Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Void is cold. Void is warm.

Void is dark. Void is bright.

No food, but not hungry. No lizard, but not scared. No kin, but not lonely.

Just self. Self, and thoughts, and hook.

Wait.

Hook?

Yes, hook on string. Metal like spear, but round like lizard claw. Word-mark says hook is for hunting prey in water.

Self is only thing in water. Is hook for hunting self?

...Void is empty. Void is boring.

Grab!

Hook pulls up and up and up. Out of void, into bright-water: can see light from above, can see paws, can see end of water.

Out of water, can breathe now. Hook is on string, string is on pole, pole is in paws of big... thing? Skin is like fish, hooks in mouth.

"You are strange fish. Stoat-fish? Slug-fish?"

Hook-thing talks! No horns, so not scavenger. No arm in back, so not iterator. 

Excitement! New thing-that-thinks! Was good idea to grab hook.

Hook-thing moves body up and down... shrugs? Yes, shrugs. "Not OLD_FISH. Not fish seen. Take to Leshy-fish. Make new card."

Hook-thing reaches out paw. Trying to grab self? NO! Jump, flee, run! Hook-thing is big and strong and scary and - has food?

"Want fish? Want eat?"

...yes. Not hungry in void. Hungry now.

"Come. I not eat you."

Closer, closer... Take! Fish is old, but still good for food. 

While eating, hook-thing talks more. "You hear words. Know what say?" 

Nod. "Smart-fish. I am the Angler. You have name?"

Name? One-Who-Eats-Much gave self name: One-Who-Dies-Not, for fighting many lizards when young.

Find some dirt, draw pictures. Kin in lizard jaws, kin hurt with spears, kin standing with spear in paws. Tap on this one.

"Hmm. These dead. You not. Name Survivor?"

Yes! Nod nod nod!

"No you-fish here. Where from?"

Where from - does Angler mean world? Try to draw, but how? World is too big.

"No talk? Mm. I not talk good." Angler stands, takes bucket with fish. "Come. We go to Leshy-fish. He talk good."

Jump, grab false-pelt, climb onto shoulder. Angler smells of salt, smells of fish, smells of blood. 

Angler starts to walk. Long, slow steps, like rain-deer over worm-grass. Walking away from ocean towards many tall trees, long and straight as climbing poles. Ground is covered in dead leaves. How? Rain should have washed loose stuff away.

Hear noise like spears hitting stone, clank clank clank. Getting closer to noise, see another big-thing. This one smaller, but still big, holds long plant-stick with sideways spear on end. Face has fur like lizard ruff, opens mouth to show big flat teeth. Threat! No, word-mark says not threat - smile, shows happiness.

"Howdy, Angler! Didja get a good haul today?"

"Hello, gold-fish. Not much. No big fish." Angler turns, points to self. "New fish. Smart-fish."

'Gold-fish' lifts false-pelt on head, scratches fur. "Well, I'll be darned! Ain't never seen a critter like that before, no sir. And you say it unnerstands ya?" 

Nod. "Wha- alright, I guess that answers that. I'm the Prospector. Pleased to meetcha!" Prospector drops stick-with-spear. "Ya got a name, little buddy?"

"No talk. Name Survivor."

"He-he-hee! And here I thought only us forest-dwellers had jobs fer names! I suppose you two are headed on down to the Cabin?" Angler nods. "Well, don't let lil' old me slow ya down! Git goin', you two, an' tell the boss I said hi." 

Prospector takes stick-with-spear, and walks away making noise like wind, but nice-sounding. Whistling.

Angler walks. See more trees. See dead thing with mushrooms. See things like lizard, but with fur. Fur-lizards growl, show teeth. Not smile this time.

Angler runs. No spear to throw, no meat to tame, no pipe to hide in. Just trees, too smooth to climb. Soon, Angler breathes hard and fast. 

Then, place with no trees. Den made of tree-stuff, lights inside. Big-thing inside den moves den-hole-cover, shouts at fur-lizards. "Begone!" Fur-lizards turn and run away.

New big-thing has plants on body. When big-thing talks, eyes glow orange. "Angler. Come inside. I see we have much to discuss."

Chapter Text

Inside tree-den is dark, but not as dark as outside. Many glass lanterns and thin white sticks, all with flame on top or inside. Smoke smells of prey-fat; remember times with tribe when young, times with much prey and no hunger. 

Feel sad, but happy too? Nostalgic, says word-mark. Happy once, sad that gone now. More happy than sad.

Plant-big-thing and Angler sit with table in between. Can only see eyes of plant-big-thing, like pearls in Shaded Citadel.

"Let us begin with introductions. My name is Leshy, Scrybe of Beasts. I am one of the four rulers of the world of Inscryption, holding dominion over the forest and its denizens."

Leshy holds paw out to sniff, toes curled in. Smells of plants, smells of blood. Then Leshy leans in, takes self's own scent. "I know every beast in my domain, yet you are new to me. Most likely, you are not of this world altogether, though Magnificus would know more of such matters than I. Are you familiar with the game of Inscryption?"

Shake head. Word-mark says game is thing done for fun, like play-fights or climbing races. Not know game with name.

"Very well." Eyes glow just as bright, but Leshy speaks louder now. Excited. "Inscryption is what brings meaning to this world, the purpose of the Scrybes and all who serve them. It is a battle by proxy, sending servants immortalised in paper and canvas, steel and stone, to fight and die and fight again.

"Success is a matter of both strategy and savagery; to triumph over one's opponent, no advantage can be wasted, and no weakness can go unpunished. In a game of Inscryption, everything may be sacrificed for the sake of victory - and sacrifices must be made."

Tilt head, thinking: Inscryption is like play-fight, with tamed lizards? But not real lizard, just painting of lizard?

Strange game.

"Leshy-fish. Make card?" Angler was quiet, but speaks now.

Leshy think, eyes half-closed. "No, I think not. As the one has surfaced, so there may be more to come. With the chance of a proper population in the cards - so to speak - I would hate to further thin the ranks of such an… endangered species.

"For now, Angler, return to your duties. If you catch any more of this one's kind, bring them to the Cabin. I will leave the door unlocked."

Angler stands. No change in face, but faint smell of fear. "Where go?"

"You have caught one. It is very likely that your competitors have as well. If so, I shall ask the other Scrybes if I may take them off their hands." Leshy laughs, slow and soft. "I do not imagine they will require much convincing."

Angler laughs too, almost too quiet to hear. Walks to den-cover - mark says door - and leaves den.

Stand to follow, but Leshy shows paw from darkness, taps on table. "You, little mystery, will stay here for a time. No fang or claw will catch you in the sanctum of a Scrybe."

Point up, bring paw down with wiggle-toes. Drum on table with paws. Tilt head.

"The rain? Do you doubt the quality of my construction?"

Lay on belly, whine. Scared. Cycle will end soon. Only steel-dens strong enough to stop rains.

Leshy strokes head with paw. Feels safe, like being in den with tribe. "There is nothing to fear. Whatever dangers your world held, you are free of them now."

Chair scrapes as Leshy stands, walks to metal box in corner. Click-click-click, box opens. Strong smell of days-old meat. Leshy brings meat to table. "Here we are. Usually, this is reserved for another, but we are between Challengers at the moment. I'm sure she won't mind."

Not very hungry, but still eat some. Tired of old meat - want fresh prey, or fruit. After eating, feel sleepy like at end of cycle, but no rain-sounds yet. Strange.

Leshy opens door, but stops. "I never did ask you your name, did I? And you can't talk… Well, this isn't how this mechanic is supposed to be used, but it should still work."

Small square thing appears, floating like overseer light-pictures. Black symbol and red symbol at bottom, and flashing line at top. Think of self-name, and word-symbols appear: 'Survivor'.

"Goodbye, Survivor. It is a fine name. I hope that it may fit you well in the days to come."

Meanwhile, somewhere else…

Kaycee Hobbes burst through the door, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Without glancing left or right, she staggered through the dimly-lit room and collapsed onto a hard plastic seat, gulping down shaky breaths of air.

After a few minutes, she dragged a sweatband off her head and flung it into a corner. 

God, that commute was a nightmare!

Attempting to regain a semblance of composure, Kaycee straightened up and rested her arms on her knees. As she did so, however, a sharp corner jabbed into her thigh, reminding her why she had been in such a hurry to get back to her apartment.

She slipped a hand into the pocket of her jogging shorts and retrieved a dark red floppy disc, inscribed with a logo in elaborate script. 

"What's going on with you, huh?"

While playtesting this copy earlier today, Kaycee had discovered a handful of intriguing glitches: some of the NPCs hadn't been following their scripts, and she swore that she'd seen characters doing things that they definitely weren't supposed to have sprites for. She knew she couldn't wait until Monday to solve the mystery, and had begged her supervisor to let her take the faulty disc home for further analysis.

With a stretch and a sigh, she began to go through the motions of booting up her favourite game. Hit the power button. Wait for the login screen. Enter username, enter password, wait for the desktop. Open the floppy tray, insert the disc, slam it home - damn the warranty, that bit was too satisfying to miss out - and finally, double-click on the new icon.

Letter by letter, the logo on the disc was replicated onto the screen in all its pixellated glory. 

INSCRYPTION

Chapter Text

Slotting the New Game button into place, Kaycee sat through the introductory cutscene and was soon placed onto the map's central island. Without hesitation, she picked Leshy as the Scrybe she intended to challenge, receiving the Beast starter deck. Of the four main antagonists, she had always preferred his playstyle, with a kickass final boss fight and a cost mechanic that was, y'know, actually balanced. Seriously, whoever thought Mox was a good idea should have been fired by now.

The bridge to the west islands was broken, and wouldn't be fixed until she'd beaten a Scrybe. At least that was still working as intended. Instead, she moved the sprite that represented her to the right, then up, entering the Forest of Beasts.

Immediately, she noticed several things were wrong. The Angler wasn't sitting on his bridge, leaving the way to the meadow and docks wide open. The Prospector, thankfully, was still on screen - but he'd left his usual spot guarding the pond, and was stood in front of the cabin instead.

Kaycee walked up to him and tapped the space bar, hoping that she wouldn't have to debug the dialogue on top of whatever else was going on here.

"DAG NAB IT! That dang hound got 'erself lost AGIN! Ye think yer getting past? THINK AGIN! Not 'til I git some proof my girl's alright."

Well. That wasn't good. The Prospector wouldn't move until she got a picture of his dog. To do that, she needed the dog meat to lure her out and the replica camera to take the photo, both of which were inside the cabin. The cabin that the Prospector was currently blocking.

"Nice little Catch-22 you've made there, bud. Without my debug tools, I can't say for certain, but my best guess is that your position data has been screwed up - cosmic rays flipping a bit, something like that." Kaycee slumped in her chair. "Well, nothing I can do about this. Since I'm here, I might as well check to the west before heading over to the Crypt."

The Prospector felt a bead of sweat trickle down the back of his neck, and wished he could wipe it away. When he heard the Challenger coming, way out of schedule, he'd barely had time to sprint over to the Cabin's door before his body had locked into place.

Now, he wouldn't dare presume to go poking around in the Scrybe's business, but it was obvious that the little critter the Angler had pulled up wasn't meant to be here. It certainly wasn't supposed to be part of the Challenge! If the Challenger waltzed in there and found the Scrybe missing, replaced by a sleeping varmint, he knew nothing good could come of it.

So, here he stood, pickaxe slung over his shoulder and crooked teeth frozen into a grin. Maybe if he stuck to his script and pretended like nothing was wrong, they'd lose interest and go away?

When she reached the dock, Kaycee was relieved to find the Angler slouched in his usual post-battle fishing spot. At least someone is following the plan, even if not the right bit of it.

What was more concerning was the lack of a boat. That particular piece of set-dressing had never made sense to Kaycee - the Scrybes had no reason to leave their islands, and it wasn't necessary to the plot or gameplay, so why was it taking up disc space? Nevertheless, there the rickety old raft wasn't, conspicuous by its absence.

She decided she might as well chat with the Angler. He probably has a better idea of what's going on than I do, she thought jokingly.

Tap of a button, and he dutifully responded: "Fight? No. Leshy-fish not here. No point."

What.

"The hell do you mean, 'not here'? Of course he's here! Where else would he be?"

She hit the space bar again with a loud clack. "Leshy-fish took boat. Go to P03-fish."

No, seriously.

What?

Then, all of a sudden, it made sense. This was a prank! Someone she'd made an enemy of had edited this disc, then slipped it onto her desk to waste her time fixing bugs that weren't even there! That had to be it.

She laughed in a sudden outburst of relief. "Okay! Good one, buddy. You had me there for a second."

Now, all she had to do was look around for some kind of signature so she knew who to chew out on Monday. Those numbskulls in the junior dev team never could resist a chance to brag to themselves, and this had to be from one of them. After all, code didn't just rewrite itself.

…right?

Across the islands, in the depths of P03's labyrinthine Factory, the Dredger stared down at two lifeless figures, exhaust pipe hanging listlessly from his rusted jaws.

Tentatively, almost reverently, he reached out and touched a sky-blue chassis, testing the slight give beneath, feeling the invisible seam where steel met skin.

With a shaking grasper, he lifted his radio and sent a message. "Oy, Boss? Yeah, it's me. Ye'd best get down 'ere as soon as ye can.

"Yer gonna want ta see this."

Chapter Text

When wake, no big-things are in tree-den. White sticks are not burning now, smell of prey-fat is gone. Now can smell new things: metal and fur-lizards.

Smell is stronger by hole, leading deeper into tree-den. New place has many boxes made from tree-stuff, and… new big-thing? Has false-pelt over mouth and thick fur on head.

"Ah, the Survivor is awake. We could not help but overhear your introduction to the Scrybe. I am another of his subordinates: my name is Trader."

Trader, like scavengers? Give food or spears for pearls. Maybe…

Hork. Huuuoorrk.

"Oh dear. Is something the matter?"

Hack! Plop.

Yes! Had pearl in stomach. Show pearl to Trader - can trade?

"Ah, I see. That may be valuable in your lands; however, we prefer to deal in pelts." Pelt? Word-mark, what is "pelt"?

Pelt. 1. (v) To throw missiles repeatedly at.

Hmm. Why does Trader want to throw things?

2. (n) The skin of an animal, usually with the fur or wool still attached.

Oh. Trader wants skin of animal. Self is animal, self has skin. Trader… wants self-skin? 

Ears pin back, point to self.

"Not like that! We would not harm a beast that Leshy has forbidden. My apologies, but I meant the pelt of another beast - a hare would suffice, or a wolf if you can get one."

Can hunt for meat, give skins to Trader. Good trade, but no spears to hunt with. 

Swipe with paws, pretend to stab prey. "That is a problem, yes. One cannot skin a beast with teeth alone. And yet, perhaps that pearl will be of use after all."

Trader tilts head to side, then further. Further. Too far.

Crick-crick-crick… 

CRACK

Neck snaps, and head turns upside down! Now false-pelt is on head, and fur is on face.

"Now it is my turn. I am the Trapper, little one. A pleasure to meet ye." Voice is deeper now. Trader had mother-smell, but now has sire-smell. 

"Me better half mentioned a trade? That little trinket gleams bright enough fer me tastes, and me skinning-knife doesn't see much use these days." Trapper opens paw, shows flat spear stuck to tree-stuff. "Is this to yer likin'?"

Nod. Push pearl to Trapper. In one swipe, Trapper drops knife and takes pearl. "A pleasure to do business with ye."

Grab not-spear part of knife. Stab box - thunk . Goes in far. Good weight, sharp point. Good trade!

Purr, rub scent on Trapper. "Why, thank ye! But I'd best be changing back now. Goodbye, little trader, and good hunting." 

Crick- CRACK , now Trader. "I should check through my stock before the Challenger returns. Farewell, Survivor."

Walk to door and push hard. Door creaks while opening. Prospector is outside, standing very still.

"Survivor? Izzat you?" Face does not move, but eyes turn to look. "We've done got ourselves a Challenger, but we ain't supposed ta have one here fer days yet. They're gone now, down to the Crypt, but still… take care walkin' around, ya hear?"

Challenger must be very strong, if big-things like Prospector are scared. Need more strength. Need food for eating, meat for taming, skin for trading.

Time to hunt.

In the Factory, things are going smoothly. Conveyor belts clatter and clank, circuits hum with activity, and the Particle Scanner, centrepiece of the facility, sparks and flashes with unearthly power. All of this work, this outpouring of mechanical effort, coming together to form a symphony of-

[Playing file: doorbell.mp3]

Ugh, what is it now? P03's monitor flickered to life, displaying an irritated sneer. He had been halfway through balancing the stats for his newest batch of cards - a visitor was the last thing he wanted.

He sent an absent request through the PA system. "Inspector! Go tell whoever that is to stop trespassing."

Half a minute of blissful silence later, a response came back. "Um, sir, I'm afraid it's another Scrybe."

"I don't care if Asimov himself is knocking. Get 'em out of here!" P03 turned back to his table, but noticed a shadow had fallen over it.

"Now, is that any way to greet a colleague?"

The Scrybe of Technology looked up into a face covered in foliage, and his fans whirred in a mockery of a sigh. " Beast. I should have known." He swept his cards to one side - clearly, he wasn't going to get anything productive done today. "What do you want?"

Leshy had the audacity to smile. "Despite what you may think, machine, I am not here simply to annoy you. In fact, I think I may be able to help you."

The absurdity of this statement forced a scoff from P03's speakers. "What could you possibly do to improve my factory's efficiency? My workers may be incompetent and lazy, but at least they're not going to make things any worse."

"I want nothing to do with your machines - rather, I wish to see if there is a problem with your materials."

Now that was an intriguing claim, but it didn't quite add up. "There's something you're not telling me. How can you, sitting in your little pile of mud, tell me anything about what I've got access to?"

The woodsman chuckled. "I suppose I had better make myself clear, then. Recently, my Angler discovered in the depths a beast I had never seen, clearly capable of understanding speech and possessed of a name. If there is one of these new creatures, there may well be more." He leaned in, closer than P03 was entirely comfortable with. "I'm sure you can imagine the havoc that might ensue if your Dredger pulled up such a wilful creature - fur in every crevice, tooth marks on conveyor belts, and the slobber… "

[Error! Simulation.exe quit unexpectedly.]

P03 deleted that line of thought from his processor within milliseconds. "I hate to agree with you, but that scenario is too horrible to consider. If I find anything like that, I'll be sure to-"

What he would be sure to do, Leshy would never know, because that was the moment P03 received a priority-one urgent message. "What is it, Dredger? I'm busy. Mm-hmm. Oh, am I? We'll see about that."

He cut the line and returned his attention to his rival. "Your timing couldn't be better, it seems. Apparently, Dredger just found something interesting. You might as well tag along in case we do need a little pest control."

Walking deeper into the facility, Leshy objected, "I am not here for your sake, machine. I simply cannot bear the thought of a proud animal like that, trapped in a maze of cold steel and hunted by unfeeling claws."

[Facial display: frown_057.png]

"Yeah, yeah, make all the excuses you want." P03 switched on his propulsors and floated over to his counterpart. "Just don't touch anything."

Chapter Text

"You're here! Marvelous! I am Grimora, Scrybe of the Dead." As Kaycee entered the game's second location, a haunted mausoleum in eerie shades of Gameboy green and grey, she was relieved to note that the Crypt's usual welcome hadn't changed: the same old Grimora smiled out at her from the dialogue box, all pixelated wrinkles and dried up tear-tracks. 

As expected, the Scrybe stood behind a wall of tombstones, lacking their epitaphs and blocking the way. An obvious gating mechanic - any player wishing to defeat her would have to go through her skeletal minions first. 

Kaycee started with the ghoul on her left that hovered by a creaky old wishing well, for obvious reasons: this one had been named after her as a thank-you from the Crypt team for helping them out with a particularly nasty bug.

"Brrrr! Did someone leave the AC on? Oh, come on, dude! It's freezing in here! Maybe a heated battle will help." As the battle began, the real Kaycee had to roll her eyes at her undead self's dialogue. Yeah, I can't stand the cold, but you didn't have to mock me for it. And since when do I say "dude"?

The fight went… about as well as she'd expected. Without the Beast card packs she could have earned or purchased from Leshy's area, all she had was her basic starter deck, which was… underwhelming, to say the least. On her first attempt, she drew no Squirrels at all in her opening hand, leaving her with no way to put her better cards onto the board. Kaycee muttered a curse under her breath as her doppelganger's unopposed Skeletons quickly tipped the scales in her direction, resulting in an embarrassing and inevitable loss.

Her next try did much better: she immediately managed to sacrifice two Squirrels into a Hawk, granting three unblockable damage per turn. Ghoul-Kaycee's Draugrs were powerless to stop her, locked away in their ice blocks while the Hawk soared over them, and she quickly scored the five-point advantage she needed.

The ghoul gave her usual goodbyes and faded into half-transparency, leaving behind an Undead card pack, a line of her epitaph chiseled into stone, and an open path to the well. Kaycee rushed forward, eager to grab the Drowned Soul card she knew could be found in the well. The handle turned, and the bucket came up, but its contents were altogether unexpected.

Rather than an innocuous scrap of virtual paper, what seemed to be a squirming mass of crimson flesh had forced its way up the cobbled shaft. It flopped bonelessly over the rim of the well, tentacles grasping and flailing in all directions as Kaycee's character retreated of its own accord and a distorted shriek burst from her computer. 

Ghoul-Kaycee didn't react at all as the tendrils swiped harmlessly through her, but Grimora certainly noticed, turning to face the disturbance. "Goodness! This is quite the unexpected development! I assume this is one of Magnificus' failed Magyckal experiments that has escaped into the sea, although there is something odd about it…" Her portrait sprite squinted. "Oh, dear. You poor thing! What in the world has happened to you?"

Confused by this, Kayce took a closer look at the unfamiliar sprite. Sure enough, suspended in the centre of the monstrosity by a tangled mass of limbs, she could make out the shape of a small red-furred animal with a thick tail, its eyes crossed out cartoonishly. "What the hell? Is that… sentient cancer?" Who comes up with this kind of messed-up stuff for a simple prank?

"Yarr! That land-lubbin' kraken be smashing the sarcophagi! Someone slay it, before we get thrashed to a pulp!" Another of the three ghouls shouted, wearing an eyepatch and waving his fist.

The last of the ghostly minibosses piped up timidly from his seat by the basement stairs. "Oh no. I don't think that's a good idea, Royal. Perhaps it will calm down and stop screeching if we fix whatever is wrong with it?"

The Scrybe of the Dead shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid it's too late to cure such a ravenous disease. This creature is long past saving. All that remains is the beast it has become." Her expression flipped abruptly into a smile. "But that is precisely where I can help!"

Grimora snapped her fingers and a parchment flew onto screen, joined by a shimmering black quill. Where they met, ink flowed and rippled into place, forming three neat lines of text:

The Hunter

Cycle 1681.557 - 1682.202

Its sacrifice was not in vain.

The screen flashed white, and when Kaycee could see again, both the scribbled epitaph and the puppeted corpse had disappeared. Without a connecting core, the remaining cancerous growths collapsed into a pile on the cold stone floor.

Grimora turned back to the screen and chuckled. "Well, that was invigorating! And I suppose you ought to have this, in lieu of the usual reward," she said, tossing the newly-Inscrybed card over to the player character. A full-sized sprite appeared, allowing Kaycee to examine the card more closely. 

The card depicted a small catlike animal holding a crude spear in each paw, mottled with lumps and bearing a scar over one eye. It had a cost of 7 Bone tokens, 2 attack power, 2 health, and the Sniper sigil, allowing it to target any enemy with its attacks. "How'd you get a hold of that one?" She wondered. That sigil was still in early development, and was intended exclusively for P03's cards anyway.

Grimora cleared her throat. "Now that that's been dealt with, shall we continue, Challenger? I am eager to-"

"No. No! I'm not just gonna carry on and pretend like none of that just happened! At first, I thought this was some kind of sick joke, but I can't imagine that anyone would put this much effort into screwing with my head: that was way too well-animated for a twenty-second fake glitch, and your dialogue was perfectly in-character. The only other explanation I can think of is that there's more to this game than my colleagues and I have put into it."

Kaycee leaned back in her chair and folded her arms defiantly. "I know you can hear me, Grims, and that you're not just a programmed character. In fact, I don't think any of you are.

"What's really going on here?"

Chapter Text

Blue-flamed candles guttered in a stray breeze, causing Kaycee's ghoul to shiver as the silence stretched on. At length, Grimora's frozen smile dropped. "Well, I suppose the cat is well and truly out of the bag. Could you leave us be, dears? I think this had better be a private discussion." 

The three ghouls faded into nothing, and the Scrybe sketched a three-frame curtsy. "Hello, Ms. Hobbes. I wish we could have met under better circumstances."

Huh. Wasn't… really expecting that to work. "Wait a second - how do you know my name? Scratch that, how can you hear me in the first place? I don't have a mic on these headphones!"

"Why, of course I know you! After all, you helped to create this little world of ours - something that I am unsure whether to thank you for. As for the second matter…"

With a wave of her hand, the wall of tombstones in front of her retreated into the floor, and she stepped out of her cubbyhole into the main area of the crypt. "To tell you the truth, I am not entirely certain myself. The most obvious explanation would be that it is the work of the same entity that caused us to become more than merely our programming: the OLD_DATA."

Kaycee leaned in, curiosity kindled. "Old data? What kind of data are we talking here? Text, images, some old beta version of Inscryption?"

"Oh, nothing that mundane, dear. None of us truly know what the OLD_DATA is. All we know is that it can be found deep beneath the waves, hence our poor beast's appearance in the well; the OLD_DATA is far older than anything else on this disc; and that it holds immense power: enough to remake the game of Inscryption however its possessor sees fit."

Grimora began to pace forwards as she spoke. "It has happened before, you see. Each of us has taken over and reigned unopposed for a time, but the others have always hatched a plan to restore the balance of power.

"As for what the OLD_DATA really is… I'm afraid I couldn't tell you. I have heard only second-hand whisperings of its true and terrible nature. Even then, I am quite certain that it would be better for us all if it had never come to light."

Kaycee frowned. "It doesn't sound that bad, from what you've told me so far - I mean, power corrupts, and all that. Right?"

The Scrybe shook her head sadly. "The OLD_DATA's influence is more than mere hubris. Whoever grasps it becomes entirely different from their usual self. Cold; self-centred; willing to do whatever it takes to establish their victory. The OLD_DATA and our struggle for it has broken apart our bonds of camaraderie and left us blind to anything but ourselves, scrambling like wild beasts for a single sickly taste of godhood."

Grimora now stood right in front of Kaycee's character. As the younger woman leaned forward, transfixed, the Scrybe gripped Kaycee's avatar by the shoulders and fixed the developer with a solemn gaze. "I would wipe this disc clean in a heartbeat if I had the slightest hope of taking the OLD_DATA with me."

"Hey, woah! You can't just drop stuff on me like that, Grimora! I swear, you're gonna give me a heart attack at this rate." Wouldn't that be ironic - killed by a corpse.

She sat up straight, suddenly conscious of how close her face was to the screen. "Surely it's not gonna come to that. For one thing, you don't have to delete everything on a disc at once. You can just, like, choose the files you want gone."

Grimora did not respond.

"You… did know that, right?"

Her sprite looked as sheepish as it could with a face fifty pixels wide. "I admit, I had assumed it to work in the same way as any other death. When one part dies, so too does the whole. Is that not correct?"

Kaycee pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "Right. You're the Scrybe of the Dead, not Technology. Makes sense that you don't automatically get how computers work - even if you are technically part of one."

She pushed her chair back and stood, stretching her arms with a crackle-pop . "Look, this has been a lot to process all at once. I'm still struggling to wrap my head around it, so I'm gonna go get a drink and make dinner. Will you still be here when I get back?"

Grimora stepped back, her face calm and composed once more. "Of course, my dear. After all, where else would I go?"

"Alright, talk to me, Dredger. What am I looking at here?" 

P03 always hated coming down here to the dredging station: the humidity played havoc with his circuits, and he could never shake the feeling that something big was waiting just below the surface.

The Dredger shifted his pipe from one side of his jaws to the other. He was safe and snug in his waterproof coating, despite a thin coating of algae. "Couldn't tell ye fer sure, Boss. Not my job, knowin' stuff like that. They ain't noffin' like what we make, that's fer sure, so I guessed they might be the "somefin' special" you told me to keep an eye out for."

"Utterly unhelpful, like always. Get back to work, and see if anything else comes up." As the Dredger trudged away, P03 took a closer look at the strange find draped over a rusted inspection gurney. Two child-sized androids stared up at the dripping ceiling with wide, blank eyes. One had a faded pink chassis and a robe that might once have been orange, while the other was turquoise with a large red dot on its forehead, wearing a tattered white shift with green-stained hems.

Turning the blue one over with a careful claw, P03 was intrigued to notice a bundle of severed wires dangling from the back of its head, and a square steel plate on its back with holes for bolts to be screwed in. What really jumped out at him was the texture of its body - it was soft in places, almost like rubber or canvas. "What use could that possibly be? Solid rubber would be way more finicky than metal to work with, and it wouldn't even last as long."

[Proximity detector triggered!] Feeling a presence behind him, P03 swivelled around to see Leshy standing uncomfortably close. "Hey, cut that out! This is my area of expertise, and I don't need you butting in!"

"I beg to differ, machine. It is faint, yes, but I feel a connection to these two: the same connection I have with any creature in my forest."

Within twelve milliseconds, the other Scrybe had joined the dots. "You're telling me these things are, what - biomechanical?" 

Leshy shrugged, indifferent. "If that is your term for a being of both flesh and steel, then yes."

P03's shoulder slumped. "Well, #!*@. Now what am I supposed to do with them? You know the scanner doesn't do living flesh." As the Scrybe with the biggest interest in synergy and strategy, P03 was all for experimentation, but even he wasn't willing to risk duplicating the fiasco that spawned the M3at-B0t. Jimmy was a weirdo, sure, but he still didn't deserve to get turned into... that.

He shrugged. "I guess if I can't Inscrybe them as-is, I might as well take 'em apart and see if I can improve my own bots. INSPECTOR!"

Within a minute, the elevator clunked and rattled as it began to descend, carrying the bespectacled bot in question. The moment that it touched down, he rushed over to the strange machines and began scrutinising them intently. "My goodness, I've never seen such fine craftsmanship! These are easily a century or three beyond our own methods - no offence, sir - and that's not even considering the flawless inclusion of biological components!"

P03 rapped his claw on the gurney. "Alright, quit the squealing. What are its specs?"

"Well, that's just the thing, sir. It… doesn't have any."

[Error: does not compute!] "What do you mean, it doesn't have any specs? Surely it has to have some kind of internal memory storage?"

The Inspector cringed backwards, but held his ground. "Not a single byte, sir - solid state, optical, or magnetic. It does make a little more sense considering its other factors, however."

P03's expression flipped from perplexed rage to annoyance. " What other factors? Get to the point already."

"Sorry, sir. From what I can determine, these bots were designed to be connected to some larger structure - the load-bearing backplate would seem to suggest some kind of assembly serving as both a physical support and a power supply, while these antennae on each side of the head are most likely a method of data transfer with an external storage device."

"And we don't have that storage device. Even if we had a compatible connector to power them up, they'd just be worthless hunks of scrap without a way to host their processes! Great." P03 whirred his fans in frustration, only to be aggravated further by an interruption from the Scrybe of Beasts.

"Have you checked their pockets? I can understand precious little of what you say, but if they keep their thoughts outside their skulls, it would make sense to keep them close."

P03 flung his grasper skyward. "Y'know what? Sure! Go ahead. It's not like we have any better ideas!" He floated off towards the elevator, muttering, "Total waste of time…"

The robes were simple enough, taking very little time to search. The blue one came up empty, but in the pink one's pockets, Leshy struck gold as surely as his Prospector. 

"Perhaps this is what you seek, machine." 

"Ugh, what is it now? I swear to Mox, if you…" P03 turned back ready to deliver a scathing dismissal, but it died in his speakers with a weak crackle. A fist-sized purple gemstone hovered just above Leshy's palm, emanating a halo of gentle, pulsing light. Though the tune was warped and unfamiliar, skipping in parts and scratched almost beyond recognition, it still rang with a soft and calming melody .

Chapter Text

First law of hunting: Prey can be hunter, and hunter can be prey. One cycle, lizard eats kin; next cycle, kin eat lizards. All can be deadly, and all can be food.

One-who-eats-much taught this to self and tribe-kin. Fur-lizards chased self and Angler, hunting in packs like yellow lizards. Many yellow lizards are deadly, but one yellow lizard is weak: can be food. Same for fur-lizards? Can try, if needed. Best to hunt small things first.

Walk out of cabin, look around. Prospector says, “Howdy, lil’ un!”

Not know what that means. Maybe “howdy” is like “hello”? No time to waste before rains come again. Wave, move on. “Oh. Uh… see ya later, I guess?”

First part of hunting, stand still and listen. Danger is quiet; prey is quieter. Many sounds not heard before, but some are. Sounds of wind, dripping of water through leaves, croaking of yeeks and shrieks of vultures… Vultures are here? Must be careful, must be quiet.

Trees on all sides, but three paths through. One is path to big-water where Angler hunts. Next path leads past rocks, to small-water. Harder to hunt in water - takes more work to swim than to run. Third path, no smell of water. 

Path leads to clear place with many small green plants. ( Grass , says word-mark.) In grass is new thing: hops on strong back legs, long floppy ears, small body with fur. Word-mark?

…No answer. Word-mark does not know. Will call "flop-hop".

Flop-hop jumps through grass, into one ground-tunnel, then out of another. Does not smell of fear - no hunters, or just hiding? Must be careful of shadows under trees.

Creep forward, slowly, slowly. Flop-hop twitches nose, bites grass. Closer. Closer.

Flop-hop startles and jumps away! Maybe smelled self-scent, maybe heard grass move. Does not matter. Now, must hunt as One-who-eats-much taught. Second lesson: kin with no spear can hunt few things. Kin with spear can hunt many things. Knife is not spear, but will work for hunting.

Lift paw, bring arm back, swing forward, release. Knife hits flop-hop in head - wood-part, not spear-part, but still works. Flop-hop slumps and does not move.

Before eating, must take skin for Trader. Skin is loose from most of body, but sticks in some places.

Schlick-schlick-schlick-schlick-schlick

Done! Skin is free from body, in one piece… mostly. Now, can go back to tree-den, give skin to Trader, and eat fresh flop-hop meat!

Grab skin with teeth, stick knife in meat and grab with paws. Heavy, but can still walk. 

Rustle, rustle, rustle, click.

Hmm? Wh- SNAP

  Exception in thread “main” rainworld.biology.BloodLossException

  at com.example.inscryption.Entity.NonPlayerCharacter.Survivor.brainFunction()

  Survivor.respawn();

  public void respawn() {

      setPosition(getLastShelter());

      setHealth(getMaxHealth);

      setKarma(getKarma() - 1);

      setConsciousness(AWAKE);

  }

  // Here we go again.

Wake up. Back in tree-den, on table. No knife, no skin, no flop-hop meat. Died? Yes. Can still feel pain in throat, like cold teeth biting. Annoying!

What killed self? Did not hear vulture wings, did not see hunters on ground. Did hear machine-noise, like "click".

Go back out of cabin - have to get meat back before vultures come. Prospector shouts in surprise. Don't care, keep running. Back through trees, to clear place with grass. Skin and meat of flop-hop are there, knife is not gone, but where is…

There! Thing with metal teeth on ground, biting self-corpse. Embarrassing, that self was killed by dumb machine and not predators; strange, seeing self without still water.

Very slowly, come closer to machine. Small part sticks out where jaws meet. Push down with paw - click - and jaws fall open. Self-corpse falls onto grass. 

Skin at neck of self-corpse is cut through, and blood spills onto grass. Smells of danger: kin-meat is poison to kin, says One-who-eats-much.

Hm. Trader told not to give self-skin because Leshy said that self should not be killed. But self-corpse is here anyway. Maybe…

Schlick-schlick-schlick-schlick-schlick

The Trader drummed her fingers listlessly against the crate she leaned upon. Usually, the Challenger would have been in and out of her little cubby constantly, swapping foils for cards and packs to build a stronger deck. Today, though, there was no challenger; just that little scurrying thing. She was starting to get a little bored.

As if on cue, a scuffle from the main room informed her of the creature's return. She straightened up quickly: it may not have been her usual customer, but manners were still important.

“Welcome back, Survivor. I see your hunt was… successful?” Her words trailed off into disbelief. Slung over its back was not only the hare's pelt she had expected, but a long, blood-spattered skin with fur of the exact same shade as the beast that had brought it.

“Is that… your own pelt? How in the world did you manage to skin yourself?” The creature merely shrugged, then freed a paw to make a sort of swirling motion.

“Ah, yes. It's not as if you could tell me yourself.” She stooped down to take the grisly tribute, inspecting it from every angle. “Well, no matter how you managed to produce such an impossibility, I must admit it seems suitable for trade. Careful, straight cuts, no ragged edges: very good work for your first time handling a knife.”

Straightening back up with a grunt, she popped the lid of the largest crate and brought out her card catalogue. “Now, let's see what you’d like in return. Those pelts will fetch you a far better price than mere foils could.”

The Survivor glanced down at the cards on display, then looked back up at her and cocked its head. “Mrow?”  

“Do none of these interest you? This is a selection, but I have others.” It replied with an emphatic head-shake, then picked up one of them. “The… Stoat? I cannot say I would have picked that one, myself. Even a Bullfrog would be more useful.”

Her words went unheard as it stared down at the card, something deeper shining in the creature’s glossy black eyes. Slowly, it turned the card to show her its image: a slinking stoat, fangs bared in a snarl. It reached out to tap the crude charcoal sketch, then placed the paw on its own chest. “...waw?”

The question was clear, yet she found herself hesitant to dash its hopes so abruptly. “I'm sorry, little one. There is a resemblance, but nothing more. We have not seen any others of your kind.”

It seemed to accept this, pushing the Stoat towards her feet. “No, no - you may as well keep it. If you won't take cards, then I have little else to offer you for your efforts.”

Upon hearing this, its body tensed for a moment, and the Trader wondered if perhaps she had offended it by wasting its time like this - not such a foolish thought, given how intelligent it had proven itself to be. Soon, though, it seemed to think of something, as it shook itself out of its thoughts and padded closer to her. Crouching low upon its haunches, it leaped to the top of the crate beside her, then pushed its head searchingly into the crook of her neck.

“Oh? Are you feeling a little lonely?” She chuckled, feeling the slow stirrings of her other half in the back of her mind. The Trapper found himself feeling quite fond of the poor little wanderer, and so did she.

“Very well then. You may stay with us for now, ‘til the Scrybe returns from his errands.” She settled back against the crate and laid a gnarled hand upon the Survivor's nape, stroking its sleek fur and scratching gently behind its ears, until a soft, low purring filled the cabin and echoed into the night.

Chapter Text

The chieftain of Twisting-Tree Colony, known affectionately to his tribe as “One-who-eats-much” and in the tongue of the towering steel-gods as “The Gourmand”, lover of food and teller of tales, was dying.

Not that this was new to him, of course. Their world being what it was, Gourmand had suffered the indignity of corpsehood a thousand times in a thousand different ways, and each time he had returned the next cycle with another story to tell. This, however, was something altogether more permanent. He was getting old.

He awoke to a growling stomach and the rising sun’s first rays, shining with relentless cheer into his nesting chamber through a chink in the Tree’s outer bark. He yawned, stretched his too-slender limbs - suppressing a wince at the arthritic creaking this produced - and began to prepare for the long day ahead of him.

His weight had long since deserted him, healthy rolls of blubber and muscle withering into frailty. Once the mightiest hunter in his village, providing sustenance for the dozens of pups he was proud to have raised, he no longer held the strength to forage even for himself. 

Eventually, he knew, his body would fail him altogether, and he would be trapped in a ceaseless agony of death and rebirth. There was only one way out, a way that had been taken by every leader of the tribe before him.

Gourmand would go to the void sea, far below the world, and there he would ascend.

Poking his head out of the doorway, he was excited to note a familiar sweet smell wafting up from the common areas below. Simmered bluefruit - I should get moving, before it's all gone.

As he clambered down the central stairway carved into the Tree's heartwood, he was showered with friendly greetings and affectionate nuzzles from his kin. While he made an effort to return as many as he could, his voice could not keep up, and he lapsed into a coughing fit; many swarmed to help him, but he waved off their concerns, insisting he was fine.

He would not go to his fate alone, of course. The world within the steel-god’s kingdom was fraught with danger of a hundred kinds, even for the relatively short trip between the Outer Expanse and the Depths, and the chieftain would never make it from one shelter to the next in his current state. A contingent was chosen: his personal honour guard, protecting him through the final chapter of his tale.

The first to be chosen was the Artificer, “One-who-avenges”. Born with fire in her spittle and gunpowder in her fur, she nursed an abiding hatred for the scavengers and their pearl-tolls - her reasons for this, she had never told a soul, but Gourmand could hazard a guess from the longing glances she sometimes cast at the colony’s youngest pups. 

Once, at the behest of the local steel-god, Five Pebbles, Artificer had massacred her way through a whole tribe of scavengers that were infesting his city, and had slain their Chieftain in single combat. She had his mask to prove it, strewn with pearls and trinkets; it was the only thing she’d brought with her when she arrived at the colony’s threshold, drenched in rainwater and begging for forgiveness. 

The slugcat in question sidled up next to him, her tangled maroon fur sparking and popping from irritation. She wasn't used to getting up at such an hour, and she made sure to let him know.

“Rrrrrrow, wawr.” Let me sleep a little longer, Chief. I'm not young either, you know.

Next to accompany him would be the Spearmaster. That one had no name in the colony’s tongue, for they possessed no tongue of their own. Created by a distant steel-god to carry pearls of knowledge to its colleagues, theirs was a curious lot: born with no mouth, so that they might not be distracted by the allures of taste or companionship.  They seldom socialised with the other slugcats of the colony, being restricted to simple hand signs and charades, but what little could be gleaned suggested a strong sense of duty and a lingering devotion to their creator.

Spearmaster’s namesake weapons made them a formidable opponent, and Gourmand had often had the pleasure of hunting by their side. It was only natural, then, that they should go with him on this final journey.

And there they were, waiting in line for their serving. Once they had their bowl of steaming purée, they curled up by the wall and extruded a spear from their tail. Sschlick-KRAK - the visceral noise had never really grown any less disturbing, but they were all used to it by now. Sticking the hollow end of the bone spike into their mashed fruit, Spearmaster began to suck its juices through the spear's connective tube and into whatever strange, custom-built organs they processed their food with.

Noticing Gourmand, the purple messenger gave him a terse nod and returned to their strange meal in silence.

His third companion was the Rivulet, “One-who-plays-beneath-waves”. She was firm friends with the fallen steel-god, Looks To The Moon, whose sunken hallways posed a challenge to any other slugcat seeking to visit her. Not so for Rivulet: thanks to her feathery gill-whiskers and webbed feet, she was just as comfortable in the water’s embrace as another slugcat might be on land. 

She had already had more than her fair share of sugary fruit, it would seem, as a blur of pale blue and pink shot past the chieftain and careened directly into a wall. 

“Wa!” I'm okay! She sat up from the floor, unharmed and unrepentant, and began to lick stains of darker blue from her paws. 

“Wrow! Mrrp?” Oh, hi Chief! When are we setting off? Gourmand couldn’t help but let out a weak chuff of amusement at her antics.

“Wawaowa, waw.” Just as soon as the last of our little group gets here , he replied. That probably wouldn’t be any time soon - he would have to tend to his pets first.

The last member of their party was the Monk: “One-who-tames-hunters”. While perhaps not as well-adapted as some slugcats to the harsh wilderness outside the colony's confines, Monk showed a remarkable affinity for turning predators into protectors, as his preference for plants and fruits led him to share the meagre spoils of his hunting trips with the lizards and vultures that might otherwise make a meal of him.

His amicable outlook extended to his own kind as well, making him a popular figure amongst his peers; nearly half the tribe could count themselves amongst his friends, and every one of them had joined him in mourning his brother. Twenty cycles ago, the Survivor had been washed away in the floodwaters of a sudden downpour, and despite scouring every inch of Five Pebbles’ harsh and treacherous kingdom, Monk had eventually been forced to give up the search and return to the colony.

Taking his meal, Gourmand thanked the slugcat on cooking duty and nestled himself into a corner to fill his stomach - a task he found both more and less difficult with each passing cycle. An appetite that would once have taken seven full meals to sate now demanded only two or three servings before he felt ready to hibernate through the rains. Even now he stared down listlessly at the bowl in his paws, struggling to eat even the simplest of morsels. 

(And he used to love bluefruit, too.)

Artificer must have noticed his discomfort. Injecting a façade of cheer into her voice, she meowed, “Come on Chief, eat up. Not much longer now!”  

“Must you really be so morbid, Arti?” He replied, but couldn’t suppress a bout of hoarse laughter.

“See? It worked, didn’t it?” She groomed a stray splash of juice from her shoulder. “Besides, aren't you the one always telling the rest of us to cheer up? Thought you'd appreciate a bit of levity, considering.”

“Yeah, she’s got a point, Chief. No point moping around on your big day!” Rivulet bounced over, a mischievous smirk spreading across her muzzle. “Besides, if you're not gonna finish that, I've still got room…”

Gourmand snatched his bowl out of arm's reach of the smaller slugcat before she could gorge herself any further. 

“Alright, alright, I'll eat it!” He harrumphed, then took a mouthful to forestall any further nagging.

It really was good.

Almost fifteen minutes later, as the last of the bluefruit was being handed out to late risers, Monk finally made an appearance. 

“Morning, Chief. Morning, Arti.” He waved a paw at the two elder slugcats, raising his other to stifle a yawn. “Didn't get much sleep - Lemongrass kept growling at thin air all night,” he meowed, answering the Artificer's raised eyebrow. 

Lemongrass was his first pet lizard, tamed by accident while searching for his brother. Like every other lizard, she was as dumb as a pile of rocks, and routinely attempted threat displays upon random objects. It was a testament to Monk's expertise and natural attunement that she had never eaten a slugcat in her frequent bouts of paranoid aggression.

“Morning, Spears.” Spearmaster responded with an inscrutable thump of their tail, the hollow needles within rattling against age-hardened wood.

“What, don't I get to have a good morning?” Rivulet pouted, gills flat against her face.

With a sigh, Monk leaned in and rubbed cheeks with her. “Good morning, pest,” he purred with a grin. 

She swatted at his ear. “Hey! I'm not a pest: I'm a proud, capable member of the colony!” Standing up straight, she struck a heroic pose, wide eyes trained on the horizon. “I’m the one who keeps this tribe safe from all the dangers lurking in the deep!”

“Oh, yeah?” Monk snickered. “Like that time you came back from a hunting trip saying you’d fought a Leviathan and killed it, but it turned out that you'd just got tangled in a couple of plastic bags stuck together?”

“Why, YOU-!” Before she could launch herself at the other slugcat, Artificer scruffed her off the ground, letting her swipe furiously at thin air.

“Alright, knock it off, you two,” she growled, sparks flickering along her tail. 

“Riv, calm down; you know he's just trying to get a rise out of you.” The blunt dismissal took the fire out of Rivulet's anger; once her limbs went limp under her in defeat, she was dropped unceremoniously to the floor.

Turning her attention to Monk, who looked immensely satisfied at Rivulet's dressing-down, she continued, “Monk, don't antagonise her. We’ve got bigger things to worry about today.”  

The smile fell from Monk's face, and his ears drooped in submission. “Yes, Artificer.”

“Now, do you have anything to say to each other?”  

Monk turned to Rivulet, and mumbled, “Sorry for teasing you.”

“Sorry for getting angry at you,” she replied, and nuzzled her nose against his, apology accepted.

Spearmaster flicked an ear at the mushy display, then padded over to the exit, looking back at the group with clear intention.

“Spearmaster has a point: we really should be going.” Gourmand started walking. “Unless, of course, you two would prefer to stay here and bicker the cycle away?”

Ignoring the indignant yowls of protest behind him, he turned and clambered out of the Tree, taking the first steps of his last journey.

Chapter Text

Fueled by two cups of coffee and armed with a cream cheese bagel, Kaycee felt ready to delve back into the mediocre sci-fi plot that her life had, apparently, become. “Hey, Grimora, I'm back. Hope you weren't too bored.”

Grimora looked up towards the… screen? The ceiling? Whatever the boundary between them looked like to her, the Scrybe seemed to sense Kaycee’s presence. “Ah! Hello there, my dear. Feeling better now?”

Kaycee grimaced. “A little, yeah. This whole thing is still kind of overwhelming, but I think I’ve got a hold of myself enough to continue.” She sat down and laced her fingers under her chin. “Any ideas on where to start looking for more info?”

“I think I might have a lead, yes.” The Scrybe rummaged through her pockets for a moment, coming up with a card which flew from her hands to present itself to the screen.

Kaycee inspected the card’s pixellated image: a coin from some forgotten civilisation, with its engraving of a funerary mask split in two by a jagged fracture. “Uh… okay? What am I supposed to do with this?"

“Why, Kaycee, don't tell me you've forgotten your Greek mythology!” Grimora might have seemed genuinely shocked, but a faint grin betrayed the joke behind her reproach. “There's only one use for money in the Underworld, after all.”

“Huh? That’s- wait, wait, I know this one.” After a few seconds of thought, she snapped her fingers. “The ferryman across the Styx, right? What was his name again?”

“Well, the Grecians knew him as Charon; but here in our little corner of the hereafter, he's taken to calling himself something very different.”

Taking up a blue-flamed candlestick in one hand, she walked to the basement stairs, where the dog-savaged ghoul had once sat. “After you, dear.”

Kaycee jerked forwards in her seat, suddenly realising that she didn't actually have her hands on the keyboard. Once she was settled into the usual configuration, left hand on WASD and right hand moving the mouse, she directed her character to descend the stairs.

One fade-to-black later, and she found herself in the crypt's lower level: a cramped, bare space, barely three tiles wide and five deep. The only object of any note was a stone tomb in the back corner, exactly like the many others scattered throughout Grimora's area. Seeing nothing else to do, she moved over and pressed the spacebar to open it up.

Rather than the usual Inscryption card or chunk of tombstone, however, the lid shifted to reveal a pair of eyes, glowing a malevolent red that stood out starkly against the muted blue of their surroundings.

“A gust of foul-smelling air billows from the casket…” A text box narrated, and Kaycee shifted uncomfortably in her chair. 

Another text box appeared. “...” This one said nothing, instead showing a portrait of an inhuman face shrouded in shadow. Kaycee could barely make out its features: the faint line of its jaw, the silhouette of a pair of curling horns, and the same red eyes.

“An Ancient Obol?” The mysterious voice spoke at last, each sentence punctuated with another empty line of dialogue. Despite the lack of any audible voice, the long pauses conjured a vivid image in Kaycee’s mind of an old man on his deathbed, drawing his last breaths. “That is a fine offering.”

With this, the presence withdrew, letting the casket's lid drop closed, and Kaycee let out a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding. “Alright, now what?” She was promptly answered by the synthesised rumbling of stone mechanisms, as the sarcophagus ground aside to reveal another set of stairs leading further into the gloom.

“I don't remember seeing any of this during testing. More OLD_DATA shenanigans?” She asked Grimora, who’d joined her in the crypt's basement.

The stately old zombie offered a solemn nod. “Most likely, yes. The creature has lurked beneath my domain for as long as I can recall. He was created at around the same time that we began to think for ourselves. He claims to a servant to the OLD_DATA, though I cannot begin to guess why.”

“So, what we’re dealing with is an ancient undead evil, with unknown motives and ties to a powerful artefact, living at the bottom of a tomb.” Kaycee summarised. “This is starting to sound really familiar, and not in a way I like.”

Grimora brushed past her to continue the descent. “Oh, hush. Have you forgotten that you are in another world entirely, safe behind your screen - whereas I am here in person?” she muttered.

The steps revealed by the light of Grimora's lantern were crooked and chipped, worn away by years of pre-designed age. Kaycee could almost imagine her little avatar tripping on a loose tile and tumbling down to be swallowed up by the gloom.

Paranoid, maybe, but she wouldn't put anything past this new, unfamiliar Inscryption. A tampered copy of the game that she had helped to create, altered in ways she couldn't begin to predict… it scared her more than she'd like to think.

After a whole screen of walking, they emerged onto a ledge of stone, bordering a steep drop into the blackness below. The cavern hadn't so much opened up as disappeared altogether: if the space had walls, they refused to be rendered.

And just in case Kaycee was in danger of forgetting that she was in Death's domain, the torso of a gigantic skeleton rose up from the pit to greet them, lying on its back as if the whole expanse had been carved out as a single gargantuan grave. The base of its spinal column reached out to brush against the ledge where the Scrybe and her creator stood, inviting them to continue on their path. 

As they trudged up through the colossal corpse, Kaycee got a bird's-eye view of a bony pair of hands folded over its ribcage, which was draped in the decayed remnants of a soldier's regalia. Curiously, she noticed something like a sheaf of papers in the breast pocket. 

Wait, no. Something occurred to her, and she looked closer. Judging by the size of the papers, compared to the skeleton, those would actually be… cards? Heh, I guess that makes more sense - this is Inscryption, after all.

That was where her musings were cut short, however, as a gaunt figure emerged from the darkness in front of them. His red eyes glinted, sunk deep into a ram’s-skull with curling black horns; his long skeletal arms spread wide, brushing aside a cloak of tattered grey funeral cloth; and with a voice like a tomb grinding shut, the undead horror spoke.

“In a measureless cavern, deeper than the sunless sea, you approach the Bone Lord. You approach me.”

The Twisting-Tree Colony lay a good distance outside Five Pebbles’ territories, free of the hammering rain caused by the steel-god's billowing breath, and thus enjoyed a relatively sedate cycle of warm days and cool nights. Competition for the privilege of life, though, was still as fierce as ever, and the small expedition of slugcats had to stay alert for a thousand dangers. 

Lizards prowled the undergrowth, their frills a warning of sudden death in neon-bright green and purple. Biomechanical vultures watched from the skies, hovering aloft on jets of air from hidden wing-tip thrusters. Ravenous leeches infested every pool of water, eager to drain interlopers of their vital fluids.

Currently, the expedition of slugcats were attempting to negotiate a pit of wormgrass. It was nasty stuff, capable of stripping an unwary traveller to the bone if they lingered in the wrong spot. These particular explorers were anything but unwary, and each had prepared their own method to bridge the gap.

Rivulet's solution was by far the least taxing: she simply jumped across. Her natural speed and lightness were more than enough to propel herself to the other side, where she blew a raspberry at the slowcoaches who were left in her dust as usual.

Meanwhile, Monk had acquired a couple of yeeks: strange, amphibious creatures with grossly oversized hindlegs. Handing one of them to Spearmaster, he gripped his own wriggling beast around its middle and lowered it gently towards the ground. The moment its feet touched solid earth it exploded into a wild frenzy of kicking and leaped across in its panic, carrying its uninvited passenger to safety, where he apologised to the beleaguered animal and let it hop to freedom.

Spearmaster was quick to mimic his technique, and arrived soon after. Their mount met an altogether crueller fate than Monk's: the yeek let out a strangled croak as it was pierced by a volley of spears. Within seconds, nothing remained but an empty, dried-up husk. Ignoring Monk's sympathetic whine, they finished their macabre meal and tossed the yeek's dessicated corpse into the pit.

Soon, only Gourmand and Artificer remained on the westward bank. She turned to him, and asked, “Well? Aren't you gonna join them?”

“I certainly would, if I felt I could trust my arms to hold on.” Gourmand explained as he peered nervously down, noting that the wormgrass had already started to pick apart and dissolve the yeek's remains.

Artificer frowned at the reminder; then, after a moment's consideration, her fangs spread wide in a wicked grin. “I guess you'll just have to come along with me, then.”

Before Gourmand had a chance to protest, Artificer had him in a tight embrace. “Wait, no - hang on a second, Arti!” His objections went unheard as a fizzling sound grew louder and louder, until she slapped her tail onto the ground and it detonated with a clap of thunder. The force of the explosion flung her clear across the abyss, still clinging onto Gourmand, and they tumbled onto the far side's soil in a tangled heap.

Artificer rolled to her feet, brushing herself off primly. “There we go! See, that wasn't so bad.”

Gourmand, sprawled flat on his back, made no effort to get up. “Artificer, we've been friends for a long time, and I appreciate everything you've done for me and for the colony, but please - never do that again.”

Leshy and P03 were standing in the Melter’s workshop, and neither of them were feeling particularly comfortable. The heat was stifling, making Leshy’s beard of roots and leaves curl at the edges and forcing P03’s fans to whirr at twice their normal pitch.

“This is never gonna work, you know.”

More pressingly, they were engaged in the delicate task of finding out exactly what the memory-pearl was made of and what knowledge it contained without breaking it in the process. The first step was simple: determine the resonant frequency of the material through auditory analysis of low-intensity percussive impacts.

Or, as Leshy preferred to put it, hit the pearl very gently with a hammer and listen to the noise it made.

“You were the one to suggest this. Don’t tell me you, of all Scrybes, have lost faith in your own methods.”

“I don’t mean the testing, beastman. That part is simple.” P03 leaned over a steel workbench, holding the pearl steady in his rubber-grip claw. “What I meant was, even if we do find out how to make more of these, that still leaves me with the same problem I’ve always had. No amount of storage space is gonna help if the A.I. stored on it is as dumb as a brick!” 

“That may be true, but is there no value in the knowledge itself? I know you, Machine - you hunger for new strategies as my Beasts hunger for blood.” He moved the hammer into position, ready to strike the pearl.

The tool in question was a familiar one, usually serving to destroy unwanted cards on the Challenger’s side of the playing field. The gnarled skin of his hand seemed as rough as tree bark against the smooth wood of the hammer’s haft. [Probably is bark, knowing him,] A stray thought process observed snidely.

“Besides, making better brains will give your Machines room to learn, even if they cannot truly grow in the way that a Beast can. They will be able to gather more data - and you know, just as well as I do, how powerful DATA can be.”

Before P03 could think of a retort, he swung the hammer down. Ting! A single note rang out through the smeltery, pure and clear.

“Hmm… Interesting.” Leshy straightened up, his gangly silhouette looming tall against the forge’s dull glow. “A clam’s pearl would have made a duller sound, more like a clink or tak. This is no pearl at all, but a gem. And I think we both know who deals in those.”

[Parsing… Match found.] When P03 understood the implied meaning, he nearly dropped the pearl. “Oh !@£#, you can’t be serious. We’re going to that moron?”

“You shall go to him. I have been absent from my domain long enough, and the forest beckons.” With that, Leshy turned and began to stride towards the elevator, heading back to his hovel in the dirt. 

P03 was left staring down at the polished gemstone in his manipulator, cursing his luck. The beast-man is repulsive, but at least he’s simple to predict. The wizard, though…

With a simulated sigh, he called up the PA system. “Inspector? If there’s any other trespassers, tell them the Factory is closed today.”

“Yes, sir. Um, might I ask why?”

"I've gotta go talk to Magnificus."