LIGHTNOVELONLINE (1-2) succedaneum
The rest of the day passes with comparatively less fanfare. At least, none of my other customers reveal they're unwittingly conspiring to kill me.
Unwittingly. Is that even true? I wouldn't put it past Alabastra's trio to tease their marks before the hunt. I shake my head. Best to not think that way. I have a potential path to solving the greatest concerns of my crisis. If I can just perfect this sedative...
I close up shop early, to give myself time to experiment. Nothing for it now, but to begin. My notebook flipped open as a guide, I read back my sorry tale to myself, to catch the missing details, and ensure I am precise.
Octobrea the 14th, 919
I have been experiencing strange blackouts. Yesterday morning I awoke to no memory of the night before, of my activities after closing shop. The same today. More concerningly, my attire is ripped through, stained with... what I very much hope is not blood. And most catastrophic of all, I am starving. Yet my usual attempts to sate my cravings are proving... less than adequate.
For all intents and purposes, I have lived my life as any other human. A less than rosy pallor to my cheeks, an uncanny knack for dark-seeing, perhaps a bit more vitality than is typical, but otherwise, I am near-indistinguishable. The sun has never harmed me, other than the typical skin burning expected of my pale complexion. I don't prefer the light, but no rays of gold have threatened to cast me in ash. I can wade through rivers as well as any other lanky shut-in; enter homes uninvited, not that I would; holy water has no effect but to drench me. Garlic remains a staple food of my diet, and I presume a stake through my heart would hurt about as much as it would anyone else.
The only major difference, of course, is my craving for blood. Not a diet I am proud to indulge in, but survival necessitates debasement. So long as that craving is sated, my otherwise-human state remains. My faculties continue to be my own. Scant few occasions I have let that hunger lapse, and each time... the results have ensured that I keep a tight lid. The dark thing within demands its tithe of sanguine, but there is peace as long as I oblige.
Until recently.
Octobrea the 15th, 919
The blackouts continue. Each morning the cravings grow worse. They are visited by an uptick in... violent thoughts. Inexplicable yearnings for cruelty. I would not repeat the twisted things I have imagined, had to force myself not to indulge in. My hungers are insatiable. No stale, refrigerated blood can sate me, no matter how much I drink. I feel it deep within... I need it fresh from the source. This is not ideal. I keep my curtains closed, now. I have not gone outside since this started. I do not know if my increased cravings have triggered a newfound sunlight allergy, but there is no sense in testing. Not without benefit, anyways.
I've still yet to leave my apartment... of my own accord, anyways. My windows stay closed, and I avoid the front half of my shop until the sun no longer shines through it. Not a large adjustment to my lifestyle, in all honesty.
Of course, I may not have the luxury of keeping that hypothesis untested. Once the most vexing quirk is solved, I'll need to look for a cure, and there is no guarantee I can do so without risking daylight. I can't live with these hungers forever. Even now, I feel the low rumble at the back of my throat, down into my stomach. I am sluggish and lightheaded, nauseous, losing weight; all the beginning symptoms of starvation. It is possible that these cravings are psychosomatic, but even the thought of swallowing un-fresh blood makes my skin crawl. My body will only accept a meal straight from the veins.
I refuse to give it what it wants. Not of my own volition.
The garden pots in my shop play host to a trove of herbs and flowers, trellises of vines looping over metal racks from which the plants swing, their leafy branches intermingling in tamed chaos. A few wilt for lack of sunlight; my weeks of necessary isolation have dulled my green thumb. But they're still more than sufficient for my alchemical needs, for the time being. Though, this experimentation is causing me to run low... I'll have to replenish many of my supplies once this is over. But I can worry about how to suture the rest of my life back together another day.
Well, what little life there is to repair, in any case. It's not as if I have "loved ones" or acquaintances to return to, recreational activities I could be doing. My days have largely been consumed by work, and worry, up to this point. Now it seems I just worry.
Beside the entry in my journal, I jot down in the margins:
Note to self: after curing blood curse of mind and body, try hobbies.
I flip to the next page.
Octobrea the 17th, 919
The worst of my fears are realized. Father Kansis visited the shop today. Nominally to collect some healing herbs for his own medicinal purposes. Under regular circumstances seeing the good father would not be an unwelcome occurrence, but for the information he shared today... He informed me of a growing menace in The Reds. Victims, some left alive, others murdered, found in the streets, alleys, rooftops, and dark corners of the city. Left with puncture wounds in the
Blood pounds in my ears, my stomach twists in knots, and I turn away from the journal, flipping to the next page without reading the rest. I would rather not think on that particular facet, today. No sense in distracting myself with a moral drowning. The passage I am most in need of is next, regardless.
Octobrea the 18th, 919
I attempted to subdue myself last night with a standard sleep elixir. Judging by the blood staining my shirt, I can only assume it did not work. Perhaps waterbloom is simply not strong enough, or perhaps whatever... dark specter takes hold in the night cannot be stopped at all. I also awoke to a broken armchair, which I've had to throw out. It seems the attempt only made the situation more volatile. I may try some differing avenues before poking this particular bear again.
I curse myself for my cowardice. If I'd kept pushing perhaps I could have discovered this sooner. Then again, who knows what might've occurred had I tried brute force. Perhaps the roundabout revelation saved more trouble than it cost. Or perhaps that's wishful thinking.
My hands pass between the bushels, vines and shrubs flowering the lifeblood of my profession to collect what I need. The morose nature of my work leads me to consider... how easy it would be to end this the quick way. Each and all of these plants have their thorns. So much of medicine and alchemy lies in the dosage. An entire Glowfril mushroom may be lethal, but its salts make a wonderful bolstering ingredient. Too much arsenic, just a pinch of nightshade, bolster oleander with fragstone. A dash of dart frog saliva, the wrong cut of alterscale meat.
And it's over. All my troubles disappeared, only a swig away.
Of course, I don't sell poison in any official capacity. But I can't be blamed for what someone does with my ingredients, now can I? A killer's dollar is as good as a saint's. And heroes and scoundrels alike need the edge, a discreet kill, a massacre in a bottle. Alabastra has dabbled with the stuff, too, and even if she were completely honest in her insistence that she only kills monsters... Her definition of monster, I imagine, is looser than my own.
Collecting the prerequisite mushrooms, flowers, leaves, dusts, and preserved monstrous organs in a basketed bushel, I march upstairs. My alchemy station waits patiently for me to begin. The one facet of my life that has remained constant. My lifeline, the only route to salvation I'm capable of walking. The chain keeping me here, and the means by which I might break myself free. The furnace seems to me a mouth, grinning, waiting to be fed. Eyes of glass, cauldrons and mixers the organs its healing blood is cleansed through. My only friend, my surviving kin, my nemesis, my mountain to conquer. The hungry ghost of the people who lived here, once, foolish enough to believe they could save a doomed child.
I often wonder, what is the nature of a soul, moved to the embrace of the Gods? Are they aware, still? Conscious, sapient? Do they hold all, or fragments, or nothing of the persons they once were? Do they watch us? Can they feel pride, horror, disappointment for the lives they touched and made believe they would stay with forever? The goddess of death, Corva, has deigned not to share such natures. Perhaps she believes mortal-kind doesn't deserve to know. Perhaps she knows that if they did, they would revolt against the dying order imposed on them; or, would rush to self-destruction to alleviate the ills of the flesh.
Death is always on my mind. Sometimes I wish it wasn't. That I could live in blessed ignorance, force myself to believe the happiest stories of afterlife's eternal paradise. It seems more likely to me that a soul is nothing more than the animating force of a person. Indistinguishable from anyone else's, once pulled from the form. Our minds and bodies make us who we are; there is nothing ineffable in a man.
Ingredients laid out before me, I begin my work by grinding waterbloom into a mortar. Typically this is something of a meditative part of the process, as methodical and practiced motions often are windows to introspection. Now, the very last place I wish to be is my own mind. Perhaps I should invest in a record player. Maybe even a radio, if I can afford one.
I let a few ingredients distill down, and mix the ones that can be thrown whole-sale into the cauldron, gallons of water to follow. With a click, I fire up the largest furnace. With every motion, I turn back to my notebook, jotting down each dose, every step, comparing and re-comparing with the recipe of last night's experiment. Sleep potions by nature lend themselves to forgetfulness; I remember little of yesterday's creative flurry, and if a repeat occurs tonight, it is imperative my recipe is precise and detailed.
It is unfortunate that such a slow pace is necessary; I'll only know if any brew worked the following morning. I curse myself for not buying or catching vermin to test upon. The casual cruelty of the thought pleases all the wrong parts of my mind.
I grit my teeth, wincing through the hunger. Best to not give it an inch.
The final entry in my journal sits on the inside page of the notebook as I commit my calculations to paper.
Octobrea the 21st, 919
I feel lost, as if in a darkened forest, wandering with no light to guide me. I have no outstretched hands, no stars, nothing but endless woodlands, and the growling of something evil in the shadows. I need direction. Some kind of indication of what has ensorcelled me. Perhaps... perhaps my dreams might hold the key. The churning visions of blood in my head. If I can make them more vivid, somehow. Understand them. I've never heard of any sort of dream-delving potion before... I'm in uncharted waters. As it ever was, necessity is the mother of invention. Maybe I'll start with something that will induce a sickened condition. Fever dreams are always more vivid, I find...
Standing over my workstation, I debate back and forth on adding the healing components I'd gathered. If they counteract the sickness potion, I've essentially just created a basic sleep potion with extra steps. Conversely... the side effects of the especially-horrific dreams and fever symptoms may catch up to me in the long run. A pitfall to be avoided, if I can.
I decide to add a standard array of healing potion ingredients. Off-the-cuff calculations lead me to believe it should only curtail the worst effects. I may be skipping a step on the experimental ladder, but I already know the sleeping effects work well enough. No harm in a test. And more besides, an overabundance of caution is what lead me here at all.
The potion begins to distill and dissolve, at this stage only requiring heat and occasional mixing. Normally I'd open a window to alleviate some of the heat coming off of my station, but... the sun is still out. I do miss my night-time experiments. Of all the things this condition has robbed me of, amongst the most egregious is my time under the stars. I feel like a stereotype for it, but, I do feel a certain kinship with the night. An emptiness within, only filled under the sunless blanket of twinkling lights. I'm not sure I've even seen the moon in weeks.
The blackouts come at irregular times, but typically begin around or just past sunset. Evening draws near, according to the clock. I stare down at the mixture below me, my reflection looking up. The potion is a brackish gray-blue, flecks of stone floating within like pulp. I take a flask, and dip it deep into the cauldron, no care for ladling or drop-filling. This is science, not art.
Now or never.
With one fluid motion, I quaff the whole elixir. It tastes absolutely foul, curdling my throat like vomit. The glass bottle shatters as it hits the floor. I look to the clock, jot down a final note in my pad, 7:04, exact time imbibed, and then leave my office, pacing slowly around my flat. The world starts to dull, my head feels too heavy. My hands grip the back of a chair, and my glasses fall off my face as I shake my head. My breathing slows, slows, slows to a crawl, my vision tunnels, and my legs give out. With waning strength, I sit in the chair, and pray to whatever Gods can hear me that this works.
* * *
IT WAKES.
The room is too bright. The twitching thing stands, heaves, crouches low as it draws ragged breaths. It lets loose one frustrated growl. It is terribly hungry. S t a r v i n g.
Scratching at its side, it takes in its surroundings. A home, dwelled in, recent. The place it awakes every night, and feels a call within its bones to return to. It is not sure why; this shadowless scene cannot spawn a sanctum.
Its rotted memory can conjure no awakening the previous night. It is furious at that. One step forward, and it hears a satisfying crunch beneath its foot. A red pair of spectacles, one lens shattered under the weight. Its head crooks to the side in a cracking twitch. It cannot find a reason to care.
It marches to the window and slams it wide. Glass shatters at the forceful opening. Shards rain atop it, cutting into its skin. Its first bloodshed of the night. Good. More. It licks piteously at its own wounds, then spits the ichor out in frustrated disgust. Too easy. Its hunt must begin. The monster crawls into the window sill, crouched like a gargoyle, eyeing the streets below.
Spying the unsuspecting blood-filled things, moving carefree through their lives, it waits. Isolate, pounce, wound, devour. Isolate, pounce, wound, devour. The mantra in its head the gospel of the predator. Its hands are insufficient for the coming hunt. Focusing, it grows its claws out with shadowstuff, dripping black magic into elongated killing implements, easing the coming need to shred.
Patience... patience. Soon.
A human, brightly adorned in yellow, takes a right turn into the alley across the street. There. A meager little morsel, but alone. It grasps the sides of the window, and wills itself forward, transforming briefly to pure shadow as it darts to a distant balcony. Keeping pace, it slides through shadow again, perched above the alley on a jutting pipe. It prepares to spin its web.
The prey darts her head back and forth. She expects trouble. Perhaps she feels the eyes on her back. But fortune favors the beast; they never look up.
Spinning its hand and muttering a wicked incantation, the darkness creeps around her in a swirl, corralling her into a corner. Silencing her pleas. The monster licks its fangs, growing by the second. Lost little thing. If only anything else had found her.
The predator bounds to the ground, landing with a hunch. It takes a moment to drink in the terror in her saucer plate eyes, as she trembles like an animal. The delicious moment, where the known crosses into the unknown. She backs up, scrambling, and tries to scream. Her voice is muffled under the magic, her pleas as empty as her future. Its feast can wait no longer. It pounces.
One set of claws wrap around her throat, holding her in place. She squirms beneath its grasp. Uselessly. With a decisive motion with its other claw, her midsection is torn open. Sweet sanguine drips from the four-lined wound. Already the fight begins to give out in her eyes, the light of life draining from her skin. The savory moment where the last of her thoughts flit through her skull. The perfect time to drink deep.
It pulls her forth, and sinks its fangs into her neck. Finally. It begins to drink. A hunger sated after decades of starving. It wishes to pull every last drop-
Pain shoots through its own torso. It backs away on instinct, looking down. A glinting shard of glass sticks from its abdomen. The prey falls to the ground, breathing deep, on the verge of consciousness. She managed to wound it. It is almost impressed. The beast pulls the glass from its side, its pained howls muffled self-same from its own spell. It concentrates, speeding its body's healing to stitch closed the wound in rapid repair.
Now it can return to the-the feast. It stumbles. Suddenly, its arms are heavy. A yawn heaves its way through its twisted lungs. It is... exhausted.
No, no! It needs sustenance! It needs to drink...! It... it needs...
It must sleep.
The beast collapses unceremoniously beside its prey, and the dark of the night takes them both.
