Dear Archivist,
Of late some of our companions have acquired—through entirely legitimate means!—a collection of books, artifacts, and botanical samples that the Library may find interesting. Normally our kind do not part with any items from our collections, but these don't hold our fancy (most are ancient Cimuvi potsherds, for goodness sake). We believe they will be of great interest to you, though.
In return we would ask for some compensation. Firstly, several of our members have overdue books. We have returned these books, undamaged, along with this letter. In exchange for the items, you will declare their debts to the Library void and cease molesting them.
Secondly, we want complete copies of Longjourney's journals and all your documentation on the City of Seaglass and Ctethuss.
Thirdly, for everything but the potsherds (which we are trading for the first two points), we would like to trade in kind, choosing certain items the Library is deaccessioning. Obviously, we would prefer anything particularly unique and appealing. If the Library does not bring anything of interest, we reserve the right to dispose of our unwanted items another way.
If you are interested, please send an emissary to the Bonepicker's Lodge in Truxi. We will be staying there for the next few moonspans.
Please see the included list for items we are offering.
— Messrs. Pica and Cissa
Light filtered in through the broken window. Broken glass, dulled by wind-blown grit, shimmered in the patch of sun. So did the steel of Hibiki's claws and their white fur. Hanging in the air as they were, they were untouched by the dust that coated most surfaces of the abandoned building he and his friends were staying in. Outside, shrubs and trees had overgrown the vacant lot surrounding the old factory. Hibiki could only faintly make out the sounds of traffic from the nearby street through all the foliage and the don't-look-at-me.
For all Hibiki had heard other Hand members talk about the ills of deindustrialization, it had at least left them with a range of safehouses. Having stayed in worse, he had no complaints about the grime or the stagnant air. The last place hadn't had running water.
Birdsong and footsteps crunching over gravel came from the parking lot. After a moment, the former cut off but the latter kept coming towards the building. Hibiki started drifting down, towards the garage door. They'd all been expecting Rachel back soon, but he'd still thought she'd be gone for more than a day. "She's back," he called into the building, making sure to pitch his voice low so as to not overwhelm the don't-look-at-me. "What's the news from the Nest?"
"I'll tell when we're all here; you know that." Hibiki twirled in the air and flew over to perch on a pendant light, claws digging into old metal. Tjorbørg and Marcus were not long in arriving; he had only just finished blowing off the dust when they entered the room. "Anything happen while I was at the Library?"
"I've not had any dreams of note," Tjorbørg said. "And none of us have seen anything odd."
"I fixed the shower." Marcus shrugged a little.
Rachel raised her eyebrows slightly. "That's great." She said that with total sincerity—the human members of the cell had not enjoyed trying to use a bucket. Sitting down, she removed four sheaves of papers. "There's not much news from the Nest. Extra Bookburners are gone from Norway, we don't know why. Moldova and Romania are crawling with Bookburners. So's Estonia. Second Republic of Iyata wants help with magic in exchange for surplus weapons. And the Magpies sent the Library this." Rachel handed one each to Marcus and Tjorbørg. One she kept for herself. And the last one she held up and waggled at Hibiki. He swooped down to snag it, then hovered a short distance away to start reading, careful to avoid ripping the pages.
For a few moments, there was silence as the three Hand members flicked through their packets. Hibiki was the first to speak. "They can't be serious. And the Library can't seriously be considering this. The second they let down their guard the Magpies will try and steal from them again."
"Oh, the Library knows the Magpies aren't serious. They still want us to play emissary anyway."
"It's a good deal for us, if the Library's not going to hold it against us when the Magpies betray them. This is a lot of stuff." Marcus scanned over the list of what the Magpies were offering.
"It is, and half of the places those are from are basically impossible to get to. Problem is that the Nest says that the Library will be holding it against us if the Magpies manage to steal anything during the negotiations, and will… 'affect our relationship going forward,' as they put it. They'll be less willing to let us borrow artifacts if we lose one. Unfortunately, if the Hand refuses to handle this, the Library will start to look elsewhere for its errands on Earth and its neighbors and we'll have a harder time getting new people Archive access."
"You're talking as if the Nest wants us to handle this," Hibiki said.
Rachel grimaced. "Well. You know how they are. They didn't say we should go talk to the Magpies, they just gave me the letters and said we were the best ones to handle this. That they could reach, anyway."
"I think we risk too much doing this," Tjorbørg said. "We can rebuild the Library's trust in our reliability in other ways if we decline. And if the deal doesn't work we look wise for saying it was too risky."
"I could ward what we're trading against theft."
"These names are blatantly fake. We know the Magpies have members capable of breaking wards and for all we know, these are them."
"So we don't give them the chance to steal anything," interjected Hibiki. "They don't even have to know the rest of you are there. Send me in alone with a limited set of the things we're trading; we'll do the exchange over a few sessions. I can fly out with the artifacts if I need to." There was a few moments of silence as the other members of his cell considered that.
"Remember Siberia, when we were checking out the Lena Pillars? I made you daydream so I could keep talking to you from afar," Tjorbørg said. "I could do that again. You'd be able to tell us if anything was wrong and they wouldn't know."
"That works, but be ready to end the link on a moment's notice." He'd nearly died among the pillars when there'd been a sudden rockfall. Having Tjorbørg in his head was distracting.
"We'll arrive as part of a larger group," Rachel said slowly. "I know a Way to Truxi that's often used by trading expeditions. We go with one, rent separate rooms at an inn near the Bonepicker's Lodge, and hopefully if they're watching for us they won't know we're actually together. They'll figure it out eventually, but it'll give us time." After a few moments of silence, she continued. "I think I might have a way that you only have to make one trip, Hibiki, but I'll have to make another trip to the Library."
"Plan sounds good to me. I'll start prep for the wards." Marcus headed back to his workspace. As he did, Rachel got up and started back to the Way.
Tjorbørg looked to Hibiki. "Let's make sure you can talk to me."
When preparations were done and they gathered again, it was in the darkness of the night, outside the abandoned factory. The skyglow from countless lights washed out the stars, but the full moon still shown brightly, defiant against the light pollution. Before the four of them was a graffitied scene of a path leading through the mangroves. Crimson stars hung in the inky black of the night and in the distance was a city of porcelain towers that seemed to pierce the very sky.
None of them knew how this Way had come to be. Hibiki doubted any of them ever would.
Dipping her hands in the bowl of saltwater Marcus held, Rachel flicked the water onto the trees and muttered a few words in a language Hibiki didn't understand. The wind picked up, and brought with it the smell of salt, of rot, of fish, of a million different kinds of bird. Leaves—real leaves—emerged from the painting, followed by branches, and a tongue of asphalt projected forwards onto the soil. In the sky, the stars pulsated irregularly, making dim shadows flicker in the forest.
Hibiki was the first one through, darting past Rachel. He did a quick circle, listening for anything that made his fur prickle with unease. Nothing. Only crickets and night birds could be heard. "We're good," he called back to the others.
Reaching their destination took several hours of hiking through the forest on a lonesome path. Towards the end, it joined with other roads and became a well-trod boardwalk. Only minutes later, they were passing the gatehouse and then they were in Kaghe. It was a beautiful city. Walls of flawless glazed brick, painted with many-colored figures of birds and sea-life, formed an octagon around the city, extending even into the ocean. When he had drawn a claw over the finish, it had been perfectly smooth. There was not so much as a divot or crack for him to catch on, and the bricks were ice-cold to the touch. Trees grew on and around the walls but could not so much as crack its mortar, for it had been built by the Eight Kings of Glass and Clay using secrets pried from the stars themselves. Or so Hibiki was told by the guards when he asked. He felt doubtful, as none seemed to be able to agree on who those Kings had actually been.
At first he hung close to the rest of the group, trying to keep hovering within the center. Rachel led them deep into the city, past brick-lined canals full of glowing fish and hanging gardens of vines and fruit trees. The city was as tranquil as it was beautiful, but theft happened in any city and the thought of losing what he bore before they even got to Truxi filled Hibiki with dread. But he needn't have worried. The long-limbed inhabitants scuttled over tile and tree alike, occasionally watching them pass for a few moments but quickly returning to whatever they were focused on before. Wanderers were not common within Kaghe, but were hardly unknown.
Finally, they came to a building made of gleaming white chalk, inlaid with precious coral. It stood before a break in the mangrove forest, a dozen meters wide. On either side were mangroves. When Hibiki darted and looked down the beach, though, it seemed to stretch on forever, farther than the ocean itself. Under the light of the red stars speckling the night sky, the path was lit in a fel crimson light.
It was a remarkable sight, especially since Hibiki had seen that the mangrove forest resumed after barely five meters and extend out into open water.
"Damn, that's one nice looking inn," Marcus said. "Kinda weird it doesn't fall apart in the rain, though."
Rachel shrugged. "Magic. Come on, let's get some rest. Caravan will leave in the morning."
Once they had joined the caravan, they'd made good time. This far along the Way, Kaghe wasn't visible behind them; the mangroves had long ago changed to a shoreline and then to dunes of basalt sand. Truxi wasn't visible, but some of its moons were. They traveled far too quickly across the sky, visible one minute and gone the next, and sometimes passed in front of the clouds. A fourth had been fading into existence over the past hour. The sky was slowly turning to violet.
Hibiki had kept himself apart from the rest of his cell, unsure if the Magpies might have any members traveling to the Bonepicker's Lodge with the caravan. He'd seen others carrying antiquities—blades of desert glass chipped from age, tapestries of nettlecloth, old porcelain beads filled with dancing flame. Rachel had told them all that Truxi was a center of the trade. It wasn't necessarily a sign of trouble. But she'd also told them that their contacts might not be the only Magpies at the Lodge.
On some level, Hibiki knew he was being paranoid. The Way was getting to him; stars flicked in and out of existence overhead and distant landmarks bent and warped uncannily. And he was exposed in ways that made his fur prickle with unease. He knew that nothing could come over the vast expanse of dunes and that the only people on this trail walked it, but his instincts screamed to get under cover. He was having to defy them, which only made it worse. At nights he rested in the sky, too high to reach lest any fellow travelers get tempted. Hibiki was sure that the other members of his cell were watching out for would-be thieves, but there were limits on how carefully they could watch before making their association obvious.
He looked down from his perch on top of one of the wagons to one of the drivers, a native of Kaghe. "Tomorrow morning, you said?"
The driver looked up at him, making a series of clicks before the translation spell cut in. "If all goes well." They nudged the great beast pulling the wagon with a crop, and there was a faint jerk as the slowing draft animal picked up the pace again. "Anxious, aren't you?"
For a few moments, Hibiki considered saying nothing, then decided that would be more suspicious. "I have business dealings. Time sensitive ones." He did his level best to sound haughty and suspected it didn't work.
A buzz he was pretty sure was the Kaghe equivalent of a snort suggested it didn't. "Is this something I should be worried about?"
"What?"
"You heard me. Half of the rest of the people traveling with us won't shut up about their cargo or what they're going to buy. The one with the glass swords tried to sell one to me, if you can believe it. But you won't speak a word of what your business is."
Hibiki shifted uncomfortably. "It's nothing illegal or dangerous. Merely private." This seemed to mollify the driver enough to drop the subject… though Hibiki expected that if they ever had to come this way again, they'd have a fence to mend with this driver.
Truxi really couldn't come soon enough.
Truxi proved to be an squad adobe city. A dozen moons moved across the violet sky overhead, so fast they made Hibiki's head spin to watch. Occasionally, they passed in front of the clouds. From everyone else's reactions that was typical, but he couldn't stop ask Rachel about it and had no wish to draw more attention to himself by appearing ignorant. Instead, he directed a porter to help carry his goods to his room, then darted over to the desk. Hovering motionless, he dipped a single claw in ink and started lightly writing on thick paper.
Messrs., he wrote, the Library has accepted your offer. I, Hibiki of the Serpent's Hand, will be acting as their representative for this transaction. I will arrive at the Bonepicker's Lodge tomorrow with a full list of what the Library is willing to offer. We shall make our dealings, then exchange the items over the rest of the week. This written, he sealed the note in an envelope and went down to get it delivered. Then, returning to his room, he fished a small capsule out of a bottle and crushed it against the roof of his mouth. A foul, bitter taste seeped out. He retched, but the drug was already in his system.
Instantly, a brief sensation of unsteadiness washed over Hibiki, as if he had fallen asleep for just a moment. It passed quickly, though, and then Tjorbørg faded into existence nearby, sitting on a chair that wasn't there. "The message is delivered," he reported. "Is the shipment secured?"
"Yes. We managed to get a room right next to the storeroom, and no one should notice Rachel's wards. Or complain, even if they do. How do you feel?"
"Decent." He waggled his toes, and tried to scrawl his name on another piece of paper. While he felt normal, his movements were slower, more laborious. A human probably wouldn't have noticed. With his fine attention to detail, Hibiki did. His calligraphy, normally immaculate, was flawed—strokes too long or at slightly the wrong angles. "It's not perfect," he told Tjorbørg. "I wouldn't want to try fighting like this, but it should work well enough for what we need."
"We'll be listening if things do go to hell, and we can get to the Bonepicker's Lodge in ten minutes." Her head moved slightly to listen to one of the other two. Hibiki couldn't see them, but he knew her body language. "Marcus says in a couple days it'll be more like eight."
"Good." For a few moments, Hibiki was quiet. "Do you think we've done enough to prepare?"
"Not really," Tjorbørg admitted. "But we rarely get to. Plan's as good as it's going to get." She yawned. "Get some sleep. We've all had a long day." And for his species, it only felt longer.
The wallpaper was an ugly shade of fuchsia that clashed glaringly with the dozens of artifacts mounted to it. Ancient swords and spears. Old pottery. An antique oceanfire torpedo, the blazing heart visible through its sapphire glass midsection. A breastplate decorated with opal gems whose bands of color moved before his eyes. The statue of some goose-like alien, which was so large he could only get a good look at by flying close to the ceiling. Despite himself, Hibiki couldn't help but admit it was pretty, at least if you could ignore the wallpaper. It was also almost all stolen.
He'd seen worse. The Magpies only pried their loot from your cold, dead hands if you were a few centuries gone.
Hibiki's head turned as a positively cadaverous humanoid with orange-tinted skin and enormous ebon eyes approached him. The figure cleared their throat. "They're ready to see you," they said. "If you'll follow me, sir."
"Don't call me sir," he said, dropping down to what would be eye level for humanoids and floating after… "What's your name?"
"Abaxi." Abaxi led him down a hallway decorated with more things mounted to the wall, but this time Hibiki wasn't paying very close attention to what they were. "In here," they said once they'd led him to an open doorway. Hibiki drifted through, looking about. Two sharply dressed humans, a wooden crate on the floor next to them, and a notebook on the antique wooden table. Both smelled like sweat, woodsmoke, vinegar, beef, and onions—a result of their breakfast, perhaps.
"Pica and Cissa, I suppose?" Hibiki asked dryly. There was no way those were their real names, but if that was what they were going by he would entertain it. The one to the right bobbed his head without missing a beat, and Hibiki put them a notch up in his estimation of their competence. Even for many Wanderers, a floating metal-clawed weasel was still surprising.
"That's us."
"I'm going to need to see the potsherds before I agree to anything else. They're in the crate?"
"Yes, they are." Hibiki drifted over and wiggled a scythe-like claw into the gap between the lid and rim of the crate, then started prying. After a few moments of straining to keep their position steady, they managed to get the top off. The scent of musty paper and charcoal immediately filled the air. He peered inside. There were objects neatly packed in brown paper. Carefully Hibiki removed one and unwrapped it, revealing a potsherd. Of course, Hibiki knew little about Cimuvi potsherds—but he didn't need to. He wriggled his tongue, dislodging the little chitin ampule adhered to the roof of his mouth and then crushing it against his teeth. Again the bitter taste flooded his mouth, but this time he knew it was coming and didn't gag.
Torbjørg and Marcus' dreamscape faded in around him. There was a brief moment where Hibiki saw both the meeting room and the inn the rest of his cell was staying at before Torbjørg exerted her will and made the dreamscape match what she was getting from his senses. It wasn't perfect, but it was much less disorienting. Two translucent figures stood across from him, on the other side of the box, gazes unfocused. Are these genuine? Hibiki thought, as loudly as he could.
They look so, Marcus said, still unfocused eyes narrowing as he leaned forward. Hibiki did as well, knowing that no matter how close Marcus leaned, he couldn't get a better view himself. Good patina, the patterning is right—Hibiki, could you tilt your head a little counterclockwise? He did, rotating his whole body in the air. Something about the potsherd seemed to shimmer. They have the right iridescence, Marcus confirmed a moment later. Which makes forgery a lot less likely, since no one knows how the Cimuv did it. But Hibiki could feel the doubt coming over the psychic link Torbjørg has created, and something prickled at the back of his mind.
There's magic to perfectly replicate things, right? he inquired. Marcus nodded.
There is. And the Library would not be pleased if they brought back fakes, even if they were perfect fakes. For a few moments, Marcus stood thinking, head slightly tilted. It would be better if I could touch these myself, but I think I can work through you. If you wouldn't mind? Hibiki laid a palm on the potsherd, careful to not touch it with skin or claw but only with the part of their hand that was covered with the fingerless glove he wore. After a moment, he felt warmth flowing through his core, out towards his hands. As Marcus worked, Hibiki pretended to be scrutinizing the carvings, brushing another gloved hand over the ridges.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the two Magpies. They were watching him closely, but didn't seem to react when Marcus started working magic. He knew Marcus was subtle in his arts, but any decent mage should have been able to tell this close, without any distractions. So either they were very good at controlling their body language, or they weren't mages.
Hibiki suspected the second. Torbjørg's concerns had been legitimate, but unlikely.
The warmth retreated, sucking back towards his core and then vanishing. They're legitimate, Marcus reported a moment later.
They could have put legitimate ones on top and put fake ones on the bottom, Torbjørg pointed out. Hibiki looked down at the crate.
You're right, he sent, weariness flooding over the dream-link. Let's check all of them.
Looking over the potsherds took nearly an hour, but Hibiki didn't dare get sloppy. Part of him wanted to just be done with it, and say that the Magpies couldn't possibly be the right mix of stupid and clever to try and defraud the Library. But you never knew with Magpies. Stealing from the Library required that exact mix of traits—the stupidity to take such a risk and lose access to such an important place, and the cleverness to escape after the theft—and they'd done just that.
He suspected that by now the Magpies realized he was using methods other than sight and scent to examine the potsherds. They didn't seem to care very much, which was puzzling all of his cell. The potsherds were legitimate, but some trick had to be at play, so any sign that the Library's emissaries suspected something should have been met with unease.
No sign of any unusual activity where we're staying? he asked over the link.
For a few seconds, Torbjørg's form shimmered out of existence, then she reappeared. None. Rachel's been watching like a hawk; says it's all normal for Truxi. And the wards and alarms aren't detecting anything. Hibiki kept his fur from bristling as best he could. Something was wrong, even if he wasn't sure what. Yet the Magpies had stopped watching him closely; he could have sworn that one's eyes had practically glazed over.
"They check out," he finally told the Magpies reluctantly. "You can consider your offer accepted. Your kind's trangressions against the Library will be forgiven once these are inside its walls. No longer will they be hunted—but the Ways will remain closed to them."
They grimaced, but didn't dispute the judgment. "It'll work," Pica said. "The books?" In response, Hibiki took out a scroll and laid it on the table. It was covered with elegant illustrations of books. Each had sigils below them. Quickly, he tapped each sigil, and the drawings turned to real books, neatly arranged in a stack. He'd not ever seen such magics before Rachel had made the trip back to the Library and returned with the scroll—and a dozen others like it—before they left Earth. He dearly wished they didn't have to give them back when they were done. The potential uses for them boggled the mind.
"I have them right here." Cissa leaned forward slightly, greed shining in his eyes. Hibiki clicked his claws against each other, eyeing Cissa lest he do something foolish. After a second he leaned back again, but Pica reached forward and took the books.
"What does the Library offer for what we've found?" In response, Hibiki removed the second scroll he'd brought with him on this trip to the Lodge, and unfurled it. It was a much larger scroll, easily ten feet across, and covered with illustrations in the same style as the first. However, there were no sigils anywhere on the scroll.
"This one isn't magic. It's just a record of what's available to trade." He slid it across the table. While the Magpies consulted the scroll, Hibiki consulted a small notepad. It was mostly for show. One eye was kept on the Magpies, who were ooh-ing and aah-ing over the contents of the scroll and seemed to be gone to the world. After about a minute, he said, "We'll give you the necklaces from the Glass Age in exchange for the elya-leaf manuscripts."
Cissa snorted. "Certainly not. Half of them clash terribly. Pink and green together, really? Wouldn't look nice at all."
"We're having this negotiation in a place with bright fuchsia wallpaper."
"The yxighe like it. Trust me, we didn't pick it. We'll give you the manuscripts for the Aropan chains." He looked over at Pica. "I want the green ones."
Cissa leaned forward slightly. Awareness came from Torbjørg that he was considering whether or not he could steal the scroll… which was welcome information, because Echo's first thought had been that Cissa was trying to smell them. He clicked his claws against each other, eyeing Cissa, but didn't say anything. The man leaned back, and Pica gave them a dirty look after taking the books.
"This is what the Library is offering?" Naked greed showed in Cissa's voice.
"Depending on what you offer them." Echo settled down on the edge of the scroll. "Let's see that notebook. I'd like to refresh my memory." A lie, but one that would give his cellmates time to see what interested the Magpies the most. They'd be too interested in shiny things to tell that Echo was watching them. "We'll give you the necklaces from the Glass Age in exchange for the elya-leaf manuscripts," he said after about a minute.
Cissa snorted. "Certainly not. Half of them clash terribly. Pink and green together, really? Wouldn't look nice at all."
"We're having this negotiation in a place with bright fuchsia wallpaper."
"The yxighe like it. Trust me, we didn't pick it. We'll give you the manuscripts for the Aropan chains." He looked over at Pica. "I want the green ones." Surprise flowed over the connection, and it wasn't just from Echo's partners. Echo knew well that those were some of the least valuable items the Library was offering.
"Fine. Done."
"I really thought that would be more difficult," Echo said once they were back at the inn. Despite knowing better he felt more on edge here. There were too many smells and not enough of his own scent. He'd mostly grown used to the latter ever since having to flee the Bookburners but staying somewhere with strange predator scents was always the worst on his nerves. At least his cellmates knew not to ask him why he was hanging near the ceiling. The drugs had left his system, though he still felt faintly out of it. Torbjørg and Marcus were out of their trance state. Rachel, their point of contact with the Serpent's Nest, had joined them.
"I suppose they really are just that shallow," Marcus said. Rachel snorted.
"Maybe, but I'm worried about this. Most of the other groups which do tasks for the Library aren't active in the same spheres we are. The Magpies could become an exception." Echo's fur bristled.
"Only a fool would trust them," he pointed out.
"You say that now. If they decide that the Library makes for a good trading partner maybe none of us will be saying it in a few years. Maybe the Ways will be open to them, and the Library won't even need an emissary because they'll do this in the Library." Objections died in Echo's muzzle. Rachel was right, and he couldn't deny it.
"We didn't come out ahead in this deal, did we?" Torbjørg asked.
"That'll depend on how often this happens."
"I don't think the Magpies are smart and self-controlled enough to become a good partner for the Library," Marcus pointed out.
"We should keep an eye on them going forward," Echo said. "Not to interfere in their dealings, but to pre-empt them. They're going after something the Library really wants? We try to get it first. Leave enough pretty things to keep them entertained and they won't care even if they figure it out. And maybe we can get a few of them to join us."
"I'll bring it up to the Nest."
The conversation turned to other, less important things. But Echo found his attention fading. The political implications of this could be thought about more later. For the moment, they'd done the Library a favor.
It'd have to be enough.
Item #: SCP-2600-EX
Object Class: Explained
Special Containment Procedures: None required. All data concerning SCP-2600-EX is to be released to the Canadian government through standard intermediaries for the country.
Description: SCP-2600-EX is a
Any tributaries believed to contain SCP-2600 breeding grounds are to be dynamited immediately. Deceased specimens are to be brought to research station 2600-Prime. Specimens of SCP-2600 found alive are to be contained immediately. Personnel are to notify the site director immediately if a live specimen is contained. No special containment procedures are needed for SCP-2600-EX at this time.
Description:
In ancient times, the Children of the Stars were as numerous as the burning lights speckled across the sky. They walked between worlds on bridges of smoke and crystal. They wielded great and powerful Names that bent reality to their whim. Their laws defined the cosmos itself. In those days, the Children of the Stars imagined that they themselves would be written into the world like words are etched into stone. They thought they and their reign over the Earth would be eternal. And why would they not think so? Their power seemed unmatched.
It was a time both great and terrible. The Names that warped reality around themselves were kings and queens, with armies beyond counting. Their laws defined not just the world around them, but those lesser in station. Monarchs Named their servants, who Named commoners, who Named slaves.
[Children of the Stars flourish]
[Children of the Stars make mistakes, mistreat Children of the Night.]
[Coyote (?) meddles. Children of the Night overthrow Children of the Stars]
In ancient times, the Children of the Night had an empire as vast as the darkness that stretches across the sky.
[Children of the Night flourish]
[Children of the Night make mistakes, mistreat Children of the Sun]
[Coyote (?) meddles. Children of the Sun overthrow Children of the Night.]
[Children of the Sun flourish. End with implication same mistakes are being made. Children of the Sea?]
- Nitli
- Builds/maintains/pilots dunewalkers
- Yaka
- Wears a ton of pith-bone shards and cloth strips—one from each dunewalker they've worked on. They've only built a couple; the oldest dunewalkers are generations old.
- In his 50s, so starting to get old but not actually elderly yet
- Kind of acerbic, but loyal once you get to know him
- Tetesh
- Kah-rehm; father died shortly before birth and mother died in childbirth; Nitli took her in and she's basically his daughter
- Being trained in Ruul's profession
- Is genuinely interested in this, but feels a lot of pressure to fill Nitli's role
- Ernest
- Caravan comes to town; they're using the motor-craft
- These aren't unknown to the village, but they're using an improved design; it's good enough to go for long journeys without tuning when previously only dunewalkers would do
- Big gathering/celebration at the pit-well
- Nitli and Tetesh have always gladly attended, but this time it's different
- People are talking about if the motor-craft will replace dunewalkers
- Nitli hates that. Tetesh has complicated feelings about it. Her craft would be useless but no more pressure. Nitli picks up on it; they have a fight.
- Later, Tetesh visits someone she met at the pit-well
Nitli's dexterous fingers lashed pith-bone struts together as he balanced carefully on one of the larger ribs. Pouches with metal pins hung at his sides and tools were hanging all over his harness. Their latest project was surrounded on all sides by heavy scaffolding, thick and wide enough for even a much larger species than a little yaka. Only the shade of the thick yaka-cloth above the workshop kept the sun from being too bitterly hot to work in. "It'll be done as soon as I said the last time you asked," he called down to the blue and black Scithi below him.
"I've got cargo that won't wait."
"It's gonna have to, unless you want to go back into the sands with a storm-damaged dunewalker."
The Egg of the Permian
the Sunjiagou Artifact, the Permian Ark, the Last Promise, SCP-1266 (by Jailors)
The Egg of the Permian is an artifact of the Xinuba, an alien culture that was active in the Cluster of Terva approximately two hundred and fifty million years ago. Similar artifacts have been found on other worlds, all sharing similar (and thus far, untranslated) script, and the quality of near invulnerability. Most are of unknown function, and no skeletons of species that might be the Xinuba have ever been uncovered.
Shortly after it was uncovered, the Egg was stolen by the Foundation. While the loss of such an ancient relic is tragic, none of the Hand have chosen to claim the Egg--it is nothing more than a curiosity, primarily of interest to the few paleontologists aware of it.
Traits: The Egg is a large ovoid made of copper, completely covered with etchings in an as of yet untranslated script. As with most Xinuban artifacts, it doesn't appear to be affected by outside forces and instead hovers motionlessly. Attempts to damage it are futile.
Nature: Left alone, the Egg hovers motionlessly and releases seeds and animals from the Permian era. Unfortunately, the Earth has left them behind, and they die slowly or do not germinate. Neither mature plants nor dead creatures were seen by the original Chinese dig team in the short time they had to study the Egg, before the Jailers took over the site.
The paleontologists who discovered the Egg were not of the Aware, so their attempts to use it were fruitless. Skilled thaumaturgists, however, can manipulate Xinuban artifacts through the law of sympathy and by forging temporal mental links with blood magic. As the Jailors would rather remain afraid in the dark than use what they arbitrarily decide to be "anomalous," they no doubt remain ignorant of how to use the Egg.
History & Associated Parties: The circumstances of the Egg's burial are unknown, but it was uncovered in June 1986, in rock that dates back to the Great Dying. The dig site the Egg was found at was soon taken over by the Jailors, who made the paleontologists that discovered it forget the wonders they had seen. Two of the scientists were lucky enough to be slightly resistant to the Jailors' poisons, and recovered enough of their memories to seek out the ranks of the Aware. They are not members of the Hand, but associate with some of us. What knowledge we have of the object can be credited to their investigations.
Up to the present day, the Egg has been hoarded by the Jailers as SCP-1266. We know nothing more about it.
The few remaining gods and spirits of the Permian era have a great interest in the Egg, as it could restore them to prominence. Most are only dimly aware of reality, but at least two have awoken in recent times, as advances in paleontology have given them a way to affect the world. Others have fragmented into a thousand upon a thousand shards, each within the mind of a separate god, and may be able to influence the greater whole.
Curiously, several entities not active during the Permian, such as the Mistress of Clubmosses and Ferns have displayed an interest in the Egg. What they know, if anything, remains unknown to the Hand as a whole.
Approach: Should you choose to try and approach the Egg, either approach in force or approach with great stealth. The Jailors have built one of their lairs around the Egg, and while it is not heavily fortified, the Jailors are never to be lightly trifled with. There is a Way that leads to a spot on the banks of the Yellow River several kilometers to the west of the Egg.
Do not approach the Egg, or indeed any Xinuban artifact, if you have recently been in the shadow of a total solar eclipse. They react in ways that are varied, but universally negative for bystanders.
All known Xinuban artifacts are located on worlds with connection to the Hydra's Spine. While this may be simple coincidence, this coupled with the lack of evidence for Xinuban civilization has led some to theorize that the artifacts of the Xinuban culture, or the Xinubans themselves, were sent back in time after the construction of the Spine hundreds of years ago. Xinuban artifacts of known function generally serve as archives and ways to manipulate time, so the Xinubans may have had the capability to do this of their own volition.
If true, it cannot be stated with certainty that the Xinubans were a distinct culture, or that the culture that produced the artifacts has even emerged yet.
The script of these 'Xinubans' has never been deciphered because it's not script, it's geometric decoration of the sort that dozens of peoples have used over the eons. The very existence of the Xinuban culture must be considered suspect; many of the Xinuban artifacts are from other cultures. The Sphere of Boz was the first object identified as "Xinuban," but the patina and location clearly mark it as a temporally displaced Tesseraian artifact. — Brother Hytus
Xinuban script is geometric. Statistical analysis nevertheless indicates it's a script. If other Peoples than the Xinubans have used their glyphs in designs, it's likely from finding unearthed Xinuban artifacts. And the assertions of the United Tesseraian Authority that the Sphere of Boz is from their people is nothing more than irredentism; the ruins at Boz are clearly Camdorian in origin! — Razdorfin
The "Doubt" section went on for the rest of the page in much the same manner. If it had been cut entirely no one would have missed anything, but Valencia supposed that whoever had had been editing the entry was loathe to poke their nose (or antennae, or other chemoreceptory organ) into a centuries old grudge. Under other circumstances she might've read it out of morbid curiosity, but the world was ending. She looked around at the others sitting at the table. Dr. Li, independent paleontologist and part of the team that discovered the Egg. [X], the [what's the SH in China like?]. [Maxwellist] of the Maxwellists, who was there mostly because he'd compromised the Foundation's security after its internal schism. And lastly, her, delegate of the world's foremost anomalous conservation organization.
The world burned, but at the Danakil Sanctuary the ash in the air and the stench of sulfur were typical. There were few safe places these days, but a section of one of the planet's least hospitable deserts only accessible by climbing into Erta Ale was one of them. The Old Gods already had this world. Why end it?
Thanks to 
KnightKnight, 
Jacob Conwell, and 
kol aumer for coming up with the Hydra's Spine and the associated lore. Thanks to 
Aelanna for writing SCP-1266.
Countless species fear and hate entropy
And what better place for them to meet than one of the greatest nexuses of Ways in reality? Wanderers flee the death of their homes like rats escaping a sinking ship, sometimes out of cowardice, sometimes out of wisdom and a hope to rebuild. The Order of Seaglass hears of what's occurred regardless.
Féar gortach is a strange superstition. The pagans attribute all manner of ill to it, from failure to crop failure to pangs of hunger. They say faeries plant it and that it is as pale as a ghost.
Next herbal entry. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hungry_grass
Gods:
My dreams took me from darkness to darkness. It was suffocating; the dark was so thick it was a physical thing. I lashed out with my mind in panic but it was like tearing into fog. No matter how solid the shadows clinging to me felt, I couldn't beat them away. But as the minutes passed, I realized that they did not do more than cling to me, and my breathing slowed. Whatever this was was no friend of mine, but they were no foe either.
No enlightenment came through waiting. The presence was out there, but they seemed to take no note of me. But the shadows' grasp on me loosened with time. Eventually, inky solid shadows turned immaterial. The void surrounded me, and as I walked forward I could see pinpricks of light in the distance. My footsteps made no sound, but what I walked on felt like cold stone beneath my bare feet. And as I walked on, while I could not hear any sound, I could feel it in my bones. The reverberations grew as I walked, but slowly; I must have walked for days before noticing. Yet the pinpricks of light did not move at all.
The shadows turned thicker as I went, yet they did not bar my path and instead formed into a tunnel that stretched forward. My way was clear; I was invited inwards and the presence moved towards me. As they came towards me I saw nothing at first. But then I saw that the shadows were moving, and they were moving more rapidly as the presence drew closer. When they were on top of me, I could see the shadows writhe like a living thing.
What are you, I asked in wonder, for I had never seen their kind before. Why have you drawn me to you? The shadows said nothing, and their writhing did not change. Do you even understand me? I did not understand how they could not, but they gave no sign they did. And I could feel nothing from them but curiosity. So I crouched down and poked at the floor. The shadows on the other side of whatever barrier supported me flowed towards my finger, but I could feel something akin to hesitation now. It was certainly not for my sake. It felt more like the pause one might take before wading into water. No harm can come to them, but they'd rather not get wet.
I snorted. You pulled me here, I told them, and I let you. I don't know why, but let's get this over with. I drew back my fist and punched the floor, and it was thickened shadow before I hit the ground. Darkness embraced me as I fell, but this time I embraced it too. And the darkness was filled with stars, yet as they formed it fled from them like water splattered on a hot pan. It raced for the spaces between the star-fields, where the light was dim enough to stand. There it waited patiently, for some day the dark will return.
They could feel my fear at visions of stellar death, and though they could not speak I could feel their confusion. I'm from there, I shouted into the void. And I felt confusion, puzzlement that I would fear the dying of the light so much—and satisfaction that it's fated anyway.
I awoke in a cold sweat. I have never since tried to cast my mind so far.
Rather than the abyss, my dreamscape took the form of a vast tundra valley. Mountains jutted up to either side, bare peaks rising like fangs into the clouds. The earth was painted with red, yellow, and green. Small patches of reindeer lichens broke up the plant cover. I seemed to be alone; there was a presence but they were distant.
I cannot tell how long I wandered in the dreamscape, but they did notice me eventually. Heralded by a blizzard they came, a thousand beings at once but all of them white-furred and vulpine. Their eyes glittered in the light that filtered down through the snow, amber and blue at once. No words came from their muzzle, but we were both beyond such things as speech. What was their nature, I asked? Why had they come to me while I was in the dreams of dead sleeping gods?
I am a kindred spirit, they answered. My twin lived but I did not. And I saw past the appearance that clung to to their true nature. Beneath it they were but a rotting corpse. It made me recoil in horror, but pity stirred in my heart. You can see it, they said. My children's bones lie within the ice. I still feel them, but you know them not.
I see you as you are, I said. Would you show me what it was like, when you walked the Earth? And the blizzard parted around me, and I found myself in many places at once. A steppe. A forest. A desert. I could see forever, and so I could see titans walking the Earth. I knew some of them, but others were strange to me. Some of the titans had the glow of gods upon them, and I knew these to be my companion's siblings.
It is beautiful, I said, and the fox was pleased, but sad.
It was, they said. But the titans were dead, and the gods were doomed to a slow death. They were gods of nothing, now. I was quiet for a moment. Don't go, they asked. We lie restfully, with no dreams of our own. It has been so long since I visited the mind of another fox, and remembered what it was like to live. It has been so long, and it is so hard to reach another. Those that come to us are easier, but their minds are alien.
They did not, I was sure, really care about me. They bore me no ill will and even, I think, a faint affection, but mostly they wished to live vicariously through me. It was a favor I would not mind providing, but for one thing.
But I am no fox, I said. I am human. At this they were amused, but they did not laugh.
You shape your mind like water to be closer to us. Are you so sure you're not? In the blink of an eye, I was. Had I been awake, I would have hated them for it, but in the dream it seemed only appropriate.
I remember only fragments of what happened next. I remember stalking across the snow, and the taste of warm blood between my teeth. I remember being warm despite the freezing cold. I remember being groomed and sleeping curled up with the god. It was not peaceful, but my mind was quiet. Even now, the fragments of memories are sweet.
My mind can only hold another shape for so long. I could not tell how much time had passed, but in time I returned to humanity. We talked for a while--I will not say on what--but in time I had to go.
They were sad to be trapped in dreamless sleep again. But I could scent the hope on them, for in strange aeons even dead gods may rise.
Others:
As my mind drifted on the currents of dreams, I felt myself being pulled down towards a point. I didn't try to resist until I could feel myself contracting in on myself and falling beneath the earth, but by then it was too late. My dream-form became a point and the world turned dark. But in the place of light came the feeling of vibrations and scents beyond imagination. For a few moments, I felt nothing but confusion. Then I realized.
I was in the dream of an ant.
For a few minutes I could do nothing but stumble around in the dark. The surface was rough and uneven and the air reeked of lemons. Occasionally I bumped into smooth, cold chitin—an ant, no doubt. They paid me little mind, going about their business. My mind went to the butterflies that fool ants into caring for them. Apparently in the dream of an ant, I smelled like an ant. A good thing, otherwise I would've been ripped apart.
From the ant I felt only a sense of deep urgency mixed with confusion. She had no idea what I was. I might've smelled right, but my emotions didn't feel right, and she had no context to understand another person being in her dreams. I didn't want to face her, lest she turn from her work to me. But it was too difficult to tell which ant was her. Yet I knew that if I touched her, she would know something was wrong.
I'm not ashamed to say I fled. I climbed higher, focusing on trying to leave the dream. But her thoughts were too chaotic; it was like trying to find my way out of a maze filled with fog.
[frostskull]
Land, Sea, and Sky:
[storm]
[rainforest]
A while ago I wrote an excerpt from a book published by a Serpent's Hand member for SCP-7189. This is simply a larger collection of excerpts from that book. Torbjørg Gulbrandsen, the author, is a member of the Serpent's Hand and part of the cell featured in The Weasel and the Magpies; she can walk in people's dreams. In addition to letting her interact with their dreams and converse with them, both she and the dreamer have a low-level empathic bond as long as she's sharing their dream. If she "dies" in the dream she'll wake up but will otherwise be fine.
I'm marking this as a collaboration. You can add new entries to Dream Journeys. Gods is for gods and similar beings. Others is for other species, sapient or not. Land, Sea, and Sky are for landforms, water bodies, atmospheric phenomena, et cetera. There are, however, a few rules.
1. Torbjørg 's encounter with the Fox God is the last, chronologically, in the book. It's the only one in which she takes on the form and mindset of who she's in the dreams of. In all others she is herself, physically and psychologically, though can usually sense the dream as the dreamer does (see the ant dream for an example). Why the Fox God's dream is an exception will be elaborated on in a later story, but to preempt speculation I will say that it's not anything the Fox God did to her.
2. Dreamers shouldn't be too human. They should be thoroughly alien. If you write for this, you're writing xenofiction.
3. Attempt to match tone and setting. Wildly inconsistent or sufficiently poorly written entries will be removed.
4. Torbjørg generally doesn't intrude in dreams forcefully and wouldn't publish the cases when she has (emergencies and spy work). All dreamers are at least subconsciously fine with her being there… when she arrived.
5. Post in here specifying what you added.
Furthermore, at some point I'd like to try including this in the Serpent's Hand-focused canon I'm working on, so fair warning.
The wind whistled and ruffled her fur. It was a cold wind, but her fur was thick enough to keep her warm in the dead of winter. Scents from lemmings, bear, and seal reached her nose even with it covered by her tail. Hunger gnawed at her belly and she knew that soon she'd have to go hunting again—or scavenging. She might be able to get some of the bear's kill, if she was careful. She uncurled and stretched, then started trotting towards the fast ice, ears twitching as she listened for any of her predators. Nothing, not a sound. There was only the whistling of the wind. Day was already over; the brief glow of sunlight had faded from the sky. But she could see fine. The stars were more than enough.
She trotted along, listening carefully for the sounds of any prey scurrying around beneath the snow. There were a few--but they were wary today. No sooner did she stop to get ready to pounce did they run for it. Jumping after them would be a waste of time. She kept on roving, her path taking her closer to the shore, closer to the bear's kill.
As she traveled, the reek of seal grew stronger, grew overpowering. They smelled closer than they usually were. For a moment she paused, ears straining. She could hear them faintly in the distance. She adjusted her course. The seals sounded closer than the bear kill… and seal was always good to eat. Surely they'd taste even better fresh.
When the colony came into view, she found herself hesitating. They were awfully loud, and they were big. Some were already barking at her. She didn't like that one bit. But she was hungry, and she was sure she was quicker. She pushed herself forwards, trying to give the adults a large berth. Every so often she started at an especially loud bark. There had to be an unattended pup somewhere around here…. there! The scent of the womb still clung to them. Their eyes were open, but they were young and helpless even for a pup. Their white fur provided protection from sight, but she could see their big black eyes and hear their wails.
She paced closer, listening for the sound of the mother approaching. The pup wriggled closer, curious… or perhaps just stupid enough to mistake her for their mother. They let out another wail, begging for milk, and leaned forward to sniff her.
Maybe if she'd given them another second they would have realized what was going to happen to them and tried to flop away. But she didn't. She lunged forwards, ripping into fatty flesh with her fangs. The pup's cries to their mother turned to wails of agony. Blood welled up, and her pupils dilated as lifeblood rushed into her maw. They tasted amazing, better than anyone she'd eaten before. She'd eat well this day.
Just as she ripped off her first bite, there were sudden stabbing pains on either side of her body. In the instant before she died, white wings filled her vision.
Torbjørg Gulbrandsen, Serpent's Hand member and telepath, awoke with a start. For a few seconds she lay on the floor, staring upwards and breathing heavily. The Library's lighting was still in its night-cycle, and the stone shelves of the section she'd camped out in loomed to either side of her. She could make out the faint outline of the arabesques on the ceiling, light only by a few flickering torches. The Mashriq History and Culture Wing was trafficked by day, but most visitors were diurnal--by night it was one of the better places to crash. That Ways from it led to and from so many urban centers on Earth was an added bonus. Her cell had only had to flee five blocks from the Bookburners before escaping to the Library. No one had gotten injured, they'd saved a few lost Wanderers from the Ravelwoods, and she was pretty sure the Bookburners didn't know how they'd gotten out--a good mission, in other words.
Echo was sleeping in the library too, but was camped out in the Forest Atrium like he usually did. Anna and Marcus had returned to Canada to meet with an emissary from the Nest and get supplies. Her cellmates were safe. She should have been too, but Torbjørg was increasingly finding her dreams no respite at all.
She pushed herself to her feet and started packing up her bedroll. Torbjørg had gotten enough sleep for her body, and she couldn't return to dreamwalking after intrusions like the one she'd just had. Might as well see if Echo was awake. She could use a friend to talk to.
Echo was not awake. His two foot long body was hanging in the air near the roof of the Atrium. Torbjørg could barely see him through the branches of trees from a thousand lost worlds, but she could see the glint of the long metal sickles that were his claws. It was past dawn by now, but the shadows were still long on the ground. She sat under a tree to wait and read.
She'd only finished her current chapter before she heard rushing wind. By the time she looked up, Echo was already hovering in front of her. "Morning," she said. "Sleep well?"
"I did." He cocked his head. "But you didn't, did you? That's the third time in a week you've been up early."
"I didn't," she admitted. She didn't specify why. Echo didn't know the details, but he had guessed the gist. "They don't feel like I'm making contact with anyone."
"Are the nights when you do walk in others more restful?"
"Usually. Depends on the person. I don't really do it when I'm not trying to reach someone, though." She rubbed the back of her head. "Seems kind of invasive."
"So ask someone. Maybe Marcus."
"… What about you?" Torbjørg couldn't stop herself from asking, and regretted asking as soon as she had.
Echo was silent for a moment, then quietly said, "Probably not for the best." Torbjørg winced internally. He never spoke about why he left Japan, but she knew it was after Gogyō-Kessha had become state-sponsored. She should have known better than to ask. No matter how he seemed while sleeping, his dreams were probably nightmares. "But I'm sure you can find someone."
For a few seconds, Torbjørg was quiet. "Yeah, you're right. I'm sure Marcus would be willing," she said finally. But a part of worried that he'd try to pry. Or that he'd tell Rachel, and she'd ask her. There were enough dream maladies that they might think this was one--but she was quite certain she was uninfected and safe. One of the other telepaths she'd been in contact with would've noticed if she wasn't. "So where do you think we should go next?" she asked in a blatant attempt to change the subject. "After yesterday I don't want to be on Earth for a while."
"It's been forever since we went to Carcosta. The Academy would pay a good price for what we've found in the months since, and we could use the break." They turned round a display of preserved flowers from the Ravelwood's ancient past, went through a viridian archway, and started down the Moss Wing.
"Ugh. Anywhere but there. It is a silly place and the vegetables try to kill you."
"You don't eat vegetables."
"My claws remind them of paring knives, though." Torbjørg eyed his claws. Yeah, she could see it. Sort of. "Weirdly, not kama. I'm not sure if they're intelligent before they're harvested." Echo started to fly for the exit, and she followed.
"Artux, then."
"On fire again." The shelves rose towards the ceiling again as they left, carved with images of trees and dripping with moss. Each was one solid mass of wood that seemed to have been grown into proper shape. The books, unbothered by the moisture, had spines emblazoned with titles in a million scripts about all the cosmo's forests.
By the time they'd reached the cafes, they'd each proposed and rejected half a dozen destinations. Echo's last idea, Ctethuss, had been shot down by Tjorbørg because Marcus hated the place's smell and would surely be in a foul mood the whole time if they went. Not that they'd have to wait much longer to find out. Sure, Rachel couldn't make them do anything, but
"Nest's got nothing for us. They say Earth's too hot right now. Bookburners are up in arms about something and they don't know what."
Tjorbørg reached in a pocket and passed Echo a dollar.
"I hate to ask, but—"
"They're not interfering in my abilities, Rachel. I can still walk into other's dreams just fine. They only happen when I'm not doing that. You don't need to ask me to bench myself."
I didn't do anything, they said. I wouldn't have. I live through my children. Everything you feel comes back to me. Do you think I enjoy your pain? My fur bristled and I bared my teeth.
Maybe not deliberately. Even that admission felt like a spear through my heart. But it must be something you did! Why else am I never human in my dreams now? Why else would I always have this shape? I was not a fox, and now I am!
I don't know what happened. But you are not the first dreamwalker to come to my kind, and none changed like this. Whatever caused this change, it wasn't me.
You cannot possibly—
//All
Hibiki — Kamaitachi. Male. Had to flee Japan to evade the Five Elements in the 1980s. Abandoned his former name to protect his closest associates from retaliation. Fast, agile, and deadly. Claws can cut through most materials like butter. Cell face when handling delicate negotiations. Surprisingly sociable, but on poor terms with much of the yokai leadership due to anti-nationalist sentiments. Claustrophobic and repelled by calendars. Ends up becoming much close to Torbjørg over the course of the story, since he can empathize with some of her impulses.
Torbjørg — First human, then Arctic fox. Telepath, and especially talented at dreamwalking. Eventually forges pact with the Fox God and has a close (romantic?) relationship with Ixatlazarxa, the Stalker in the Darkness, Devourer of a Million Souls, who is very much not a fox in the same way Ungoliant is not a spider. Helps maintain contact with other cells and the Nest when out in the field. From Norway.
Rachel — Also human. Mundane, but highly experienced and knowledgeable wanderer. Immune to conventional amnestics through a quirk of biology; they work temporarily but wear off after a few days. Got into the Serpent's Hand after the Foundation tried to mindwipe her after an encounter with SCP-1585, and she fled through a Way after recovering her memory. Cell tactician/strategist. Considers herself a professional pessimist. From the USA.
Marcus — Yet another human. Magic user—not "Type Blue" thank you very much. Talented at wards and protective magics. Some minor elementalism. Cell mage and researcher. Tends to be somewhat overconfident, a side effect of being personally bulletproof. From Sweden.
Ixatlazarxa, the Stalker in the Darkness, Devourer of a Million Souls — Not actually part of the Hand, but summoned or invoked to curse their enemies. A malign spirit who nevertheless isn't exactly evil. They're driven by instinct to hunt, kill, and generally be as terrifying as possible, but prefer to slay the truly wicked and otherwise try and direct it in more healthy ways. In addition to occasionally baiting Bookburners to their realm, puts on the equivalent of a haunted house. May be doing this less out of any particular strong sense of ethics and more because this is more sustainable and they have personal attachments. Operates with the sanction of the cosmos. Activities in New England spawned the legend of the Black Fox of Salmon River.
Outline:
- Part 1:
- Dream sequence
- Torbjørg eats seal, dies horribly
- This is a genuine dream rather than them projecting into someone else's dreams. Over the past few weeks they've been having these fox dreams with increasing frequency.
- Getting back into contact with the rest of the cell
- Downtime; get too into projecting into the minds of foxes
- Talk to Echo about it
- Start manifesting as a fox inside dreams
- Confront god, find out they didn't do any of this but she still registers as one of their kind
- Part 2
- Attack a Foundation facility, run into delicious looking lab mice. Nothing more happens. Foreshadowing.
- Start experiencing dysmorphia and wanting to spend more and more time in dreams. Instincts are there as well. Start looking into transformative magics in the Library.
- Visit Ixatlazarxa to question one of the people they keep trapped for their endless hunts. Start to strike up an odd mutual respect.
- Continued research shows there's no way to make it temporary—to assume another form, sacrifice your own
- Broach the subject with the rest of the cell. They don't take it super well at first but they can't stop her.
- Actually turning into a fox
- Part 3
- Basically benched for a while, but has to go back into the field to deal with a Five Elements cell
- Mouse surplus killing; found by teammates surrounded by tiny corpses
THEMES: Blurring the boundary between species. Torbjørg starts human and becomes a fox. Echo is a kamaitachi but was raised by kawauso and picked up some of their habits.
Containment Class:
euclid
[Focus on the plight of the cats, Ethic Committee subversion by the sort of creeps who are longtermists, et cetera, rather than realpolitik.]
Special Containment Procedures: The tepui upon which SCP-XXXX is present was designated a wildlife refuge prior to containment. Assets within the Brazilian government have restricted public access and increased security within the sanctuary, contracting out enforcement to a Foundation front company. The Foundation has constructed Biological Outpost-45 within SCP-XXXX's containment zone (defined as the entire wildlife refuge), for long-term research and monitoring of SCP-XXXX. While SCP-XXXX is not considered a biohazard, it is potentially invasive and drones or personnel must undergo decontamination upon leaving the anomaly.
Access to the containment area is controlled with a fence, patrolled by drones and armed security. A 10 meter killzone has been created on either side of the fence to ensure clear line of fire. A secondary, minimally manned perimeter has been constructed around SCP-XXXX's tepui. SCP-XXXX is within fairly inaccessible forest and the Indigenous people that once occupied the area were removed, so civilian intrusion is of minimal risk. However, the Cryptid Specialist Group was aware of SCP-XXXX prior to containment by the Foundation and has informed their ideological allies of its existence.
Foundation assets have enough influence over the Ministry of Environment and Climate Change to threaten full or partial degazetting of other vulnerable ecosystems in Brazil, as well as compromising enforcement of environmental regulations should the Cryptid Specialist Group try to remove the Foundation from the refuge. In addition, Foundation assets have enough influence within the Ministry of Native People to set the two ministries at odds. Given transnational environmental organizations' involvement in colonialism, aggravating the issue would degrade the current political alliance between Indigenous and environmental groups within Brazil, harming the CSP greatly. Similar tactics have proven highly successful in neutralizing the threat posed by the CSP in other countries and even forcing them to betray their allies.
Extensive analyses of Serpent's Hand activity patterns within Brazil suggest that there are no known Ways within SCP-XXXX's containment zone. While remote sensors maintain surveillance within the containment zone, the Foundation's efforts have therefore been focused on maintaining the perimeter. Should the perimeter be bypassed, both perimeters should be reinforced until a MTF can capture or neutralize the intruders.
In the event of attack by Legacy, retaliatory raids on their staff and nearby sanctuaries have been pre-authorized. Biological Outpost-45 contains sufficient supplies of Agent Orange to ecologically devastate an area of at least 100 km.2 and an unmanned crop duster.
Description: SCP-XXXX (hereafter referred to as the Tvergastein ecosystem) is an anomalous ecosystem on top of the Tvergastein Tepui. The Tvergastein ecosystem is a cloud forest typical of tepui formations. Steep slopes and Tvergastein Tepui's high elevation have ensured near-total ecological isolation. 43% of the Tvergastein's ecosystem's plants are endemic to the tepui and 29% of its animal species are. These statistics do not include endemic subspecies or evolutionary significant units; if these were included the percentage of the Tvergastein's ecosystem that is endemic is estimated to be approximately 80%.
All life on top of the Tvergastein Tepui has co-evolved with an anomalous taxon of fungus, Paradiffusamycetes. The origin of Paradiffusamycetes is unknown; while the taxon is in the phylum Ascomycota they do not appear to be closely related to any other extant class of ascomycetes. Genetic analysis indicates Paradiffusamycetes are at least 200 million years old, far older than the Schomburgk Tepui. Despite this they have never been discovered anywhere else.
Genetically identical but physically separated Paradiffusamycetes behave as one organism without regards for intervening space. Nutrients, hormones, infectious agents, and electrical signals can flow from one part of the mycelium to another. The range limit on this ability is unknown, but experiments conducted using radio-tagged isotopes in Lunar Area-32 show that it is at least 400,000 kilometers. The current dominant theory holds that Paradiffusamycetes uses micro-wormholes to create these connections, though some scientists hold that the fungus uses quantum tunneling.
You must understand, their lives are worse than nothing on average. We're doing them a favor by reducing their numbers. There will be less suffering in the world. The pain we're inflicting on these creatures is tragic, and I deeply regret it, but it's the only way to create a better world.
Outline:
- Containmentpretend it's wildlife sanctuary; keep Legacy/SH away, intimidate Cryptid Specialist Group
- Descriptiontepui with anomalous ecosystem
- Plant life extensively interwoven with telepathic fungi and lichen, beyond even normal plants
- Foundation suspects quantum tunneling (it does not use quantum tunneling; on some level they know that which is why it's classified as anomalous)
- All animal life has been interwoven in the same way, resulting in a variety of unusual adaptations and increased intelligence
- In ocelots, this has given rise to true sapience
Once upon a time, there was a man named William MacAskill. MacAskill became one of the most popular philosophers in the world in part by publishing a book where he argued that we'd be doing wild fish a favor by killing them all. Fuck that guy.
Fox Notes:
- north of Yangyi river
- into Qing period, foxes mostly thought to be northern thing
- disliked by elite--accusations of illicit conduct
- not just female
- 19th to 20th--god of wealth, but less bourgeois and more subaltern resistance
- associated with sage kings until Song dynasty
- also associated with yin--but still more yang than ghosts
- seen as barbarians by Tang
- Hu Yon'gao, 1191
- Daoist interior alchemy--included sex practices taboo by 12th century, smeared as vampirism
- Pu Songling
- Ming and Qing--spirit mediums and independent women
It's easy these days to find people arguing that the Foundation is fascist. On a certain level, this is understandable. Most of the broader community, at least the English speaking part of it, is American. Any meaningful quibbles over whether the current American administration is fascist per se or some other different flavor of right-wing authoritarianism have essentially vanished. Moreover, they are trying to export their ideology elsewhere. We live in an increasingly fascist world.
And at a glance, the Foundation would seem to fit. They're an authoritarian force bent on suppressing anything that's not "normal" and uses lies, mass imprisonment, slave labor, and genocide to do it. However, while the Foundation is undoubtedly evil, I think conceptualizing them as fascist is misleading. In reality, the evil of the Foundation stems from an evil that has lurked at the heart of many political visions, fascist or otherwise. If fascism is like a monster, this evil is like a parasitic wasp, hijacking other ideologies and turning them to its own ends. While compatible with fascism and happy to support it for its own ends, it is meaningfully distinct. Conflating it with fascism risks blinding us to it.
