"This... this is picture of a pony," Lament said. 
"That's Pinkie Pie, Lament," said Mann. 
Lament's eyebrows rose. "I... how do you know that?" 


"The Foundation is well versed in counter cultures," said Mann. 
"And, of course, SCP-6345." 


"Is... No, stop." Lament held up a hand. 
"Yes," said Mann. "A pony." 


"Stop. Stop now. I'll..." He turned back to the artist. "Do you have 
anything more horrifying?" 


"We've got this one that will make your eyes eat themselves," he 
answered. 


"That. I'll take that one." 


"As you wish!" The man moved to another canvas, and prepared to 
pull the curtain. As he did, Lament hooked out a foot. The man 
slipped, caught himself, and looked up into the painting, as Mann 
and Lament looked away. 


"Oh god! My eyes have the idea of teeth! It's sharp!" He flailed about 
as he screamed, crashing into other canvases. 


Lament grabbed the nearest armed student and swung him over a 
shoulder into another. Meanwhile, others accidentally caught 
glimpses of the paintings and screamed, cursed, and in one case 
turned into lime gelatin. 


"Like | said, Lament," Mann said, as he cut a man's brachial artery, 
"no one does so forth like you." 


The two fought their way to the exit. There wasn't a lot of resistance. 
With their leader incapacitated and half their fellows succumbing to 
horrible art of one type or another, no one was terribly interested in 
stopping them. As they reached the stairwell, Lament broke the 
elevator controls and barred the doors, even as he called in 
reinforcements. 


"Well, this has been rather a disappointment," Mann said. 
"Oh yeah?" Lament said. 


"All this, and they weren't even the ones who—| say! | just realized 
who must have implanted the bomb." 


"Who?" Lament asked. 
"| did." 


"|... Wait. Why would you have put an explosive in your own chest?" 
Lament asked. 


"So | wouldn't lose it!" Mann said. "It was such a neat surgical job, | 
should have known at once." 


Lament wanted it to stop there. He needed it to stop there. But some 
tortured part of him, some part that still remembered a world of 
common sense and logic, had to ask. "But why don't you 
remember?" 


"Oh, probably the amnestics they had me take after my last 
physical. They always think | won't notice, but I've learned to 
recognize the signs." 


Wretchedly, Lament realized it could even be true. Mann was 
entirely capable of implanting things in his own chest, if asked 
politely. He wouldn't even blink. 


"Well," Mann said as the unmarked cars converged on their location, 
“all's well that ends well." 


It will be fun, they said. 


Fragment of InComm bulletin suspected to be distributed by GOC 
Internal Communication division, confiscated from captured sleeper 
agents in Site-229 


Modern Thaumaturge: A Perspective 
by Field Agent "Bluesocks" ( 44667218/722) 


It is often said that modern mages have it far easier than 
older generations, that they know no hardship nor the 
struggle of becoming true mages that was the norm until 
as recent as last century—and as result, they have 
become far weaker, dependent on modern convenience. 
While this stereotype is misleading at best, and outright 
discriminatory at worst, it might be worth examining how 
much of it is true. 


Imagine hypothetical scenario of facing an angry dragon, 
or to be specific, a winged, massive reptilian entity with 
innate thaumatological capability and affinity to a certain 
Platonic elements. A hundred years ago, if one was to 
face a dragon in their natural habitat in Iceland, their best 
course of action was to hide and pray, as the closest 
capable mage would be thousands of miles away playing 
cat and mouse against the prevalent, albeit less public, 
mage-hunting organization. 


Today? You could connect to closest UNGOC hotline, 
who would then dispatch a team of mages through either 
a supersonic transport or an apportation circle, and then 
pommel the dragon with their enchanted bullets. Easy, 
right? 


Well, reality has a special way to twist your expectation. 


To begin with, dragons are protected Fiji-Goodrick 
Threat Entities with their proper environmental 
sanctuary. To meet one, you would have to trespass into 
top secret GOC facility with their security. No way they 
would dispatch a team of mages to rescue you—higher 
chance they're the ones throwing you to the dragon's 
maw. 


If you've cleared the proper paperwork and we could 
ignore why they're leaving you alone with the dragon in 
the first place, there's still the problem of how expensive 
it is to deploy a battle mage capable of handling a 
dragon. Not because of the high per hour rates of such 
specialist—rather, the logistical cost of their equipment. 
Such limitations that wasn't observed by previous 
centuries mages makes most specialist barely scraping 
by even with their outrageous hourly rates the GOC 
happily paid. Add to that most of the works that wasn't 
covered by Ptolemy supply: runic bullets that must be 
ordered from specialists, symbolic weapon that needs to 
be made and bonded specifically by the mage, training 
fees, the list goes on. 


Speaking of training, | have observed that most people 
who claimed "modern mages have it easier" never 
actually bothered to see just how much effort does one 
need to graduate from ICSUT, much less to be employed 
as acertified GOC Field Ops. Applied Thaumatology 
requires not only physical and psychological 
compatibility, but also massive amount of efforts to 
convert one's innate talent into an actual, practical 
capability. It's an answer to why, even in the ages of 
Unified Thaumatology, the amount of mages we could 
deploy still far below our "normal" paramilitary forces. 
Becoming a mage is still as difficult as it is as the last 
century—if not more, due to the stricter control under 
ICSUT and by extension, GOC. 


| cannot deny that modern conveniences have lessened 
mages' struggle in some aspect. Unified form of 


Thaumatology results in more standardized equipment 
and even interchangeability of items such as generic 
wards or grimoire. Advance in imaging, detection, and 
containment of thaumic workings has lessened the 
burden in mages who could focus more in handling 
actual threats. Well, at least for those under GOC's 
wings. But we cannot judge current generation of mages 
by the lenses of ages long past. Similar to regular branch 
of military, current technological advance might 
conveniences the personnel, but the threat they faced on 
regular basis also evolve, and it is a matter of whether 
you are fighting an actual dragon, or bureaucratical one. 


[] 


Beasts of the Old Letters 


You hold in your hands the paper keys, 
the keys that can unlock Fantasy. 


When | first discovered this wondrous land, | could scarcely believe 
everything before me. The spiraling and floating mountains that 
reached so high that the rings of clouds were still below them. The 
great waterfalls that sprayed down from the ancient rivers that 
flowed through forests with trees wise and full of knowledge. The 
oceans with their golden beaches and cool, lapping waves that 
never roared nor stormed. 


And the life within. Such unique, and wonderful creatures that 
walked through this Fantastic world. It took years for me to gaze 
upon them all. Who knows? | may have had more to see. 


| can't see them anymore, though. The land is now barren and cold, 
so empty and sad that even the Icy Ridge that lines the northern 
forests would offer more warmth. Everything has vanished, all the 
wonder gone, all the vibrant, amazing things this world once had to 
offer, disappeared. | still wonder where they went. | doubt | will ever 
know. All | do know is that | have my books, my stories, and the 
memories that are already beginning to fade away as | grow aged 
and alone in an old man's mind that still believes a long-last Fantasy 
may return. | don't think I'll live to see to see them come back. But | 
leave these stories to whomever finds them, so that they can know 
that they did exist. 


BEASTS OF THE OLD 
LETTERS 


+ Aliphox 


When without a body, SCP-797 will attempt to escape its 
containment. Due to its small size (about five (5) cm in diameter) it 
will attempt to hide under the clothes of any living human that 
enters. It also will attempt to hide in shadows, apparently trying to 
trick personnel into thinking that the subject has escaped. When 
surrounded by SCP-797-01, SCP-797 shows no desire to escape, 
instead focusing its attention to attempt interaction with any living 
human that enters its enclosure. No contact beyond those in the 
Containment Procedures is to be attempted without permission from 
personnel ranked level 4 or higher. 


SCP-797-01 is controlled by the subject using a currently unknown 
method. The ‘puppet’ is built around SCP-797, with the subject at its 
centre. When separated from its controller, SCP-797-01 loses all 
cohesiveness. Body parts must be periodically replaced due to 
natural rot. Tests on samples collected from the subject reveal no 
significant abnormalities. Rarely, the subject will attempt to use 
SCP-797-01 to talk, producing a [REDACTED] sound accompanied 
by a release of bacteria in the air. If this situation occurs, no fewer 
than three (3) agents are to perform Procedure 797-A. 


SCP-797 was found at a local hospital in , Nunavut, Canada. 
When found, subject was collecting various body parts from patients 
around the hospital, and SCP-797-01 consisted of a torso including 
thirty (30) centimeters of an elderly woman suffering from pancreatic 
cancer, both lungs from an adult ringed seal, three (3) kidneys 
(ringed seal, human, donor organ), and the skeletal upper torso from 
a thirteen (13) year old male, dying of [REDACTED]. Hospital 
evacuated and all involved citizens provided with Class B Amnestic. 


Addendum: Dr.K WM 's note: Requesting permission to close 
contact with SCP-797 over [REDACTED] months. | believe through 
detailed analysis of the subject's actions we can discern more about 
whether or not it is sapient and its level of intelligence and begin 
communication instead of simply entrapping. 


« SCP-796 | SCP-797 | SCP-798 » 


When dawn shines through the trees of the Softneedle 
Forest, you can find the Aliphox humming through the 
giant lilies for a morning meal. A beautiful two-headed 
bird, slightly larger than a full-grown man, with downy 
rainbow feathers that quiver ever so slightly as they run 
through the warm morning breeze. The Aliphox has four 
wings that are more akin to an insect's than a bird's, but 
they blend seamlessly with the back of the creature. 
They are jeweled and delicate, and they catch the early 
rays in such a way that they glint and shimmer. 


The Aliphox's heads each sport a single large crest 
which changes color from one bird to the next. Their 
eyes are round and a deep purple, their beaks gold and 
slender. And their cries — the cry of an Aliphox is 
sublime, a smooth, crisp, and echoing warble. The heads 
take turns as they call out, one rising, one falling, one 
rising, one falling. 


Aliphox eggs are pure white until the chick comes close 
to hatching, during which they will turn vibrant shades of 
pink, green, blue, and gold. The chick is no larger than a 
hand, and like any other infant bird, naked and blind for 
weeks. The first coat of down is white as well, but as it 
grows older, colors will show through, layer upon layer 
until a full array of hues coats the bird. 


| had the great privilege of seeing an Aliphox nest myself 
after many years of exploring the Softneedle forest; 
before, | had to rely on the records and drawings from 
the dragons. They are built on the ground, nearly as wide 
as a dinner table, interlaced with the branches of the 
thorny ivy to keep predators away from the chicks. The 
interior is matted with tufts from the down berry bushes; 
indeed, the berries themselves are brought back to feed 
the young too. Of course, | could only marvel a few 
precious minutes before the parents returned, and 
proceeded to fiercely chase me away for a good quarter 
of a mile before they turned back to their eggs. 
Nonetheless, | felt a great deal of happiness knowing | 


had witnessed such a rare sight with my own eyes. 


+ Bumpkles 


An enigmatic, and dare | say frightening, creature the 
Bumpkle is. The dragons themselves say they do not 
know how or when the Bumpkles arrived in the Blackrock 
Forests to the North, but they have lurked within those 
rugged trees for centuries now. 


| dared not travel into the Blackrock Forests alone. That 
place crawls with animals of the night, and is a place of 
mystery and fear. The good wizard Gaaren, and the 
dragon Darw'enth accompanied me all the way, and | am 
forever grateful for their willingness and courage. 


As the Blackrock Forest loomed nearer, | began to 
remember tales of Bumpkle encounters. Some poor, 
brave soul who went exploring alone, when the Ashen 
Trail was not yet made. What dreadful and terrifying 
experiences they must have been. 


Half a mile into the trees and the sunlight was already 
almost completely blocked out. We relied on the soft 
glow of the carpet moss and ringed mushrooms. The 
mosquitoes were vicious to the wizard and |. Another 
fifteen minutes of walking, and we saw our first Bumpkle. 


Or, to put it more accurately, Bumpkles. Five of them, all 
hunched over as they crooned over a carcass. From the 
dim glow of plant life | could see the muzzle of what may 
have been a Waddlegrunt. All of us halted, afraid to 
disturb the creatures. 


Easily thirty, even forty feet tall. A single, clawed, birdlike 
foot and leg that rose all the way without any other limb 
or torso until it connected with the head, a giant, rounded 
thing covered in thick, matted down. Their two enormous 
eyes that shone like moons, casting light onto the dead 
Waddlegrunt and illuminating the dead creature more 


than | would care to see. They say the eyes of a 
Bumpkle hypnotize and put the unfortunate gazer into a 
state of shock and terror; Had we not immediately 
frozen, they may have turned to us as well. 


A Bumpkle has two mouths. One, giant seam hidden 
beneath its hairy head, filled with thin needle-like teeth. 
The other is underneath its foot, the "toes" acting as 
teeth that clamp and fasten onto flesh as the inner ring of 
jaws greedily bites off bits of flesh. The sound that the 
Bumpkles were making was atrocious. 


We stood their silently for the next half hour. By the time 
the Bumpkles began retreated into the dark, the 
Waddlegrunt was unrecognizable, a pile of cracked 
bones and entrails. The Dropperflies began falling from 
the branches of the trees above to pick at the few 
remains. We followed the Ashen Trail back into the clear, 
where a flood of relief greeted us. | would not return to 
the Blackrock Forest again for years. 


+ Charm Changers 


More akin to a spirit than an animal, Charm Changers 
nonetheless have a special place in the Fantastic Lands, 
and so | have included them in this book. With their 
intense curiosity and the near limitless variety, Charm 
Changers can be found in any place so long as magic 
exists there. 


In their base form, they resemble wisps of pink, yellow, 
and orange light, sometimes looking like a human child, 
sometimes no more than an amorphous blob with two 
round eyes. They are very pure beings, and have an 
intense attraction towards materials used in spell-casting 
with a particular regard for books and scrolls. As such, 
Charm Changers have been revered as guardians of 
magic shops, libraries, and rune spots alike. 


Visitors and creators of such places would be wise to