Zero was a visionary, at least in his own mind. The "Bleeding Eye" symbol, while initially conceived as cool and intimidating, had clearly developed a branding problem. Public uproars, indigo-haired heralds of doom – it was all far too conspicuous for a subtle organization operating from the deepest shadows. The Crimson Path needed a rebrand, something more refined, more… pointedly enigmatic.
Thus, the "Crimson Point" was born. A single, elegant dot of crimson. Profound in its simplicity. It represented focus, the beginning, the singularity from which all shadows emanated (or something equally deep he'd make up later).
He spent a painstaking morning crafting new instructional scrolls, his tongue poking out in concentration. "Hear ye, hear ye, Honoured Acolytes of the Penumbral Fold!" (He liked 'Penumbral Fold'; it sounded exclusive.) "The Sigil of the Weeping Oculus (formerly known as the Bleeding Eye, for mundane clarification) was but a… preparatory emblem, a test of initial perception for the outer circle! The true initiate, whose spirit resonates with the core umbra, now embraces the sublime simplicity of the Crimson Point! It is the focused will, the silent mark, the… uh… very pointy tip of our profound purpose! Henceforth, all Path-related endeavors shall be subtly indicated by this refined sigil. All previous ocular iconography is now… retrospectively symbolic. Meditate upon this. The Master has spoken (written, technically)."
Satisfied with his corporate rebranding memo, he made several tiny copies. Then, armed with his new doctrine and a fresh wave of anxiety, he braved the journey to the Shrine of Lost Socks. He found the loose brick, noted with a flicker of pride that his previous poem-mandate was gone (clearly retrieved and being studied!), and carefully deposited several "Crimson Point" instructional scrolls into the fissure. He even left a badly drawn example of a crimson dot, circled helpfully with the words "This Is It!" in case the profundity was too subtle. His communication system was truly becoming a well-oiled, if slightly confusing, machine.
***
Barric, meanwhile, was taking the Master's poetic mandate about "Walls of Pride, on Dust They Stand" with the utmost seriousness. Having successfully (in his opinion) shored up one section of the Old North Wall, he'd identified another critical point of decay: a crumbling buttress supporting the ancient, purely ornamental 'Arch of Civic Virtue' that spanned a particularly busy thoroughfare in the Tradesman's Quarter. The Arch itself was a monument to Veridia's inflated sense of self-importance – a perfect example of a "Wall of Pride." Its foundations were clearly dusty.
He'd "strategically acquired" more mortar and a small hand-cart of mismatched bricks. The work was awkward, conducted amidst the flow of merchants, shoppers, and city messengers, many of whom gave him a wide berth.
"Excuse me, citizen!" A voice, sharp with authority, cut through Barric's concentration as he was trying to wedge a slightly-too-large brick into a gap.
Barric turned to see two City Watchmen, their expressions a mixture of suspicion and bewilderment. One, a younger man, gestured with his baton. "What, in the name of the Lord Prelate's carbuncles, are you doing to the Arch of Civic Virtue?"
Barric straightened, dusting off his hands. "Reinforcing its foundations," he stated calmly. "The Master has decreed that Walls of Pride built on dust must be… addressed. The Crimson Path ensures structural integrity where civic responsibility has faltered." He thought that sounded rather official.
The two Watchmen exchanged a look. "The… Crimson Path?" the older one asked slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dim child. "Is that the lot with the bleeding eyeballs and the blue-haired screamer in the market?"
Barric frowned. "Our iconography is… evolving. More to a… singular point of focus. And our methods are direct, practical. This arch," he patted a loose stone, "is a civic hazard. I am rectifying it."
"Right," the younger Watchman said, clearly trying not to laugh. "Look, mate, we appreciate… civic spirit. But this is municipal property. You can't just… start bricking it up. You need permits. Guild certifications. Probably a sanity test, no offense."
"The Path requires no permit beyond its own conviction," Barric rumbled, feeling a familiar frustration with bureaucratic nonsense.
"Yeah, well, my Sergeant requires you to cease and desist your… unauthorized masonry," the older Watchman said, his hand moving towards his truncheon. "Or we'll have to escort you to someone who can explain civic engineering bylaws in very small words."
Barric sighed. Mundane authorities, always interfering with profound work. He supposed this counted as "striking unseen" having failed. He'd have to report this obstruction to the Master. Perhaps the Path needed a more… assertive approach to civic permits. For now, he reluctantly gathered his tools. His attempt to shore up this particular Wall of Pride had been regrettably interrupted.
***
Investigator Gregor had the scent. The indigo dye, a rare variant from the Southern Isles, was sold by only three importers in Veridia. Two were high-end establishments catering to noble houses and tapestry weavers. The third was a dingy, back-alley operation in the deepest part of the Debtors' Quarter run by a perpetually terrified man named Silas Pike, known for dealing in slightly off-colour (sometimes literally) goods.
Gregor, flanked by two grim-faced Citadel guards who looked like they ate nails for breakfast, paid Silas Pike a visit.
Pike, when confronted with Gregor's cold eyes and the strip of indigo cloth, practically dissolved into a puddle of cooperative terror. "Yes! Yes, that dye! I sell it! Not much, mind, it's a specialty item! A young lad… bit wild-looking… hair like… well, like that!" He pointed a trembling finger at the cloth. "Skinny, fast. Buys a bit every few weeks. Pays in coppers. Always seems half-starved but full of… beans."
"His name? Where does he live?" Gregor's voice was like chips of ice.
"Name? Nah, never asked. Street names mostly, you know? 'Ren,' I think some call him. Or just 'Blue.' As for where he lives…" Pike wrung his hands. "He's a rooftop runner, that one. But I've seen him duck into the old abandoned cooperage down by Blackslip Alley. The one with the collapsed roof. Sometimes, late."
Gregor allowed himself a grimly satisfied internal nod. A precise location. "Your cooperation is noted, Master Pike. And will be remembered if you maintain… discretion."
Silas Pike looked like he might faint. "Discretion is my middle name, Investigator! Never saw you, never heard of any blue boy!"
As Gregor left Pike's miserable shop, he issued quiet orders to his men. The abandoned cooperage in Blackslip Alley. Tonight, they would set a proper snare for Indigo Ren. The self-proclaimed herald of the Crimson Path was about to have his wings clipped.
***
Anya, in her quiet room, was meticulously copying Zero's allegorical poem onto a fresh sheet of parchment. She wasn't merely transcribing; she was dissecting each line, each word, searching for the deeper layers of meaning the Master had undoubtedly embedded within.
"The Serpent Coils in Halls of Gold…" Yes, the Merchant Guilds, the corrupt financiers.
"Where Scales of Trust are Falsely Sold." The judiciary? The markets themselves? Perhaps the very concept of currency in a decaying society?
"The Walls of Pride, on Dust They Stand." This spoke to her of the City Watch's failings, the hollow pronouncements of nobles, the very physical and metaphorical structures of Veridia's governance.
"While Crimson Tears Weep O'er the Land." The Path's sorrow, its righteous purpose.
She'd overheard fragmented street gossip in the last few days. Talk of a madman repairing city walls, claiming allegiance to a "Crimson Path." Another rumour spoke of a blue-haired youth shouting about "Bleeding Eyes" and causing chaos in the Tri-Market.
Were these… other Acolytes? The Master had not mentioned them. Perhaps their methods were different, more direct, more… public. The poem spoke of "fractured truths" and the city's "discordant soul." These public manifestations, however chaotic, could be part of that discord, symptoms of the sickness the Master wished her to understand. The Path was clearly larger, its tendrils reaching further than she had initially perceived. Her mission, she felt, was to be the quiet observer, the one who understood the symphony of decay, while others perhaps played the more discordant notes. The Master's wisdom was truly multifaceted.