Life arose on a thousand thousand worlds, but it truly thrived on 
Karakine’s. When He arose and greeted His world His light spread 
across it and the beasts upon it knew peace. He harnessed the 
moon itself, to watch over the beasts even as he passed beyond the 
land, and He questioned His subjects far and wide to look down on 
the world and tell him as they saw, even whilst He did the same for 
their folk. 


For a thousand years man flourished beneath Karakine’s eyes, and 
then for a thousand dozen more. The Men rose from the seas and 
then climbed from the dirt and took up the spear, going forth across 
the world to multiply. The spear gave way to the blade, and the 
blade gave way to the bow. Fire rose and was harnessed as 
Karakine watched, caring. Fire turned stone to metal, and metal 
turned metal into further stranger things. Man learned to craft New- 


Flesh and New-Metal of its own, and rode out into the great void 
between the Stellar on the backs of great ships. With Karakine’s 
kind guidance Man had surpassed every beast of every stripe 
across the universe, and now it spread its wings and went to meet 
them. 


The first of the not-Men they met were the Kares. Not-Men with fur 
upon their backs and frills upon their skulls. The Kares had no way 
to craft New-Metal, but their own form of the New-Flesh was 
untouched, and man found in them a kin. Together the Kares and 
Men learned of Metal and Flesh, and they passed on together, 
stronger for their union. 


The second of the not-men were the Icha on their red world. As 
Men, but weaker in both New-Metal and New-Flesh, the Icha were a 
hardy folk, and their king met the Men on the red fields of their 
world. The Icha learned much from the Men and the Kares, and the 
collection passed on, stronger for its union. 


After the Icha came the Charrun. Scaled and fearful, the Charrun 
had discovered New-Metal and New-Flesh and another form of the 
universe they had derived from the Na-Stellar, which they called 

Not. Not was a dark force, the opponent of all which the Men and 
Not-Men had grown from. It was not order, and it was not chaos, it 
was as both and neither. Not possessed amazing potential that 
could rival even the council itself, rewriting what order and chaos 
themselves meant. The Men would not accept this, and nor would 
the Kares, but the Icha king sought to learn all he could of the worlds 
throughout the void, and so Not entered the minds of the Icha. 


The collection of Men and not-Men passed throughout the void for 
untold ages. The Asgor, the eternal watchers of winter, the Chath, 
those who could vacate their bodies at a moment's notice, and a 
hundred hundred other races, all joined the collection as the Stellar 
danced and spiralled with glee. The void itself bloomed with life, and 
the Men and not-Men spread throughout its space. 


And that was when the Aeon of Life ended. 


The Na-Stellar grew jealous, and had been since the Stellar receive 
their little worlds. As they seethed with resentment at the interruption 


of their old dances, their king offered a solution to their old ways to 
them. The Fifth Son took the Not, which was the one artefact of the 
Old World he had retained, and he cast it amongst the Men and the 
Not-Men as they slept. As one hateful being the Na-Stellar began to 
grow the influence of the Not, spreading it through the hearts of the 
collection. Sickness and rot spread through the people like a wildfire, 
until each and every member of each and every race was tainted by 
the Not. 


Then, one inauspicious day, they struck. The taint of the Not spread 
throughout the forms of every beast of the Stellar. Men and not-Men 
untold clutched at their hearts as the Na-Stellar gripped them. 
Numbers beyond counting died, but most survived the clawing 
influence of things that couldn’t be. 


But some were weak. 


Some beasts gave in to the Not inside of themselves, and it crawled 
into their minds like a serpent into its home. They screamed eternal, 
trapped within their own souls as the cancer took them. They 
screamed and screamed until the universe warped around their 
screams, forming cocoons of Not that enveloped them during their 
changing. Couples, families, whole worlds fell into the influence of 
the Not, and vanished from the universe without trace but the echo 
of their deathly screams. 


Fear took hold among the collection. In an instant they were 
decimated, and the culprits were unclear. The Stellar raged and 
swore and blamed one another for their loss, and their clashes of 
rage consumed them. Great clouds of gas and dust formed as they 
fought their battles and died on each other’s hands. Man fought Not- 
Man and Not-Man fought Not-Man and all races warred and 
bickered as their Stellar grieved and slew. Karakine wept as his 
creations and beliefs crumbled like dust, and he entered his great 
slumber to dull his grief, ready to pass judgement upon the survivors 
on his awakening. The Metal and the Flesh looked on the universe 
with displeasure, but did not act. 


And this was when the Fifth Son bid his folk return. 


As suddenly as they had vanished, the Not-blighted beasts returned 


in the midst of the war. Their voices tore the heavens to the earth 
and rent the Pasture anew, and the Men and not-Men ceased their 
bickering and turned to the lifeless apparitions that had been made 
of their once-loved kin. War was raged on a new level, with no 
mercy and no hope of surrender. Blood poured across the Pasture 
as Not battled New-Flesh and New-Metal, and the fabric of all things 
began to fray. 


One by one, the heroes of the collection arose in this age of death 
and screaming. Cardia of the Men wrought his hearts of worlds, and 
with them forged new Stellar to fight the folk of the Fifth Son. 


But it was not enough. 


Loudi of the Kares forged new forms of New-Flesh, stronger and 
greater until they rivalled the Flesh itself in their potency. They 
consumed the Screamers like they were berries plucked from a 
bush. 


But it was not enough. 


Lossa of the Charrun formed her towers of Not-Flesh, until they 
rivalled the Na-Stellar in scale. They crushed entire armies beneath 
their motion. 


But it was not enough. 
Odon, Srot, Zaaas, Tgep, Exta, Thorm. A thousand heroes arose. 


But it was still not enough. One by one they were screamed from the 
world. 


The Icha king rose last. He sought out the deepest points of the Not 
within his world, cultivated by his own hunger to know. Deep down 
he went, down where the Kings are slain. Past the cowl, past the 
rope. He passed the seven points of the deep stars and the seven 
spears leapt to his hand as he slew each one. He took up the Not, 
and made it part of him. His blood became as chaos and fear, and 
his bones as order and hate. He was the Not, and the Not was he. 
He became as his world, and his bleeding eyes reached across all 
things. He ascended to be level with the council itself, and he stood 


before the Fifth Son. Blood flowed eternal from the wounds he 
suffered in combat with that deciever from the Old World, and his 
battle raged for time unbound as his skin was stained the scarlet of 
all life and death as his ichor washed across it. 


Their battle did not cease with the king's death. It did not cease 
when he arose again. It did not cease when the Icha were thrown 
from existence. It ceased when his foe was banished from all things. 


And that, finally, was enough. 


Beneath the Name 


Note: the following manuscript was found in storage vault # in 

's branch of United, a banking house belonging to the 
Foundation. The circumstances of how the document came to be 
stored in the vault are currently under investigation. Attached to the 
manuscript was an additional handwritten note, reading "A thought 
exercise, a warning, a curiosity. Look carefully. Look beneath." 


<Begin Transcription> 


Excerpt from Ar-Metusal's Dissertation on the Nature of the 
Hidden, Chapter XV 


The Serpent's Codex, Vol 456, Of Those Who Lie 
"Oneiroi" 


It is in the nature of names to reveal. A simple truth, you might say, 
but one, | will claim, that is easily misinterpreted. 


When one sees a name, especially if one is educated to some 
extent, there exists a certain natural tendency to wish and dissect it. 
Cut into its skin, and dig through the hidden organs of its linguistic 
lineage, prod the wobbly bits of history hanging from its bones, peer 
into that murky ichor which is its root. There, one can find truth, or so 
you would assume. 


"Oneiroi". A proper name. A... Classical name. It is a name to 
inspire thoughts of a majestic past, of ascended travelers, their 
deeds wallowing in myth. Sons of a god, masters of dreams, that 
most restless of realms. 


Do not mistake them. 


A name reveals, but its dissection by intellect can obfuscate. Try, if 
you will, to put it aside, for a moment. Think not of the great god 


Hypnos and his thousand sons, shrouded in Olympian splendor. 
Cast Ovid aside, if for a moment. See not the name's history. See 
the name. What do you see? 


"Oneiroi" 


It is a name which... slithers. A name which crawls and twists and 
slides. Aname which... seeps, seeps deeply into the wet sands of 
your thoughts. See the name, my intellectual friend, and tell me this- 
does it not sicken you? Hold this name, hold it tightly in the grip of 
that powerful mind of yours, and ask yourself- does this name 
belong to a god? 


Or to a bottom feeder? 


The Collective, as the things take a perverse pleasure in referring to 
themselves as, say that they do not believe in gods. They claim that 
gods are thieves, taking possession of dreams for their own 
purposes. Perhaps that is so. But if that so, why did do they take 
such great pains in depicting themselves as beings so very similar to 
those hated deities? See the visions of themselves they project 
across the Ways; Proud wayfarers on the pathways of the trance, 
nests of ancient knowledge, safekeeping in their collective's 
unconsciousness the deepest, most precious mental gems of the 
cosmos. Gods in anything but name. They reject dreams of worship 
all the while attempting to inspire the very same thing they reject by 
erecting this noble facade. Hunted guardians, tragic curators. What 
a farce. 


See beyond their visions, my friend. See beyond the history of the 
name. See the name. 


The Oneiroi are indeed creatures of dreams. That is perhaps the 
only truth that can be extracted from their visions. But they do not 
preserve. They perverse. Look at their favorite vision, my friend. 
Look at their 'sacred forest’. It is not coincidence that this sylvan 
mirage is so dear to them. It inspires awe, does it not? See their 
proud forms, pouring their hidden, precious cargo of sleeping 
memories into the pool. What could be more wholesome? See the 
depth-less tragedy of their actions, marvel at their selflessness. 
Admire them. Fall prostrate before them and repent, for you have 


neglected to remember at they have. Weep at their terrible beauty. 


But wait. Look closer. Twist your head. Apprise the form behind their 
sentiments. 


Is this truly a forest you see? Or a wasteland? 


Peer into their mouth. Are the memories pouring out... or are they 
siphoned in? 


Are the dreams dying, or are they being murdered, sucked dry? 


But perhaps you are not convinced. The forest, after all, is but one 
manifestation of their projection. It alone proves little. Perhaps you 
are correct. Let us look elsewhere then. 


Let us turn our eyes to their music. 


Of all of their tools of deception, the music of the Oneiroi is perhaps 
the most potent. Few things are more universal, after all. All thinking 
things and many which are not are moved by it. Music is the 
language of promise, and the Oneiroi are creatures of promise. With 
their music, they offer their services. It can be a simple thing, the 
ring of a telephone, the shaking of a glass sphere. It can be 
transcendent, a symphony of planets. It is a thing of purest beauty. 
Like the light of an anglerfish in the cold depths. 


With their music, the bottom feeders manipulate. They offer to shape 
your dreams, to relieve you of the woe of nightmares, to preserve 
the sanctity of your sleep. You need only suffer minor side-effects. A 
small price to pay, no? Anything more severe is but an unfortunate 
mistake, a misunderstanding by beings so above us mortal 
dreamers that their actions cannot help but harm us on occasion. 
The nature of transcendence is to burn those lesser, is it not? 


Why do we think thus? Why are we so quick to forgive, when it is the 
Oneiroi who transgress? Why are we so quick to become their 
willing victims? 


Look at the name, my friend. Truly at the name. Think unburdened 
by what you know. See them for what they are. 


We forgive because that is what they wish. 


We give them control of our dreams because that is what they show 
us. 


We feed them our thoughts because with their music, they cajole us 
into believing they are their source. 


We grant them the image of gods, because that is what they wish for 
their names to tell. 


But look not at the name. Look behind it. Look at their lamprey's 
mouth, gaping beneath it. See what music you'll find inside. What 
forgiveness. 

See how well you dream in their watery jaws. 

"Oneiroi" 


Deception by any other name. 


A name for lies. 


Articles 800-899 


Betrayal Will Not Save You 


The man in the chair struggled against his bonds, trying to shout 
something but failing due to the gag in his mouth. A guard stood in 
the corner of the room, his nose buried in a checklist. "Let's see..." 
he muttered to himself, "One 6x6 meter room, check. Walls lined in 
special Telekill alloy, check. Blast door sealed, check. Subject 
beaten and restrained..." He glanced over at the other man's 
attempts to break free, and smirked. 


"Check. Subject bound and gagged, check. And one guard on duty 
armed with standard Foundation weaponry. Check." He looked over 
at SCP-631, who shot him a glare. "Well, mister, it looks like 
everything is all set and accounted for. You're tied up, and | get to 
spend the next eight bloody hours in here. Alone. With a man who 
can alter reality on a whim." The guard heaved a heavy sigh. 
"Brilliant, isn't it?" 


SCP-631 ceased his efforts and muttered something through his 
gag. 


"Yeah, whatever it is you said, you can Say it again." 


At that moment, the blast door slid open, and a man garbed ina 
long black coat stepped in. The guard leapt to his feet, reaching for 
his gun as the man looked around the room. "Yes, yes. Everything 
seems to be as they told me it would be." 


"And just who would you be?" demanded the guard, aiming his 
weapon at the intruder. "I don't recall you being on my list of cleared 
personnel, and | highly doubt you're a member of senior staff." 


"| go above senior staff," said the man coolly as he strode over to 
SCP-631. "I go above O5 Command. Above your administrator." He 
looked closely at the bound subject's face. "So I'd drop your 
weapon, if | were you, and just let me do my work." 


The guard discharged several shots into the intruder, who barely 
flinched. "And please, do listen to what your told. | don't want to be 
in here any longer than | have to be." He ripped the gag off of 
SCP-631, who grinned maniacally. 


"Whatever you're thinking about doing, | am ordering you to stop!" 
shouted the guard. "I've been ordered to keep this man from leaving 
this room, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to stop y-" He began 
choking on his own tongue at this point. 


"Must he have written you so poorly?" asked the intruder to nobody. 
"Honestly, why did I... but that's not the point." He turned to 
SCP-631 and pulled out his gag. "I'm more here to deal with you."