The bowl wasn’t empty. It was filled with a clear, golden broth that 
smelled of sea salt and starchy roots, of Antarctic fish and Antarctic 
spices. Tyhja sat down, picked up the spoon, prodded the soup with 
it. Real. Definitely real. Even though the only one who could have 
possibly made this soup was far, far away, was the one who sent 
Tyhja and his sister off alone to train their skills when they were 
barely grown. 


How did it...? Wary though he was of such an odd miracle occurring, 
Tyhja couldn’t help but feel calmed by the nostalgic scent he 
remembered from his early childhood. It brought back countless 
memories. He hesitated, took out his notebook, and drew a quick 
outline of the bowl and the soup, then finished the entire bowl ina 
few gulps, spoon completely forgotten. 


Tyhja finally found a quiet place to sit by himself, a little courtyard in 
the center of a building used for animal research, so he was told. 
There were benches and a few trees there, and moreover, several 
birds that came and went. 


With a sigh of relief, Tyhja withdrew his notebook and a writing 
stylus from the satchel he carried with him. Opening to a new page, 
he followed the path of a bird in flight, beginning to draw as he 
watched. To be truthful, the creatures were almost too small to be 
called birds by Imperial standards. 


It was pleasant, though. Such a tiny little being was a welcome 
change of subject from the fierce, winged predators with cruelly 
hooked talons Tyhja was accustomed to seeing. It was fascinating to 
watch these different birds fly, as well as comforting to know that the 
little chirping things would not attempt to attack him and rip out his 
innards should he get too close. 


Tyhja suddenly felt a slight weight pressing on his head, and he 
realized that one of the little dark brown birds had landed on him. 
Tyhja resumed sketching, and the bird resumed sitting on his 
shaggy hair, occasionally chirping out a query to its friends sitting on 
the trees. Tyhja allowed himself a small smile. The birds at home 
never sang. 


Suddenly the bird flew off. Tyhja frowned, watching it arc through the 
air and into the sky. He wondered if something had startled it. 


At the sound of footsteps, Tyhja looked over his shoulder and nearly 
fell off his bench. 


Someone standing right next to him was looking intently at him, no, 
his notebook, and that someone was dressed in such bright colors 
that Tyhja could’ve sworn his eyes started burning. He had seen her 
before, he thought dazedly. The one who liked asking questions. He 
blinked a few times, attempting to edge away slightly without 
seeming rude, and he noticed his sister sheepishly leaning against a 
nearby wall. 


“...Sister. Who is this?” Tyhja managed, slightly shaken. 


“Apologies if we bothered you, Tyhja. | met Alai in the library, and it 
was such a lovely day outside that | thought that it would be a 
shame if we didn’t take the opportunity to read out in the sunlight...” 


Tyhja wasn't particularly reassured by the explanation, seeing as 
Alai was still standing too close and he had been rather engrossed 
in his observation of the bird and why wasn’t she just saying 
something so he could ask her to maybe give him some space— 


“What’s that?” Alai pointed to the sketch he had been working on. 


“...a bird...” Tyhja mumbled. 


Alai cocked her head slightly, scrutinizing the simple sketch. “It 
doesn't even have teeth!” 


Tyhja pointed at a tree close by, where one of the little feathery 
brown creatures appeared to be regarding Alai with some interest. 
She looked suspiciously at it. “Do you know anything about these 
birds? Do they like bright colors? If you get too close, do they bite?” 


“They seem rather harmless, so | don’t believe they bite.” Tyhja cast 
a quick panicked glance towards his sister, but Clear Evening only 
smiled, apparently happy Tyhja had found a friend to talk to. Sister 
why are you doing this to me Sister help me— 


“What do you think of this place so far?” Alai smiled, setting down 
the armful of books she was carrying. 


“| like it well enough, thank you.” Tyhja stood up, intending to find 
another (quieter) place to stay. “Alai, Sister, if you'll pardon my 
leaving, I'd like to find some different birds to observe.” He inclined 
his head slightly to the two of them, and then padded away towards 
the door leading back into the facility. 


“Tyhja, you'll tell me more about these birds later, won’t you?” Alai’s 
cheerful voice followed Tyhja as he made his escape. 


Though he didn’t like to admit it, he did feel slightly guilty for just 
running off like that; he would’ve liked to talk more about birds with 
Alai, perhaps, and maybe he’d mention the other things he’d seen 
and heard about from the scientists, but then his sister hadn’t helped 
him out much, usually it was she who was there in case he slipped 
up during conversation, and he wished he could be as excited as 
Alai was about everything, but— 


Empress help him, he needed to lie down. 


« Hub » 


SCP-581: The Equestrian's Soul 


Item #: SCP-581 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: Except for approved testing, 
SCP-581 must be kept a minimum of 1000 m from all members of all 
equine species. SCP-581 is to be kept in locked, climate-controlled 
facilities. No firearms are allowed in proximity to any examples of 
SCP-581-2. 


Description: SCP-581 is a horse's nosebag, made from leather. 
Any equine subject (horses, mules, and donkeys have all been 
confirmed to be susceptible; zebras, onagers, and other non- 
domesticated hybrids have not been tested due to budgetary 
reasons) within 500 m is potentially an instance of SCP-581-1. 
SCP-581-1's sole motivation appears to be inserting its muzzle 
within SCP-581; this is strong enough to override instinctual 
reactions to predator urine or females in heat, and has caused 
instances of SCP-581-1 to harm themselves in the process of 
attempting to free SCP-581 from within steel safes. 


Only one instance of SCP-581-1 is known to exist at any time; 
examples of SCP-581-1 will actively resist being removed from 
SCP-581's range of effect, and will sicken and (90%) die within a 
week of SCP-581 being forcibly removed. 


If SCP-581-1 succeeds in inserting its muzzle within SCP-581, it will 
become an example of SCP-581-2. SCP-581-2 is an equine 
characterized by several anomalous behaviors; these behaviors 
seem to indicate that SCP-581-2 believes itself to be a human. 


Observed anomalous "human-like" behaviors include: 


* attempts to walk on its hind legs 
¢ attempts to attack its head with its front hooves 


Memory of a Memory 


Sakarn Var Surten was being talked to, and didn’t care for it one bit. 


To be honest, it wasn't so much the talking to he minded, it was the 
fact he didn't understand a word of what the mustachioed agent was 
saying. That, and the way the man kept pointing his finger at him 
was vaguely obscene. He was glad the others were not here to see 
this shameful display. 


“Snow, what is he talking about?” 
“He is just explaining the terms of our stay here, Lordship.” 


Sakarn briefly regretted not bothering to learn the Northworld 
tongue, but then remembered himself. After all, what were servants 
for? 


“Translate for me.” 


“Yes, Lordship. Agent Douglas is saying that according to the 
contract signed between the IIPES and their Foundation, you are 
entitled to visit one wing of the location they are referring to as 
SCP-921. Armed guards will be stationed at the entrances to the 
wing, but you may access the recorded memories held within it 
freely. We will stay on-site for two days, under orders from his 
director and our Superior. He says that even a great fool such as 
yourself can surely understand such simple procedures.” 


“He called me a fool?! The sheer nerve! I'll have him reported to his 
superiors! Snow, do it at once.” 


“That might be unwise, Lordship. Casual insults such as this are 
common in the everyday speech of the Northworld. It is considered 
acceptable in polite conversation. We must always obey propriety, 
as you often say. ” 


“Oh... well then, | suppose that is tolerable. Tell him that | 
understand, and that his birth-mother’s... cooking was greatly below 
par.” 


“Yes, Lordship.” 


The servant relayed Sakarn’s reply to the agent, who nodded and, 
after murmuring a few words into a mobile communication device 
hanging from a shoulder strap, led the two inside the great cave 
complex known as SCP-921. The three made for a strange sight, as 
they entered the depths of the Museum of Memories: the agent in 
his tailored suit and shiny leather shoes, muttering under his breath, 
the slender, four-armed Mender in his magnificent gossamer robes 
and a look of disdain on his long face, and the short, plainly dressed 
servant, smiling faintly behind his master’s back. 


After a few minutes, they reached a sort of central chamber. Sakarn 
discerned multiple exits which seemed to lead to various other 
tunnels much like the one they just left. The agent began speaking 
again, and his finger resumed its pointing routine. 


“He says that this chamber houses the site’s curator, Lordship. It will 
provide explanations on the various memories stored here. He will 
now lead us to the Verdant Dome wing, where you will be able to 
begin your tour in earnest. He also suggests that you should shower 
more often.” 


Now making their way through a different tunnel, the trio soon 
reached a vast open area, and despite himself, Sakarn was 
impressed: it was a huge stone amphitheater, at least ten stories 
high, and completely overgrown with strange and exotic types of 
flora. The agent began climbing the ancient-looking steps, and 
motioned the others to follow. He stopped next to a cracked seat 
about halfway up, and gestured Sakarn to sit, once again wiggling 
his finger at him and saying something to Snow. 


“He said that each seat in the amphitheater accesses a different 
memory, Lordship. Simply sit on one, and you will experience it. He 
explained that these memories are all benign, and even a dainty, 
skinny coward wrapped in a dandy’s robe should not have any 
difficulty with them.” 


“lam beginning to grow very tried with the conversation culture of 
the Northworld, summerling.” 


“| understand your frustration, Lordship, but we must obey propriety. 
You needn't worry; the agent will now leave you to your own 
devices, as will I. “ 


“What? Where do you think you’re going?” 


“You will not require my services here, Lordship, and | have official 
business elsewhere, Superior's orders. | shall be back within the 
hour.” 


Sakarn bent down to the nearest seat, examining the gorgeous, 
luminescent red vine wrapped tightly around it. "And what, pray tell, 
orders are tho-“but the servant was already gone, leaving Sakarn 
alone in that strange hall. Sighing, Sakarn brushed some non- 
existing dust from the red vine and sat. 


Lights, as bright as an autumn day upon the salt flats of his youth. A 
great man, riding a strange hooved beast, in the midst of a great, 
cheering crowd. An elder, issuing dire warnings, like arrows from the 
eyes of the red planet. And elsewhere, a little man smiled, writing. 


Sakarn blinked, and slowly got up. He took a careful step away from 
the stone pew, and almost slipped down the stairs when a voice 
began to ring, coming somewhere from the ceiling above him. 


He comes to bring the old order to its knees, for the sake of well- 
earned pride, and would not listen to those who seek to warn him. 
He would soon learn that while pride is a poor quality if one wishes 
to keep his life, it is a great one for one wishing to keep a legacy. 


After a moment of fairly ignoble whimpering, Sakarn remembered 

the pointing-prone agent said something about a curator providing 
explanations, and relaxed a bit. For a while, he simply stood there, 
but eventually curiosity got the better of him and he sat again, this 
time on the pew adjacent to the first. 


Lights again, not nearly as bright this time. An armored man again, 
but not nearly as great, and his hooved beast is made of... painted 


wood? An elder with a fake beard, mumbling something, and the 
small man from before, shouting at both of them. 


Even the greatest of legacies fade with time, and soon naught is left 
but tinder to the minds of others, a spark from which a new sort of 
greatness may one day emerge. 


Sakarn didn't quite know what to make of scene, other than a vague 
sense of familiarity. Intrigued, he slid to the next seat over, the last in 
the row. 


An overcast day this time. The man from before being stabbed by 
men in robes as a crowd watches in silence. Later, they cheer, and 
the stabbed man rises, and takes a bow, hand in hand with his 
murderers. 


And so, something new is born. Not so glorious perhaps, but great 
nevertheless. There is more than one way to be remembered. 


Ah, so this was what that was all about, a play. Sakarn now realized 
what seemed so familiar about the scene- it bore a close 
resemblance to the Tragedy of the Halfmoon Empress, which he 
had seen performed few times, the last being in the Midwinter 
festival. He remembered Merrella’s wonder at the bright, colorful 
costumes, her smile as she saw the Empress brought to justice for 
her crimes, how she cheered at the end... 


Sakarn shook himself, and expelled the memory from his mind. It 
would not do to think of her, not after what happened. He rose from 
the stone pew, and attempted to regain his composure. Can't let 
anyone see him like this, can't show weakness, not after last time. 
Never again. 


Over the course of the next hour, Sakarn circled the grand 
amphitheater, occasionally taking a seat and experiencing a 
memory. They were all connected to theater, in one way or another, 
and, while not unpleasant, Sakarn found that they reminded him too 
much of the past. Of Shifting Snow, there was no sign, and, growing 
wary of waiting, Sakarn decided to approach one of the guards in 
order to be let out. That is, until he noticed a light shining from a 
small corridor to the side of the amphitheater, which he somehow 


missed until now. Something about the light was... intriguing. The 
corridor led to a room very different from the vast hall it was 
connected to. It was an intimate place, a shaded grove hidden within 
the bowls of the earth. Beneath each neatly lined tree was a round, 
clear pool of water. Sakarn was reminded of the Hall of Mending 
back home. Instinctively, he dipped his long, metallic arms into one 
of the shallow pools, and dashed a sprinkle of icy water onto his 
face. 


A strange man he didn't recognize, in ancient clothes, standing 
before a vast host of Feastlings, preparing the ritual of Mending. 
Impossible. The Maws of Eser, opened wider than he ever saw 
them. Another host, in another place, tearing through the Northworld 
like a mailed fist. A girl, her face hidden. The smell of tar and rot. 


Some things must not be allowed to be forgotten. Others, to be 
remembered. What was, may be again, will be again. The Maws 
always hunger for dreams, and through dreams, hunger comes. Be 
vigilant. 


Sakarn slowly pulled his arms out of the pool, and realized they 
were shaking. The ritual of Mending, performed by a layman, 
Feastlings in the Northworld. The smell... he didn't understand any 
of it, and that frightened him. Despite his position in court, Sakarn 
never forgot that a Mender's first duty was to attend to the Maws, 
and if this place knew something about them, he had to find out. 
Reluctantly, he walked to the next pool over, and repeated the 
gesture.