Argent brushed dust from a stack of scrolls precariously balanced on the corner of his cramped desk. His rented room, nestled above a perpetually reeking tanner's shop, wasn't much, but it afforded him a degree of anonymity the hallowed halls of the Veridian Academy no longer did. Three years since his expulsion, three years since daring to suggest that established theories on Aetheric Resonance failed to account for anomalies linked to focused emotional states – specifically, collective belief. Heresy, they'd called it. Career suicide. Now he scraped by tutoring thick-headed merchants' sons in basic alchemy and translating obscure texts for collectors with more coin than sense.
He sighed, the scent of curing hides wafting up through the floorboards mixing unpleasantly with the musty aroma of ancient parchment. He needed something more stimulating, something that challenged his intellect, even if it didn't pay well. Which was why the scrap of cheap newsprint currently pinned to his wall, salvaged from a rain-soaked board near the Alchemists' Guildhall, held his reluctant attention.
"ARE YOU LOST IN THE MUNDANE?..." He'd read it a dozen times already. Crude. Melodramatic. Psychologically manipulative in its targeting of dissatisfaction and yearning for hidden truth. Clearly the work of an amateur, likely some burgeoning cult leader trying to ensnare the gullible.
And yet…
The phrasing, while clumsy, hinted at concepts he recognized, albeit twisted through a lens of adolescent fantasy. "Deepest shadow… silence screams…" Metaphors for the subconscious? For hidden knowledge? And the "Crimson Path"… coupled with the odd "Bleeding Eye" symbol… it was deliberately provocative.
What truly snagged Argent's cynical mind, however, was the audacity. In a city tightly controlled by guilds, sanctioned temples, and the ever-watchful City Guard, openly recruiting for a secretive, likely unsanctioned, path – crimson-themed, no less, evoking blood and violence – was either suicidally foolish or backed by some kind of power or delusion Argent couldn't immediately categorize.
Probably delusion, he concluded, tapping a finger against the symbol. Though large-scale, focused delusion can be… interesting. His own disgraced research touched upon the power of belief systems. Could this be a spontaneous manifestation? A nascent egregore forming around some charismatic lunatic? Unlikely, but theoretically possible according to his own controversial papers.
He snorted, dismissing the thought. More likely, it was just another grifter. Still… his curiosity, that damnable academic itch, was piqued. It wouldn't hurt to apply some logical analysis, perhaps observe the phenomenon from a safe distance. Treat it as field research into urban myth-making and cult formation. A way to pass the time, at least.
He pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment, not the cheap newsprint of the notice, but good quality vellum. He began to sketch the Bleeding Eye symbol, annotating it, cross-referencing the crescent shapes with known astrological and alchemical symbols. He listed the keywords: Mundane, Daylight, Truth, Shadow, Silence, Crimson, Path. He started constructing a matrix, attempting to decipher a potential underlying code or meaning using standard cryptographic methods and known symbolic languages.
If this is a serious attempt, Argent mused, quill scratching, there might be secondary signals. Coded graffiti, specific locations alluded to, timed appearances. He would start by discreetly monitoring the places where such notices were likely to appear – the fringes of society, centres of discontent, places frequented by those 'lost in the mundane.' He would observe, gather data, and perhaps, if the opportunity arose safely, analyse one of the adherents. All in the name of research, of course. It wasn't as though he believed any of it. But the anomaly… anomalies were always worth investigating.
***
Ren believed. Wholeheartedly. Clutching his own copy of the notice, he navigated the rooftops of the Debtors' Quarter with the fluid grace of a creature born to the heights. Down below, life churned – squalid, loud, and desperate. Up here, there was wind, sky, and the thrill of the chase.
He was hunting for the Bleeding Eye.
He took the notice literally. An eye, bleeding, hidden in shadow. He peered into darkened alleyways, scanned crumbling facades for any symbol remotely eye-shaped, looked for anything crimson near places of deep shadow or profound silence (like the alley behind the Pity Miser's pawnshop, where folk went after losing everything).
His agility served him well. He vaulted over gaps between buildings, scrambled up drainpipes, balanced on narrow ledges, his movements economical and swift. He had a near miss with a City Watch patrol near the district border, melting into the shadows beneath an overhanging eave just as their lanterns swept past. See? he thought triumphantly. Moving like a shadow! The Path is already guiding me!
He found several things he initially thought might be the sign. A splash of red paint near a circular knot in some old wood. A tavern sign featuring a one-eyed ghoul (wrong colour, though). A discarded child's doll with one button eye missing, lying in a particularly dark doorway. Each time, a surge of hope was followed by disappointment. The symbol on the notice was specific.
He was perched atop the skeletal remains of a burned-out tenement, catching his breath and scanning the surrounding streets, when he saw it. Across the narrow lane, on the wall of a rival gang's claimed territory, was a crudely painted symbol. It wasn't the Bleeding Eye, not exactly. It was a skull, painted in white, with a single, jagged red tear dripping from one empty socket.
Ren's eyes widened. Crimson… from an eye socket… It wasn't the exact symbol, but it was close! And it was definitely in a place of shadow, marking territory for a violent gang. Could this be it? A sign adapted by others who followed the Path? Or perhaps the Path led through conflict, through confronting the darkness represented by this gang?
This must be it! His heart hammered with excitement. The notice didn't say it would be easy. Maybe the first step was to investigate this symbol, this gang. Maybe they held a clue, or maybe proving his worth against them was part of the trial! It made perfect sense!
Ignoring the obvious danger, Ren's mind raced, planning how he could infiltrate the gang's territory, observe them, learn more about the symbol. He felt alive, purposeful. The Crimson Path was showing him the way, and he wouldn't hesitate to follow.
***
Back in his room, Zero wasn't thinking about paths or recruits. He was thinking about aesthetics. His scouting trip had been a practical disaster, highlighting his cowardice and the sheer filthiness of his potential lair. Clearly, direct confrontation with reality was not his strong suit. What he was good at was imagination, at crafting the idea of power.
He needed more than just lore; he needed props. Symbols of office. Things that screamed 'enigmatic master' without requiring him to actually be one.
His gaze fell upon a shard of polished obsidian he kept on his table – a cheap trinket bought years ago, rumoured to aid in scrying (it didn't). It was smooth, dark, mysterious-looking. What if he fashioned it into something? An amulet? Too cliché. A ring? Too subtle.
A mask.
Yes, a mask! It fit the shadow theme perfectly. It would hide his face, mask his expressions (especially the panic), and add layers of mystique. He wouldn't need to fake a serene expression if no one could see it!
He retrieved a piece of stiffened leather salvaged from the binding of a ruined ledger. It wasn't ideal, but it was free. Using his sharpest quill knife, he began carefully cutting, trying to shape it into something that covered the upper half of his face. He envisioned something sleek, minimalist, perhaps with sharpened edges like shards of night.
His fingers, more accustomed to delicate archival work, fumbled with the tough leather. The lines weren't quite straight. One eye hole ended up slightly larger than the other. He tried adding some decorative scores, meant to look ancient and meaningful, but they just looked like scratches.
He held up the misshapen piece of black leather. It looked less like an artifact of arcane power and more like something a child would make for a festival costume. Still… it was something. He could perhaps add the Bleeding Eye symbol to the forehead later, using that crimson-tinged ink.
He tried it on, peering at his reflection in a small, cracked mirror. The mask hid his nervous eyes, which was good, but it also pressed uncomfortably against the bridge of his nose and made his spectacles sit awkwardly underneath. And it didn't magically make him look cool; it made him look like Clerk Zero wearing a badly made leather mask.
He sighed, tossing the mask onto the table. Another failure. Maybe the Master didn't need props. Maybe the Master's power was so immense, his presence so overwhelming, that such trappings were unnecessary. Yes, that sounded better. More intimidating. Less work. He'd just have to perfect his cryptic stare.
***
Anya stood near the entrance of the Market Square, partially concealed by the awning of a closed bakery stall. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows, and the crimson cloth near the drain cover she'd noticed earlier was gone, likely swept away by street cleaners or kicked aside by the crowd.
It didn't matter. The image was burned into her mind. She wasn't looking for the exact same sign again. She was looking for the pattern. Circles and crimson. Deep shadows harboring unexpected colour. Silence punctuated by something significant.
She watched the flow of people, the rhythm of the city. A detachment settled over her, the cold discipline of a hunter studying its prey. The Crimson Path wasn't a destination; it was a method. A way of seeing the world differently, of finding meaning where others saw only chaos or mundanity.
Her gaze drifted towards the towering spire of the Grand Temple of Veridia at the far end of the square. Its highest windows were stained glass, and as the sun lowered, they caught the light, casting shifting patterns onto the stones below. One window, depicting a saintly sacrifice, glowed with a particularly deep crimson hue. And the spire itself, a circle of stone reaching towards the sky, cast the longest shadow across the square as evening approached.
Crimson. Circle. Shadow.
Anya filed the observation away. Another potential node in the network of meaning she was constructing. The Temple was the heart of the city's sanctioned power, the antithesis of a hidden path. Or was it? Perhaps the Path existed even there, hidden within the very structures it opposed.
She remained motionless, patient. The Path was subtle. She would be too.