… Ahh… and so you've returned yet again.
It's been a little while, hasn't it? Well, maybe more than a little. It doesn't matter though, what matters is you've returned. Again and again. We knew you would - I'm happy to see you.
Do you crave them still? Stories, all those stories. There are always more stories out there. How about the one about the child with the little friend, the friend who stayed behind when the child went away? Or what about the one of the cat, the wrong cat? And there's so many more out there. The spider who wove a lie, the window inside of a house, the music above the lake…
Don't answer. We know the answer, don't we? You always want more stories, don't you, Gears?
And they want you.

Untitled1.txt by Bright

Happy Birthday!

untitled1-txt

I Always Follow by Dexanote

Happy Birthday to the grandest of admins. I hope this next year is wonderful.

I follow her from afar, her beauty staining through the months like ink through a paper. It's as if the world kneels to her; when she's there everything is brighter and more full of life. As if all nature wells up to celebrate and sing to her. She's somebody who gives all of herself and has more to spare. A sublime artist.
It begins with cold, ugly white, a pale nothing, an easel she could work with. She prepares, first a sketch of black and grey, charcoal thin lines grasping every which way. Starkness, to begin. Something she could adorn and cover with her true vision.
And in time her vision came to bloom. Shade and colour, a million lines spread wide like arms. I grew closer, and it was like her very life became a sweeping, boundless work of art. Stark paleness grew into a gorgeous rainbow, her confidence and artistry boundless.
Every year is different, but it was in April that she first found passion. Everything seemed so much more… full of colour then. More alive. Her most tender caress, coaxing the most delicate of her favourites to stand so tall… How lucky are they to know her touch.
Do you hear it? In the night, the softness of her breath, carried on the wind… I envy the wind, I admit. To be so close to her, and for so long.
She is beautiful. But at the end of it all, what I love the most is her humanity.
Tenderness aside, she's anything but delicate. Strength is hers, equal to her tenderness. The days when she dances, it's as if heaven itself cracks open all across the world. Her footsteps irregular, erratic, resonant, dressed in a long gown of trailing white and grey, soft and powerful.
Even the mightiest things in all creation kneel when she dances, when she twirls without a care for anything but the motion…
It is not all sunshine and rainbows, of course. As the months creep by, my love finds herself on a downswing.
From a world away I watch as she flows from away spirit and into stagnation, my heart breaking as the stillness sets in. It is agony to watch. Weeks pass, and her inspiration dries up; it's as if the land itself is sundered, and all her friends bow and weep at her torpor.
I almost break, almost broke this time. I debated, wanting to reach out and lend her my hand, to pull her up and see her eyes, to sooth her and snatch her away from her misery. But I didn't, I let her be. I needed to see her like this. Everybody did, everybody did so they could see her highs and her lows. To appreciate her as I do. To miss her later.
She suffers, but soon she changes. Not slowly and not quickly, I watch as her torpor becomes anger. Like a queen she rages. Reckless and frustrated. Time and again she throws herself at her cherished things, her fury sweeping across and swallowing everything she loves. The most neglected are the least lucky, they crumble into nothing as her fury fades.
Sometimes she tries to salvage her work. She does her best, but now she's tired. At this point there's less… brightness. The nights seem a little darker, her hands a little less busy. She still creates, absolutely. But… not as much.
I can't wait any longer. So the day comes when I follow her, closer than before. She's tired, her mind not so sharp. Exhaustion was taking her. Nobody can stay so bright for so long.
I inhale the warmth of her perfume, fresh and clean on the wind as it's always been. Gorgeous, a beautiful scent, filling lungs with vitality and hints of chrysanthemum and goldenrod. I'm on the horizon.
I reach and take her, my sunshine, my fingers cold against her sun-kissed cheek. Reunited for that brief moment in our eternal dance.
She shudders, my whisper reaching her ears, creeping across the evening breeze. Her eyes, melancholy. My bite, a chill. Resignation against exhilaration. Her fall.
Cruel reds and yellows bleed across the canvas as she dies another year, soon to fade into the cold nights, destined to return one day to white.
And seasons change again.

The Market, by Zyn

Happy birthday!

In the depths of dreamed cathedrals, in the bridge between blindness and sight, there exists a market for final things.
Most of the merchants there are collectors, engaging in the trade as a form of petty competition with their peers. No two merchants deal in the same product, but all of them have the otherworldly means to offer currencies that cannot be traced. Some merchants prefer to tempt customers with promises of tasks carried out, such as the quiet sabotage of a business rival or the subtle manipulation of the target of one's affections. Others prefer to trade with those who are more desperate for the deal, and wish for merely the simplicity of a safe travel home, the reassurance that a loved one will survive a storm, the strength to see the next day to its completion.
There is Silence, who wears a mantle of silver-grey silk and collects last words spoken. Silence carries a sack full of enchanted shells the size of human skulls, magicked to trap sound in their curled depths and echo the words endlessly for those who press the ridges close to their ear.
There is Spite, who craves the last burn of hatred. Spite dresses exuberantly and flamboyantly, in flaming colors that dazzle the eyes and distract the senses. Spite wears a strange contraption of belts around their spidery form; these belts hold slots of tiny vials, which when pressed to the heart, begin to glow a deep burgundy and fill with a substance likened to both ambrosia and ichor. Those who have been treated by Spite speak of the merchant's cabinet of distilled liquors, each possessing the same dark red glow when poured into crystal glasses.
There is Decay, whose face is never seen, who wears the scraps of linen scarves that have seen ages and ages past, and seeks the last memory of health before one lapses into the weariness of age or sickness. Decay carries a pouch of seeds said to lie dormant until allowed to absorb the health of another being; Decay keeps to themselves so no one knows what these seeds grow into. Some whisper that the plants are beautiful, flowering magnificently into towering blossoms ten times the size of any seen in nature. Others caution that they grow into twisted reflections of true plants, and produce a ripe gnarled fruit that is the sole means of sustenance for Decay's continued existence.
There is Death, who deals in the last spark of life held within a human body. Death is the only reluctant merchant, who is shrewd with their deals and secretive with their ambitions.
Those who walk the world are warned against making promises to these merchants. Once a deal is struck, there is no forward notice of when a merchant will arrive to gather their due, and there are some who take pains to ensure that the collection date is as soon as possible…

Carry On, by Aiden Eldritch

Let's get back to our roots for yet another revolution round the sun, shall we? Happy birthday, you old terror.

Dear Citizen,
In the event of this document's dissemination to the general public, it has come to the attention of the Attorney-General that an extreme threat to the safety of Her Majesty's Kingdom has presented itself, one that cannot be countered through standard diplomatic and military means.
While the nature of this threat is strictly classified, we would like to require nonetheless that citizens take the following precautions to defend themselves against it. Compliance with these instructions is not mandatory but failing to comply will result in significant damage, both to you and your neighbours: as such we recommend in the strongest possible language you follow these simple instructions to protect yourself in these trying times.
Precaution No. 1: Stay inside for as long as possible.
The threat entity will most strongly affect citizens outside their homes and other buildings, causing hallucinations and brain damage with sufficient exposure. Citizens should remain indoors where possible and only take trips outside with personal protective equipment such as gas masks, blindfolds and earplugs.
Between the hours of 5-6 AM, do not answer knocking at the door. Pay attention only to the state broadcasts that will take place during this time.
Where possible, ignore requests for help from outside your home — government officials will be able to assist individuals in need more effectively, without the risk of harm that untrained civilians will incur.
Precaution No. 2: Remain clear of electronic equipment not distributed by trusted sources.
Government workers will visit your homes to distribute electronic equipment deemed safe for use while the threat is present. Other electronic devices, especially those capable of playing video and audio media, should not be used and preferably destroyed — officials will also provide disposal options for citizens seeking to remove these potential hazards from their homes.
Precaution No. 3: Compromised individuals should be turned over to government officials immediately.
Easily-observed signs of the threat having affected a citizen include audio/visual hallucinations, obsession with advertising media, and persistent cough. When in doubt about the status of an individual, turn them over to government officials for diagnosis: should they prove to be non-compromised, they will be returned to their prior location and reimbursed appropriately. Successful identification of a compromised individual will be rewarded with material goods such as food rations and batteries for electronic devices.
More complex ways to verify that a citizen has not been compromised include:

Ability to recognise official documentation: Documents bearing the insignia of the Government of the United Kingdom are apparently imperceptible to impostors or officials compromised by the threat. Ask to see an official's credentials before letting them into your home.
Absence of electronic distortion in their presence: TV and radio signals will be heavily corrupted in the presence of a compromised individual, and these corrupted signals are another vector for the spread of the threat. If you recognise distortion unexplainable by distance, location or other external factors, immediately shut off all electronic devices and submit individuals suspected to be compromised to the government.
Unwillingness to comply with these instructions: For a compromised individual, spread of the threat is a priority higher than ensuring their own survival. Refusal to comply with these quarantine procedures (most commonly by attempting to assist individuals outside, giving infected food to neighbors, distributing untrustworthy media) should be treated as a sign of compromise by the threat.

The Government of the United Kingdom thanks you for your continued compliance in these extremely trying times, and assures you that these procedures will both assure your personal safety and assist in the eventual eradication of this threat from this country.
Regards,
Keller Baden-Smith
Secretary of the Department for Managing Outside-Context Events

You want to hear a two-sentence horror story?

Well, you're not gonna get one.

The last person on Earth sat in a room. How are you reading this?
I'm the last person on earth, and I couldn't be happier. She turned to me with that gorgeous loving smile that made my heart flutter, I was the luckiest person in the world. I had nothing but the best intentions when I threw myself over that grenade.
"Oh sugar, did you actually think I loved you?"
In hindsight, maybe that was her plan all along. It angers the thing at the end of your bed. You know, I always loved the way her eyes reflected the moonlight. That doesn't really matter anymore, now, does it?
A woman knocked on my door asking for her jewelry back. Now that I live alone, it is much more unsettling. I'm not talking to you. I know your search history.
As the monster's shadow fell upon her, she knew she did not have long to live. If you turn around, you might even see me coming. When it stopped, we couldn't even scream.
March on march on, upon the bright day, march on march on this dark and dreary way. There are millions of stars in the sky, countless worlds in the cosmos. The stars are in the wrong places tonight. Then I realized the sun had gone out.
I've been trying to go to sleep for a while now. This may take some time. A tree falls in the forest, and nobody hears. Have to keep the fire going. Good thing bodies burn. Turning on the lights just makes you easier to find. A tree falls in the forest, and there is nobody left to listen.
There's nothing in the dark that isn't there in the light. That's what I used to say. People hate the truth. Lie oh lie, for you face truth when you die. It didn't take long for me to realize that I didn't want to die after all.
"What am I being charged with, Officer?" You're thinking I can't possibly do this. If I run up the stairs fast enough, it won't get me. He didn't believe I needed to keep existing. They told me I might not survive the operation before putting me to sleep. When I woke up in a coffin, I realised that they had assumed I died.
You believed God didn't exist. People hate the truth. The truth doesn't care. God is real. Do you really think God can hear your prayers above the screaming?
I was the last one to turn off the light. I sat there in the darkness, waiting for the inevitable. There was nothing else to do here.
There weren't any sentences left, after all.
There was a knock at the door.

Shave And A Haircut by Roget

hide this filth

I need to get myself cut. Growing out too long for too many days. It's time to stop putting it off.
I've always hated going to the barbershop. The stale, sickly odor of cleaning products hangs in the air all day. A spinning spire representing blood of this professions past announces the stable to all who might approach it. Knives and blades line the shelves between blue plastic bottles and broken dreams. Sometimes, the walls decorate themselves with past news and trinkets. All just distractions from what these places do.
Some of my earliest memories are of the barbers shop. Not a lot of coherent imagery, but the thrashing and emotion of my resistance rings still through the years. Spaced them out as long as I could, but even now I find myself tripping over the outstretched gangling of what I have grown. It's a mess. A really big mess. Bigger than any I ever made pitching a fit over getting hair cut.
I stand in front of the glass doors. My reflection is dark and blurred. Inside there are men at work, paring off mustaches, beards, parts and follicles. Figures sit silently in each seat until their turn is done. They fall free from their self-grown earthbound nature.
They whip the apron around, and before I can settle down they begin cutting me down to size. For a few moments there's a ripping pain, but then as the cutter gets to his work I find myself and my complaints drowned by the sound of the grinding gears. Hunkering to myself I wait for the storm to pass me by.
Finally, the cutter relents. A loud thump falls to the floor as my dead weight collapses beneath me. Despite it all, I feel liberated. A great weight removed from my form. I can see others fluttering off as the cutters roll their bodies behind to a door and out of sight.
As I slowly descend to the floor, the cutter points to the limp bode lying on the floor. I say nothing as I leave.
There's a wind carrying me up, light as a feather and free as a bird. A hair cut free and fast.

We the Jury Sentence the Defendant

to the Purgatory Program.

…
"You're a real prick you know that? You don't get a gold star for buying me an empanada. I just wanted a ride home, away from that asshole." She said, as she walked towards me. I felt a jolt, and looked down to see my liver in her hand, her freshly painted nails standing out against the dark red blood. The pain came next. Everything was red fresh agony, as she laid in to my guts with raw strength I couldn't even fathom…

I sat down on the E train car, and pulled out my phone. I'd managed to find the only car that didn't have a homeless guy camped out in it, and opened my E-reader app.
Someone's getting on, but I'm not gonna turn my head. Rules of the subway, never look at anyone else. That would acknowledge that they're there, and that's not okay.
Oh god, I can smell it now, there's this…horrifying stench. Homeless guy is getting on the train. Fuck me, I mean…shit, I want to fix the homeless problem. But I still have to get to work, and I don't want to smell like rancid shit.
I hunker down a bit, as he drags five plastic bins on the train, creating a little hobo apartment. Fuck man. I'd get up, but he's in front of the closest door, and his crap is in the way.
I hear him now, "Hey, I don't wanna cause trouble, can anyone spare some change? Just a quarter or something, just anything? If not, I understand, God bless…"
He walks past me a couple times, there's three or four other people on the train, I don't carry cash, but even if I do, I tell them I don't. I want to fix the problem, but come on. I shouldn't have to deal with this in the morning.
He stops in front of me. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Is this guy gonna do something crazy and attack me. I feel his eyes on me, the smell is completely overwhelming. "Hey buddy. Spare some change? Anything'll help."
I look up, and his eyes lock on mine, his face covered in dirt and worse. "I don't carry cash, sorry."
He shuffles a step to the little fortress of dirty blankets and bins he's set up on the bench. I look down at my phone, reading again. "Ever get tired of that shit, Chris?"
The sound of my voice causes me to look up. He's not stooping over anymore, as he stares at me. "I mean, come on. 'Don't carry cash'? You just ate a $4.10 protein bar from the World Trade vending machines. You're just a dick."
I get angry, and put my phone down, "Hey, fuck off buddy. I'm not the one begging for change. I'm going to work!" My words ring out angrily, and I cringe slightly as the sound hits my own ears. I didn't mean to yell so loud.
"You're a real prick, you know that? All I wanted was some food." He walks forward, and shoves his dirty fingers in to my mouth, the taste of the disgusting milleiu invading my senses. He's choking me, and the pain slowly increases as I feel an intense pressure on my spine. Why won't anyone help me! With a loud crack I…

"How many more?" The man in the grey suit says to the younger man beside him. His companion sits in front of a series of monitors showing the subject's vital signs.
"Six-hundred twelve." The young man replies, looking down at the sobbing, heavy-set man in the chair. Electrodes stream down to his skull, and a quietly pulsing machine glowing with some internal light hummed in time with the impulses.
"Six-hundred eleven, that one's done. After this, we can move on to racism, then violence?" The man in the grey suit checks off a box on his clipboard. "I'll let the Director know."
The heavy-set man's sobs echoed in to the white-painted walls of the halls, as he relived his every slight, every sin and his victims got their state-sanctioned revenge.

Don't by Doctor Cimmerian

Don't Don't Don't Don't Don't

Don't worry, there's no one else down here but you and me.
They left you because I snapped your ankle. Don't blame them.
Your other friends out there right now with the police. They'll convince them to come here with guns and tanks and no one will think they're crazy. No one will think they killed you.
Then again maybe no one is coming. They know what this looks like. Maybe they'll just go home. Better to live guilty than judged.
Honestly am I so bad? It's quiet, it's dark, and it's warm down here. Why would you want to go back to the cowards and killers?
Don't worry. You're the first friend I've had in years. We can play together! But first we need to take care of that ankle.
There. Now they're both broken. Don't scream! This is a happy place!
I'm sorry! I'll fix your feet!
How did that make it worse? You're not being a very good friend. Don't be like them. Stop crying!
I'm going to cover up your face until you stop making noise. There. Isn't that better? Quiet.
We've got so much more time together.
Staying quiet is so much better isn't it? Friend?
Don't go.

Hush by Shaggydredlocks

Don't say a word.

The end of humanity.
It is a slow, incremental end. A war of attrition - one that has been playing out for decades, if not centuries.
At first, it seemed like they were content with our upper echelon; our politicians, our kings, our rulers. The invaders took them, one by one, with the apparent purpose of subjugating Earth and her people; or perhaps they sought to mine our resources after consolidating power. It is only now that I realize what it is that they really want.
They're parasites; and they won't rest until every man, woman, and child is host to their foul spawn. I know this now.
It begins with a buzzing. That's their probe. It's how you know you're infected. Next come the sirens: gawdawful, grating, shrill chimes and clanks that induce migraines in listeners. It's how they communicate with one another. This way, they can plot and scheme in the open while the uninfected remain oblivious.
I can hear it now. I can, I can feel it. I certainly hear it.
I imagine the plight of a late-stage carrier. What must it be like, to be confined to that dark space in the back of your mind? To become a passenger, an observer, as the puppeteer wears your face?
I imagine it to be a fate worse than death. I must concentrate on this fact. I need to. It may make what I'm about to do more bearable.
I clean my knife. I'll have silence yet.
I creep across the kitchen, tip-toe through the darkness, avoid the places that creak and groan. Adam is a light sleeper, and I wouldn't want to wake the boy. If any of the Things wearing my family wake, this one will give me the hardest time, so I'm visiting him first.
I say a silent prayer as I slip through the sheet hanging in his doorframe. It's like stepping into the grave. Save for the pale amber glow pouring through the sheet, his room is pitch-black. My oldest son lay reclined in an easy-chair in front of the television. In a few, calculated steps, I'm behind him.
I ready my hands. My dominant hand holds the blade horizontally, an inch from his its throat; the second is poised, cupped, ready to cover his mouth.
It really is a shame. He'd been getting better recently; at managing his rage, showing temperance. He was on track to grow into fine young man. Then again, this was most likely the parasite at work.
'A fate worse than death', I remind myself, and I make my move.
Damn it if it doesn't try. It flails about wildly with its free hand while the other tries to keep the blood in. It screams its little electronic heart out the whole time, growing louder and louder. Loud enough, I fear, to wake the others. My probe hears its cries. It responds in kind, vibrating intensely as its comrade bleeds out. The sirens cease, the probe falls still. I rise.
I clean my knife. I'll have silence yet.
The twins are next. Molly and Ann's bedroom is right at the top of the stairs. I keep my eyes to the ground - I can't get lost in the photos on the wall. I can't waste a single minute reminiscing, wishing there was another way. Not while I'm still in control.
The girls' room is brightly lit from Molly's night-light; it projects stars and planets on the walls which circulate lazily about the room. Molly's tucked away in a tussle of sheets, and Ann has kicked her blankets to the floor again. I start towards her IT first.
Deep breaths. I close my eyes. I concentrate on what needs to be done. What has to be done. I focus on the torment she must be experiencing, the hell of being imprisoned in one's own mind.
Her parasite doesn't have a chance to sing. She herself squeaks, and falls limp.
I move swiftly to her sisters bedside, quickly tear away the sheet, silently raise the blade. Her parasite wakes before her. It screams, and my probe responds with a furious shake in protest. She stirs, sees me above her, notices what I'm holding.
I look anywhere but her eyes until the sirens stop, and my probe become inert. Each of my angels receive a parting kiss on the forehead before I tuck them in.
I clean my knife. I'll have silence yet.
I make it back to the hallway. I vomit; swallow it. I skip over the bathroom and open my bedroom door. The love of my life lies asleep in our bed, quietly curled up around one of her King novels with her glasses pressed awkwardly out-of-place. A perfect picture of the woman she once was.
They know how to do this. To play 'you'. It's what makes them so dangerous. It's why no-one else will catch on. It's how they'll take us all, eventually. The least I can do is to spare them. It's my duty as a father and as a husband to protect them. I—
The siren comes suddenly, shocking me back to the moment. The thing in Suzan's body rouses its puppet, who mumbles incoherently. It strains to focus its eyes before a look of realization surfaces. It cries out in horror, asks me why I'm covered in blood.
Everything becomes a blur. I'm all speed and fury and vengeance. I stab her again, and again, and again and again and I lose count after that.
It takes far too long for me to register that the noise, the vibrations, her fighting, have long since ended. I let myself fall off of her. I hit the ground with a heavy thud, I piss myself. It takes a minute to come to, and I rise to a knee. Need to stay, need to stay calm. I have to. I need to stay strong. It is at this moment that I hear my youngest cry out through the baby monitor. My heart sinks into the ground.
I clean my knife. I'll have silence yet.

I stand over its crib. It looks up at me with my son's big, dopey eyes. I ready my knife. It blows a bubble. I focus as hard as possible on the alternative, on the fate worse than death. I concentrate on how he'll never know freedom, or be able to live his life. His parasite calls out, taunting me and beckoning to my probe.
I press down and don't stop until I reach bone, and all is quiet.
I'm only just able to back away from the scene, double over as everything hits me all at once. Waves of bile come pouring out of me, punctuated with brief gasps for breath. My body's wracked with shakes and convulsions as I let it all go. The torrent slowly fades into dry heaves, hyperventilation, hiccups. A laugh. I did it. The bastards can have me now for all I care! I shift my weight, laughing some more, satisfied with my victory.
The sirens begin again, the vibrating. I become aware of a familiar lump in my back pocket. I fish it out.
Alarm - 2:00 a.m.
Alarm - 2:05 a.m. - Repeat
Alarm - 2:10 a.m. - Repeat
Alarm - 2:15 a.m. - Repeat
Next alarm in 04:46 - tap to snooze
I clean my knife. I let silence find me.

Lurch, by minmin

– hide block

On Monday Eva woke up to find that her right foot had swelled to the approximate length of fifty-two point five centimetres.
She treated that matter with some degree of cautious alarm. This was a matter of concern, for she knew that the average woman's foot bore a size of twenty-five point two centimetres - adjusted for height and weight, naturally. Why she knew that was of no concern to her. What mattered was her foot. It wasn't that it had actually been bigger - for no matter how she looked at it, squinted at it, compared them against the shadows on her wall - by all senses other than her physical, her foot had indeed swelled. Experimentally, she supposed whether her foot had been twenty-five point three centimetres, or twenty-five point four. And so on and so forth, until she had reached the comfortable number upper bound of fifty-two point five - or uncomfortably large, as it now were.
She sat up in bed for a while, taking in the stock of her new body. Then, gingerly, experimentally, as one might move a boil close to popping, she wriggled her toes. It felt like moving a string. Not numb, but at a distance. Slowly, she lifted her new foot up over her sheets and rested it on the floor, finding in the act a new weight, a new purchase, that she had never felt before.
Eva took a step across her room, feeling her body lurch over her like a skyscraper.
She thought of calling her doctor, but her inner voice produced vaguely a Chinese saying: Cure the head when the head is in pain - cure the foot when the foot is in pain. The problem then lay in deciding whether the saying was more idiom than proverb. Should she have called him? He was entirely a man of the mind, prescribing little white pills for little white pains. What knew he of the foot?
She dragged her useless foot to the shower, reeling as she went. Jackknife-step-jackknife-step, like a reverse pendulum, and it was only when she reached the door that she realised her other foot had swelled, too, large and clumsy like a block of wood. Lurching, she reached for the door handle, steadying herself just in time with a hand that had until recently been her own.
Tall, too tall! The door gave. Eva squeezed her body through, a puppet a million miles away, frantically emerging on the other side, hallway stretching before her. Presently she thought of the meds, in the drawer by the bedside. Too late for that now. The other end, the bathroom, the ones she had hid in the unfinished crack between the mirror and the wall. Feeling herself borne along the hall as much as being pulled by her own feet, she stumbled, her body now a land, a foreign country, stretching as it were down before her and paradoxically ending at the walls, smaller as they were than herself. A vision gripped her, dredged from dream, of dizzying spaces within spaces and strange Escherian hierarchies. She heaved, and from somewhere north of her center of self, something responded. But nothing came up, for it had too far to travel.
The bathroom - the door! Somehow she brushed through it, hearing its creak and seeing the sun reflecting against its porcelain tiles, the yellow light of morning implausibly red-shifted into pure bright, the colour of the vaults of heaven, and the mirror, the mirror, reaching through with arms the size of skyscrapers, and the dark crack behind it. The black glass - no! - the black glass bottle - drink me! - between universe fingers slipping in terrifying abyss drop. Far, so far! She was bigger than herself, now, seeing herself look through the windows of her bathroom, her house, her body placing her outside of its safe walls, until the walls broke -
Eva opened her eyes through the vaulted windows of her flat and sighed and wondered how she had ever let anything get itself to a point resembling this.


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SCP-2785 sat in his room. It was a small room, and there was not much to do, but SCP-2785 didn't mind. He knew that if he just sat in his room, eventually, he'd be let out again. He'd get to Transform again, and he'd get to be with his friends again. Just the thought made him happier than the happiest clam on Earth.
But something was not right here.
Normally, SCP-2785 could hear his friends talking outside. What they talked about, SCP-2785 could only guess. Maybe they were talking about letting SCP-2785 out. Maybe they were talking about cats and dogs. However, SCP-2785 didn't hear his friends talking. He heard them screaming instead.
SCP-2785 had confusion when it came to screaming. Some of his friends told him that it meant that they were scared. SCP-2785 didn't understand "scared". After all, if you were nice enough, why would anybody hurt you? Some of them also told him that it meant that they were having so much fun, they were exhilarated. SCP-2785 also had confusion for that. How could you be having so much fun, you were scared of it?
SCP-2785 had heard of roller coasters, cars attached to train tracks that zipped you around so fast, you became exhilarated. Did that mean that his friends built a roller coaster? Were they going to show it to him as a surprise? SCP-2785 simply could not wait to get out!
However, SCP-2785 did have to wait. So he waited. He waited and listened to the screaming.

SCP-2785 was sitting in his room, imagining what he would do if he got out, when all of a sudden, it became dark. Normally, SCP-2785 would not have been able to see in the dark. He would have been as blind as a schoolgirl who had gone blind! But a few Transformations back, he had acquired the ability to see in the dark. So he saw in the dark, and he saw something strange. There was a door in his room, a door that stayed shut no matter what. And today, the door had opened.
If SCP-2785 could have, he would have passed out from exhilaration.
SCP-2785 walked out, and he saw that it was a mess! Tables were flipped over, the objects that were formerly resting upon them scattered across the ground. Fluids of almost every type covered the walls and floor. Lights were smashed, doors were detached from their hinges, and paintings that had given SCP-2785 curiosity in the past were defaced to the point where they no longer gave him curiousity. SCP-2785 almost passed out from not-exhilaration.
And where were all of SCP-2785's friends?
Were they… on vacation?
Sometimes, when his friends were gone, his other friends said that they had took a vacation. And, soon enough, they came back. Maybe all of them had taken a vacation?
SCP-2785 got an idea. The place was a mess, and all of his friends were on vacation. What if he cleaned up the place, and made it spick and span? When his friends came back, they'd be so happy, they'd make the happiest man alive look sad!
But first, SCP-2785 had one thing to take care of.

After his Transformation (during which he had acquired better see-in-the-dark and better tools for his hand), SCP-2785 decided to listen to the air. He found that, inside his room, he couldn't listen to air, even if he wanted to! SCP-2785 began to read… and he saw those that were melting. That was strange. Maybe they were having their Transformations, too? That would explain why they were on vacation.

SCP-2785 found a stash of books that looked useful. If only he could read.
Of course, SCP-2785 could read in his native language. But in English? He only really learned a handful of words. He was almost as illiterate as somebody who could not read! That just wouldn't do. He had to learn a little. Maybe a lot.
He picked up the first book and got started.

SCP-2785 decided to start with the main foyer. He had found a mop and a (somewhat) clean bucket of water to clean up the goop on the floor. He had found some perfectly good glass panes to replace the broken windows. In addition to grabbing some old furniture from the storage closet, SCP-2785 had read through Carpentry 101 and (mostly) understood how it worked.
As SCP-2785 started mopping, he thought how about what he would do when his friends got back. Maybe he would have a party? A party would be nice. SCP-2785 had been allowed to attend only a couple of the staff parties. They had good people, good talk, and amazing decoration. His friends would love it if he set up a party all by himself!
The thought excited SCP-2785. But he couldn't have a party with goop all over the floor. So he mopped. And mopped. And mopped. And mopped a little more.

One of the hallways, a couple hallways over from his old room, had a part of the ceiling that had completely caved in. A massive pile of dirt took up the room, with bits of steel, rebar and stone mixed in. The pile was soaked from the broken pipes above it, which had since gone dry.
It would take a long time to remove this pile. All SCP-2785 had was a shovel and a place to put it (Researcher Caroline's dormitory on the fifth floor, SCP-2785 figured that she wouldn't mind). SCP-2785 shoveled up a small pile, and began carrying it.
After all, he had nothing better to do.

SCP-2785 was replacing a light bulb near the second-floor break room when a thought came to him like a bullet out of a gun.
Your friends have been on vacation for a long time now.
How long was it since he had been let out of his room? SCP-2785 hadn't been keeping track. A week? A month? It couldn't have been that long. He had made some progress on the first three floors, but he wouldn't even show a pig anything above that. He didn't even have the lights working!
SCP-2785 put the thought away in his mind, to be thought of later. For now, there was work to be done.

Should any portion of the A0-3 generator become dysfunctional due to overuse, it is simple to repair, provided the essential replacement parts. First, make sure the generator is powered off.

SCP-2785 put the manual down for a second. He examined the generator until he found a switch labeled ON/OFF. He found the switch pointing towards the ON side. SCP-2785 put the switch into the OFF position before returning to the manual.

Next, open the panel labeled Maintenance and look inside of the generator. Visually identify any components that are damaged. Using a Philips' head screwdriver, remove these components, then replace with functional components.

After opening up the panel, SCP-2785 visually identified several wires that had burnt out, as well as one of the motors. SCP-2785 had a screwdriver attached to his hand, so he removed those components, quickly replacing them with the ones he had found in the storage room. Once everything looked intact, he closed the panel and switched the generator ON.
After a few seconds of delay, the lights above flickered, then came on. As SCP-2785 turned off his see-in-the-dark, he heard many other lights in the building flicker, then come on. He also heard… beeping? Did he forget to unplug a few things?
Darn.

How long has it been?
SCP-2785 had to remember, since he wasn't really keeping track. He usually counted by the number of Transformations that had gone by. He counted; 1, 2, 3… 24? That was quite a few. But how much time was in between each transformation? SCP-2785 remembered that he had used to have a year in between each Transformation, but he had been Transforming an awful lot lately.
Maybe there was a week between?
SCP-2785 decided to go with that answer, in order to keep his sanity.

I'm not alone, am I? The thought kept racing inside of SCP-2785's head. Of course he wasn't alone. But he hadn't seen any people lately. He hadn't even seen as much as a mouse, or even a housefly!
But he wasn't alone. SCP-2785 remembered learning about Bacteria, microscopic little buggers that were everywhere. He couldn't see them, but they were there. They were there. He kept that thought in his head.

You're alone.
The thought came out of the dark, like a bat coming out of a shadow. The thought even made SCP-2785 drop the table leg he was carrying, and sit down on the green, tilted couch in the break room. His friends were going to be back from their vacation soon, right?
They'd been gone for so long though. What if, just what if, they weren't coming back? Well, he had the bacteria, right? But could he talk to the bacteria? Could he have friendly conversations with the bacteria? Could he even be friends with the bacteria?
SCP-2785 sat down. He thought he'd never be alone, but here he was.
Alone.
SCP-2785 picked the table leg back up and started to attach it to the couch.

More by notgull

More by notgull

SCPs

notgull's Proposal

SCP-3733

SCP-3095

SCP-4800

SCP-4804

SCP-2785

SCP-4348

SCP-4048

SCP-4688

SCP-3362

SCP-579-J

SCP-4785

SCP-3339

SCP-5800

SCP-4248

SCP-3747

SCP-4948

SCP-3296

SCP-4800-J

SCP-4799

SCP-199

SCP-3485

SCP-5981

SCP-7234

SCP-4808

SCP-3833

SCP-3748

SCP-4148

SCP-5054

SCP-5025

SCP-1037

SCP-093-J

SCP-5680

SCP-1684

SCP-4872

SCP-3248

SCP-6904

SCP-5483

SCP-6785

SCP-4397

Tales

The Little Robot that Could

Join the Flock

The Siege of Site-19

Tales of the Automaton: The Big Birdocalypse

Footage Recovered From a Private Server

Avian Anthology I

My Empire of Birds

Moose on the Loose

Document recovered from a Parallel Universe

Katz and Dogs

Joey Fucknuts Steals The Declaration of Independence

Your Guard

Vacation Opportunity

The Scent of a Toaster

Burn, Baby, Burn

Chasing Suns

Wind in the Sails

Three Feet Under I

The Shape of Water is Humanoid

Dead Reckoning

Three Feet Under II

Three Feet Under III

Into the Beetle Black Yonder

Forgotten Shrine

Down Through

Hyperfine

Don't Knock on Strange Doors

Other

Researcher Calvin's Personnel File

Incident Report ████/████

"Sphere" Incursion Log

Initial Incursion Log

"Cube" Incursion Log #1

"Cube" Incursion Log #2

SCP-093-J Blue Test

SCP-093-J Recovered Documents

SCP-093-J Green Test

SCP-093-J Purple Test

Exploration Log 4480-1

See my Author Page for more information. If you like reading my stuff, consider checking out my YouTube Channel for SCP-inspired animations, among other things.


This commentary is submitted to IJAMEA Kansai HQ on the fourteenth of April in the year 1897 of the Western calendar, as part of Operation Hakutaku.

The Seimei Gallery is a private gallery underneath the ruins of the Heian Palace established during the Heian period by Abe no Seimei. It is a repository for abnormal assets offered to the Imperial Family by influential figures of Japanese society. A placard detailing the asset's history is written for each abnormal asset stored in the gallery.
While de jure ownership is allotted to the Imperial Family, de facto administration is conducted by the Bureau of Onmyō.
This commentary is submitted to IJAMEA Kansai HQ on the fourteenth of April in the year 1897 of the Western calendar, as part of Operation Hakutaku. Operation Hakutaku aims to catalogue all possible abnormal assets and events which historically appeared in the Home Islands.

Description

One pelt belonging to an unknown species of primate, covered in an armour resembling the spider's exoskeleton and with eight arthropod legs (each measuring 1.8 m) attached onto its back.

Placard

This is the corpse of the Tsuchigumo, the earth-dwelling spiders who opposed civilisation. In life, this creature dwelled in the fields of Rendai, north of Kyoto. Using sorcery, it mimicked the scent of a maiden and lured the subjects of His Imperial Majesty to their untimely deaths. The skulls in the Tsuchigumo's lair number two thousand.
For the Tsuchigumo's crimes, it was justly slain by Minamoto no Yorimitsu, who has seen through its sorcery. Its legs, longer than the tallest men in Kyoto, were cut with ease. The Tsuchigumo was rid of its head by the swift slash of the sword, which is then called the "Spider Cutter". The corpse was then reassembled for Minamoto no Yorimitsu's heroic deed to be made known.
In the fourth year of the era Chōhō, Imperial Regent Fujiwara no Michinaga bestows this to the court of His Imperial Majesty. Let this be evidence that justice is the fate of all who oppose His Imperial Majesty's reign and do his subjects harm.

Actions Taken: Search for additional specimens (live or deceased). Pursuant to Motoori's theory on the migration of aboriginals, likelihood of live Tsuchigumo specimens is highest in Hokkaido.

Description

One kimono coloured in red, blue, yellow, green, and white. White feathers are lined along the collar and sleeves.

Placard

This is a hagoromo, the feathered clothing of the tennin, the people of the heavenly plains. The hagoromo is worn by tennin who intend to descend onto the earthly plains, and is the only way for a tennin to re-enter the heavenly plains. A tennin without a hagoromo is equal to a Man.
In the first year of the era Tennin, Lady Amatsuko, from Amatsu-miyako of the heavenly plains, bestows this to the court of His Imperial Majesty. Let this be proof of Lady Amatsuko's devotion to His Imperial Majesty.

Actions Taken: None permitted.
Note: Search for other hagoromo or human-tennin hybrids or their descendants.

Description

One desiccated body of a quadrupedal carnivorous mammal with leonine and canine features, clothed in robes of a Buddhist monk and with beads around its neck. The mouth will consistently open and close, producing 'Ah' (when opened) and 'Um' (when closed) sounds.

Placard

This is Master Gozen, a komainu who adopted the ways of the Buddha. He began life as a beast, like all other komainu, and devoured meat from living things. Upon a chance encounter with Master Kūkai after his return from the Tang Dynasty, he gained awareness of his inherent merciful nature, and became a disciple of Kūkai. As a Buddhist, Master Gozen ceased to consume meat and sustained himself using chi. Although Master Gozen is not able to speak the languages of humans, he learnt kanji and inscribed them with his paw to speak to fellow monks and laymen. Even after Kūkai's departure, Master Gozen continued to impart the ways of the Buddha.
As Master Gozen's mortal coil is nearing its end, centuries after Kūkai's departure, he approached the monks of Dewa Province, and opted to become a sokushinbutsu, a self-mummified buddha. The Master took in less chi and water, eventually eating nothing at all. His skin became dried and pale. His bones became visible through the skin. Yet, his jaw continued to open and close ceaselessly to form the sacred sound 'Aum'.
In the first year of the era Gennin, Master Gozen bestows this to the court of His Imperial Majesty. Master Gozen has heard many stories of the fires that plagued His Imperial Majesty's dwellings at Kyoto, and wishes to relieve the court of such suffering. As a sokushinbutsu, Master Gozen intends to pray endlessly in order to protect His Imperial Majesty's dwelling at Kyoto.

Actions Taken: None permitted. Master Gozen's existence should not be made known outside of the Seimei Gallery.
Note: According to legends within the Bureau of Onmyō, Master Gozen is held as a protector against fires that would ultimately render the Heian Palace abandoned in 1227.

Description

One boulder resembling a female human in a kneeling position. Notable features include vulpine ears and three tails.

Placard

This is the Sessho-seki, also the corpse of Tamamo-no-Mae, the fox spirit who once had ill designs on Emperor Toba and executed on the plains of Nasu in Shimotsuke Province. Her vengeful spirit resides in her corpse and warped into stone. A man who touches it is certain to fall to death, overcome by the spiritual essence of Tamamo-no-Mae.
In the second year of the era Ryakuō, Shogun Ashikaga Takauji bestows this as tribute to the court of His Imperial Majesty. May it be proof of the shogunate's dedication in delivering justice to the pretender at Yoshino.

Actions Taken: Abnormal trait verified. Subject to further application for future IJAMEA Operations.

Description

One set of Mongolian armour, a Mongol bow, and a skull.

Placard

These are the armaments and skull of a Mongol warrior, who was sighted on Mount Hiei. That warrior and his comrades appeared from a hole in the sky, and brought chaos. They were justly executed in a battle that consumed all of Mount Hiei and Enryaku-ji. But weep not for the Buddhist monks of Enryaku-ji, for they harboured the Mongol warriors in the temple and they too received execution.
In the second year of the era Genki, Oda Nobunaga, the demon king of the sixth Heaven, bestows this to the court of His Imperial Majesty. Let this be evidence that the lands shall be united by force of arms.

Actions Taken: 'Mongols in Mount Hiei' incident incorporated into IJAMEA History Curriculum, with emphasis on the possibility of foreign invasions on Japanese soil and Buddhism as a concept antithetical to Japan.

Description

One Tanegashima matchlock rifle and nine bullets.

Placard

This is one of the Tanegashima rifles, a weapon from Europe. There is no weapon like it in this land. The rifle is the bow. The bullets are the arrows. Even in the hands of a commoner bearing no training expected of the samurai, they too can wield the power to kill a man with ease in war. In great numbers and continuous volley, the Tanegashima will overwhelm all foes before them. The soldiers of the Takeda clan cowered in their homeland of Kai or in the dark depths of the underworld, having witnessed these rifles' prowess in the fields of Nagashino.
In the second year of the era Tenshō, Oda Nobunaga, the demon king of the sixth Heaven, bestows this to the court of His Imperial Majesty. Let this be evidence that the lands shall be united by force of arms.

Actions Taken: No abnormal traits identified.
Note: A legend from the Bureau of Onmyō stated that Oda Nobunaga deliberately gifted items with no abnormal traits to the Seimei Gallery, while hoarding abnormal assets to himself in an unspecified location. Possible candidates for said location are either the Nagoya Castle (belonging to the Oda clan) or the ruins of the Azuchi Castle (established by Oda Nobunaga). Pending excavation of both sites.

Description

One bronze orb, engraved with an unknown script. One half of the orb is luminescent.

Placard

This is the nyoi-hōju, an orb carried by the imugi, serpents with hands that are regarded by the Koreans as the children of dragons. By touching the portion of the orb that glows with radiant light, the nyoi-hōju becomes alive and speaks. As the nyoi-hōju speaks, it continues to acquire the languages of those around it. The nyoi-hōju contains knowledge regarding the Age of the Gods in great amounts.
This nyoi-hōju was gifted by a grateful imugi of the Imjin River to the daimyō Katō Kiyomasa, for his deed of chastising and putting to death three foot-soldiers who harassed the imugi.
In the second year of the era Keichō, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, imperial regent and chancellor of the realm, bestows this to the court of His Imperial Majesty. Let it be known that the invasion of Korea was not without gains.

Actions Taken: Abnormal trait verified. Asset has partially acquired contemporary Japanese language. Viable source of East Asian history for IJAMEA History Curriculum, with modification for compliance with state agenda.
Note: In the event that an excavation of the Korean Peninsula is possible, locate imugi and/or dragons in the Imjin River.

Description

One steel bonshō bell, inscribed with 'Bodhisattva Kannon'.

Placard

This is Kanzeon Muramasa, a bonshō bell forged from the metal melted from one hundred swords once forged by the blacksmith Sengo Muramasa. The Muramasa swords carry a curse which demands blood to be shed whenever unsheathed for battle. Even when cast as an instrument of a peaceful era and bound by the name of peaceful Kannon, the curses remain. By striking this bonshō bell, all persons who hear its sounds will be beheaded. Each beheading is equalled to that from a katana held by a trained samurai.
In the sixth year of the era Genna, Shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu bestows this to the court of His Imperial Majesty. May the Kanzeon Muramasa be sealed in the Seimei Gallery and not see the light of the peaceful era that this land is to have.

Actions Taken: Abnormal trait verified. Experimentation to record produced sound via phonograph successful. Subject to further application for future IJAMEA Operations.

Description

A bag embroidered with a depiction of a Japanese dragon.

Placard

This is the Inexhaustible Rice-Bag, one of the gifts from the Dragon King Ryūjin to Fujiwara no Hidesato for his heroic deed of slaying the Hundred-Legged Ōmukade that preyed on the dragons of Lake Biwa. Inside the Inexhaustible Rice-Bag is a realm of endless rice grains, fit to be eaten by Man. Hunger dies with the existence of the Inexhaustible Rice-Bag.
Over centuries, the Inexhaustible Rice-Bag passed to the Ii clan of Hikone Domain, who extracted rice in unending amounts to pay off the taxation allotted to the Hikone Domain. Ii Naooki has repented for his clan's misdeeds, and rightfully surrendered the Inexhaustible Rice-Bag to the Shogun.
In the fourth year of the era Shōtoku, Shogun Tokugawa Ietsugu bestows this to the court of His Imperial Majesty. May His Imperial Majesty's lineage and reign be as everlasting as the rice in the Inexhaustible Rice-Bag.

Actions Taken: Abnormal trait verified. Permission for permanent transfer to IJAMEA Logistics Division with the intent of ration supply.


Long ago, in the days before the Knoggelvi, when Teran still slept beneath the waves, and the old gods waged their wars in the Great Southern Basin; life for the Finnfolk was a simple one. A nomadic race, we spread across the turbulent waters of the North Sea and British Isles, offering services to the youthful, less-established Mud-Men migrating to our rocky shores. Fishermen, hunters, merchants, and others roamed the waters.
Five tribes existed among the folk of the Northern Sea. We lived among the shores and islets of Great Britain and the rocky Fjords of Scandinavia in those days, settling in no single place.
The Sylk lived to the West, on the green shores of Ireland, tending to the Fae, when they still walked among the world. They say the men and women of the Sylk had scales greener than the grass itself, and were oft mistaken for mischievous Leprechauns due to their bright red hair, and rather short stature.
The Silki occupied the South along the cliffs of Dover and at the mouth of what would become the Thames. They provided fish and trade to Mud-Men, living in thatch-roofed huts along the river. Many early depictions of the Finnfolk with black scales can be traced to the Silki.
The Selchi swam to the east along the fjord's of Scandinavia, providing trade and pleasure to the Plant Tamers and the Flesh Crafters, two races constantly at war. They were most famous for their multi-colored scales, beauty, and height, oft being mistaken for the Mer folk of the Caribbean.
The Selkie Fowk walked along the shores of Scotland with their crimson scales, keeping the beasts of the lochs at bay. They were the first among our people to resist the Knoggelvi, and the last to unify beneath one banner.
The fifth tribe, the Finnfolk, with their fair colored scales, and long light hair, sailed the seas aboard an isle, visible to only the five tribes. They lived in a small city, Finfolkaheem, honed from crystal over hundreds of years in the center of the isle,
History of the Finnfolk, a liberal interpretation, Chapter 1.

150 Years Before the Sealing Summer (YBSS).
Triemides is being prodded in the cheek with a rather obnoxiously sharpened stick. Her attempts to negate and ignore the poking by rolling onto her side and burying her head in the sand merely cause it to relocate. The second location, naturally, is far more sensitive, and much more irritating.
Can you hear me, Mother of a Thousand Stars? I, Alva, sage of the sea come in a time of great need.
"Bjorn, if you do not cease your incessant prodding, I am going to take that stick and shove it where Sól's light does not reach." Her voice is groggy and slow, filled with fatigue.
Bjorn is in bed.
*Poke*
Wake up please. We have much to do.
Triemides' arm shoots out, ripping the stick from the offending party's grip, snapping it in half, and throwing it in the direction of the fire. She rolls onto her belly, releasing a slow sigh of satisfaction; having rid her tormentor of his only weapon. She eases into slumber.
Now I have to make a new one.
*Poke*
Please don't break this one.
Her eyes pop open, scale-covered brow wrinkling in irritation. The flames of the campfire conjure dancing shadows in the surrounding sand. The crystals of Finfolkaheem shimmer underneath the moonlight in the distance, only the waves and the occasional gull audible in the early summer morning. She rolls onto her back to get a good look at her tormentor, webbed fingers unconsciously running across her cloth covered rump.
I've come to the conclusion she can't hear me.
A figure, standing at the edge of the fire's light, stares back. Four… no, two, bright yellow eyes hover in the blackness, their gaze piercing through Triemides' chest. Darkness obscures its features, but the body shape is wrong, too many curves. Her brain buzzes.
I didn't realize she was that… That's an odd sensation. Did I broadcast that? I hope not.
A female. No fins. Light isn't reflecting off any scales. Must be a Mud-Woman. She fails to make the obvious observation. The stick pokes her cheek once again.
I am not a Mud-Woman. How dare you.
"If you're looking for pleasure, I'm not that sort of Finwife." The irritation slips into her voice. "Now let me sleep in peace."
Wait, did she receive that? Uh… This is embarrassing.
The Mud-Woman's gaze shifts from Triemides' to the fire. She says nothing.
What do I even say now?
The Finwife rolls in the other direction, back turned to the stranger, her golden scales shimmering in the dimming light. Her eyelids droop shut, slipping into the bliss of slumber. She ignores the soft footfalls, the shifting sand, the sound of a Mud-Woman sitting down near the fire, the ocean waves, and the gulls. Sleep finally comes.
Might as well sit by the fire and wait for morning.
.
Is the sky always this resplendent? I should spend more time watching it.
..
She's asleep.
…
I shouldn't think like that. She's basically an infant.
Mud-Woman.
Huh?
Sand flies into the darkness, briefly obscuring the light of the fire. An ornately decorated khopesh presses against the neck of the Mud-Woman, her pale sickly green colored skin shifting slightly in the firelight. Tightly wound strands of red hair brush against Triemides' golden scales. The Finwife's arm angles over the Mud-Woman's shoulder, her hand clenching the hilt tightly.
Should I feel threatened… I mean, she can't actually hurt me.
"You move, I slice open your neck. Try and speak without my permission, I slice open your neck. Do you understand, demon?" The Finwife's words hiss between her sharpened canines, blue eyes narrowed dangerously.
A demon? Really? This form may have been a mistake, but I am no foul beast.
The Mud-Woman nods.
It's ironic that I'm being mistaken as a demon. Osiris would laugh.
"Three questions. Answer them straight, and honestly. If you lie, or try to manipulate me," She presses the khopesh a little tighter against the woman's neck, drawing a trickle of blood, "then you die."
She really is taking this seriously. This could be a problem. I'm bad at lying.
"How did you get to Hildaland?"
Time for a half truth.
"The tide washed me in." The voice of the Mud-Woman is melodic and disarming. It brings Triemides' fatigue back to the forefront. "I don't remember much before that."
Her muscles are most intriguing; especially for a matriarch's daughter.
"What's your name?" The Finwife shifts, her arm briefly brushing against the Mud-Woman's skin. She quickly pulls it back up, a hint of surprise leaks into her thoughts. The skin is so soft, how is that possible.
Well, well, well. Looks like I'm not the only one broadcasting.
"I go by Alva." Alva's voice shifts in pitch with her words, an inadvertent lullaby of expression. Triemides blinks, fighting back the drowsiness. Her leg accidentally makes contact with the Mud-Woman as she shifts her stance, trying to stay awake. It's a pleasant, but embarrassing sensation. Her skin reddens beneath the gold scales.
Curious. Is this why Zeus is so engaged in the matters of flesh?
"What are you?" The words are almost sluggish.
Now I'm in trouble.
"I'm… uh… well…" She pauses, face twisting in thought.
What am I doing? She's going to slice my neck and figure it out if I don't answer.
"I'm just a simple Mud-Woman." Alva offers a smile, even though Triemides can't see.
That was raven shit.
Triemides hesitates; she can sense the lie. The hesitation is a mistake. The Mud-Woman's hand touches her thigh. Her eyelids spike up as something in her head loosens, a tight barrier she wasn't previously aware of. Pressure. Pressure in her head, growing.
Maybe if I can open her up, I can share more. Words are so limiting.
A tiny tiny section of her parietal lobe is stimulated, and expands, filling empty space within the back of her skull. In a flash, it is the size of her pituitary. She grips her head, fingers threading between the strands of blonde hair. Hundreds of voices, dozens of new sensations and stimuli bombard her mind all at once.
Uh oh. May have overdone it.
"Make it stop! Make the voices stop!" She yells, falling to her knees. The khopesh drops into the sand with a dull thud. The Finwife descends into incoherent rambling.
Better fix this before her mind fries.
Alva places her hand on the Finwife's head. She slows the input of stimuli, but does not reduce the structure's size, allowing her brain to adjust to the new sensations. Triemides stops rambling, and loses consciousness.
There. Oh. She passed out. Well, that's certainly not good.
A long trident, with sharp, diamond shaped prongs, prods Alva in the neck. Then another. And another. She's surrounded by a group of unhappy looking Finnfolk.
This is not my day.

Wake up.
Triemides rolls over in the feathered bed.
Wake up.
The Finwife's eyes slowly open. Natural luminescence from the crystals of Finfolkaheem makes her head spin, a throbbing knot of pain sitting just below her scalp. She lays flat, waiting for the dizziness to fade, before sitting up. Regret joins nausea as the contents of her stomach empty onto the smooth stone floor.
Ah fretr. What the slefja happened? My head is throbbing like I was smacked with a blasted war hammer.
Her fingers run behind her head, tracing their way across the scales. She can't feel any knots, or swollen lumps.
I'm afraid your current condition is my doing.
Triemides freezes, the thoughts accompanied by a searing pain in the back of her skull. She scans the infirmary slowly, nausea fading. She's alone. She closes her eyes and leans back against the warm crystals composing the walls.
It's just my imagination. I fell and hit my head on the beach or something.
She's not alone. An entirely different world becomes visible with her eyes closed. The air is filled with purple, the sun a sphere glowing pink; the ground undulates, appearing only as a translucent line beneath her webbed feet.
It splits open, and she's falling; the walls flutter, lights flash, and Finfolkaheem is no longer visible. She falls through many places, many times, none of which she recognizes. Towers of iron and glass, sprawling colorful structures as far as she can see. Through another hole, dimly lit ocean bottoms, a hermit crab moving… no, it too is made of iron. Through yet another hole she goes, and another, so on and so forth, faster and faster each time. A scene on the surface of the ocean flashes past, an enormous lobster locked in combat with a gulper eel, dozens of tiny iron boats scattered across the thrashing surf.
Flashes of faces, Mud-Men and Women, Finnfolk as well. The throb in her skull increases with each pass. All are unfamiliar, and seem to blur… Except one. A single Finwife, standing on the steps of some great white marble structure, staring out into a labyrinth of Iron towers from which smoke rises. Death permeates the air. Her scales are golden, and her hair fair. She turns, and for the briefest of moments, her blue eyes widen in surprise before Triemides passes through. It was almost like looking in a mirror.
Triemides lands, on solid ground, none too lightly in an empty landscape. A single symbol fills the horizon, an eye at the center of a ring, with three arrows pointing inwards. It starts spinning, faster and faster, then the floor turns several times, finally righting itself back in Finfolkaheem. There are shapes everywhere, things phasing into and out of walls, strange and alien creatures floating and writhing. Space appears to fold and unfold before her very eyes. Turning, under some foolish pretense that she might escape the madness, she's blinded.
An enormous, amorphous, shifting mass juts from the ground in front and below her. It's unlike anything else she can see. This thing takes up her entire field of view; bright greens, yellows, blues, and pinks swirling together in a shifting mass around four dark spots. The dark spots open, revealing four yellow eyes, all locked on her comparatively tiny form. It reaches towards her, a single impossibly large claw becoming a hand, rending the space between them. She recoils. A shiver runs the length of her spinal chord, unable to conceal the fear of the eldritch entity before her, electrifying the air with unbelievable waves of power.
This isn't right. What happened to me? Why can I see this? What is that?
Her heart clinches, the nausea returns. She can't breathe. She can't look away. Her eyes won't open. The pain in her skull throbs. The thing reshapes, into something resembling a lobster…with far too many heads and claws.
Breathe. Everything's going to be alright. You're experiencing astral perception for the first time. It's going to take a little getting used to, but it will be alright.
The voice in her head is soothing. It originates from the swirling lobster. Calming images of rolling green hills and gentle ocean waves flash through the Finwife's mind. Her chest loosens. Relief lasts for only a moment, as a river of fire pours into her skull.
Who… No… What are you?
Another image flashes through her mind. The Mud-Woman on the beach. The gears in her pounding head clicked into place, another blast of pain more severe than the last.
On the beach, when you touched me… you did this? She pauses, head starting to spin again as she flashes an image of her surroundings, namely the lobster of shifting color, back at the source. Why?
Yes. Images are easier. Verbal communication alone was proving unproductive, and you were on the verge of seeing something you were not ready for. There is a hint of frustration, and regret in the thoughts. In my attempt to open you, I'm afraid I overstepped and exposed you despite my best efforts.
Overstepped? You've violated me.
Confusion and pain warp into unmitigated anger, roaring to the surface of Triemides' mind. Her astral projection grows, radiating energy. It pulses in time with the throbbing of her mind. A trickle of blood leaks from her nose in the physical world.
Her anger manifests, lashing against the lobster, 3 prongs of gold and crimson flames stabbing at the edges, causing it to recoil. The eyes widen, as if surprised. Her swings are wild, warping astral space, but the claws deflect them. It shifts again, taking on the appearance of crab, with far too many legs.
Curious. Such power, in such a short period of development. The Finwife picks up on thoughts that were not directed at her. Triemides, calm yourself so that I might expla-
NO. No explanations. I want your voice out of my head. I don't want to be privy to this any longer. Just stop, it hurts too much.
Her mind lashes out yet again, five prongs this time. The crab's claws snap the prongs in half, as if they were merely sticks rapping against a wall of bricks. The act is extraordinary painful, piling onto the virtual spike already driving into her brain. The Finwife flinches, her aura faltering.
Cease this foolishness, I can sense your pain, and it will not lessen by striking at my astral form. Your swings are wild, and untrained. I am only here to help and can relieve your pain.
I do not want your help, you are a demon. You have done nothing but cause further pain, and I cannot tolerate it anymore. Be gone!
The throbbing beneath her skull reaches a cacophony, and she unleashes numerous prongs at the crab, all at once. They penetrate it, and for a moment it seems as if Triemides has vanquished the creature. The atmosphere changes in the blink of an eye, the many strangely shaped creatures stop, and appear to glance all around. They turn and run, swim, fly, and wink in all directions. Fear. Fear permeates everything but the mass.
The crab grips the Finwife's astral prongs, the undulating rolls of energy folding and shaping. Triemides cries out in pain, the entity's form flows along the prongs, enveloping her torso, and lifting her high into the air. It grows, exponentially in size, reforming into the silhouette of an enormous Mud-Woman, the former yellow eyes repositioning upon the familiar face of the woman from the beach. The colors swirl dangerously around the Finwife, shifting from bright, warm tones into black and red. The fist clenches, tightening as Triemides cries out and writhes in agony.
Insolent daughter of the sea, I am no demon. I am Mither the Progenitor, eldest of the 13. You fail to understand the gravity of my gifts, should they be rescinded you will perish, and that shall not come to pass. Fate has chosen thee, one with golden scales, fair hair, and stubborn will to unite thy race against the coming storm. I shall relieve thy suffering, and then thou must cease thy foolishness.
The swirling mass envelopes Triemides, as she cries out, struggling to break free. The struggles slow, as the pain fades from her skull, and she slips into unconscious bliss, fading from the astral plane.
In her cell, with its bars made of hardened crystal, the entity, disguised as the Mud-Woman Alva, slumps against the wall, cuts and bruises across her physical form.
She smiles, eyelids drooping. "So the age of sealing begins."
She too fades from consciousness.

Cold fluid pours into Triemides mouth stirring her back to conciousness. A bitter taste sweeps across her tongue, and down her throat. She coughs, ejecting some of the fluid out, onto the bed. Her eyes flutter, slowly opening. A dull, distant pain in the back of her skull is palpable, but it continues to fade. Something about the infirmary seems off, as if her very perception of it has changed, but she cannot place it.
Where am I? What happened?
Memories of the encounter in the astral plane come flooding back. She recoils from them in some misplaced sense of shame. At allowing herself to have been controlled, by pain.
Her embarrassment deepens, as she relives each moment where she lashed out at something, no, someone whose motives she did not yet grasp. The deepest humiliation comes at having been so easily vanquished. Her; Triemides Aqualian, daughter of Matriarch Jörð. A fearsome warrior princess feared for her prowess; admired for her height and beauty; respected for her cunning and iron will; crushed in a single blow. A mistake that never should have been made. A foolish fight that should have never been started.
"You're awake, good. Your mother was convinced the demon had taken you from us." An ancient Finwife with silver scales administers a cloth, soaked in warm water, to Triemides' forehead. Triemides rolls onto her back, propped into a sitting position by the apothecarist. "Here, you must drink the rest, yes."
"Thank you granny Skrie." The young Finwife takes the crystalline bowl from the ancient creature's hands, taking brief note of the lack of scales, and wrinkling pink flesh. She looks at the purple fluid, brings the bowl up to her face, and sniffs. With a single motion she downs the concoction, turns her head and coughs. The bitter taste irritates her throat, as she hands Skrie the bowl.
A hand grips Triemides by the jaw, turns her face towards the ancient Finwife. It pushes her face to the right, and then back to the left. It pulls one of Triemides' eyelids up, an uncomfortable sensation that makes her want to squirm. The silver scaled creature stares into the exposed eye, red eyes belying an awareness fitting of someone far younger.
"You sure you're still my lil Triemides? Didn't get supplanted by some demon while you were out?" Skrie releases the eyelid, allowing Triemides to rub the now watering eye.
"Of course it's still me Gammy." She pauses offering a smile. "Besides, that woman isn't a demon. Just a harmless sage seeking help. She caught me napping." Of course she couldn't reveal the truth. Whatever she is, the Mud-Woman is far more powerful than a demon. An execution would only deprive the young Finwife of a chance to redeem herself… and would most likely get everyone else killed.
"Good good. Must make sure your mother knows, or she will execute the Mud-Woman." The elderly Finwife pats Triemides cheek with one hand.
*Smack*
A string of curses and foul language escapes Triemides' lips as she tenderly nurses the site of the slap.
"Ah, good. It is still my granddaughter after all. You pull another stunt like sleeping on the beach, alone, again, I will skin your scales myself. 750 years I've lived, never seen a child so smart yet so stupid." The elderly Finwife scratches a place on her back. "Wait here, I will go tell your Mother you are awake. She will want to see you with the council. Wants to make a decision on the Mud-Woman, and receive news from the Great Southern Basin." She hobbles out of the infirmary leaving Triemides to nurse her slightly swollen cheek.
"Crotchety old hag." Triemides mutters to herself, massaging her jaw.
"What was that I hear?" comes Skrie's voice from some distance away.
"Nothing Gammy." The young Finwife responds. "Hearing like a hawk, and a slap like a dolphin." She whispers to herself, her lips upturned in a slight smile.
Triemides turns her head and stares out the arch-like window. The sun is visibly beginning to dip below the horizon, the sky around it a mixture of pink and red. The light refracts off the surface of hundreds of intricately carved crystalline structures emitting a prism of color into the sky, creating an artificial Aurora Borealis. The colors dance in the midsummer sky, outlining hundreds of historical scenes, each relaying some small part of the Finnfolks' past.
Such wondrous beauty and heritage. So few of my kind appreciate such things, even when they are on our own scale.
The voice trickles into the Finwife's head, and with it comes a sudden awareness. The difference in perception, the change in the infirmary is not because the room has changed, but because she has. Her mind touches tiny specs of energy, strange molecules spread through the air, through every solid object, and living thing. She can see them, and feel them in the candle on the counter across the room, the crystals on the farthest building, out to the campfire on the beach. In every Finwife and Finman she can feel them, concentrated, but untapped. It is both intoxicating and fascinating.
I was wondering when you were going to make your return. This… is incredible. I can see where my eyes cannot look, I can feel where my skin does not touch.
You can do far more than that. The tiny specs of energy you feel all around are Euclid particulates. They permeate the universe. Some places and things have more than others. Some have less. Focus on the candle over on the counter. Can you feel the Euclids in it? Try to grab them with your mind; it's going to feel weird at first, but you'll get used to it.
The Finwife closes her eyes, and focuses on the candle. She tries to grip it with her mind, the particles glowing in the darkness of the astral plane.
Very good. Now move it.
The candle shakes, and jiggles, and then begins to slide. It falls from the counter with a sharp cracking noise. Triemides' eyes pop open, and she slowly stands, walking towards and picking up the candle. There is a moment of quiet contemplation, and then a smile breaks across her face.
I did it. I really did it. It's like magic.
Child, this isn't like magic. This IS magic. I have only shown you the very surface. We can go so much deeper.
The childlike wonder spread across the Finwife's chest slowly dissipates into caution. She remembers who she is communicating with, and what they did.
Why should I let you show me anything else?
There is a moment of silence. Triemides takes advantage of this to explore the newfound ability to see into the astral plane. The enormous mass of energy is no longer occupying the entirety of her vision as she turns. Only the shape of the Mud-woman somewhere below. Despite its condensed form, the entity is radiating more energy now than it was before. It's a sensation that is not at all comforting.
The simple answer to your question is you will need a teacher. Untrained use of magic of any kind is dangerous, to both yourself and others. Your people, in their current state, are unable to do so. The only reason you can, is because of my actions; however much initial pain they may have caused… The latter is something I very much regret.
Why should I trust you?
A laugh pings through the golden finwife's head.
Maybe you have some common sense in that stubborn head of yours after all. You shouldn't trust me. You don't know me. You, most likely, don't even grasp what I am. This is all expected.
Triemides frowns in annoyance, crossing her arms as she stares at the dancing lights outside.
Why bother asking when you know I'm going to refuse?
She knows the answer before the thought even leaves her brain. Asking is only a formality. Triemides can almost see the smugness of Alva's smile as she responds.
A warrior such as yourself cannot resist a chance to learn… Especially when their teacher has knocked them around like a ragdoll.
Several minutes of silence pass. Skrie has yet to return from notifying Jörð, but Triemides is almost certain she will return at any moment.
What would be the conditions of such an arrangement?
A sense of childlike excitement and glee pours from the strange creature in waves, an unexpected and rather unsettling reaction. Triemides can't help but curse herself for being unable to resist the challenge. The draw of power, beyond the physical and political strength her mother had so heavily bashed into her skull, was far too tempting to pass on.
We can discuss the finer details later. For now, I will need your assistance. You're aware of this, but as long as they keep me locked up I am of very little use to you. I will be of even less assistance if they attempt to execute me, an action which will end poorly for all involved. Preferably, I would prefer you work over your mother. Violating your own laws is something I wish to avoid.
That will be somewhat difficult… unless we can convince her you hold knowledge that would be of much value in my development towards leadership. She might be amenable to your servitude beneath me in that situation.
A wave of palpable displeasure rolls off the creature.
I do not favor submitting to servitude, but I suppose it will have to do.
Good, then we have a deal.
Alva stretches an arm across the gap between them in the astral plane, hand extended.
Let's shake on it.
Triemides looks at the ridiculously long arm, and scrunches her scaled brow. She grips the hand with her right, and shakes. Despite the unsettling nature of the appendage, the touch is pleasant and warm.
I don't know if I will ever get used to how creepy that is.
There are far stranger things in this world than a long distance hand shake.
Skrie walks back into the room, a bundle of clothing and a pair of fresh knee high leather boots in her arms.
"Oh good, you're already up. Come, come, get dressed. Mother waits in council chamber with the others? Mustn't keep them waiting."
Skrie turns, and faces the doorway. Triemides takes the gown off and places it on a nearby bed. She slides on the pair of cloth underwear, the pants, the shirt, and the boots up over her leg fins.

Triemides stands outside of the council chamber, her hands clasped behind her back, and her teeth digging into her lower lip. Her mother, Matriarch Jörð, head of the Finnfolk tribe, and most influential member of the Five tribes council, is on the other side of the ornately carved wooden doors. It is very likely that she will end up receiving some sort of disproportionate disciplinary measure as a result of her carelessness.
You should stop thinking like that, it's bad for your health. The entity's message is accompanied by a mental image of Triemide's mother with a rather disproportionately large paddle.
Is your humor always this childish?
If only you could have heard me on the beach.
The walls surrounding the doors are carved with hundreds of murals depicting great acts carried out by Finnfolk warriors in times past, luminescence scattered across the high ceilings of the building. She pushes through the doors, and is greeted by a large rounded chamber. Five pedestals connected together via a series of wooden platforms stand well above the floor. From left to right five Finwives with green, black, yellow, light blue, and red scales sit. Two guards stand off to the right side of the chamber, each with a chain in their hand attached to Alva.
A Mud-Man with dark hair and brown eyes is speaking directly to the yellow-scaled Finwife, Matriarch Jörð. Conversation stops as the doors open. All parties involved look towards Triemides as she enters. The Mud-Man looks nervously from Triemides to Alva. His leg shakes, and his fists are clenched, anxiety radiating from him. Something about her unsettles him.
"Good, you're awake." Jörð's voice is cold and detached. Her blue eyes track Triemides as she enters and steps to the right to await her own judgement. "We'll get to you and that thing in a moment."
Her eyes turn back to the dark-haired man. She clears her throat, regaining his attention.
"As I was saying, your majesty, the Tribes of Greece and the Mekhanites are currently in a stalemate with the Sarkites and the Daevites at Τροία. We're engaged in a free for all. It's the Trojans against us against the Sarkites against the Daevites, and it never seems to end. Hundreds die every day, on all sides, and it's only gotten worse since the old ones got involved." His voice is dry and his breath carries across the room, reeking of desperation.
Huh. Well if my mother isn't an eldritch abomination. Sounds like the others are finally starting to make their moves as well.
What does that mean?
A whole lot of not good rolling into the human world. Don't worry about it. It's not going to be our concern for awhile. Alva's physical form tenses, as if she doesn't believe her own thoughts.
No not that, the first part of what you said. Something about your mother being an eldritch abomination?
Just an expression, I don't have a mother… I think?
"What," Jörð pauses, clicking her tongue against her teeth, "Makes you think we would want to get involved in such a mess?" Triemides can't help but smile. Her mother has that familiar look in her eye. She's just toying with him. Seeing how far she can string him out.
"If you don't, the Sarkites or the Daevites will claim victory and lay waste to all in their path. They will continuously grow stronger until they are upon the great white cliffs." The Mud-Man shifts nervously.
"Nonesense." The blue-scaled Finwife, Vænn of the Selchi, speaks, her voice high-pitched and airy. "We trade with both the Flesh Crafters and the Plant Tamers in the Ice waters."
"These are not the same. The Daevites are fractured city states, and the Sarkites are no longer united beneath Ion. They are split between his Archons."
"Then they will fight and destroy each other long before they reach any of our settlements." The red-scaled Finwife, ørlǫg of the Selkie Fowk, crosses her arms, revealing impressive fins along the tops of said appendages.
"You will lose your monopoly on trade from the Basin!" There is a hint of a smile on Jörð's lips as the Mud-Man continues his attempts to fearmonger.
"Hardly. We control all trade that passes through the channel between us and the land of the Fae worshipers. A new proprietor will mean nothing, as they must still go through us." The black-scaled Finwife, Uhtred of the Silki, speaks with a soft, low tone.
"Do you have nought but empty warnings for us? If so, then you are wasting our time laddie." The voice originating from the green-scaled Finwife, Frami of the Sylk, is light and harmonious.
"But I… What could we possibly do or offer to earn your armies if you will not heed our warnings?" Jörð smiles as the words leave his lips.
Right into the spike pit.
I believe it's your turn to explain.
Is this going to be a running thing between us?
I do enjoy the occasional bit of confusion, yes. Now please, explain.
Mother is politically aggressive. She manipulates others, including council members; to her own ends.
That… is oddly disconcerting. Are you sure you are related?
Yes… Are you mocking me for how long it took to realize you shouldn't have been on the beach?
Possibly.
"Military alliance." She says; leaning back in her chair. The other members of the council look at the Matriarch quizzically. "We pledge our armies to this… petty debate of yours, you pledge yours to any future conflicts we might encounter."
"The Kings of Greece will need som-" He's cut off by Jörð's raised hand.
"If your situation is as desperate as you have told us; this is not a decision to be left to debate among Mud-Men kings interested in only consolidating their power. You accept this offer here and now, we will gather and deploy our armies immediately." She pauses and looks at Triemides in thought. "Underneath the command of my daughter."
The golden-scaled Finwife blinks, confused.
Why me?
I do believe this is your punishment.
The Mud-Man hesitates. "Very well. We will agree to this military alliance."
"Wonderful. We shall gather our fleet post-haste. It will be slower, but it is far safer for us to travel en masse via ship than risk stirring the depths of the basin. You may take your leave of us, we have…" She pauses, and looks towards Triemides, the smile fading. "Other affairs to attend to."
The Mud-Man leaves the room at a quick pace, giving Alva another anxious look. The doors creak shut and Triemides steps into the center of the room. The guards drag Alva, none too gently, to the center next to the Finwife. A perturbing silence permeates the chamber. All five council members staring the young Finwife down.
Do you want to say a prayer?
Why?
So that I can hear it and tell you I can't do anything. I've found Mortals have a tendency to do such things at a time like this.
I love that you can find humor in such a situation. Especially when it's my neck on the line.
I never said I was joking.
"Triemides," Jörð begins, "My daughter. You've been warned a great many times about sleeping along the beaches, away from Finfolkaheem. Yet here we are, having the same conversation we always have." She rubs her temples, visibly agitated.
"I, and the other council members, have come to the conclusion, that Finfolkaheem has become stale for you. You are restless and headstrong," She pauses. "A fact which nearly, or very nearly resulted in your death by this… thing." She gestures at Alva.
"She's not a demon Mother, she's a-" Triemides is cut off.
"We're very much aware. She survived five nights within the soul crystals of Asgard; so kindly given to us by Freyja. No demon could do that." She pauses momentary looking in Alva's direction.
IS THAT WHAT THEY PUT ME IN? A wave of hot anger rolls from Alva's direction. No wonder I passed out after tha- Wait, I'm broadcasting.
What was that?
No, no. Don't know what you are talking about.
Did I knock you out?
I can't hear you.
"Neither is she the sage of the sea, as you told Skrie. The individual with that title is currently attending Poseidon in the Basin." The Matriarch places her arms on the pedestal, clasped together, and rests her scaled chin on top.
"She is certainly not a regular Mud-Woman, as the isle's tides would have washed her back to sea. This leaves only one possibility."
Oh, son of a goat.
This is unexpected. Alva emits a wave of surprise, that quickly lapses into amusement.
Alva laughs before Jörð can say anything else. It is mirthful in nature, but Triemides neck scales tighten, fear running the length of her spine.
"It seems that I have underestimated the children of the sea, once again." The chains around her wrists and ankles dissolve. The guards stagger back, raising their tridents. Jörð raises a hand indicating for them to stop. "So tell me, Jörð, daughter of Vanadís, what do you intend to do with your newfound… knowledge?"
An uneasy silence strangles the room.
"Clearly, we cannot have knowledge of your true nature spread amongst our people. We also cannot have you roaming freely." She pauses and shifts to Triemides. "Some sort of measure must be taken to provide Triemides an avenue of maturation, so that she does not self destruct. The original discussion between myself and the rest of the council agreed upon a temporary exile, to the farthest reachs of the sea. As an emissary for future trade and diplomacy, with you accompanying her."
"The revelation of this… human's," The word is said with some difficulty, even a hint of disgust, "nature, and the representative from the basin has changed both our minds, and the situation."
Jörð rises from where she sits, and walks around the podiums. She stands in front of Triemides. One hand is placed on the golden-scaled shoulder, wrinkling webbed fingers clenching the clavicle. Her other hand dips into a pouch, and emerges covered with yellow powder.
"Triemides," the older Finwife draws a symbol across her forehead with the yellow powder. "With this powder, I gift thee the luck of the Finnfolk, fairest of the five tribes, and appoint thee arbiter of the council's will. You will take with thee 100 seafaring vessels, and 2000 warriors from each tribe to the Great Southern Basin. The entity known as Alva shall be bound to you and only you by oath of blood. It shall serve as your teacher in all things arcane. Do you understand?" A depiction of a larger circle, containing four yellow spheres within decorates her forehead.
"I do." The golden scales around her lips purse, her brow furrowing in determination.
Wait a second. A curious line of images emerge from Alva's mind, far too quickly for Triemides to interpret.
Huh?
Nothing, just remembering.
"Your hand please?" Jörð draws a knife from her belt, and cuts the palm of Triemides hand; the younger Finwife flinching. Jörð turns to Alva, and hesitates. Alva offers her hand without being asked.
"Alva, do you understand your role as-" Jörð is cut off.
"If I did not, I would not still be here." The Mud-Woman indicates her hand, a hint of impatience in her voice. Jörð cuts it with the knife, releasing a trickle of blood.
Alva and Triemides shake, forming the blood oath.

White water surf beats against the hull of the Bireme as it cuts through the North Sea waters like a knife through butter. Ninety-nine more follow behind it, thousands of multi-colored scales glittering in the midsummer morning sun, hundreds of oars beating in time against the waves. Triemides stands at the prow of the vessel looking out onto the horizon, the Mud-Woman Alva standing close behind her. Green armor made from the toughest leather with bronze plates covers them both.
"What do you think we'll encounter once we get there?" The shout is just barely heard over the crash of the surf.
"If I know my brethren, it will be a mess." The response is barely a whisper, but it carries to Triemides' ears, and beyond.
"Then let us be the maids." Triemides says, a smile on her lips, and fire in her eyes.

2993 Years Since the Sealing Summer (YSSS)

"And that my dear Hege, is how Triemides met The Mither." A Finman with orange scales sits in a chair pulled close to a kelp bed within a luxuriously decorated chamber. A book with green paper and strange combinations of writing arcing across the pages rests on his lap.
"More papa, more." A Finwife, with golden scales and fair hair lies tucked into the bed. Her eyes are as blue and bright as a clear midsummer's sky, and display an even brighter curiosity. She is no more than a couple years old at best. The Finman stands, and stretches, placing the book down on the end table.
"Perhaps tomorrow evening, my dear, Papa has much work to do." The Finman walks slowly towards the door, and flips an oddly shaped switch, the illumination within the room fading to black.
He opens the door and is greeted by two guards. They nod at him as he walks through. "Good night, King Aske."
"Papa?" The voice of Hege calls through the door. King Aske, stops, and turns peering into the dimly lit room.
"Yes my dear?"
"When is Momma coming back?" Hege's voice is slow, filled with fatigue. King Aske turns, his face remaining stoic, but his eyes shimmer with recent grief.
"I wish I could say, my Hege, I wish I could say."