They painted a curious, disjointed picture.
One report detailed the sudden, widespread appearance of crude 'bleeding eye' graffiti in the Artisan's Quarter, specifically targeting the Dyers' Guild, along with a hefty bounty offered by Guild Master Borin for the vandal. Another spoke of a tall, grim-faced man asking unusually pointed questions about City Watch patrol routes and gatehouse security procedures around the Old North Gate. A third mentioned a silver-haired woman of intense demeanor making very quiet, very specific inquiries about the Spice Traders' Guild and their shipping manifests. And finally, a fourth, more recent whisper: a nervous, cloaked individual seen making furtive visits to a derelict warehouse by the Southern Docks, a warehouse that had suddenly become a point of interest for at least one other unknown, scholarly-looking observer (Argent).
Individually, these were minor ripples in Veridia's murky pond. A disgruntled apprentice vandalizing his former master's property. A cautious citizen concerned about city safety. A merchant rival doing due diligence. A recluse using an abandoned building.
But taken together… Whisper's perfectly shaped eyebrow arched. The 'bleeding eye' graffiti, even crudely rendered, bore a resemblance to the symbol on that strange notice her Scribes' Office informant had brought her. The "Crimson Path." Could these disparate activities be connected? A new player in the city, perhaps, with multiple, uncoordinated agents causing these ripples? It was sloppy, if so. Or perhaps it was a deliberate strategy of decentralized chaos.
The warehouse in the Southern Docks seemed to be a recurring motif. That, she decided, warranted a closer, more personal look. Not directly, of course. But she knew people who knew the docks, people who could observe without being observed. This "Crimson Path," whatever it was, was becoming less of a whisper and more of a distinct, if puzzling, voice in the city's chorus of secrets.
***
Zero, having "successfully" posted his instructional notice for the new dead drop inside the warehouse (he'd used a rusty nail he found on the floor to tack it to the back of the main door, hoping it looked official), felt a brief surge of masterly accomplishment. His acolytes would surely find it, decipher its brilliant code, and begin using the Shrine of Lost Socks with utmost discretion. Communication problem: solved.
He was now back in his room, attempting to enhance his 'Masterly' aura through the arcane art of… hat modification. He'd decided his low hood wasn't quite conveying enough mystery. He'd acquired a truly dreadful, wide-brimmed, moth-eaten hat from a street hawker, envisioning it casting his face into perpetual, enigmatic shadow.
Currently, he was trying to attach more raven feathers to it (to subtly link himself to the warehouse's broken weather vane, a stroke of genius!), using a needle and some coarse thread. He pricked his finger for the third time.
"Shadows take it!" he yelped, dropping the hat. Perhaps the Master was above such fripperies as hats. Yes, a dignified, hatless solemnity was far more intimidating. He just needed to work on the solemn part. And the intimidating part. And pretty much everything else. His life as a shadow mastermind was proving to be far more complicated than the stories ever let on.