Item #: SCP-3711

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: "Imaginative"1 thaumotologists and thaumaturges employed by the Foundation, or detained at Foundation sites are to be provided with dream suppressant drug therapy, and psychological counseling. As a large number of individuals affected by SCP-3711 are outside of the Foundation's jurisdiction, complete suppression of SCP-3711 is currently impossible, unless apprehended. Research into methods of suppressing SCP-3711 on a large scale is ongoing.

Description: SCP-3711 is a mental and physiological condition which affects individuals who possess, are trained in, or develop the capability to employ "Imaginative" Thaumatological manipulation. Based on carvings and murals recovered from bronze age sites, this condition is known as "The Song of Regretful Freeing." This condition varies considerably depending on the skill, natural power, and age of the individual; however, several core attributes are noted.

SCP-3711 initially manifests when an individual develops "Imaginative" thaumatological capability. Individuals begin experiencing lucid dreams of varying natures (see Interview Log I-3711-01) and intensity wherein the individual has complete control of the dream's progression, until the end of said dream. All recorded initial dreams have ended the same, with subsequent dreams escalating the initial ending over time. The content of these dreams serve as a motivating force for the dreamer to increase their thaumatological capabilities. Lucid dreaming continues well past development of thaumatological capability.

Key areas of the brain associated with artistic creativity and scientific creativity are heavily impacted by SCP-3711, resulting in a significant increase in neuron development. Thorough brain scanning and mapping studies have determined the majority of these changes occur during either sleep or the active use of thaumatological capabilities.

Continued use of "imaginative" thaumatological manipulation results in significant changes in brain structure over long periods of time.2 This results in the manifestation of more prominent and ubiquitous symptoms such as:

Auditory hallucinations

Temporary periods of dissociation from reality

Memory loss

Compulsive urges and restlessness, often involving a need to "move elsewhere"

A sudden and pronounced affinity for aquatic environments.

Personnel experiencing the more severe symptoms of SCP-3711 experience physiological alterations, and subsequent deterioration due to unknown factors (See Addendum 2).

All individuals in the late stages of SCP-3711 within Foundation custody have perished as a result of prolonged dehydration and oxygen deprivation over the course of 48 hours.3

Access fileserv:/S/3711/interview.log

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Interview Log

Modified Interview

Unmodified Interview Section

Date: 03/05/2021

Interviewer: Dr. Alva Móðir

Interviewee: Dr. Sarah Stewart, former Serpents Hand activist.

Foreword: Dr. Stewart submitted herself to Foundation custody after five years of constant thaumatological activism against the captivity of anomalous humanoid entities. Dr. Stewart began experiencing late-stage symptoms congruent with SCP-3711 and sought treatment and asylum in exchange for strategic information on fellow activists. At the time of submission, Dr. Stewart's symptoms were noted to be "mild", generating some interest in studying her progression. As a result, she was provided with standard treatment for SCP-3711, and standard level 4 humanoid privileges.

Following repeated negotiations and numerous instances of cooperation, Dr. Stewart was granted level 3 housing. Dr. Stewart has not been visited regularly and was not under active surveillance4 for the three years of her containment until this interview, due to good behavior. She had been receiving monthly physician visits to assess her condition's progress. Dr. Alva Móðir was assigned as Dr. Stewarts regular physician following a rotation of several individuals, wherein Dr. Móðir established a reporte with Dr. Stewarts.

Dr. Stewart called for an interview a week before the normally scheduled visit, citing somewhat concerning developments.

Begin Log

[Dr. Móðir enters Dr. Stewart's personal housing unit after announcing herself. She approaches the "dining room table" where interviews and examinations are normally conducted. She stops, looking in Dr. Stewart's direction. Dr. Stewart is seated, her exposed skin is notably red, especially around the hands and face. A ridge of what appears to be cartilage with loose flesh has begun to form on each forearm, and just above each ankle. A pile of peeled off skin is at Dr. Stewart's feet.]

Dr. Móðir: "Christ Sarah, when did this begin?"

Dr. Stewart: "Two weeks… give or take a few days."

Dr. Móðir: "You didn't call it in until today? Why would you wait this long? Tell me you didn't think a rash that bad would just go away."

Dr. Stewart: "To be fair Alva, it started really small and just spread progressively. I thought it was cause I was scratching, and that if I stopped it would go away. So I stopped, and you know, it kept going. So I thought it was some sort of allergic reaction to the shampoo, like the last time. Then, well, I started growing lumps out of my arms."

[Dr. Stewart holds up her arm presenting the protrusion. Areas where the skin has been peeled away are visible. Small patches of what appear to be iridescent pink scales come into view. Alva sighs and sits at the table.]

Dr. Móðir: "Sarah you have scales on your arm. That is not the result of an allergic reaction. You have a Ph.D. in theoretical physics, you're a scientist for mith- Christ's sakes."

Dr. Stewart: "Theoretical physics doesn't equip me to handle medical issues Alva, we've had that discussion. I thought they were hives, they sure itch like them."

Dr. Móðir: "You'd best come over here so I can have a look. I may have to call this one in."

Dr. Stewart: "Fuck, you know how much I hate the needles."

Dr. Móðir: "I do, which is why I told you to call in case anything abnormal started. Yet here we are."

Dr. Stewart: "I called as soon as something abnormal did start. A rash isn't abnormal when you've been using magic half your adult life."

Dr. Móðir: "Thaumatology induced or not, you should have called sooner. Don't make me chide you like this, I'm not your mother."

Dr. Stewart: "You might as well be, you care more than she ever did."

[Dr. Stewart rises and approaches the table, before pausing and going to the small kitchenette. She retrieves a cup, and a jug, which she fills with water. She sits at the table, pouring a cup of water for herself.]

Dr. Stewart: "Do you want a cup?"

Dr. Móðir: "I'm fine, thanks. We'll skip the formalities, we've been doing this long enough that I know you're you, despite the rash and the scales."

Dr. Stewart: "I'd make a sarcastic or sassy response, but right now I just want to figure out what's happening to me."

Dr. Móðir: "Do you want to do the standard schpiel, or just describe to me what's wrong?"

Dr. Stewart: "Lets… go with what's wrong. I don't need to know about the Hippocratic oath and Humanoid ethical protocols for the thousandth time."

Dr. Móðir: "Could have sworn you enjoyed hearing it. But yes, tell me about your symptoms."

[Dr. Stewart refills the glass of water.]

Dr. Stewart: "Uh there are a lot. Where should I start?"

Dr. Móðir: "Physical first."

Dr. Stewart: "Obviously, there's the rash. It started at my fingers and has just been crawling up my arms and legs. Started on my face on Saturday… or Friday… I'm losing track of time. Then there is this horrible lump in my arm. It's got all this loose flesh and Alva I can't believe I'm saying this, but part of me is thrilled that it's growing in and I don't know why the fuck that is."

Dr. Móðir: "Take a breath, Sarah. Is there anything else? New limbs?"

[Dr. Stewart pulls back her hair and turns her head. Flesh has begun radiating from her ears, mostly at the tip, with small protrusions down the length, forming cartilaginous membranes resembling fins. The coloration has been altered on this new growth, taking on a pink hue.]

Dr. Stewart: "No new limbs… but uh I looked in the mirror this morning and uh…"

Dr. Móðir: "I see."

[Five seconds of silence. Dr. Stewart refills the glass of water.]

Dr. Stewart: "Do you have any idea what is happening to me?"

Dr. Móðir: "This isn't gonna comfort you. I don't. Most people don't survive this long Sarah."

[Dr. Stewart refills her glass of water for the fourth time, and ignores the statement.]

Dr. Stewart: "God its so dry in here. I would kill for a pool or a place to swim."

Dr. Móðir: "You're dodging. The bath and shower not sufficient? In any case, I've done all I can in regards to requisition. A pool is beyond my abilities."

Dr. Stewart: "I know. I'd rather not talk about my imminent demise again. It's not the same. I just… there is this constant beating urge in the back of my head to go swimming in the deepest body of water imaginable. It's maddening."

Dr. Móðir: "This is the same urge you've been having in the dreams, being submerged in water yes? You have mentioned this several times before."

Dr. Stewart: "Yeah I…" [Dr. Stewart focuses on an empty corner of the room, near the camera. Her irises are noted to have experienced a slight change in color since the last interview. Dr. Móðir does not comment on this change.] "It's like… a singing in my head."

[Dr. Stewart refills her glass of water for the fifth time.]

Dr. Móðir: "You mentioned this all began during the first dream. Honestly, I'm surprised you've not talked more about it. It seems like something you enjoyed greatly. Would you mind indulging me and expanding on that?"

Dr. Stewart: [Absently] "It's magic Alva, call it what it is."

Dr. Móðir: "We both know I can't deviate from the terminology in the interviews. That's beside the point though, feel free to share the details of your first dream."

Dr. Stewart: "Maybe in a minute…" [Unintelligible]

Dr. Móðir: "Sarah?"

Dr. Stewart: "Yeah?"

Dr. Móðir: "You're mumbling again."

Dr. Stewart: "Yeah."

Dr. Móðir: "You're worrying me. Do you want to talk about the dream?"

Dr. Stewart: "Sure."

[Fifteen seconds of silence as Dr. Stewart continues to stare into the corner. Her pupils dilate. She absently peels loose flesh from her arms revealing more scales.]

Dr. Móðir: "Sarah?"

[Dr. Stewart does not respond. Dr. Móðir snaps her fingers in front of Stewart's face several times.]

Dr. Móðir: "Sarah can you hear me."

[Her eyes focus on the snapping fingers.]

Dr. Stewart: "What… I… Alva? What are you doing here How'd you get in When did you get in? It's… it's not been four weeks yet… Oh my god, what happened to my arm?"

Dr. Móðir: "We were just discussing that. You called me up because of the rash, and we were discussing your dreams, and your physical condition."

Dr. Stewart: "I don't remember. Wait I do remember. It's just, fuzzy."

Dr. Móðir: "Its ok. You had a dissociative episode. It happens."

Dr. Stewart: "I-, it feels so weird. I'm dreaming? I'm sorry."

Dr. Móðir: "You're not dreaming, this is real. It's ok. Let's talk about your first dream. It will help you remember."

Dr. Stewart: "I still feel fuzzy."

Dr. Móðir: "That's normal. Just start talking, it will help."

Dr. Stewart: "The first time I used magic like really used it, with my imagination, and not some ordered ritual, that night I had an incredibly vivid dream. I was me, but I wasn't me if that makes sense? I was human, I think. My dad was human but my mom wasn't. She was some sort of scaley merperson. It's hard to describe."

Dr. Móðir: "Don't exert yourself trying. Just give me what you can."

[Dr. Stewart goes to pour another glass of water. The Jug is empty.]

Dr. Stewart: "Shit. I need more water."

Dr. Móðir: "I'll get it for you."

[Dr. Móðir refills the jug and returns to the table.]

Dr. Stewart: "Thanks my mouth is dry as a desert."

Dr. Stewart: "So I get sent out from the village on this adventure after some ancient relic, and along the way, I discover I can use magic right? Like, not the stuffy limited stuff, like full blown powerful magic, only limited by your mind. The same stuff I had just tried out outside of my dream. And my god Alva, it was incredible. I could turn myself into dragons, lift mountains, heal grievous mortal wounds, with the flick of my finger, and the only limit was the scope of my mind."

Dr. Móðir: "It sounds like you were more than just a thaumaturge at that point, more like you were a reality bender or even a deity. After all the time I've spent talking with you, it surprises me you didn't immediately conjure enough chocolate cake to last a lifetime."

Dr. Stewart: "I was, and the thought didn't occur to me. Retrieving the relic was easy, and after that, a great vicious horde of demons arose from the underworld and I was cast off to fight them. Entire armies fell before my whistling ice blades."

Dr. Móðir: "Forgive me if I sound incredulous, but I would get bored after so much of that. There's only so many easy victories you can have before a person, even a god, gets bored."

[Dr. Stewart pours herself another glass. Her breathing is notably shallower than earlier in the interview. She has begun peeling the skin around her neck, tugging at loose flaps of excess flesh as if they are choking her.]

Dr. Stewart: "It's so damn dry in here. Like all the moisture has been sucked out."

Dr. Móðir: "I'll talk to environmental about having the humidity adjusted."

Dr. Stewart: "Thanks. A-After I beat the demon horde I started… there was this painful hollow longing in my stomach like something was missing. And then, there was this singing. Its like… it was like nothing I've ever heard."

Dr. Móðir: "Describe it?"

Dr. Stewart: "It was like someone poured a river of honey and molasses into the air, and gave my ears tongues with which to lap from it. So I followed the voice. I walked, and I walked for what felt like hundreds of years and came upon a great and deep ocean of many colors. Like the waves, a sudden and powerful urge like was clawing at my legs and suddenly I was on my belly and being pulled down into the water and I desperat- sorry I need… need water."

[Dr. Stewart looks at the cup, and pushes it aside, picking up the Jug and drinking directly from it.]

Dr. Móðir: "You're dehydrated. I need to call this in."

Dr. Stewart: "No! I need to finish."

Dr. Móðir: "Alright, alright, you're worrying me with the hyperventilating."

Dr. Stewart: [She ignores the previous statement.] "And I was dragged into the ocean, and Alva, before me. There before me was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Four yellow eyes gazed upon me with a love I had never felt. She was bound and chained, and suffering, blood dripping from her ankles and her wrists. Yet she sang. She sang and sang and it was so beautiful. It was a song about the love of everything and betrayal. Alva I've heard it every day. Every night. I hear it now."

Dr. Móðir: "Sarah, it's just an auditory hallucination, calm down."

Dr. Stewart: "I can't Alva. It's stronger around you than anyone else and I can't. I can't shut it out." [She begins gasping for breath.] "I-I-I C-c-can't breathe."

[Dr. Stewart falls to the floor clawing at her neck. Layers of excess skin are pulled away revealing pink scales underneath. The scales crack and rupture, forming four slits on each side of the neck, which are coated in a slick membrane. A fifth slit forms further down around the shoulders, a retractable layer of unidentifiable tissue begins forming, but does not proceed further.]

Dr. Móðir: "Christ alive." [Into a radio she pulled from her hip] "Medical emergency, humanoid containment sector, cell 35."

End Log

Post-Word: Dr. Stewart expired three days following her initial collapse due to a combination of dehydration and protracted and sudden oxygen deprivation resulting in significant brain damage. The post-death autopsy revealed significant alterations to her anatomy, which appeared to have altered her respiratory tract, sealing the air passage to her lungs, and promoting the development of gills. Further analysis revealed that, despite this initial sealing, Dr. Stewart's air passages had been cleared by the time of her death.

Due to Dr. Stewart's sudden death a more thorough examination of both the interview footage and audio was undertaken. Concerns regarding a loss of valuable information on SCP-3711's effects and the possibility of Serpent's Hand involvement motivated an internal review to ensure no foul play had occurred. Investigation led to the discovery of alterations in both video footage and the audio recording, which begin when Dr. Stewart begins describing the first dream caused by SCP-3711.

Alterations to the original recording involve Dr. Móðir making numerous comments in regards to Dr. Stewart's dream, which are ignored due to a dissociative state. These comments involve correcting specific details that Dr. Móðir should not have been aware of given lack of knowledge about the first dream upon initial review of this footage. Review of previous interviews revealed similar distortions, and the deletion of entire conversations in regards to Dr. Stewart's first dream, proving this initial assessment incorrect.

The Altered material has been highlighted in purple in both logs.

Dr. Stewart: "The first time I used magic like really used it, with my imagination, and not some ordered ritual, that night I had an incredibly vivid dream. I was me, but I wasn't me if that makes sense? I was human, I think. My dad was human but my mom wasn't. She was some sort of scaley merperson. It's hard to describe."

Dr. Móðir: "Your parents descended from a long line of proud farmers, of the earth and the water, people of Finnfolkaheem, were Finnfolk of the Selchs. And so were you."

[Dr. Stewart goes to pour another glass of water. The Jug is empty.]

Dr. Stewart: "Shit. I need more water."

Dr. Móðir: "I'll get it for you."

[Dr. Móðir refills the jug and returns to the table.]

Dr. Stewart: "Thanks my mouth is dry as a desert."

Dr. Stewart: "So I get sent out from the village on this adventure after some ancient relic, and along the way, I discover I can use magic right? Like, not the stuffy limited stuff, like full blown powerful magic, only limited by your mind. The same stuff I had just tried out outside of my dream. And my god Alva, it was incredible. I could turn myself into dragons, lift mountains, heal grievous mortal wounds, with the flick of my finger, and the only limit was the scope of my mind."

Dr. Móðir: "You were already able to use magic because it is inherent in your people. A gift of my love granted in the throes of mine and thine suffering. It warms my heart, that you have enjoyed it. I regret that you have to lose yourself in order to fully embrace its warmth. Maybe I'll fix that this time."

Dr. Stewart: "I was, and the thought didn't occur to me. Retrieving the relic was easy, and after that, a great vicious horde of demons arose from the underworld and I was cast off to fight them. Entire armies fell before my whistling ice blades."

Dr. Móðir: "It wasn't a relic you retrieved, but a simple haul of fish, you see, your family was starving from human raiders who kept driving your people further from the farms they had tended, and into the open waters. You weren't sent to fight demons. You were sent to fight men. And your blades fought a losing war."

[Dr. Stewart pours herself another glass. Her breathing is notably shallower than earlier in the interview. She has begun peeling the skin around her neck, tugging at loose flaps of excess flesh as if they are choking her.]

Dr. Stewart: "It's so damn dry in here. Like all the moisture has been sucked out."

Dr. Móðir: "The thirst of your sins will close soon. I'm sorry child."

Dr. Stewart: "Thanks. A-After I beat the demon horde I started… there was this painful hollow longing in my stomach like something was missing. And then, there was this singing. Its like… it was like nothing I've ever heard."

Dr. Móðir: "I called for you from my prison beyond all things. And your heart fluttered at my song, and it recalled a better, golden age."

Dr. Stewart: "It was like someone poured a river of honey and molasses into the air, and gave my ears tongues with which to lap from it. So I followed the voice. I walked, and I walked for what felt like hundreds of years and came upon a great and deep ocean of many colors. Like the waves, a sudden and powerful urge like was clawing at my legs and suddenly I was on my belly and being pulled down into the water and I desperat- sorry I need… need water."

[Dr. Stewart looks at the cup, and pushes it aside, picking up the Jug and drinking directly from it.]

Dr. Móðir: "The ocean, and your home, Finnfolkaheem were calling to you, child. A song of remorse for the loss my children have suffered, for your parents suffering. The sins of your race will be lost to you soon, all you must do at the end of this cruel twilight is listen to my songs of healing and remorse."

Dr. Stewart: "No! I need to finish."

[Dr. Móðir begins singing. Audio has been removed due to a class seven cognitohazard.]

Dr. Stewart: [Hyperventilating gets more severe as the music visibly affects her.] "And I was dragged into the ocean, and Alva, before me. There before me was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Four yellow eyes gazed upon me with a love I had never felt. She was bound and chained, and suffering, blood dripping from her ankles and her wrists. Yet she sang. She sang and sang and it was so beautiful. It was a song about the love of everything and betrayal. Alva I've heard it every day. Every night. I hear it now."

[Unaltered footage shows Dr. Móðir continues singing. Blood begins dripping from her wrists and her ankles. She is no longer wearing clothing. Impressions are visible in her flesh as if she is wrapped in chains.]

Dr. Móðir:"You were not dragged but walked freely before me. For my love is endless, and my forgiveness knows no race. I wallow in sorrow as you depart my company."

Dr. Stewart: "I can't Alva. It's stronger around you than anyone else and I can't. I can't shut it out." [She begins gasping for breath.] "I-I-I C-c-can't breathe."

[Dr. Stewart falls to the floor clawing at her neck. Layers of excess skin are pulled away revealing pink scales underneath. The scales crack and rupture, forming four slits on each side of the neck, which are coated in a slick membrane. A fifth slit forms further down around the shoulders, a retractable layer of unidentifiable tissue begins forming, but does not proceed further.]

Dr. Móðir: "I'm sorry my child. The sins of your fathers before you and this prison of metal still my healing. I will always love you."[Into a radio she pulled from her hip] "Medical emergency, humanoid containment sector, cell 35."

[Dr. Móðir stares directly at the camera, and mouths "The seal is crumbling, and Teran draws near. It is time we discussed the end of all things." Prior to medical staff arriving.]

End Log

—-

Update: In light of previously undetected video alterations, Dr. Alva Móðir has been detained and sequestered under high-security conditions at Secure Research and Detainment facility 001. All further information has been restricted to Level 5 access.

Access fileserv:/S/3711/Journal.doc

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Recovered Journals:

The following Journals were recovered from a buried chest discovered on the island of Switha, and dates to the 9th Century A.D. The contents, originally written in a mixture of Norse, Gaelic, and Pictish have been translated and interpreted. The last entry was written and translated from Proto-Nordic script. Further excavations revealed a chamber previously used to hold an SCP-3703 instance.

628 A.D.

Ungrateful.

It is all I have to say about the community, who left me here on this island, alone. Banished for the crime of healing through that sacred arcane art. No, it was not until I dared to imagine that they cast me from their ranks. Olessa's daughter was saved from the wrath of a cough, and whooping. Missionaries from the south led them to believe my practice was sin. That freedom of magic is to be feared.

At their behest I was expelled, and shipped to this rock. Food and water to last for months, and tools to build what I need to survive. A waste.

628 A.D.

Their boats have passed many times in the months since. Fisherman. They gaze upon me as I work upon the shore, and tend the meager farm which I have built. Their gaze filled with judgement, I am sure. I have nothing but contempt for their foolishness.

A vision was granted to me this past night. A man I was not, a woman, a healer of old covered in scales and fins. A plague swept upon my village and through the gracious kindness of the arcane, I sought to sweep it from the bodies of my wife, and the children. It was a power I have only begun to taste, yet it felt as if I had experienced it before. I could not cleanse their souls of the taint, despite my power, and at first I despaired.

My despair ebbed, and with its ebbing came the waxxing of a song. A tune of such fine nature that it beats in my head as I set upon the rocky shores. A high strung bittersweet melody which invokes an ache for the waves and surf. Whispered promises of healing and lures of greater freedom, of arcane power that even the strongest of idols could not grant.

I followed this song, to the waters edge. A swift sunrise before me, under a crystal blue sky. Upon the water, I walked, and before me, beauty unmatched, a woman, taller than the tallest of mountains gazed at me. Her four eyes are burned into my mind, the tune she sang wistful and longing. Great barbarous chains wrapped around her legs and arms, blood dripping from her limbs. The anguish at her suffering that ran across my spine is… indescribable.

And to me she said. "I love you. For your fathers have sinned, but you are not to blame."

And then I awoke.

634 A.D.

I have continued to record the progression of my dreams. As of late, I have felt strange. My contempt for my former peers, those who have cast me out has softened, into not but pity. My anger ebbs, and all attempts to draw it forth yield nothing.

The songs from the dreams, begin and stop throughout each day. I find myself listening and humming. They fill my mind with absent thoughts, creative visions, and distract from all tasks.

Whispers of greatness chip at the edges of my consciousness, and so I have practiced, and practiced the freedoms from the idols, of the magic. I have built a house but I stay not in it. The tickle of the waves at my feet, and the ebb and flow of the tides are far more comforting. Alas, the winter prevents such indulgences, and I long for their gentle caress when forced to be by the fireside.

There is a long forgotten Cairn and two stones, carved by men and not men, upon this rock. A tunnel leads beneath them into chambers, unused since ancient times. There is something there. Something I dare not approach. Bodies. Bones. Corpses. Mashed and piled against each other, floating, behind some arcane barrier reeking of powerful magicks with which I am unfamiliar.

The walls of the chamber are masterful works of art and creation. Depictions of what are surely events we know not of, and times long past. There is text, and carved scripture, I cannot begin to read. I shall visit often I believe, to appreciate these works. The songs are strongest there.

638 A.D.

10 years have passed since I was sent here. I do not recall much of that time. It has grown fuzzy, distant as if a dream. The dreams have grown stronger. Real. The songs are all around, and yet nowhere to be found.

My contempt is fading and I find, during the early hours of the night, before I fall into slumber, myself wishing to aide those who forsook me. A plague has descended upon their homes, the fisherman is sparse, and winter has been unkind from a distant. My sight, average as it once was, glimpses the fish and their scales, and their desperate eyes as they thrash in the throes of death.

My skin burns with an insatiable fire. I scratch and I scratch, and the flesh falls as if it were burnt from the harsh summer sun and beneath? Scales. A bright greenish blue, of the kind only a gemstone could achieve. Bones and flesh ache, and I have grown, taller. There are days where it feels as if my hips are being drawn by ropes, stretching outwards. The flesh betwixt my fingers and toes grow loose and crawls forward at night. I feel it in my sleep, through the dreams. They are webbed, but they are mine.

Unbearable thirst plagues my mind, and I find, even now as I sit in a pool brought by the tides, writing with pen and ink summoned from the freedom, that it is not enough. Upon the chest, with which once was flat, I found, a mere month ago, the flesh of the two points swollen and tender. Now they rival the bosom of a young woman, and no cloth will hold them lest I succumb to temptations, even the length of my hair, long as it has become, stirs sensation.

639 A.D.

All animosity I once held towards my community has faded. Only warmth, and sorrow at their loss remains. I have begun to visit, through the waters of Scapa Flow, at night. I bring healing and aide to the children, sick in their thatch beds, unable to escape fevers grip. To the farmers, I bring relief to tension and aches.

They have seen me, by light of a candle. Though it is not welcome, or recognition that they show, but fear. Fear of a monster of the sea.

I am no longer a man. I am unsure when it happened. My thoughts have faded, and returned, a feeling of fuzzy dreaminess in their place, and distant sensations are all which remains in my memories. A cavern rests where once there was none, and that is all which I know. Forcefully I was thrown into the water by the sudden lack of breath and burning desire, and I submerged fully in the waves where I grew gills. My flesh has long since been stripped, and for the first time, I felt it. In the dreams… no, they are no longer dreams. They are my past. And I have felt the call of Finnfolkaheem before, many times. The sorrow of its loss, and our people's grief.

I am a Finnwoman. Great fins hang from my arms, and my legs, and the water is now my home. I have moved the shack into the shallow tides using that great gift which has been given through the Arcane.

688 A.D.

Beneath the waves on this isle I've dwelt, for 60 years. There are none like me. Raiders have come. They seek to extinguish the creature which roams their villages at night, and all its kind. The sorcerers of the waves who steal their children. Misguided, for I have visited the village many times, and healed whilst they sleep, not stolen from them what is most precious. My people were driven long before into the waves, and have not returned. I am alone. I have destroyed my home. I have returned to that Cairn, where so many longing years ago I heard the call of the Mither's anguished cries.

The text comes easy, the language of my people flowing from my tongue as I understand our sorrow. In great tribute and sacrifice, we sealed the demons of old beneath the earth, stone, and magic given by our souls. A great war which united all in this world. Those who had seen the ages came together under many skies and many stars, and together gave their lives in love. Acts of procreation before sealing their lives beneath the knife. The Rite of Portension was forged. And when we were done. Just as we turned to free her from her chains with that which we had opened, Man turned upon us. With their spears and their stolen magic, stolen knowledge, they drove us into the sea. From the rivers and the beaches, they burnt our villages.

Out of greed. Out of fear. The Mither still loved them so, but the transgressions could not be left. She placed, upon the very knowledge which they had been given, a punishment. She doomed those Men who practiced the Freed gift given to our people, to become they which had been driven into the seas.

The drums of the hunters beat ever closer. They shall never know that which is their burden. A burden that I have embraced and has freed me. And I shall choose to join those who gave everything to stay the demons and seal this place.

Due to the nature of SCP-3711, and the numerous references and cultural traditions among Finnfolk society, as of this documents iteration, and under the tenants of the Finnolk-Foundation cooperative agreement, the Finnfolk are not to be subjected to procedures used to suppress SCP-3711.

Footnotes

1. An approach to thaumatological studies and manipulation which holds that the use of thaumatology is only limited by one's imagination. The practice is similar to reality-bending in theory, but in practice is limited by the skill and mindset of the wielder.

2. Usually 10-15 years of active use. Thaumatologists and thaumaturges performing significant and frequent manipulations begin experiencing symptoms after as few as 3-5 years.

3. Attempts to counteract this through traditional medical techniques have failed.

4. Cameras were placed in her housing unit for passive recording to track long-term changes.