The SCP Experience - The Chronicles of Daeva | SCP-140

Episode Date: December 15, 2023

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-140: The Chronicles of Daeva This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-140 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Discover the Author's impressive series of SCP Tales here: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0BVWJFGV3 Check out more of Mr. Click's work here: newpulptales.com DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Viaray, the voice that we love that we have. The book calls to me, as it has every day since I started reading it. I tried to block it out through my old passions, burying myself in the recorded words of ancient civilizations. I failed to me. to distract myself with other projects.

The book calls to me no matter how much I try to ignore it. It speaks to me through my dreams by making me relive the pages that I've uncovered. During my dreams, I'm not the stereotypical academic my students see, always with a coffee cup in one hand and a thick book in the other. I'm a warrior,

praying to long-forgotten gods, not with words, but through the blood that spills down. down my sword and coats my flesh. The metallic taste fills my mouth as I cut them down. Men, women, and children all fall before me, including my own brothers and sisters. None can stand against the Davites.

The dream stay with me long after I wake. My body is filled with heat, my heart, pumping with the energy of a young man. I crave flesh in a way that I've never experienced in my life before. What would my colleagues think of this? me if they knew what I did on those nights I couldn't sleep. Would they look at me with fear or admiration if they knew the odd hours? I stalked the city streets, looking to indulge my body with pain or pleasure, or both. There will be no such fun tonight. I know this as I kick off

the sheets around my sweat-coated body. This kind of longing can't be filled with sex or violence. It can only come through salvation by throwing myself before the altar of the Davites. And I can only do that with the book. I barely dress in my rush to obtain the object of my desire. A simple coat is all I need to combat the chill as I rushed to my car. In my dreams, I stormed into battle with far less protection. A tingle of excitement rushes up my spine as I press the accelerator. A few cars, sharing the road this late, blare their horns as my compact car blurs past them, sending heavy laughter tumbling from my chest. I know I should slow down when the university comes into sight, but I can't bring myself to do it. If this were a few

hours later, my car would be ripping through a wave of student and faculty bodies on their way to class. The thought makes me smile. I can almost hear their screams as their body shatter beneath me. It's a fine fantasy, made all the more realistic by screaming tires as I peel into several parking spots in front of the Humanities building. Being the head of a university department has its benefits. The greatest being accessed to all historical wings, and I have very few people to answer to. My hands tremble with eagerness as I unlock the door. The aching in my bones that has been persistent for the last ten years has gone

dormant as I hurry through the halls. Dim light from the moon outside casts shadows everywhere. They stretch out toward me like monsters the further I walk. I wonder if the old gods looked similar. A breath of longing escapes my lungs as I finally enter my office. The book rests on my desk, exactly where I left it. Other researchers have wanted to examine it, but as I said, my position has its perks. Some of my colleagues are concerned that I've broken protocol because I refuse to share the book with anyone else. You'll have to pry it away from my cold, dead fingers if they want it. I won't give it up without a fight. Hot blood pumps through my veins as I sit before the book. Normally, I would need a cup of coffee before I started my day, but the book has provided all

stimulation I'll ever need. A metallic scent fills the air as I open the pages of the possibly long text. A grateful sigh escapes my mouth as I breathe in, my mouth watering as my eyes fall on where I left off. The men and women scream as my soldiers hoist the long spears into the earth. Their shouts of pain grow distant as they're lifted in the air, the spearheads sinking through their backs as they slide down the tips of the poles. Most people who befall this fate die begging for mercy. But these men and women aren't the foreigners we use for pro-covers. creation, conquest, food, or labor. Each is a Deivite, the same as me. The youngest is a hundred years old, and the most senior has been around since the Devites first took our steps into this

world. Until recently, they looked no more than 40, but that was before our gods abandoned us. Rinkles have lined their bodies, and their hair has grayed. For the first time in our history, We are not the victors. And the people we have conquered have long memories. The Davites are known throughout all the lands. They tell stories about us to their children, warning them that if they're not good, then we will come for them in the dead of night and feast on their bones.

The stories are, of course, lies. It doesn't matter if you're good or evil. We will dine on you either way, for we are Davites. These were the words that my father told me, passed on from his father. It's the only commandment our gods demanded of us, and we dedicated ourselves to our holy mission without question. While others took to the seas, diplomacy, or farming, the Davites never needed such weakness. Our gods showed us the way of power. Anything not gained through murder or war is blasphemous. But we have lost territories and lands that have been ours for generations.

Slaves have rebelled and pushed us back. They've killed us and used new tools of warfare to reconquer their lands. Now, precious few of our colonies remain. But we are Davites, and we will fight until we've regained the favor of our gods. That is the only solution. But others disagree with me. Most disagree with me as a matter of fact. Even the oldest among us, the valued warriors and blood mages

who taught me how to swing a sword and perform sacrifices for the gods have turned their backs on our ways. I could not hide my shock when the Council of Chieftains presented their solution. In order to survive, to live in a world that hates us and wants to wipe us out, we must change. No longer will we be warriors and conquerors. We will be diplomats, farmers, navigators, anything that will spare the world from pursuing their much-wanted and deserved revenge.

Their solution is to become something else. In other words, blasphemy. And I hope my show of unwavering devotion and loyalty will bring back the gods that have forsaken us. Raja, my Uncle Rowan says as he slides down the pole. The spear pierces his bowls, bringing a current of blood down the long shaft. Damn you and your pride. You've killed us all.

He's using the last of the old power in his blood to make his voice heard. Everyone hears his curse as the power leaves his body. Warriors turn toward me. Their eyes filled with doubt. Even nearby slaves stare at me after my uncle's condemnation. They will have to have their eyes plucked out for this indiscretion. Better dead than anything but Deva. I make sure my words are the last thing my own.

my eyes meet his as the last of the old power flows from his blood. His body withers and graze as his corpse slowly descends. But his vision never breaks from mine, even after he takes his last breath. His eyes are filled with hate, making his words echo in my mind. I know my eyes are a mirror reflection of his own. I have no love to spare for a traitor, even if he was family. I curse as my mother's spirit whispers in my ear. It's enough to bring the attention of the captain of the guards. Soldiers do not last long if they hesitate to follow my commands, so I give him one, hoping he doesn't suspect I'm conferring with ghosts. Have the slaves collect the blood and organs. Though they betrayed our gods, some of the old power might still linger

in them. I want to feast prepared for our worthiest. That power should be given to those who will wield it in honor of the gods. At once, chieftain! His bow is without hesitation, as are the orders that he barks at the soldiers and slaves under his command. As they snap, do alertness, and carry out my orders, I can't help but question the captain's tone. Was there a hint of weariness in his words?

As even my own personal guard started to doubt me, I turned away from him and walked into the city. A chieftain in his home has as much place for doubts as he does for bodyguards. And yet, all the same. I keep my sword close as I walk through our capital. Capital. We never had a use for that word before.

The whole world was ours for the taking. We had a presence throughout every country in the known lands, and we spread further into the unknown lands more than any other tribe. The Tharks, Samarians, the Severans, we met them all in combat. And while they had a history as long as ours, Davites wiped them from the continents. They live on only in our memories, providing meals and land for our expanding empire.

Now, all that is left is the city of Deva. This, of course, is not where we first hailed from. Our homeland was a cold and brutal place where only the strong survived. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. These were the only laws practiced by the Davites. With our strength came a bloodlust, and as we waged countless wars against each other, the oceans of spilled blood brought the attention of the gods.

It was they who split the barrier between worlds and showed us green pastures and gleaming cities to conquer in their names. Deva was merely the first step along our journey. That was before my time, even before my great-grandfather's time. Through sacrifice and bloodshed, the gods gave us gifts. and boons. Long life and incredible strength were only some of the divine powers they shared with us. But that was long ago. The cities were once polished marble and shined with gold, but we were never artisans and have never had a use for currency. The buildings have rusted and fallen into themselves, with precious few structures still standing. I pause and stand in front of the limb fields

as one of our farmers hacks off the arm of a screaming slave and tosses it with the rest of his crop. The bow he gives me is barely a nod of the head. My hand itches on the hilt of my sword, but I resist the temptation to separate his head from his shoulders. Loathe as I am to admit it, we need him, and others of his new ilk. Agriculture was another thing that Davites never had a use for.

Farming was for the weak, for those without the stomach or the skill to hunt. their own prey. Other countries relied on it too much, and it was all too easy to burn their fields and watch them starve. The farmers and shepherds stared in open wonder and horror as we laid waste to their greenery, not comprehending why until it was their time to fall on the fires to feed our armies. Now, even we are forced to gather and forage for food. The limb fields are filled with the severed arms and legs of our slaves. They attract us. wild animals to hunt. When that fails, the rotting flesh provides maggots and other bugs

for us to eat. Bugs, the greatest warriors in history, reduced to eating such undesirable creatures to stay alive. I think of the children whose skulls I bashed against rocks. Only the strong and worthy deserve the gift of life. Anything less is an insult to our gods. My wives screamed as I shattered their frail bodies. But it was better they die than be forced to feast on bugs like a common foreigner. How was my family supposed to thrive during such dire times? My mother's words tickle my ears again as I turn from the farmer and his bloody work. She is very loud today.

The loudest she's been since she died. There is no putting it off anymore. I must see my brother. The Temple of Broken Gods is the only building still in good condition. Marble pillars gleam as they have every day since we conquered this city. Perhaps it's due to the unshakable and unquestioning faith of the followers, remaining strong despite the rest of the city crumbling around it. But it's much more likely due to my brother and his blasphemies.

Still, this is a place rich in history. As I climbed the steps, I smile at the empty portals that once held statues of the beautiful false gods the original dwellers worshipped. Our ancestors tore them down and shattered them as they butchered the heathens who once called this place home. It was here where the children of the blood were born. During the battle, we suffered casualties.

But we had a divine mission and couldn't stop. While some of our soldiers were crippled in battle and unable to fight, the old blood still flowed through them. They could still procreate and pass on their gifts to the next generation. A lame David warrior is still a warrior, more so than any foreign combatant. One of the first wounded soldiers was so insulted when he was expected to breed with one of the conquered women

that he snapped her neck and ate her flesh raw. As he did, a vision awoke in his mind. People are more than their lands and dwellings. They're also their songs and stories and, more than anything else, their religion. While we fought with the favor of the gods, and our faith was absolute. It was also without direction. Our wounded soldiers could no longer wield a sword or spear in battle, but they could still fight for the souls of our people. They swore to eradicate the false gods of this new world and replace them with our own, and with it, the children of the blood were born. The chieftains and the children don't always see eye to eye on matters.

The children are the soul, but we are the body of the old gods. And as we are the body of the old gods, And as we are in the material world, we hold more power. My brother disagrees. But that is nothing new for us. That's probably why the children on guard tents as I walk the steps. I've avoided going to the temple of broken gods as much as possible. But my mother's spirit is restless today. I approach the nearest guards.

He's young, with no sign of a limp or any other injuries. Rage pumps through my heart. My brother always liked to convert warriors with the least severe injuries to serve as his bodyguard. But this youth has never seen the battlefield before. More rage fills me as I think about my brother. I smother my anger, but the coals still burn hot. Somehow, I managed to keep my sword sheathed. Tell Father Jara that I demand an audience.

My brother keeps me waiting. Of course he does. I paced the room, the smoking incense filling my head and clouding my thoughts. This is just like Jera. Ever since he was a child, he coveted whatever little power he could get his hands on, testing its limits. Not fit as a warrior since birth, he should have had his head caved into the rocks like my deformed children. But my mother forbade my father from doing so. She was a chieftain in her own right before her injury, devout and powerful with the old blood. Though my brother was horribly disfigured, she was She said his hidden eye was larger than any she had ever seen.

He would be able to convene for the gods and serve them well. I love my mother. She brought me and Jera into this world as we tore through her womb. The damage we dealt her was eventually fatal. Jara's deformities made the labor complicated, and she died a few years later. Though I was young when my mother passed away, she still whispers to me. Her voice the loudest of the ancestors watching over me. You hear her today as well, don't you, Raja?

My body shudders at the gravel-filled voice. I turned to face the hideous creature who killed my mother. Jera's body still holds a hint of muscles that show he might have been a warrior, if not for his crooked spine and hunched back. The red robes of his office are ill-fitting against his jagged body, as he limps inside and deeply inhales the incense. Rolled scrolls fill the shelves surrounding us, making me more uncomfortable.

You were told to burn the words of the heathens, brother. Ah, so today I am your brother. Jera's smile is filled with teeth as crooked as his bones. Strange, as you've spent most of your life denying it. Do not change the subject. You were ordered to, scrolls and stories. What we do with them is within the purview of the children of the blood. Brother or not, you would do well not to question our power.

Your power? The power of the gods, Jera specifies, ensuring his words are merely arrogant and not treasonous. It is through them that both warriors and priests obtain their power. Is that not true, brother?

I sigh. His words reminding me why I'm here. Some, many, say that the gods have abandoned us. They would never do that. Jera reaches into his robes. But the rip between worlds has closed. It's made the gods influence in these lands weaker.

What? You knew this, and you did nothing. I've sent you numerous requests for an audience over the years, Raja. You denied all of them. You didn't come to me for help until it was too late. Tell me, was it really because of ignorance? Or do you still hate me for what happened to our mother? His words fill me with shame. Not out of how I treated him. I'm a devout follower of the old ways, and I still think he should have been killed long before he reached this age. But he's right. I should have come to him long before now. We'll mount another crusade, like in the old days. We'll conquer lands lost to us, offer sacrifices to the gods, and it's too late for that, Raja. Jarrah's smile softens. His twisted face made even more horrific

by the sorrow in his expression. We don't have enough of the old bloodline. We don't have enough of the old blood left to challenge the new world. But I think I've managed to create something to ensure our people endure. A sound like thunder fills the room as he pulls a heavy item from his robe and drops it on his desk. Its very presence sickens me. We have no use for written language. And yet my brother has always had a fascination with it, learning all the words and letters

of the conquered lands. A book? Do your blasphemies know no limit, Jera? Nothing is more powerful than a book, Raja. My brother waves for me to come closer. But this is no ordinary book. Look at what I found. I don't have any other choice.

Leaning in, all I see is a blank page. The next page is a stark match to the one before it. Growing frustrated, I flip through more pages. But they're nothing except blank parchment. Jera, I don't have time for your... The knife slides into my throat. with a practiced ease that I didn't know my crippled brother was capable of. I stare at the sorrow in his eyes as he pulls the blade free.

Blood gushes from my wound and takes my strength with it. I fall face first into the pages, red coating my vision. As my consciousness floats from me, I feel my blood being greedily absorbed into the blank book. With the old power fading from me, I don't have the strength to do anything but listen to Jara's words. I am sorry, dear brother. I didn't want to do this to you.

But the old blood flows through your veins like a river, and my creation needed it to live. You are my family, no matter how much you have denied it. And despite how much you have despised me, I have always loved you. But I love our gods and our people more. This book is our reflection. It will hold our history, our triumphs, and our failure. Like us, this book will thirst for blood, and it will reveal its secrets to those who feed it. We will live on through the pages of this book, but this is no ordinary book.

The pages have been made through the tanned hides of the priests of other religions. Its pages are filled with the vestiges of the old blood. The gods and their influence have been cut off through the closing veil, but they shall not be gone forever. gone forever. For this book will attract the devoted ones. Those who carry devite blood will be drawn to it, no matter how much time has passed. And should they prove worthy and offer their own blood to increase the pages? This book will not just be a record of our history. It will develop the ability to change time in our favor. The Deivites shall live on in memory.

If my plan works, then someday it will be as if we never perished. It's never too early to plan your summer story in Europe with WestJet, from rolling countryside to cobblestone streets. Begin your next chapter. Book your seat at westjet.com or call your travel agent. WestJet, where your story takes off. I turned down the radio and see the car parked in my space. Well, not just my space.

It's skewed across several others. Son of a bitch. I pull out my phone to call security, but then recognize Professor Walters compact. It's never a good idea to call security on your boss, so I decide to park farther away and puff it. As I sweat through the hallways, I can't help but think of the changes

that have come over Professor Walters over the past few weeks. He's always been such a studious and quiet man, the type my father would have called a milker. toast. But lately, he's been brash and hostile. And what about the way he parked his car? Professor Walters is getting on in age. Maybe he's suffering from dementia. He's close to retirement and will likely get to pick his successor when he goes. Maybe a little ass-kissing might secure my future. The journey to his office is quick, and soon I'm knocking on his door. Professor Walters, it's me. Is everything all right?

No answer. The professor is close to 70 years old, but is always the first to arrive and quick to answer his door. Concern overwhelms my career plans. I try the knob, and finding it unlocked, I open the door and step inside. Professor Walters? Sorry, the door was...

I gasp and step back. Professor Walters sits at his desk. His skin pale and emaciated. His wrists have been carved open by the least. letter opener on his desk. There's no blood, though, only the book that we curated last month. The book. A sudden unknown emotion uncurls from the pit of my stomach. It's a mix of desire and anger. I reach for the book, but the frail old man's hands have gone stiff with rigor. Brunting, I pry the fingers back one by one until they each snap. With no blood, the skin comes away like

torn pieces of paper. lines fill my vision, but it's not enough. I hoist the chair up and dump the corpse under the floor. I take its seat and start to read. SCP 140 is a modern hard copy with an unremarkable black binding and an unknown number of pages. The book jacket is missing, but the title, A Chronicle of the Devas, is clearly legible. The inside cover is signed by the author, whose name is indecipherable. Careful examination reveals there are far more pages between the bindings than could be contained within them. Readers admit to feelings of paranoia, unease, and occasional nausea while reading SCP-140,

although this may be related to the subject material. Nonetheless, readers almost universally describe SCP-140 as fascinating and express continued interest, despite its frequently unsettling content. One in 15 readers describe SCP-140 as having a faint odor of dried blood. SCP-140 is a detailed account of an ancient civilization, originating in what is now South Central Siberia, identified as the Davites. Although, like all cultures, the Davites evolved and changed over time.

They appear to have exhibited unusual continuity. Universal fixtures of the Davite culture in all periods include militarism, conquest, ancestor worship, urban centers ruling over large slave populations, gruesome human sacrifice, cannibalism, and the practice of apparently efficacious thematurgic rituals. A variety of relics and creatures produced by the Devite culture would be abnormal or dangerous enough if the account is to be believed to qualify for containment in their own right. If SCP-140 comes into contact with any fluid suitable for writing, including human blood, the account of the Davite civilization's history expands.

Although at times the Davites were a collection of city-states, they appear to have consistently returned to imperialism under a theocratic aristocracy. The Deva, practitioners of cannibalism and thalmaturgy. Although initially Foundation researchers believed the Deva to have been a hereditary class recycling the names of noteworthy individuals, evidence suggests that the Deva possessed abnormal longevity. Several researchers have concluded the Deva were so divergent from modern humans as to be a separate subspecies, a conclusion supported by graphic representations within SCP 140. SCP 140 is remarkably detailed by the standards of a primary source,

seeming closer to a biography than a historic text. It includes lurid, descriptions of sacrificial rights, battlefield descriptions, daily life, and the life stories of various noteworthy individuals, including quotes and dates of birth. Foundation archaeologists have discovered several sites containing ruins, consistent with the supposed Deveite culture in various locations across Siberia, northern Iran, and Mongolia. Artifacts and traces of intercultural conflict and contact have been discovered as far west as the Carpathian Mountains, and as far east as northern Pakistan and China.