Anya returned to the Shrine of Lost Socks with a sense of quiet anticipation. Her previous report on Elder Theron's illicit dealings had been weighty, and she hoped the Master might have left some acknowledgement or further, clarifying instruction. The tiny pebble she'd left as a marker was gone. Good.
Reaching behind the loose brick, she found not one, but several tiny scrolls, all penned in the Master's familiar crimson-tinged ink. Her brow furrowed as she unrolled the first, clearly a primary directive.
"Hear ye, hear ye, Honoured Acolytes of the Penumbral Fold! The Sigil of the Weeping Oculus (formerly known as the Bleeding Eye, for mundane clarification and to disassociate from unsanctioned public displays of… exuberant, indigo-tinged artistry) is hereby DECLASSIFIED to 'Symbol of Nascent Awareness – Probationary Phase ONLY'!"
Anya paused, a flicker of surprise – quickly suppressed – crossing her features. The Bleeding Eye, a symbol of such potent sorrow and righteous anger, was merely… probationary?
She read on: "Its public proliferation by unguided, overly enthusiastic elements is NOT sanctioned by the Core Umbra of the Path! True, enlightened Acolytes, those who have transcended mere ocular perception, shall henceforth employ the sublime simplicity of the CRIMSON POINT for all covert Path significations and meditative foci! The Point embodies Singular Truth, Unwavering Focus, and is considerably less alarming to the general populace! The Oculus embodies… well, too many unfortunate public connotations, apparently. Meditate upon the Point's sublime lack of ambiguity and its inherent stealth advantages. The Master has decreed (again, and with considerable emphasis this time)!" A rather wobbly crimson dot was drawn below, labeled "This Is It!"
Anya stared at the scroll, then at the small, shaky dot. The Master's wisdom was, as always, many-layered and initially confounding. The public disturbances, the "indigo-tinged artistry" – clearly references to the cruder manifestations of the Path's influence she'd heard about. The Master was now signaling a shift, a move towards a more refined, more internal stage of operation for his true Acolytes.
Of course! The Bleeding Eye was about seeing the city's corruption, an outward gaze. The Crimson Point… that was the focused will, the sharpened intent, the core of inner power from which precise action could be launched. It was a natural progression, from perception to action, from overt symbol to subtle mark. The Master was guiding them to a higher understanding, a more potent form of engagement. The "sublime lack of ambiguity" was clearly a test – the true meaning was deeply ambiguous, requiring profound meditation! And "stealth advantages" – naturally. A dot was far more discreet.
She would need to reconsider her interpretation of the allegorical poem in light of this new, core symbol. The poem was the framework; the Crimson Point was the lens. Her mission to observe the city's systemic decay now had a new, more focused, symbolic anchor. She carefully tucked the scrolls away, her mind already working to integrate this profound new doctrine.
***
Investigator Gregor, his theory of an intellectually sophisticated cult now firmly entrenched, directed his inquiries towards Veridia's bastions of learning and historical record. If the "Heresiarchs of the Unblinking Orb" were indeed resurgent, traces of their esoteric doctrines or their unique geometric symbolism might be found in forgotten texts or scholarly archives.
This led him to the Great Library of Veridia, a dusty, echoing mausoleum of forgotten knowledge. He presented his carefully copied sketch of the complex chalk symbol found at Ren's abandoned cooperage to a series of increasingly bewildered and unhelpful archivists. Most simply shook their heads, muttering about overdue book fines and the decline of proper cataloguing.
Finally, a junior librarian, eager to impress, recalled seeing a scholar of… eccentric habits… frequently poring over texts related to obscure raven mythology and Veridian folklore, often sketching strange symbols in his own notebooks. "That's him over there, Investigator," the librarian whispered, pointing towards a shadowy alcove piled high with precariously stacked tomes. "Master Argent. Bit of a recluse. Talks to his books more than people."
Gregor approached the alcove. Argent, looking even more dishevelled than usual, was hunched over a large, відкритий том, muttering about "corvid omens" and "ley lines converging on warehouses." He had several charcoal sketches of raven feathers and broken weather vanes scattered around him.
"Master Argent?" Gregor's voice was neutral.
Argent jumped, scattering a pile of notes. He looked up, blinking owlishly at Gregor's stern face and official City Watch insignia. "Y-yes? Can I help you, Investigator? Unless it's about my… slightly overdue copy of 'Pre-Imperial Avian Divination,' in which case, I assure you, it's almost read."
Gregor produced his sketch of the geometric symbol. "Have you encountered this symbol in your researches, Master Argent? It is believed to be connected to an… older Veridian esoteric group."
Argent peered at it, his brow furrowed. "Hmm. Geometric. Not avian. No, doesn't ring any bells. My focus is primarily on ornithological portents and their intersection with civic architectural decay, specifically concerning raven-themed weather vanes on dockland storage facilities. Fascinating field. Are you, by chance, investigating the anomalous concentration of negative psychic residue around Warehouse Seven? Because the ravens definitely are."
Gregor stared at him. This was not the intellectual heretic he was expecting. This was… something else entirely. "No, Master Argent. Just a general inquiry. Thank you for your time." He retreated, leaving Argent to return to his corvids and ley lines. Another dead end. Or perhaps, Gregor mused, this 'Argent' was a deliberately obtuse member of the cult, feigning harmless eccentricity. The Heresiarchs were known for their intellectual camouflage. He made a mental note to have Argent discreetly watched. One could never be too careful when dealing with reality-unravelling diagrams.
***
Zero, feeling rather pleased with his decisive rebranding initiative, decided it was time for some subtle public reinforcement of the new Crimson Point iconography. He couldn't very well go around explaining it to people – that would ruin the mystique. No, he needed to seed the symbol, let its profound simplicity permeate the city's consciousness.
He chose the grand fountain in the Tri-Market Square, the site of Ren's recent unfortunate public outburst (which Zero still shuddered to think about). Armed with a tiny nub of crimson chalk he'd "borrowed" from a cartographer's discarded supplies, he waited for a moment when the surrounding crowd was distracted by a particularly loud juggler.
Then, with what he hoped was an air of enigmatic swiftness, he darted to the fountain's ornate stone rim and drew a single, small, crimson dot. He stepped back, admiring his handiwork. Perfect. Subtle. Laden with unspoken meaning. A true Master's mark.
A small child, no older than five, who had been chasing pigeons nearby, toddled over. She pointed a sticky finger at the dot. "Mama! Look! A ladybug did a tiny poo!"
Her mother, without looking, pulled her away. "Don't touch that, dear, it's probably diseased."
Zero stared, aghast. Ladybug poo? His profound Crimson Point, the singular focus of the Path's new direction, mistaken for insectile excrement? The indignity! Clearly, the mundane populace was not yet ready for such advanced symbolism. He scowled at the fountain, then at the child, then decided a strategic retreat was in order before the juggler finished his act. Rebranding, he was learning, was a thankless, frustrating business.
***
Barric, having interpreted the Master's poetic mandate as a call to rectify both financial corruption and physical decay, and now armed with the "Crimson Point" rebranding directive (which he understood as a shift to "individual operational focus" and "targeted strikes"), was meticulously planning his next micro-mission.
He'd observed a notoriously inefficient clerk in the City Land Registry office – a man named Filbert Grubb, who was legendary for losing petitions, misfiling deeds, and generally gumming up the wheels of property ownership with his glacial pace and tea-stained incompetence. This, Barric decided, was a clear "point" of civic inefficiency, a blockage in the city's proper functioning.
His mission: to subtly improve Filbert Grubb's efficiency. He wouldn't confront him. That wasn't a "Crimson Point" targeted strike. No, he would operate unseen. He spent two days observing Grubb's chaotic desk, noting the piles of unsorted documents, the spilled inkwells, the general aura of despair.
Then, one evening, long after the Registry had closed, Barric, using skills he hadn't employed since his early days in the Watch's less reputable infiltration units, picked the lock on a side door. He entered Grubb's office, and, by the light of a tiny shielded lantern, he didn't steal anything. He didn't destroy anything.
He organized.
He sorted piles, refilled inkwells, sharpened quills, even dusted. He left a small, neatly stacked pile of overdue deeds directly in the center of Grubb's blotter with a single, anonymously placed, perfectly round crimson dot (made with berry juice, as he didn't have chalk) on the top document.
A focused strike against inefficiency. The Master would be proud. Filbert Grubb, upon arriving the next morning, would simply find his office inexplicably tidy and a single, ominous crimson dot on his most pressing paperwork, likely sending him into a spiral of confused paranoia for weeks. The Crimson Path worked in mysterious, and occasionally very organized, ways.