“Oh, pardon me, | didn’t mean to be rude.” The visitor leaned 
forward, cupping its narrow chin in a long pale hand. Black-red eyes 
seemed to sparkle with interest. “It’s a natural assumption. Surely 
you foresaw some danger. One of the Foundation’s few historians 
would be considered enough of an authority on the subject that it’s 
hard to conceive of his warnings being ignored by his colleagues. | 
don’t blame you, Professor. You can’t exactly publish material on the 
subject, nor can you teach, so all you have left is ...” it shrugged, 


“research.” 


“| warned them,” Thomas hissed, the memory hot in his head. He 
licked his lips nervously and downed the remainder of his glass’ 
contents in a swallow. The glass and the hand that held it trembled 
as a tide of memories flickered through his brain. 


He had seen the photos taken at the ill-fated dig. They held the kind 
of uneasy fascination fever-dreams possessed, beautiful things and 
horrible things still artful in their craft. And he had listened to the 
recordings. They kept him awake at night. 


“I’m sure you did,” the visitor said comfortingly, and reached out to 
pat Thomas’ shoulder. Beneath the fabric, his skin crawled at the 
contact. “It’s on the record, after all. ‘Professor Thomas advises 
caution.’ Very matter-of-fact phrasing. It’s hardly your fault if you 
expected them not to listen.” 


“This conversation is over.” 


“Is it? Well, | suppose that’s fair,” the visitor said with a strange half- 
smile. “You need some time to think, no doubt. I’ve enjoyed our time 
together, Professor. It’s a pleasure to talk to a man who knows who 
and what | am. A man who truly appreciates my work. I'll stop by 
again another time.” 


It rose from its seat and stretched, producing a small piece of paper 
looking like it had been torn from a notepad. There was a cellphone 
number written in a neat hand. “If you change your mind, Professor, 
you'll know where to find me.” 


A Waking Nightmare 


Deep in the mind of all beings is a place. This place is without 
space, as space denotes a measurable area that physically exists. It 
is a plane with all the time it could want, beginning with the waking 
moments of the first universe and stretching into the endless, as 
even the dead can dream. It is the Dreamtime, plane of infinite 
possibility and empty inevitability. 


In one of the many corners of the Dreamtime floated an errant 
thought, a small continent of imaginary dirt floating amidst an abyss 
of the unreal. And sitting on one edge was an unnamed nightmare, 
waiting for the moon to rise. 


It watched a nearby island, ringed by a small ocean. Watching the 
rim of the ocean fall into nothing endlessly had become a small 
pastime for it. From the pile to its right, it took a small blue rock. For 
a moment it felt the rock's weight, and then it hurled the stone at the 
island. Rock after rock, it tried splashing the orange rimfall. 


Eventually the moon rose. A massive ball of cheese rose through 
the nethertime, bathing the Dreamtime in cheddar light. 


The nightmare stood. A crater in the moon bled crimson, and as the 
nightmare brought itself to its full height it was bathed in scarlet light 
from the blood orb hovering in the horizon. 


Feet falling into lush purple grass, the nightmare traversed further 
inland. Across the plains other Dreamtime creatures — various other 
nightmares, muses, and fantasies — were also in search of ways 
into the minds of the Real. The nightmare stopped when it found a 
small gap in the air, the faint smell of fear wafting through. 


A brief moment of meditation was all it needed. Something to remind 
itself why it did what it did. A reason to be truly terrifying. The thin 

hope that it would become a recurring nightmare, that it would find a 
good source of power for the Dreamtime. Tangling itself in a mess of 


joints, it pressed through the portal. 


It was in a forest, full of tiny wildlife and protected by a sea of stars. 
Lush and, oddly, green. The trees held a distinct liveliness to them, 
and the area was blanketed in an ominous darkness that almost 
made them shine. The nightmare rose an arm and ran its fingers 
over the leaves. Soft, wet with dew, tiny vegetative veins lacing each 
one. The bark underneath coarse, detailed with chips and knots. 


A truly powerful mind had sculpted this place. 


Footsteps echoed off the foliage. Small footsteps, light but nimble. 
This was the mind of a child, likely. The nightmare waited, placing 

where his prey was exactly. After another moment of preparation it 
lifted the branch it had been inspecting, catching a look at the girl. 

She couldn't have been any more than four years old. 


The nightmare took a thundering step forward, placing its other hand 
on another tree and uprooting it just by putting some weight on it. 
Lights in the sky twinkled out as it rose above the treetops. It tore 
away the crown of this first tree and tossed it aside. The brightness 
of the greenery dimmed as it reached for the girl. 


She caught its hand, their palms pressed together. 
There was a silence. 
Light returned. 


The nightmare tried to recoil, but she had wrapped its hand in her 
arms in a warm embrace. Heat raced up past a series of elbows and 
blossomed across the nightmare's chest. It picked her up, her feet 
dangling as she clung to its hand. Bringing itself to a height it had 
never achieved, it held her in front of its face. It tilted its head back 
and held her above it, taking in both her and the stars above. They 
seemed to be getting closer and closer. 


The child released its hand and fell onto its featureless face. She 
hugged that instead. Stars scraped at its shoulders as the nightmare 
continued to rise into the heavens. She laughed and giggled and 
cried in delight as she climbed onto the top of his head, sitting like a 


queen on her throne. 


With a foot the size of a stadium it flattened trees as it began 
trekking forward. New trees sprung to attention as it lifted its foot. 
After a few steps it lowered itself into a deep blue ocean, the water 
almost coming up to its chin. 


Together they traveled, witnessing all there was to see on a sea of 
dreams. Lighthouses spearing the horizon to shepherd in ships from 
parts unknown, fish of all colors and shapes were caught from a rod 
she had pulled from nowhere. Ancient civilizations long since 
drowned were stomped underfoot, leviathan beasts wrapped around 
the nightmare's waist. 


Slowly, a storm presented itself. Stars were blotted out as a dark 
cloud passed overhead, and the sea began to crash. The nightmare 
shielded his host from the rain. Lightning stabbed down, lancing into 
the water. It tickled, somewhat. On his head, the girl curled into a 
small ball. Where the nightmare had failed, the storm succeeded. 


Thunder rolled across the sea and out into Realspace. 


Tiffany Roads shrank into her blankets and tried to ignore the sky 
exploding around her home. 


The nightmare found itself there with her, its back pressed between 
the space of her bed's headboard and the wall. Its legs sprawled out 
past and then under the bed, its arms hanging limply. Realspace 
poked and prodded at it from all directions, trying desperately to 
make him unreal again. 


It hurt. 


Pain was not something it had ever experienced before, and being 
Real and being in pain seemed to be synonymous for a Dreamtime 
creature. 


The nightmare slowly lifted an arm and placed a hand over Tiffany. 
Whether it was for its benefit or hers, it wasn't fully sure. 


Yet she relaxed. A small hand gripped one of his fingers. Tiffany 
curled up against its hand. 


The pain didn't stop, but it seemed more bearable. 


"G'night, Misser Sticks." 


A Wandsman in the Court of the Hanged King 


Where aphotic sea does deny, 
Reflections of a xanthous sky. 


And black stars reign without ascent, 
Echoes of what was never meant. 


A city built in unknown times, 
Upon the bones of countless crimes. 


Stranger yet is found within, 
The chaos court of strife and sin. 


The mad dance here without control, 
As all must play their given role. 


For those beyond our mortal ken, 
We die and live, and die again. 


Our Lord does writhe atop his throne, 

Before his glory, we atone, 

With this, our blood, it is the Hanged King's, 
So shall we suffocate upon his puppet-strings. 


Preface: 


| write to you, dearest reader, from a certain bibliothecal nexus. | 
have bartered with the shades and expect my latest travelogue to, 
piece by piece, reach the infinite worlds: they know of the dark 
corners, the secret places and Janus Doors, in which to deliver my 
folios. 


| bleed words and have obliterated myself upon these pages for your 
entertainment and enlightenment. 


A Wandsman in the Court of the Hanged King: 


: H-hi Doc. Fire away, | guess. 


Dr. : When did you discover SCP-777's... 
unique quality? 


: We'd been in that damn desert for 
fifteen minutes, and _just wipes some sweat 
off his hand and...and he...oh Jesus Christ... 


Dr. : Please continue, 


( does not respond. Dr. — sighs and 
applies a Class B Desensitizer.) 


Dr. : This will help, . Now, tell me what 
happened in the desert. 


:(Monotonous) got swarmed... 
swarmed by the ants. They ate him and then 
they ate and then they ate and then they 
ate me. 


Dr. :No, , they did not eat you. You are 
sitting here, talking to me. 


: | am sitting here, talking to you. 
Dr. : Yes. What happened next, ? 


:Meand ran away. was 
bleeding and he fell over and it made a 
messed up crab. 


Dr. : I'm sorry? 


: Looked like a crab gone wrong. Too 
long and too flat, and | think were...were... 
blind... 


Dr. : What happened next? 


( does not reply.) 


| remember the rich aroma of decaying flowers as it struggled 
against a sharp, metallic scent for supremacy - neither lingering odor 
able to disperse the other. Clutched within my talons was a flesh- 
bound grimoire, the ill tempered tome biting my hand at its first 
opportunity. | felt acquainted with its contents, as if having finished 
reading but moments before, and returned the spiteful book to its 
shelf. 


In retrospect, | am unable to recall a single word of it. 


There developed an itch about my left eye. Instinctively trying to 
soothe the irritation with a scratch, my talon sliding across a 
polished surface. A porcelain mask, seemingly irremovable, 
disguised my features. 


| cawed in frustration, the grievous itch beyond reach. 


A tall and conical entity wagged diverse appendages and trumpeted 
a shush. The Frmmmk'l Frmamem of Frm was right to be bothered 
as | was, after all, within a library. Bowing my head apologetically, | 
took my leave of the aptly named Athenaeum of Severed Tongues, 
eager to explore. 


| arrived at the Hall of Mercurial Virtue with anomalous speed, 
unaware what occurred between the here and there. Such was the 
nature of Alagadda, the restraints of time and space being mere 
suggestion, not law. Even as an experienced wanderer, | too 
succumbed to the city's dreamlike malaise. 


The Hall of Mercurial Virtue blurred the line between the beautiful 
and grotesque. Pilgrims and emperors, gods and monsters; entities 
from all possible realities playing their role in the eternal 
masquerade. Driven by ambition as black as the stars above, most 
sought a boon from the Hanged King itself. 


My talons clicked together, my mind overstimulated by the grand 
chamber and its curious inhabitants. A decadent display of insidious 
glamour, Alagadda was hardly the dismal realm initially anticipated. 
A moniker such as "The Hanged King" conjured forth images of 
death and decay, desolation and despair - not revelry. My eyes 
contain sixteen spectral receptors and yet | only observed red, 


white, black, and yellow - the color scheme unexpectedly limited. 
Stranger still was the persistent taste of purple - near hidden 
beneath the reek of lust sweat and sweet meats. 


| tried to ignore the perplexing glare of anarchy and watched from a 
corner (relatively speaking - Alagadda the epitome of non-Euclidian 
architecture). 


Certain observations are simply too salacious for me to put to 
writing; however, when considering the infinite orgy, one may simply 
allow their imagination to run wild. Whatever you could possibly 
conceive - you'll find it within the Hall of Mercurial Virtue. Suffice to 
say, expect to see a diverse array of shame organs - usually 
entangled with other shame organs. Which brings me to my first 
observance: 


A Flesh Shaper of Adytum, their pale mask asymmetric, fondled a 
Blood Vestal of Daeva with hand and tentacle - the two whispering 
terrible secrets into each others' ears. Their auras revealed a history 
intertwined, their copulation practically incestuous from my 
perspective. My revulsion gland nearly full, | sought something more 
palatable to my senses. 


A Centaurial Dreamsmith of Oneiroi bargained with the Deathless 
Merchant of London, the one closest to real having the apparent 
upper-hand. The Merchant spat legal jargon, nasally articulating his 
terms of agreement. | detected no past or future for the Dreamsmith, 
though an ephemeral existence is challenging to read. In contrast, 
the Merchant cast a long shadow, where dead souls accumulated 
and pointed accusatory fingers. 


A trio of godlings, entities so often thought to be in opposition, 
mocked their mortal faithful - their barbed tongues spitting venom 
and condescension. The three consisted of a Horned Tyrant of 
Panthiss, a Bedlam Sprite of X'nol'zok'thussss'i, and a Hierarch 
Cherub of Eldonai. Betwixt the godlings resided an altar, carved with 
symbols that twisted and blurred and seethed. 


A chitinous servitor delivered a hatchling to the shrine as one might 
deliver a meal. With dagger raised, the retainer chanted words that 


escaped translation. | averted my gaze, unwilling to watch their 
mortal strike. | heard the blade enter the flesh and the spill of blood. 


The servant removed the ghastly corpse and surrendered a curtsy 
before vanishing in a blink. Dinner had been served and the 
cultivores appeared satisfied; feasting upon not the victim but rather 
the symbolism of the atrocity. Symbols, | remind myself, have power 
to such creatures. 


Casting my eyes skyward, | beheld the legendary Masked Lords of 
Alagadda: 


The White Lord, Wearer of the Diligent Mask - a porcelain guise with 
eyes narrow, the mouth little more than a flat line. 


The Yellow Lord, Wearer of the Odious Mask - a porcelain guise 
with brow furrowed, the lips curled into a hateful sneer. 


The Red Lord, Wearer of the Mirthful Mask - a porcelain guise with 
eyes wide and manic, a smile carved from cheek to cheek. 


| saw no sign of the Black Lord, Wearer of the Anguished Mask. This 
came as no surprise, they supposedly exiled to some forgotten 
backwater of dimension. It is written that the cause had been 
political in nature, the specifics unknown. It is difficult to imagine the 
court intrigue of such a place. 


My feathers raised with a sudden shudder. Dread began its coil - 
transforming the music of my dual hearts to dissonance. A stranger, 
lithe and sable, made their opulent entrance. Accompanied by a 
coterie of harlequin sycophants and paper guards. They wore no 
mask, their faceless visage an aberration among the masquerade. 


My hope grew dim in the presence of the Ambassador of Alagadda. 


Their title was a misnomer, the designation unable to encompass 
the totality of their power and prestige. The Ambassador of 
Alagadda was the Voice of the Hanged King, their will made 
manifest, and to whom even the Masked Lords bowed their 
marionette heads. 


| chose the better part of valor and made a casual retreat. The