Still silent, the being in front of him raise a single finger (with no 
fingernail to be seen) and pointed at the scraps Roger had just torn 


up. 


Uncomprehending, he continued to stare at the figure as it started to 
move about the room. It picked up several balled-up pieces of paper 
out of the trash and returned them to Roger's desk, smoothing them 
out and pointing at several key words and phrases previously 
deemed by the man to be bad ideas. 


He walked over and watched the creature. 


"A god of books...''a tale of a family...’ something that will change 
the world...'" He looked up at the hooded thing, who in turn had 
picked up the torn scraps and replaced them on the surface in front 
of Roger. And so, he understood. He had found a being that came 
when written about, something that could literally change the world. 
He became inspired, empowered by this discovery, and began 
frantically writing out notes and ideas, good ones this time. He never 
noticed the creature he now knew was called Reggravi disappear, 
but he knew that he'd meet it again. 


As he fell deeper and deeper into a writing frenzy, he came to many 
realizations, many stopped thoughts and epiphanies about the thing 
he had found. Instead of thinking up ways to expand on the creature 
in fantastical adventures, he found that it felt... wrong to keep such a 
wondrous and almighty beast— no, being— locked away in fictional 
tales that would dilute its magnificence. It was unthinkable, after a 
certain point. 


This was something that deserved respect. 
This was something that deserved praise. 
This was something that Roger was born to do. 


And so, the first Scribe of Reggravi came into existence. 


Excerpts from His Book, the holy scripture of the Faith of 


the Scribed. 


It wasn't hard to find people to join in the belief. After all, it was a 
religion based on a figure whose existence and power could be 
proven at literally any time. First came Roger's close friends, then 
their friends, until they numbered about fifty people, give or take a 
few. In fact, it was more of a small little community than a religion. 
But most of all, they certainly were not a cult. No, they were simply 
average people living average lives that had discovered the Truth 
and met up once a week to talk about it and share their faith. 


And it was nice. 


"| think my kids breezed through here. They aren't giving you any 
trouble, are they?" said a woman approaching Roger after the 
service. 


He grinned and shook his head. "Of course not, Clarisse, they're 
simply wonderful. Hey, I'm glad you came! It's always nice to see 
you guys around here." 


The woman chuckled. "Ah, Roger, of course we came. This is the 
highlight of our weeks right here," she said, waving her hand at the 
people around them. "We wouldn't miss it for the world." 


"I'm glad to hear that. Hey, where's Patrick today?" 


"Oh... he's..." muttered the woman, fiddling with her wedding band. 
"He's... been sick recently. That's all. Came down with something 
awful, doctors don't know what it is, they took some... blood 
samples. We're just waiting to hear back." 


He patted her on the shoulder. "| see. | hope it all turns out for the 
best." 


She nodded, murmured something about having to go watch her 
kids, and sidled away. Roger sighed. People were always going to 
have their problems, whether or not they were a part of the Scribes, 
but... He pivoted on his heel and walked over to the front of the 


room. There, he surveyed the mass of people there. It wasn't big, 
but it was close. 


At least they have people to support them when they fall. 


In the throng of the crowd, a man conspicuously weaved in and out 
between people, taking in the experience. He made mental notes of 
every face, every name he could remember, reciting as much of the 
sermon from before over and over in his head so as to retain as 
much of it as he could. 


He socialized, keeping his cold, analyzing gaze hidden behind two 
rows of beaming teeth. In fact, he met nearly every single member 
of the congregation that night and was one of the last to leave. As 
the room emptied, the man got in his car and drove off. 


The Wolf was returning to its pack. 


And so, we gathered to honor Him. Friends, families, all 
together in love. We paved the way of His coming, 
knowing that it would come sometime or another. We 
knew. We prepared. 


A few weeks later, the Scribes were holding another regular service, 
with Roger, as always, reading the sacred texts. 


".,.and the Faithful will ascend with Reggravi in his greatness." 
Roger closed the book and smiled at the congregation. "Don't fear, 
for our Lord will surely come soon. | can feel it. Now, worship service 
is over. As always, feel free to stay and enjoy the snacks and each 
other's company." 


This last part was unnecessary; no one ever left right after the 
services. Within minutes, the tiny warehouse where they held their 
meetings was filled with chatter and laughter. Dozens of ecru-clad 
people spread out and filled the room, intermingling with each other. 


Roger smiled. As much as he loved the faith, watching the 
community mesh was even better. He wandered into the crowd, 


shaking hands and greeting people as he passed. A few 
conversation snippets later, he found the person he was looking for 
and tapped her on the shoulder. The brunette woman turned 
around. 


"It's been three weeks since Pat's been here, Clarisse." He sighed. 


She cast her eyes downward. "| know, | know. He's been... very ill 
as of late. I'm not sure if he'll ever be well enough to come back." 


He glanced down at her hands. Clarisse was feeling around the bare 
base of her left ring finger. She noticed him staring and quickly 
folded her hands behind her back. He cast her a sympathetic look. 


".,.My ring's been bothering me a bit recently, so | decided just to 
take it off." 


Roger paused for a minute. "Hey, Clarisse?" 
"Yes?" 


"We're all a family here. Please don't forget that. Don't be afraid to 
tell us you need support." 


She gave him a weak smile and a half-nod before wandering off. 
Roger sighed once more. Some people just didn't like admitting they 
needed help. Or rather, they didn't like burdening other people with 
their problems. 


Well, only time will help, | suppose. 


And with these thoughts, he made his way back into the crowd. 


Five Wolves scouted the group, gleaming as much information as 
they could, knowledge about both the religion itself and the people 
gathered there. Throughout their mingling, they signaled to each 
other the prepared sign, a smiling nod accompanied with the 
scratching of the back of their neck. 


They were ready to plan the operation. 


« Hub | The Word and the Wolf» 


The Word and the Wolf 


Author's Note: You might want to read The Written God 
before reading this tale. 


There was certainly peace and happiness for a while; 
yet, as the people know, evil is unavoidable. 


There was a knock at Jacob Hunt's door. The newly promoted 
Project Malleus captain called out to the visitor, who promptly 
walked in and took a standing position in front of his desk. 


"Jerome, welcome to my office. Isn't it amazing?" Jacob grinned as 
he spread his arms out. 


The man managed an impatient half-smile. "Quite, sir. If you don't 
mind, I'd like to give my report before we rest on our laurels." 


He sighed, letting his arms fall limply. "True enough, this is cause for 
more diligence than celebration anyways. Now, you sent a memo 
that said you discovered a few new religious groups in the 
immediate area?" 


Jerome nodded. "Yes. The closest and largest one is based in 
Buffalo, looks to be... about fifty members at the moment. They also 
appear to have some sort of anomalous artifact that they use in their 
rituals and rites." 


Jacob thought for a second, folding his hands. "That's only forty-five 
minutes away at most. Do we know when and where they meet?" 


The man glanced towards his wrist. "Well, they usually meet from 
about this time until about eight." 


Hunt stood up. "Well, what are we waiting for then? Let's go." 


Jerome did not move, save for a single raised eyebrow. "Sir, We 


haven't even told McLean about the group, let alone run our mission 
plan past DeMontfort. We can't just—" 


"We can't just what? We can't go out and stop a probably dangerous 
group of heathens that are polluting the world with their filth and 
ideas? We have to wait for those idiot Sheep to try to recruit them 
into our ranks, like they've done with so many people that are utterly 
unclean?" 


The lanky man remained still. "The proper procedures must be 
adhered to, sir. The law was made for a reason, and rampant 
vigilantism might not be the best use of your post." 


Jacob chuckled. "Oh, come on Jerome, you haven't heard tales 
about captains acting on their own accord to slip through certain 
cracks in the system? This isn't vigilantism, boy, this is efficient duty. 
| hear the voice of God telling me this is what's right. Go on, gather 
Babylon Squad. We'll be in and out, within an hour or two. The 
higher ups will be none the wiser, and the world will be rid of another 
wretched paganist system." 


Jerome once again refused to budge. "Jacob, that's not how | do 
things." 


Jacob silently gave him an icy glare. "Fine," he said after several 
minutes of silence, "We'll call up DeMontfort for his approval." 


Jerome nodded, pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and dialed 
the number. It rang three times before a the Director answered. 


"Director DeMontfort speaking.” 


"Hello, Director," spoke Jerome. "This is Jerome Allen, speaking on 
the behalf of Father Jacob." Hunt motioned towards his ears, which 
Jerome took as a sign to put the call on speakerphone. 


"Ah, yes. The new captain. What'd he want to talk to me about?" 


"You see, there is a newly discovered cult in the immediate area, 
and he wanted to get the approval to go after them immediately." 


There were a few seconds of silence before DeMontfort replied. 


"What kind of group is this?" 


Jerome put the phone down on the desk in front of him as he flipped 
through papers on a clipboard. "A society which believes in a god 
and messiah figure that comes to life when its people write about it. 
They also appear to outright shun all other written religious figures 
and texts." 


A few more seconds of silence. 
"Do they have special weapons or abilities at their disposal?" 


"It seems highly likely, but hasn't been confirmed yet. That would 
require extended observation of the group, which | think could be 
handled more effectively by the Sheperd Corps. They may even be 
able to integrate members of the Cult of the Wordsmith into the 
religion covertly in order to observe. We have a few planted Project 
Malleus agents already, but | don't think we can rely on their long- 
term judgement and ability to blend in." 


"| see," DeMontfort replied. "My opinion is that a possibly dangerous 
and definitely blasohemous group should be taken out as quickly 
and quietly as possible. Unfortunately, such a course of action 
wouldn't be possible if this request was submitted through all the 
proper channels. Even more unfortunately, | never received any sort 
of indication from Father Jacob about his plans of action, or even 
any prior information about the group. It really is such a shame, but | 
suppose it meet our goal at the end of the day." 


Frowning from confusion, Jerome said, "| don't understand." 


DeMontfort took a very slow and deep breath, then exhaled for just 
as long. "Why, Jerome, what I'm saying is that if | were to do it my 
way, | would immediately send out Jacob and his squadron to 
eliminate the group you described. But, much to my dismay, a 
blockade of policy and diplomatic relations and Sheep restrict my 
movements. | guess it really is too bad that you didn't inform me of 
such action, really, but no one could possibly get too mad at you for 
doing your job. Understood?" 


Closing his eyes, he responded through clenched teeth, "I 


understand." 


"Excellent. I'll see you boys later." A three toned beeping filled the 
Office. 


"Well then," said Jacob as he leaned back in his chair. "Let's get to 
it." 


"Right away." Jerome solidly nodded and walked out of the room to 
gather the squad quietly. 


But soon enough, a Wolf came to tear the Believers 
asunder. 


They filed into the warehouse silently, but even so, their black 
tactical clothing made them distinctly noticeable among the sea of 
brown robes. Laughter and talking transformed into silence in the 
space of a few seconds. The screaming began when the agents 
drew their guns and began yelling and cornering them. Once they 
were surrounded, a nervous sea of hushed whispers replaced their 
yells. 


The Project Malleus agents sternly surveyed the group they had 
trapped. It was composed of a variety of people, all wearing burlap 
sacks with hoods attached. A robust, regally-attired man stepped to 
the front and addressed the tall man already standing in the center 
of the formation. 


“Name of the group?” 

“The Faith of the Scribed, sir.” 

"Excellent. Now, read out their transgressions. Loudly." 
"| don't think that's—" 


"...Right. The Scribes believe in a messiah that comes about 
through their writings and scripture. The main leader professed that 


all other religious figures described through writing were utterly false 
and all who believed in such people would be eliminated by their 
Lord.” 


Jacob Hunt growled derisively, barking, “Blasphemers, worse than 
the Pastafarians,” to the crowd. He leered over the hooded people in 
front of him. Most cults at least had nice looking vestments. This one 
just appeared to be wearing potato sacks. “Are the Sheep aware of 
this?” 


“At the current moment, Project Malleus is the only branch aware of 
this operation, but | have men ready to send the signal to the 
chapterhouse at a moment's notice if you change your mind.” 


“Let's keep it quiet. | don’t want to hassle with them over assimilation 
negotiations. You heard what DeMontfort said. We’re going to 
eliminate these heathens, here and now, as our duty as agent of 
Project Malleus.” Thoughts of grandeur and images of Hunt as a 
mighty warrior smiting down sinners with his God's sword had filled 
his cranium, as evidenced by his triumphant grin and trembling 
eagerness. 


Jerome shook his head. "We need to—" 
"You need to follow God's will as interpreted by me. Understood?" 


A very observant onlooker would have noticed Jerome's jaw clench 
tightly for several seconds before he tersely answered, "I 
understand." 


The tension among the group felt suffocating. Everyone's eyes were 
fixed downwards and all the joy and laughter from just a few minutes 
earlier had utterly dissipated. There was a low murmur working its 
way through the crowd, mostly made up of family members 
consoling each other. 


Roger thought back through his mind. Why, why why? Why was this 
happening? Where was Reggravi? Where the fuck was it? He had 
specifically written it for a time of peril, just in case. 


SCP-637-2 does not recall where she saw SCP-637 originally, so it 
is assumed to have been living in her mind for some time. 


Addendum: 

Dr. believes the creature could be useful, including the 
possibility of mass-producing the cat and adapting it for use in 
psychic warfare as a means of crippling the subject, and plans to 
continue testing on other subjects. If no uses are found for SCP-637, 
then it is believed that it will die when its host does. 


Unless further experimentation is warranted, it is recommended that 
we prevent SCP-637-2 from releasing SCP-637 onto paper, in order 
to maintain the good mental condition of our agents. 


Document 637-A