The Farm

(A)fter.(C)alamities. Year 871

The candlelight flickered across ancient tomes as Clarissa Quintessa worked late into the night, her quill dancing across parchment with precise, elegant strokes. She pretended to have no idea that eyes watched her from the shadows—eyes that had been watching for three long years.

"Your dedication is admirable," came a voice like silk over steel.

Clarissa's hand stilled. She knew that voice, though she'd never seen its owner clearly. Damian Jude, the second lineage Bloodless who had been leaving gifts, books, and cryptic notes at her laboratory door.

"Knowledge waits for no one," she replied without turning around. "Not even The Bloodlesss."

A low chuckle echoed through the chamber. "Especially not The Bloodlesss. We have such... limited time to appreciate brilliance when we encounter it."

"What do you want from me, Damian?" She finally turned, meeting his pale eyes. Even in the dim light, she could see the predatory grace in his movements, the way he seemed to flow rather than walk.

"I want to offer you immortality," he said simply. "Your mind, your discoveries—they shouldn't be constrained by a mortal lifespan. Think of what you could accomplish with centuries at your disposal."

Clarissa set down her quill, her hand trembling slightly. "And what would you gain from this... gift?"

"A progeny worthy of my lineage. Someone who understands that power and knowledge are the only currencies that truly matter." His smile revealed the tips of fangs. "Someone who won't be burdened by the moral simplicities that hold lesser minds back."

The scholar in her was curious despite the danger. The part of her that was still clung to the life of a dydelon whispered warnings she chose to silence with her analytical mind.

(A)fter.(C)alamities. Year 874

Clarissa stood in her newly expanded laboratory, funded by resources she'd never dreamed possible. Her reflection in the polished glass equipment showed pale skin, sharper features, and eyes that held depths of hunger she was still learning to control.

"The test subject is ready, Mistress," announced Alvin, her lead assistant—a young man whose devotion bordered on worship since her transformation.

On the table before her lay the fruits of months of experimentation: a vial of ink that shimmered with an otherworldly luminescence. She'd mixed her own cursed blood with diluted traditional octopi scripting ink, sulfuric compounds, phosphides, and various phosphorus oxides. The combination had required precise measurements and an understanding of both alchemical principles and the supernatural properties flowing through her veins.

"Tell me again about the volunteer," she said, though they both knew the man hadn't truly volunteered.

"Ted, from the docks. Unemployed, desperate for work. I told him we were testing a new type of... performance enhancement for laborers."

Clarissa nodded, pushing down the whisper of conscience that still occasionally surfaced. She was no longer bound by dydelon morality—Damian had made that clear during her transformation. The hunger for knowledge, for advancement, superseded such pedestrian concerns.

She watched through the observation window as Alvin discretely slipped the ink into Ted's morning coffee. Within hours, the change was remarkable. The previously sluggish dock worker became alert, focused, stronger. He completed tasks with supernatural efficiency and begged for more work.

"Fascinating," Clarissa murmured, making notes. "The plagueborne blood enhances the dydelon capability without the full transformation. It's as if we've found a middle ground between mortality and our kind."

But even as she wrote, she noticed Alvin glance away when she mentioned the man's dydelinity. They both knew Ted was feeling the effects and wondering when it had happened if it had happened —and no longer had the choice to be a test subject.

Over the following months, Clarissa expanded her testing. She told herself it was research, that the subjects benefited from enhanced abilities. She ignored how they never truly consented, how they worked themselves to exhaustion while praising her generosity, how they didn't understand what was happening to their bodies.

"The crash phase is becoming predictable," she noted to Alvin one evening, watching their latest subject—a young seamstress named Simone—sleep off the violent withdrawal that came after three months of exposure.

"Should we... help her through it?" Alvin asked, his voice uncertain.

"Help her?" Clarissa looked up from her notes. "This is natural progression. We're not running a charity, Alvin. We're advancing the boundaries of magical and alchemical science."

But even as she said it, watching Simone writhe in her sleep, muttering incoherently as her body purged the supernatural enhancement, Clarissa felt something cold settle in her chest. It wasn't regret—she'd moved beyond such feelings—but perhaps recognition of what she was becoming.

"The addiction levels remain manageable as long as they don't know they're being dosed," she continued, returning to her clinical observations. "Ignorance, it seems, provides some protection against dependency."

Alvin nodded, but she caught him looking at Simone with something that might have been pity. She made a mental note to replace him soon. Sentiment would become liability.

(A)fter.(C)alamities. Year 875

Clarissa made a decision that would horrify even her sire. Standing in the abandoned warehouse she'd purchased on the outskirts of the city, she looked down at the criminal she'd selected—a man whose disappearance would cause no investigations, raise no questions.

"You understand what you're attempting is forbidden," she said to herself, as if voicing the law might diminish its weight. "Third lineage Bloodlesss who create progeny produce only feral beasts. Mindless. Violent."

But her scientific mind craved the data. What would feral blood do to her ink? How would it change the formula's effects? The potential for cheaper production was enormous—feral blood would be easier to obtain than her own precious essence.

The transformation was brutal. Unlike her own elegant siring by Damian, this was crude and forced. She drained the criminal to the point of death upon consuming the last drop of blood which would sufficiently kill as the condition for progeny required, then the plague that lurked within her bite as it did in all Bloodless would create a new being. What emerged three nights later wasn't a person—it was a creature of pure hunger and instinct something akin to a pack animal.

She kept the feral chained in reinforced cells, harvesting its blood with the detached efficiency of a farmer milking livestock. The moral implications of creating a being solely to exploit it never registered as more than an intellectual footnote.

"Perfect," she whispered, examining the new ink formula. "Cheaper to produce, and the effects should be more immediately noticeable."

Sarah, her newest assistant, had always been eager to please. Perhaps too eager. When Clarissa tested the feral-blood ink on her, the young woman's reaction was immediate and catastrophic.

"Mistress!" Alvin called out as Sarah collapsed, her body convulsing violently. "Something's wrong!"

Clarissa knelt beside the girl, checking her pulse, her breathing. Sarah's eyes were wide with terror and pain, blood trickling from her nose as her enhanced heart struggled with the toxic load of feral blood.

"Please," Sarah gasped, "what did you... what did you give me?"

"A gift," Clarissa replied automatically, but for the first time in months, the words felt hollow. Realizing the severity of the situation and seeing the potential beyond wasting Sarah to a plain death she bit deeply into her neck. "Quickly now strap her to a chair we will use Sarah to further our research," —something she'd thought long buried—twisted in her chest.

"Was she a fluke?" Alvin asked quietly, his voice shaking.

"Yes," Clarissa said firmly, though she wasn't certain. "An unfortunate anomaly. We'll adjust the dosage and continue."

But that night, alone in her laboratory, she found herself staring at Sarah's empty workspace. The girl had been twenty-two, bright, full of dreams about advancing magical theory. Now she was a data point in Clarissa's research notes and soon to be a subject of her study.

This is the price of progress, she told herself. Every great discovery requires sacrifice.

(A)fter.(C)alamities. Year 876

When Clarissa finally approached Damian with her perfected formula, she chose her words carefully. She needed his connections, his resources, but she couldn't reveal the full extent of her transgressions.

"Remarkable," Damian said, examining the ink sample in his private study. Ancient artifacts lined the walls—spoils from centuries of accumulated power. "You've found a way to enhance people without full transformation or using magical script. The applications could be... extensive."

"I've been thinking about distribution," Clarissa said, settling into the leather chair across from him. "This could revolutionize labor, military capabilities, scholarly pursuits. Imagine entire workforces enhanced but still controllable."

"Still controllable," Damian repeated, a smile playing at his lips. "Yes, that's the key, isn't it? Power without the burden of creating equals."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, two predators recognizing kindred ambition in each other.

"I think we have to bring someone in as our first major partner," Damian said finally. "The Eternal mother Elise Warrick."

Clarissa knew the name—every plagueborne in the Golden Crescent knew of the Original Bloodless who ruled Ellysia's merchant empire. "The Shadow Queen Merchant? She has the reach we'd need, but why would she involve herself in our venture?"

"Because she has a particular hatred for Venico," Damian explained, his eyes gleaming. "Her most hated enemy rules that city from afar—a man who shares her cursed state according to my sire but not her ambitions. She's been looking for a way to undermine Venico's prosperity for centuries. Our ink could be the perfect weapon."

The meeting with Elise Warrick took place in a private chamber beneath Ellysia's grandest merchant hall. The Original Bloodless moved with grace that made even Damian seem clumsy by comparison, her presence filling the room like a cold mist.

"So," Elise said, her voice carrying the weight of millennia, "you've created a substance that can enhance people. How... quaint."

"More than enhancement," Damian replied smoothly. "It's control. Imagine being able to improve your workforce, your customers, your competitors—all while they thank you for the privilege."

Clarissa watched the interaction carefully, noting how Damian emphasized the control aspect while omitting crucial details about the source of her blood. He was lying by omission about which generation of the Bloodless blood powered the formula and completely concealing the existence of the feral’s she'd created.

"The applications for trade are obvious," Clarissa added. "Merchants who use our ink become more clever, more persuasive. Workers become more efficient and compliant to the addictive nature of the ink. Entire cities could become dependent on our product without realizing it."

Elise's cold smile revealed ancient fangs. "And you believe this could affect Venico's economic dominance?"

"Venico's strength lies in its skilled artisans and shrewd traders," Damian explained. "But if Ellysia's workforce suddenly became supernatural in capability, if your merchants gained enhanced ability of persuasion... the balance of power could shift dramatically."

"What aren't you telling me?" Elise asked suddenly, her ancient senses detecting deception.

Clarissa felt a chill of fear, but Damian remained smooth. "Only that the production methods are... proprietary. Trade secrets, you understand. But I assure you, the source is sustainable and reliable."

Elise studied them both for a long moment. "Very well. But I want exclusive distribution rights for the western territories. And I want to see results in Venico within six months." "And once we

have all of Venico’s workforce addicted to this ink we will stop the flow of product, this is my second and final demand."

As they shook hands—if the cold touch between plagueborne could be called that—Clarissa realized they had just agreed to poison an entire city's population. The moral weight of it should have been crushing. Instead, she found herself calculating production quotas and profit margins.

Within months, she had the higher quality Scriptweaver's Ink flowing through Ellysia's merchant networks. Traders carried it unknowingly in their supplies, innkeepers served it in their finest establishments, and craftsmen found themselves mysteriously more skilled after certain transactions.

Clarissa established a larger facility for the ink distributed to venico—calling it simply "The Farm"—where she could scale up production. The two feral’s she'd created were no longer sufficient; she needed more source material. More victims.

"The missing persons reports are increasing," Alvin warned her one evening as she reviewed expansion plans.

"Missing persons become found persons when they're contributing to the greater good," she replied without looking up from her calculations. "Besides, who's going to investigate the disappearance of vagrants and criminals?"

But even Alvin, loyal as he was, seemed troubled by the implications. She made another note to replace him soon. Perhaps with someone who had sampled the ink—they were always more agreeable.

The moral implications of her enterprise had become a fascinating study in themselves. She was creating addicts without their knowledge, exploiting creatures she'd tortured into existence, and enabling the corruption of entire populations. Yet she felt no guilt, only the satisfaction of successful innovation.

Perhaps that was the most terrifying realization of all: that the transformation into the Bloodless hadn't just changed her body but had fundamentally altered what she was capable of feeling about the suffering of others.

As she stood in her laboratory, surrounded by vials of ink that would enslave minds and corrupt souls, Clarissa Quintessa—once a scholar devoted to knowledge for its own sake—had become something far more dangerous than any feral Bloodless: a monster who could still think, still plan, and still justify every atrocity as progress.

The Golden Crescent would soon learn the true cost of a scriptweaver's ambition.