Sqelinof was talented from birth. He composed his first 
melody at 3 Cycles, and his first chant at 5 Cycles. His 
father did not cut down enough trees for the slates that 
Sqelinof worked with, so he would inscribe on all the 
surfaces that he could find. This included the village 
gate, the garden stones, and the inner walls. 


Flip. Page 11,214. He kept reading. 


Huik is a small village near the mouth of the Jhefgim 
River. It was first settled by Linj of Alkrin, in the 
Eighteenth Cycle of Niklezt. Its nearest city is Proctitu, 
which grants Huik the right to clear the woods, work the 
land, and fish the waters of the Jhefgim. In return, Huik is 
to pay tribute every sixty Lengths, in the form of fifty 
markegs of crop and twenty markegs of cod and trout. 


Flip. And then there were no more pages. That wasn't right. It was 
still unfinished, still more to know! William tore through the book, 
flipping frantically for undiscovered passages. But there weren't any. 
He felt tears blurring his vision. No, this couldn't be! There was 
more. There had to be. More! More! More! 


His finger slid over the edge of the page, and a drop of blood fell 
onto the book. William dropped the volume, shocked and horrified at 
the possible damage that he had inflicted upon it. Quickly picking it 
up from the ground, he tried to find the page he had bloodied. But to 
his surprise, he found instead an unread section. 


William was delighted. Just as he was about to settle into the chair 
again, however, a thought crept into his fuzzy conscience. Blood. He 
had bled, and the book had given him more to discover. This was 
too good to be true. Was blood all it took to unlock the secrets of the 
chronicle? He had to find out if it was so. 


Gnihal of Quirtu is commonly credited with the invention 
of the Enlarger, a device that is now commonplace 
throughout our cities. The Enlarger is a long hollow rock- 
tube, with disks of Eilu ice that magnify any object the 
user wishes to view. However, some claim that it was in 
fact invented 200 Cycles before Gnihal, by a Lupanion 
priest named Zikail. 


Flip. Page 24,760. And that was it. The back cover greeted William's 
eyes, like a nemesis that he dreaded to meet again. Fumbling for 
the knife on his desk, William impatiently opened up the old wound 
on his finger, dribbling his blood onto the pages. And then he kept 
reading. 


William decided not to use his own blood anymore. He could feel 
himself become weaker every time he cut himself. And he did not 
want to die. If he did, there would be no more opportunities, no more 
chances to obtain more knowledge. But he needed blood for the 
book. Where could he get more blood? The butcher shop? Then 
William remembered. The Dean's dog, what was it's name? Alto, 
that was it. It was a stupid little dog. No one would miss it. 


William slipped the knife into his coat pocket, and then stepped out 
of the office, into the deserted hallway. 


William was terribly happy. The University was a haven; there was 
an endless supply of blood for him to use. He would never have to 
stop reading! 


And thus Bjukva claimed, "No warrior shall beat me, no 
chanter shall sway me, and no maiden shall seduce me! 
| have been blessed by Thulicn, and my fortitude is 
strong!" And so as Bjukva challenged those around him, 
Kilar drew his blade and declared Bjukva a liar. Kilar then 
beheaded him with one swipe, and tossed Bjukva's head 
into the swamp. 


Flip. He had reached the end. He cursed himself, and then glared 
with contempt at the vessel that lay on its side by the corner of the 


room. It hadn't given a lot of blood, even though it had been quite tall 
for its age. He had to go collecting again. 


William slipped the knife into his coat pocket and stepped out of the 
dormitory. The larger the vessel, the better. 


We, as Daevites, are the supreme race. No other can 
match our glory. Our culture shall be spread by the 
sword and the spear and the holy chant. We are the 
Daevites. We are absolute. 


The Price We Pay 


It is over. 


There are but a few of us left, and it is good. Our purpose in this 
world was to protect it from things it could not understand, things 
that defied comprehension, things that we all secretly believed 
would one day overcome our meager defenses and consume 
everything. But then, one day, they were all gone. Just like that. At 
first, we were relieved, but as time went by, we began to understand 
what it all truly meant. Without the storm clouds of the anomalous to 
cast their sheltering shadows over our empire, it soon began to 
crumble, dissipating like the remnants of some primordial night 
before the new light. The light of quiet days. Still, a few of us remain, 
flesh-and-blood ghosts watching over what is left. Over those left 
behind. 


He is, to all outward appearances, the very image of a respected 
academic. Clean-shaved, neatly dressed, infallibly polite. It all fits his 
image like a well-tailored glove, all but that ever present glimmer of 
panic, just beneath the surface of his eyes. He is sitting in a lecture 
hall, surrounded by students thirty years his junior, absentmindedly 
scribbling with his pen in his notebook. The only notebook in a room 
full of laptops. A few years ago, he was a senior researcher, one of 
the best of us, the world's finest expert in the new, groundbreaking 
field of Applied Hydrabiology. He had spent most of his adult life 
studying this field, learning all that is to know about it. As a young 
man, he headed massive symposiums, traveled all around the 
world. His name was respected. His life had a calling. When the 
anomalous world disappeared, so did all of that. 


The professor throws a question at his direction, and to his horror, 
he discovers that he doesn't know the answer. While he was 
studying a field that no longer exists, that to most never existed in 
the first place, the rest of world marched forward, and he was left in 
the dust. He wilts under the professor's critical gaze, and mumbles 


something about cells. A subdued laughter echos throughout the 
hall. The professor simply shakes his head and moves on to 
younger, more promising students. The aging researcher returns to 
his notebook, knowing that he will never lead again. He sighs. At 
least he has his pension. 


There are many like him, you know. Careers destroyed, bright minds 
dulled, curiosity riven. That's the price he pays. That's the price we 


pay. 


He sits embalmed in starched uniform, sweating like a hog as he 
looks out the window, eyes squinting in the blinding light of midday. 
Air conditioner must be broken again. The dry expanses of the 
savanna pass slowly under the wheels of his armored jeep. In the 
seat next to him, a subordinate drones on and on about this 
morning's attack. It seems like the Ubyd Tribe once again assaulted 
the village of the Muthu, targeting, as is the way around these parts, 
mostly the women and the children. The man scratches at the rash 
slowly forming around his neck, and asks for a death toll. The 
subordinate says it's too early to say. They haven't finished sorting 
the bodies. Tomorrow, the Muthu will most likely counterattack, and 
the man and his score or so of soldiers will most likely spend that 
next day doing much the same as they did today. All of this fora 
dispute over two hundred years old. A dispute over which hill the 
Sacred Sow of Nys crossed on the first day of her holy pilgrimage. 


The man remembers other days. Days in which he fought for 
something greater, for the good of all mankind. For something he 
believed in. In those days, when the Abyss gazed up at him, not only 
did he gaze back, but did so through the scope of an anti-materiel 
rifle. Things were simple back in the Coalition. Life in the Peace 
Keeping Force was anything but. It made sense, he supposed. 
When one encountered a twenty-tonne, fire breathing sloth with 
thirty eyes and a nasty temper, one usually knew what to do. Not so 
much with a host of desperate, starving people locked in the midst of 
a civil war. That the GOC killed the Sacred Sow of Nys ten years 
prior with an air-to-surface missile only made things so much worse. 


There are many like him, you know. Knights left in a world with no 
more dragons. Knights in a world of windmills. That's the price he 
pays. That's the price we pay. 


wing of the [REDACTED] legislative palace; in this instance, the 
Foundation was unable to acquire the affected site, and local 
authorities proved intractable and hostile when recommendations on 
security were made. The matter was resolved six months later, in a 
violent coup which saw the destruction of the building, resulting in 
[DATA EXPUNGED] was eventually contained by Mobile Task 
Forces Rho-8 and Pi-1, supported by the rebel forces. 


Addendum 970-01: Experimentation Logs for SCP-970 
Experiment-01 


D-970-294 was given a head-mounted camera 
and instructed to walk through the doors of 
SCP-970-01. Subject expressed doubts as to 
the possibility of the phenomenon, but followed 
orders. Subject successfully navigated the 
rooms, expressing alarm and surprise to 
discover himself at his starting point. Video 
footage and internal measuring devices show 
that the subject did not deviate noticeably from 
a straight line, but nevertheless emerged on 
the other side of the corridor; the anomaly is 
confirmed. 


This experiment was intended to provide a baseline for 
comparison with other experiments - though, given the 
single property of the phenomenon, | am unsure as to 
how we will be able to test it. - Dr Jung 


Experiment-02 


D-970-295 was instructed to repeat the above 
instructions for as long as he felt able. Water 
and food were made available, and the subject 
was told that he was to stop only when either 
instructed to or upon reaching exhaustion. 


Subject showed a normal appetite for the 
exertion, and continued for 205 iterations, 
whereupon the subject reacted with confusion 


A dark study, in the middle of the night. Someone flips the light on. 
Slippered feet glide over the soft, carpeted floor, a form sinks into a 
comfortable chair stationed before a work desk. The room is lined 
with shelves, covering every wall, and on the shelves, toys. The soft 
light shines over bright red firetrucks, over plastic guns and glass 
chemistry sets, over large boxes where, if one looks closely, vaguely 
humanoid figures can be seen, blank smiles plastered over faces no 
longer animate. The owner of the slippered feet rises again, 
approaches one of the boxes, one hand caressing the glossy cover. 
"Introducing Dr. Wondertainment's Mr. Motion!" the box exclaims in 
big, bold letters, "Multiple grip action! Unique high-voltage pseudo- 
transmogrification! Fun for all ages, just twist his shoes and watch 
him move!". The hand drops from the box, from the motionless 
figure within. Not anymore. Sighing, the owner of the slippered feet 
turns off the light and leaves the study, returning to the desktop 
computer in the living room, to the Excel sheets that needed to be 
filled by tomorrow. One had to make a living somehow, after all. 


There are many like them, you know. They tried to keep faith to what 
they once were, but in the end, it didn't matter at all. What was once 
was, was, and never will be again. They will make no more toys. 
That's the price they pay. That's the price we pay. 


If he was anything other than what he was, you could say he was 
just a face in the crowd. Nothing about him is all that memorable, 
unique or interesting. If he was anything other than what he was, he 
might have upset because of that. But he isn't. Instead, he just feels 
that it isn't enough. He knows that if he speaks to someone, they'll 
hear him, and remember, if for a while. That if he does something, 
people will notice, and they'll remember, if for a while. That for the 
first time ever, his actions will have repercussions. He is now a 
prisoner of the cruelest of all jailers. Permanency. And it's a life 
sentence. 


There are many like him, though no two are quite the same. He 
knows that every little things he does will last forever. He knows that 
every move he makes can be observed, and thus controlled. He 
knows that he will never truly be free again. That's the price he pays. 
That's the price we pay. 


A young woman, sitting on a seemingly empty subway train. We can 


try and be poetic, say that the train is heading from nowhere to 
nowhere, but that would be a lie. She's returning from the hospital, 
where she visits the fertility clinic once every week. The doctors 
keep telling her that she shouldn't come back, that they've long 
given up on trying to understand exactly what's wrong with her. She 
won't, though. If it were up to her, she might have, but she's thinking 
on the man waiting for her at home. She's thinking about the warmth 
in his eyes every time he sees her, about how safe he makes her 
feel, safer than she ever remembers feeling. How the nightmares 
become just a little bit more bearable when he's around. She thinks 
about the box of old toys he keeps in the garage, about how he 
always wanted kids. About the disappointment he kept trying to hide 
every time she came back. So she still goes, every week, just to 
hear the same reply over and over again. He doesn't know she's still 
doing it, and she's not about to tell him. 


There is only one like her, and for that we are thankful. Knowing that 
lets us sleep at night. Sometimes. We had to make sure, you see. It 
was hard enough to make ourselves release her to begin with. The 
risk was too great. We had to make sure. She'll never be whole 
again. That's the price she pays. 


That's the price we all pay. 


The Princess and the Ogre 


Agent Jurgen Crayne tried to make as little noise as possible. Right 
around the corner from where he crouched sat a 6 year-old, playing 
with her dolls. Her parents had, unbeknownst to her, already been 
removed from the house, a house that had by then already been 
warped beyond recognition. 


His thoughts replayed every retrieval mission he'd ever participated 
in. There'd been gruesome sights, there'd been sanity-blasting 
weirdness, but there'd never been unbearable cuteness. 


"And then the king came in and saw the princess kissing the boy 
who washed the pigs," the girl said giggling and added in as gruff a 
voice she could manage, "YOU THERE! PIG BOY!" 


"Oh no! It's the king!" she squeaked and mimed one of the dolls 
trying to flee the scene. 


Crayne only heard her, but he was trying to figure out how to 
approach this. He didn't look his best, to say the least, and this was 
her turf. Even if she didn't immediately scream her lungs out, her 
abilities might instinctively affect him. And who knew what'd happen 
then. He might turn into a prince, although an ogre was more likely. 
Hell, he might even turn into a damn coach horse. Or a pumpkin. His 
strange sense of humor made him chuckle at the image of a 
pumpkin swearing like a boozed-out sailor in heat. 


She must have heard him, because a frightened voice asked who 
was there. 


And then he had two choices. He could ignore the question, hope 
she wouldn't come looking, and wait for a better opportunity to 
approach, or he could answer it. Only time would tell what the better 
option was, but he chose regardless. 


"It's just me, a peasant from the fields," and after a moment's 


hesitation he added, "your highness." 


He sincerely hoped he wouldn't be spending the remainder of his life 
as a misanthropic vegetable. 


There was no reply for a precious few seconds, during which 
Crayne's bladder contemplated preemptively releasing its burden. 


"| have soldiers," came a fearful little voice. 

| don't doubt you do, thought Crayne. 

"|'m just a farmer, | would never hurt you, princess." 
A giggle was his answer. 

"Come here, farmboy."