When The Stars Fell - SCP Foundation

The forever seamless architecture, always covered with blood and guts, once in a lifetime darkened by the stars which fell down from the sky. But these are not the stars, neither feathers from the crows, but truly snow on the ground.

Cold, really cold, it turns my claws into hard shaking blocks of ice, I gaze upon my writing and I can’t tell what is tachygraphy and what is a scratch.

The company of others of my kind I wish to help me hold the weight of this unfamiliar frost. I can’t hear any rhythmic noise, not from the cracks under the confused citizen's footsteps, but the lethargic murmur of the breeze.

The aroma of mold is gone and all I can perceive is nothing but a sharp pain sensation up my nostrils crawling down my lungs.

The city boiling in activity is now all behind doors. Resting? Perhaps. I see warm candlelights escaping to the outside, to the streets where nobody is. Who knows the whereabouts of the rulers. Are they celebrating? Are they hiding indoors? Or are they the cause of this event? In which case, what is the goal? If it’s any with a true logic explanation. I fear I’ll never ever know the true cause. It hurts me deeply, like crystallized shards on my palms.

The shore is hard under my weight. The black seas flooding most of the Nevermeant is now a slippery surface dangerous to most beings unable to master the art of glide. A joy I really wish I could benefit at this very moment.

My breath is panting as I climb up the hill. I tighten my robes close to my beak in a way to prevent inhalation of the cold and the fur of my hat keeps my thoughts straight as I continue taking notes. Yet the heat escapes, emanating the little life left from me. I fear I wont’ be able to withstand for so long this odd cirscumtances, yet not so terrible for the people under a mask.

“To home I go!” exclaimed one lonely citizen fleeing from my sight, and to never see no one else again.

The views are dark, yet the yellow sky is bright enough to cut the silhouettes of the tallest towers which tops touch both the ground and the sky. The trees keep standing whose roots drink nothing else but blood and hateful thoughts deep beneath the tombs from below. The snow of the branches makes them look sad, strong enough to hold the weight of a criminal, but weak as the cold cracks the insides, shattering and turning into crystals as it touch the ground.

The soil is frosted and fragmented as I get close to my end point. The splinters I fear way wound me as I walk. What is hell for me is a heaven to some. What is this snow after all? Both suffering and delight are part of the Alagaddans existence. It’s death and joy by equal.

The bitterly cold hurts me one last time, as I close my eyes and shake my feathers afraid I may carry the cold and dark dust with me.

Now at a place I can call home I write my report about the start that felt from the sky as I overdose on my tea and the tips of my claws turns back to their usual ink stained black. I keep my posture as I try not to write: Holy shit, why is it so fucking cold in Alagadda?

Yiks the Crafter, Seventh Wandswoman of Ghak'eolds

Originally published in the Wandsmen's Gazette on 02-01-2023