SCP-6881 SUPPLEMENTARY DOCUMENT ‘KILO’

Link to article: SCP-6881 SUPPLEMENTARY DOCUMENT ‘KILO’.

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[[div class="anchor"]]
[[div class="sidebox"]]
||~ SCP-6881 || **Project: SERAPIS** ||
||||= Supplementary Document ‘KILO’ ||

||= [[image https://i.imgur.com/Q2TCZnd.png style="width: 150px;"]] ||
[[/div]]
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[[=]]
[[module Rate]]
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[[div class="meta-title"]]
SCP-6881 SUPPLEMENTARY DOCUMENT ‘KILO’
[[/div]]

[[div class="pseudocrumbs"]]
[[[scp-6881|Project: SERAPIS]]] >> Supplementary Document ‘KILO’
[[/div]]

@@ @@

+++ ##900|► Play##

[[div class="blockquote"]]
[[div class="blockquote"]]
**GALLIO:** This is Agent Hector Gallio. The following is classified Level 5 under Project: SERAPIS -- O5 EYES ONLY.

Research into the history of Shibbet’s Vale has entailed me contacting several Foundation assets embedded in the worlds of academia, research, politics, and the intelligence community. The identification of the entity beneath Shibbet’s Vale, designated **SCP-6881-2**, with the Slavic deity Mokosh, prompted me to reach out to Foundation researchers and academics in relevant areas, including Professor Monique St. Clair of Durham University in England. Her work for the Foundation on handling and preserving esoteric texts and translating archaic languages is extensive, as are her research skills. She holds Level 2 clearance, and hence is privy to knowledge of the Foundation and its purpose, but not to the specifics of Project: SERAPIS.

Professor St. Clair sent the Project a number of documents, including facsimiles of original texts and her own notes and conclusions, regarding the deity Mokosh and several folk tales and historical recollections drawn from the Birdwhistle Collection. This archive of literature concerning the occult and esoteric was donated to the university in the will of St. John Birdwhistle, a wealthy British eccentric who lived in the North of England and died in 1901. Birdwhistle’s collection was unorganised and poorly maintained, and cataloguing it was a project Professor St. Clair had been working on for several years.

While St. Clair was unaware of any events at Shibbet’s Vale, her scouring of the Birdwhistle Collection proved to have several documents relevant to Project: SERAPIS.
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

+++ ##900|■ Stop##

@@ @@

= **SHOW FILES**

[[div class="big"]]
= SHOW — St. Clair Research [CLASSIFIED 5/SERAPIS]
[[/div]]

[[div class="email"]]
[[div class="tofrom"]]
**RE: Project: SERAPIS**

**From:** Dr. Monique St. Clair <{{[# mstclair@scpfn.int]}}>
**To:** Dr. Hector Gallio <{{[# hgallio@scpfn.int]}}>
[[/div]]
----
Birdwhistle loved to collect what was generally thought to be extinct. His collection originally included examples of vanished species, supposedly captured or killed long after they were believed to have disappeared, and taxidermied to be displayed in his library. These specimens were so imperfectly preserved they no longer exist, for which I am grateful. I don’t need those mouldering things clogging up the university’s rare manuscripts room. Going from their descriptions, they were all fakes. He had a dodo, which was almost certainly cobbled together from several turkeys with a beak whittled down from a Shoebill’s.

The rest of the collection is scarcely more trustworthy. Almost nothing has provenance and even the properly referenced documents tend towards the biased and propagandistic. Many texts were written by Birdwhistle himself based on recollections or anecdotes he had heard. Their benefit stems from their uniqueness. There are events and people referenced in the collection that are simply not recorded anywhere else.

Among Birdwhistle’s interests was the pre-Christian mythologies of several peoples worldwide, including the Slavic peoples of the Baltic region. These Western Slavs were Christianised violently in the 12th and 13th Centuries, during the so-called ‘Northern Crusades’. Their version of Slavic mythology was wiped out, save for the remnants Birdwhistle claimed to have recovered from oblivion. He wrote similarly of the Scottish Picts, including fanciful recreations of their religion, and the Aboriginal Wudjari of Australia, both accounts that are easily disproved as fiction misidentified as fact, or as inventions of Birdwhistle himself. The subset of Slavic myth may be no different. The material is presented with full understanding of this context. Birdwhistle was not a historian. He didn’t even claim to be one. He was a collector of strange things, and in this sense, he was very successful indeed.
----
[[>]]
Dr. Monique St. Clair
Professor
University of Durham
Department of History
[[/>]]
----
= **You Have (1) Attachment**
[[/div]]

[[collapsible hideLocation="both" show="📎 Birdwhistle’s Commentary" hide="− HIDE"]]

[[div class="evidence"]]
++ BIRDWHISTLE COLLECTION
----
+++ 1 -- Birdwhistle’s Commentary
[[/div]]

[[div class="manuscript"]]
I feel no need to apologise for the supernatural quality of this recollection. I merely repeat, to as best my memory permits, the tale I heard from a veteran of the Ottoman war during a night of heavy drinking in St. Petersburg. Between alternately cursing and toasting Tsar Alexander, the old Russian soldier told me rambling tales of his childhood on the Baltic coast. I never learned his name, having referred to him as ‘Ivan’ in drunken mocking of his nationality and never being corrected. For all I am aware, his name really was Ivan.

The land of his birth is a complicated one of Lithuanians, Poles, Latvians, and Finns, all of whom Russia considers Russian and all of whom seem to call themselves something else. Ivan said he was a Russian by law, a Lithuanian by birth and a Pomeranian by blood. I confess that in my inebriated state I neglected to tie down the exact location of his upbringing or of the particular tale I relate here, save that it was on the shores of that chill and forbidding body we call the Baltic Sea.

The story is very old and was passed down over many generations, though Ivan claimed it was in a stable form that did not change over the years. How he could be sure of this I do not know, but he claims it was very vividly impressed upon him by his maternal grandmother and that she, too, knew it word by word as it was told to her.

It concerns a village that survived as part of a pagan enclave, tolerated but largely avoided by Christian neighbours. The time of the so-called Northern Crusades, when the Christianising forces of the Holy Roman Empire marched north to convert the pagans of that region by whatever means they deemed fit, saw a force of German soldiers and peasants pass through the region, and naturally the village presented ample opportunity to spread the word of Christ, whether it involved the sword or not.

A monk named Ekhart was accompanying the crusaders and visited the village to find a grand wooden temple at its centre. This building had seven sides, each one with the image of a huge face made from carved timbers. Ekhart entered this place and found it dark within, though he could see the tables for ritual feasting and the inner cell where a wooden statue of a male figure stood twice Ekhart’s height.

In the temple was a man, whom Ekhart took to be a priest of the pagan religion. The man bade Ekhart sit and eat, for his journey had been long, and though Ekhart was chilled to be in this godless place he accepted. The man was handsome, with long black hair and violet eyes. His voice was as deep as the drone of a honeybee swarm and smooth and sweet as their honey.

The man knew Ekhart was a Christian and asked him about his faith. Ekhart told him, omitting the irrelevant details, of the creation of the world, the kings of Israel, and the birth, death, and resurrection of Christ. This took some time, as one can imagine, but the stranger listened intently. Afterwards he told Ekhart of the pagans’ own faith, and of their various gods. This was a form of Slavic folklore peculiar to the region and among their gods were Velun, lord of Thunder; the mother-goddess Mokosh; the five-faced warrior deity Porevit; and Chernobog, lord of misfortune.

Following their discussion, the pagan priest asked Ekhart if he was going to try to convert him to the faith of Christ. Ekhart replied that he knew there would be no point to this, and he had known since before he entered the temple. In fact, his purpose there was merely to keep the priest deep in conversation until the soldiers accompanying him could surround the temple and prevent the priest’s escape.

Sure enough, soldiers were then gathered at the temple doors, armed ready to rush in and kill the pagan priest. The priest, however, was not afraid, and spoke some words of a language the monk did not know. Fearing pagan witchery, he fled for the nearest door and cried out for the soldiers to throw in lighted brands and burn the temple to the ground.

Ekhart ran out of the temple. The wooden beams soon caught light, and the building was aflame, with the priest inside. Even as the carved faces of the temple walls seemed to breathe fire, the soldiers could hear the priest’s dark words, until the roof fell in.

As if to echo the crash of the temple’s collapse, a thunderclap tore through the sky and a bolt of lightning connected Ekhart to the heavens for a terrible instant. Then he was dead, falling to the ground with his flesh blackened and smoking.

The crusaders buried Ekhart on the outskirts of the village and moved on, never returning to the place, fearful of what vengeance the pagans would have on them, too, if they stayed.

Ivan’s telling of this tale was punctuated with many aggressive assurances that it was true, and that everyone in the region of his birth knew it. When he was finished, I asked how anyone could know the details of Ekhart and the pagan’s conversation if both men were dead, at which Ivan called me a Nihilist Bolshevik and attempted to throw me through the window of the drinking establishment. Fortunately, his strength was sapped by the volume of alcohol he had imbibed, and I survived intact enough to commit his story to paper, after two days of recovering from the night’s excesses.
[[/div]]

[[/collapsible]]

[[div class="email"]]
[[div class="tofrom"]]
**RE:RE: Project: SERAPIS**

**From:** Dr. Monique St. Clair <{{[# mstclair@scpfn.int]}}>
**To:** Dr. Hector Gallio <{{[# hgallio@scpfn.int]}}>
[[/div]]
----
The attached document is one Birdwhistle claimed to have recovered from the personal effects of a Russian aristocrat who fled to Paris after falling foul of the politics of the Tsar’s court. This aristocrat was said to trace his roots back to the Early Middle Ages among the Curonian people of the Baltic. Birdwhistle does not name this aristocrat, but the document is of the appropriate age and appears genuine, even if its contents may be a fiction. Its unnamed narrator, and presumably author, wrote in Old Prussian. The document describes a battle which I have not conclusively identified, but which is likely a part of the Livonian and Teutonic Orders’ campaigns in the 1260s.
----
[[>]]
Dr. Monique St. Clair
Professor
University of Durham
Department of History
[[/>]]
----
= **You Have (1) Attachment**
[[/div]]

[[collapsible hideLocation="both" show="📎 Curonian Girl Document" hide="− HIDE"]]

[[div class="evidence"]]
++ BIRDWHISTLE COLLECTION
----
+++ 2 -- Curonian Girl Document
[[/div]]

[[div class="manuscript doc2"]]
The Christians reached us in the early morning, before the sun was up. Freezing fog rolled in off the sea and the land was under a cold grey blanket. Our people were on the higher ground outside the town. Two hundred of them, with all the weapons they could put to hand. We are warriors and pirates. Our neighbours fear us and even the men across the sea know better than to send their longboats to our shores. We were not afraid.

I was on the edge of town, watching with most of the other women. I saw the Christians emerge from the forest where they had been camped. Most of them were spearmen drawn from the peasants of the lords who commanded the Christians, but at their heart were men they called the Teutonic Knights. They were encased in steel and wore white with a black cross, the sign of their god. Three hundred men and fifty knights faced us, but still we were not afraid.

As the Christians crossed the sodden ground, they had to abandon their horses and move on foot. Our people held firm, and as the first arrows fell, Porevit appeared at the front of our ranks.

The Christians knew Porevit only as the name of our god, and thought him nothing but a figure in our images and prayers. What they saw was real. Porevit towered over any man, and the rising sun cast his shadow long across the battlefield. He glared down at the enemy with his five faces. His hands reached down, and they plucked two men from the Christian army, one spearman and one armoured knight, though Porevit was still a whole bowshot from their lines.

The Christians cried out to see things that were impossible to them. To Porevit, a great distance is as only an arm’s length, and his five faces can look in all directions at once. Some Christians quailed and sought to flee, but were forced forward by the men behind them. The knights prayed aloud, calling upon their god to strike down Porevit, but they have only one god while we have many and theirs dared not show his face.

Porevit led our people down off the heights towards the Christians. They had expected our people to remain on the heights and defend it, and they were caught flat-footed by the charge. Porevit was in the fore as he laid all about him with his bare hands, for he needed no weapons. Our axes and swords fell among them, and the ground became black with blood. A great tumult rose from the throng, of men screaming in pain, the clash of metal on metal and the sound of men crushed by Porevit’s hands.

Our god’s five faces transfixed men with five glares full of anger. The Christians who froze as Porevit glared at them were struck down and broken by his fists. Around him our people rushed into the middle of the Christians as they tried to flee from Porevit, and killed them in their dozens. Only the Teutonic Knights sought to hold firm, but at a great cost of blood they were surrounded and pulled down, and butchered down in the bloodsoaked mud.

We watched and cheered, and sang, and wailed when we saw one of our men killed. My father fell, but I held back my tears for it was bravely, beneath the sword of a Teutonic Knight.

The killing lasted until the mist receded and the sun was fully up, glittering on the ocean. Less than half the Christians fled into the forests. The women rushed onto the bloody field to finish off the wounded of the enemy, and also those of our men who were wounded too gravely to survive.

Porevit stood in the centre of the carnage exulting in his victory. Blood ran down his five faces, and it rose in red streams from the ground into his five mouths. He drank deep of the destruction he had wrought.

His eyes closed in satisfaction at the pain and violence he tasted. I walked close to him, and took a sword from the ground.

He was not Porevit. Our god was old, far older than the creature that took his name. He came to our lands generations ago, but we remembered and told the story even as he began using Porevit’s name and fashioned itself into his image.

He demanded sacrifices of us. He sustained himself on our blood and our fear. He saw fear in our faces when we bowed in worship, but in truth, we were filled not with fear but with hatred.

We swore we would rid ourselves of him, but his ten eyes never closed. All who challenged him, he killed. His reach was leagues long and his strength was not that of a man. So, we passed down the oath from one generation to the next, mother to daughter and father to son, even as he gave up our best and most beautiful to him for him to feast upon.

Now, sated with Christian blood, he was oblivious for a moment to all around him.

Our people watched me, realising this was the only chance in many generations. I gripped the sword tight. We are warriors, women and men, and though the men do not let us risk our skins in battle we will find a way to fight.

I felt the bone scraping on the blade as it passed between his ribs. I heard five mouths gasping in shock and pain. I twisted the sword, and I felt muscle tearing and the hiss of the air from his punctured lungs.

Porevit fell to his knees. His five mouths fell open. His ten eyes rolled back.

The women and the surviving men saw him fall. I felt their relief, though they were silent.

I dropped the sword. The blood was hot on my hand. Porevit fell into the mud and gore, and he was dead.

We gathered and stood over the body. No one said anything. We were watching to see if he was really dead, for whatever he really was, he was not a normal man. But he did not move. His body turned cold, and ten eyes glazed over like those of a long-dead fish.

Together we cut into the sodden earth, to dig a grave for our god.
[[/div]]

[[/collapsible]]

[[div class="email"]]
[[div class="tofrom"]]
**RE:RE:RE: Project: SERAPIS**

**From:** Dr. Monique St. Clair <{{[# mstclair@scpfn.int]}}>
**To:** Dr. Hector Gallio <{{[# hgallio@scpfn.int]}}>
[[/div]]
----
Porevit is described as possessing five faces in the few other sources that mention him. The images made of him carry no weapons, though it is speculated from the root words in his name that he was a deity of war or strength. The story in Birdwhistle’s story is not referenced in any other studies and is presumably the only copy. I have included it as, like the tale of Ekhart the monk, it suggests a physical manifestation of the pagan Slavic deities. It is of interest that the Courland Girl believed Porevit to be an imposter, an evidently anomalous entity using the name and legend of Porevit to attain authority among the Baltic peoples.

Another document in Middle High German appears to have been copied from an original, around two centuries after the original was written. It consists of pages cut out from a larger volume. The borders of the pages are illuminated with leafy vines that wrap around the bodies of various fanciful creatures, including mermaids and unicorns along with less common figures such as winged fish and storks with human heads. As a later copy and with no known provenance, its authenticity is impossible to verify and, as with the story of the Curonian Girl, was valued by Birdwhistle purely as an example of the exotic and supernatural. Nevertheless, it fits the criteria specified by your information request, and I have included it here. From the context, it was purportedly written by a German mercenary employed in one of the campaigns of the Northern Crusade, though the exact date is impossible to pin down.
----
[[>]]
Dr. Monique St. Clair
Professor
University of Durham
Department of History
[[/>]]
----
= **You Have (1) Attachment**
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[[collapsible hideLocation="both" show="📎 German Mercenary Document" hide="− HIDE"]]

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++ BIRDWHISTLE COLLECTION
----
+++ 3 -- German Mercenary Document
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[[div class="manuscript doc3"]]
We have come so far; we are no longer in the lands we know. To the south are the Mongols. To the north, a frozen expanse that never ends. To the east, I cannot say, for there no Christian, I believe, has ever been. In the pursuit of our quarry, we have walked into the jaws of the great predator that is this cold and unfriendly land. Westwards are the lands of Novgorod, which seemed so harsh and strange but which I remember now as fondly as the hearth of the home where I was born.

I write these words because, should I never reach shelter and comfort before I fall, I do not wish what I have seen to go unremembered. Perhaps I have handed these pages to the Bishop of Lübeck, and suffered his disbelieving scorn to bring such an outlandish story to his notice. Perhaps they were torn from my frozen fingers, my life having been spent attempting the walk back westwards. I pray only that someone will read them.

After so long following the prey, we were low on the provisions we had secured from the native peoples, and were seeking more. The onset of winter meant there was little to be found, save what we could hunt and the berries that were not too bitter to eat. Reinholt had resisted my arguments that we should abandon the pursuit and return towards Novgorod, but insisted the quarry was worth the risking of our lives. Knowing my chances were better with him rather than alone, I had carried on.

We had spoken with some natives who indicated our prey had passed through a certain valley a few days before, and now we had reached the place where the valley opened into an endless swathe of snowbound forest. It was as we trudged towards the end of the day through this woodland, hoping to see some sign our hunt was not ended, that I glimpsed a more vivid green between the dark branches all about me. I pointed it out to Reinholt, and we clambered through the undergrowth towards what seemed more and more a strange spot of brightness in the gloom.

We emerged into a glade of astonishing lushness and vitality. In place of the dark conifers were soaring trees with bright green foliage, hung with clusters of plump white fruit. Bushes covered the ground to the height of my waist and their flowers were of every colour. Birds fluttered everywhere with plumage of purple and yellow, and sang from their roosts among the branches. I saw beetles bright as jewels and dragonflies around pools of water thick with reeds. Even the sun seemed brighter in that glade, shining down from the sky that was so miserly elsewhere.

The perfume of the flowers was so strong it made me light-headed. Reinholt bade we wait a while before venturing into the glade, for fear it was some form of shared madness. Perhaps, said he, we were dead, and this was the first glimpse afforded us of paradise. Why then, I said, should we halt at its threshold? But so overwhelming was the sight I, too, paused to take in the sight before walking through the abundance of flowers.

We made camp in the verdant glade, though we scarcely needed shelter in its balmy air. I had to clear a place in the long grass and shrubs for a fire. Our rations were meagre, so Reinholt and I scavenged for food, with Reinholt climbing some of the trees to gather an armful of the white fruit. I cautioned him that it resembled no plant I knew of, and that eating any great amount of it was unwise without first ascertaining its effects on our digestion. I snared a couple of the brightly coloured birds with wire loops on a branch where they settled, but after plucking each one yielded scarcely a mouthful of meat.

The heady scent of nectar must have dulled my mind for I fell asleep, though my stomach still grumbled.

I dreamed as if in a fever. I saw the spires of Lübeck as they were rapidly un-made and sank into the ground. The people of the town where I was born lay in a mass in the streets and writhed, tangled together like the tails of rats. As I walked my body came apart, my feet and ankles, then my legs, and when I reached up to my face, I felt my teeth come out of my jaw in a glistening chunk of blood and bone.

I lay in the gutter with the other people of Lübeck and watched the sky as the sun passed across it and set. Then the next day dawned, and then next, the sun hurtling ever faster across the sky until the flashes of day and night made my head whirl. The stars span in a ballet and changed form, becoming all colours and shapes, as if the light of the heavens were bleeding through the veil of night.

Though I remained helpless in the gutter, somehow I saw all the world around me as its trees rose and smothered the cities of man and the farmlands become untamed swathes of forest. Rain fell that was green and like congealed fat in thickness, and where it fell more life sprouted up. Strange creatures of feather, fur, and scale, multitudes of legs and misshapen wings that yet gave them flight. Insects that towered higher than a man, beetles with backs like coverings of silver and spiders that dragged fat bellies full of young.

I remember it all in such vividness. I seem to see those colours when I close my eyes. I could recall to you every leaf, every feather and fang, if I had but the means to communicate them. Had I skill at the visual arts, and consigned these things to canvas or vellum, I would be dubbed a madman and my works burned by the church for their strangeness. It is bad enough they exist in my head. They were beautiful and terrible, the sight of the world denuded of men as horrible to me as the vision of them contorted and screaming in the streets.

When I awoke it was to see shafts of glittering moonlight falling between the laden branches of the glade. I wondered that I did not shiver with the cold, but that wonder soon died away when I heard a scream from nearby and realised that Reinholt was not beside me.

I drew my sword and sought the direction of the sound. I heard again the same voice, this time letting out a cry that was cut off as if by a strangling hand around the throat.

In the moonlight I saw Reinholt. His blood was glistening black in the silver moonlight. He had stripped to the waist, revealing his torso emaciated with the journey’s privation. Vines were woven in and out of his skin. Thorns punctured his flesh as they wound around his arms. Flowers bloomed from his chest, and the skin there hung in tatters where they had burst through.

His face was disfigured with blisters the size of a man’s fist, like the extreme deformity of some awful disease. Shapes wriggled in those blisters, and I was reminded with a lurch to my stomach of tadpoles in frogspawn ready to hatch.

I could not see my companion’s eyes. He spoke, and his voice was a dry rasp.

He said the fruit was delicious, and he had never tasted better. And that he would stay in that glade for good, drinking the nectar of his goddess, and revel in the embraces of her young.

I ran from the sight of my companion. I am not ashamed to admit I was gripped in a terror so complete I fled headlong through the foliage of the glade, and cut and tore myself in a hundred places without noticing the pain. I heard Reinholt laughing after me, and entreating me to stay with him where I could partake in the same delights as he.

I turned back just once, a few steps from the edges of the glade. I saw Reinholt loping after me, shambling and slow for his limbs were torn and bleeding. And behind him, framed in the moonlight as if inlaid with silver, the figure of a tall and finely proportioned woman. Her long hair was like the leaves of a fern and birds with long plumage flocked around her.

It was our quarry, the one we had journeyed so long to hunt. The one the pagans called Mokosh, a god of the forest, but also a real being in flesh. We had found her, but she had found us first.

I ran from that glade into the chill forest, stumbling I hoped westwards. The hunt was finished, and the prey was taken, for I fancy Reinholt and I were the prey all along.

I have been wondering for many days. I have not seen any natives of this land, nor seen any settlements or landmarks from which I might find my way. I have eaten frozen berries from thorn bushes and bark peeled from the trees. Perhaps I shall die, but if I breathe my last without suffering the fate of Reinholt, I shall think I am the more blessed of us two.

My belly is empty, but I would rather that, than be full of the bounty of Mokosh.
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[[div class="tofrom"]]
**RE:RE:RE:RE: Project: SERAPIS**

**From:** Dr. Monique St. Clair <{{[# mstclair@scpfn.int]}}>
**To:** Dr. Hector Gallio <{{[# hgallio@scpfn.int]}}>
[[/div]]
----
Aside from the documents themselves, I also researched the materials pertaining to the use of Birdwhistle’s archives. Following his death, his executors took over maintenance of the archive and appointed their own experts in an attempt to organise and catalogue it. This included keeping records of who was granted access to the archive and the material they viewed. Though as inconsistent as the rest of the archive, this effort did result in evidence I feel is relevant to the research area.

The documents I have included, along with some others tangentially related, were all checked out of the archive over a period of two months in 1922. They were viewed on-site, by someone signing themselves ‘Professor J. A. Stockley.’ This name is familiar to me. He was an academic and doctor who worked as what was then known as an ‘alienist,’ something akin to a modern-day psychiatrist. He was based in London and died in 1936.

I am familiar with him because he was one of my predecessors. Us academics tend to move in small circles and the numbers of those involved in the SCP Foundation’s work are smaller still. Like myself, Professor Stockley advised the Foundation on matters pertaining to his academic specialty and was granted a security level to assist in his work.

My research was not the first time the Foundation sought information on Mokosh and associated deities from Birdwhistle’s archive. The subject and the material are obscure and specific enough, it is impossible this is a coincidence. I include this information as I believe it may be relevant.
----
[[>]]
Dr. Monique St. Clair
Professor
University of Durham
Department of History
[[/>]]
[[/div]]

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[[include :scp-wiki:component:coltop
| show=SHOW — COMMENTARY — DR. GALLIO: St. Clair Research
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**GALLIO:**

What ended at Shibbet’s Vale did not begin there. A workable hypothesis sees the entity beneath Shibbet’s Vale originating in the Baltic region and fleeing from the Christianisation of the Northern Crusades. It passed across Siberia, during which time it was pursued by the German mercenary and his companion. Once at the easternmost extent of the Asian continent, it crossed the Bering Straits into what would later be known as North America and reached Southern Montana before ceasing its flight.

If the Curonian Girl’s statements are correct, Mokosh and her fellow Slavic deities were not figures of myth at all, but entities of an unknown kind that adopted the names and attributes of those figures to gain authority and security among the Baltic peoples. It is also possible, again depending on the reliability of these sources, that some of them died during the Northern Crusades. Mokosh escaped, but others did not. Perhaps Mokosh is the last one left.

It is impossible to say what Mokosh truly is. Its origin is lost in the intersection of history and myth. It may be an anomalous human, an extra-terrestrial, a cross-dimensional entity, or any one of a thousand possible categories of anomaly. It is likely impossible to tell without acquiring and containing it.

Of more immediate concern is the fact the Foundation may have known all this already. The purpose of Project: SERAPIS was to ascertain if the history of Shibbet’s Vale could be dug up by a determined and well-resourced researcher. This in turn implied there was something about the anomaly there the Foundation wanted to keep hidden. I feel I am on the cusp of discovering what that is, what happened in the 1920s the O5 Council still fears coming to light.

I am very close to shining that light on Shibbet’s Vale. I think perhaps it would be better to leave it in the dark, even as I know I cannot.

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**| [[[scp-6881|Return to Project: SERAPIS]]] |**
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[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box
|author=Ben Counter, Pacific Obadiah, & edited by LordStonefish, Lt Flops]]
[[<]]
=====
> **Filename:** [https://i.imgur.com/Q2TCZnd.png Q2TCZnd.png]
> **Name:** Overwatch Command Logo
> **Author:** [[*user EstrellaYoshte]]
> **License:** [https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported (CC BY-SA 3.0)]
> **Source Link:** [[[/desk-of-junior-designer-s-yvonne|Desk of Junior Designer S. Yvonne - SCP Foundation]]]
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SCP-6881 SUPPLEMENTARY DOCUMENT ‘KILO’

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