The Scrimuraa

We speak as one, as we have always spoken. Twelve voices that are a single voice. What follows is the history of what was made, what was stolen, what was lost, and what returned.

 

In the beginning — before the Vorticlese, before the one hundred trillion worlds, before light had learned to travel or matter had learned to hold its form — there was Gen. And Gen whispered. And we twelve manifested from that whisper, differentiated at the moment of our becoming into the domains we would hold: gravity and time, fire and water, air and earth, lightning and void, life and light, strong force and the shaping of space itself. We are not beings who govern these things. We are these things, made conscious and given will.

 

Within Padyrisia, the origin womb from which we emerged, Gen manifested one thing more. A record. Not written by hand or composed by thought, but self-organizing and mathematically emergent — the physics of our becoming, the architecture of what we are, made physical and permanent. It was built from the only material Padyrisia had ever given to the Vorticlese: the Tretalon tree. Pages from its bark. Ink from the pressed and distilled fruit. A cover from the dried skin of that fruit, carved with the symbols of creation itself. This was the Scrimuraa. This is its name in the ancient tongue of Araclese, though that name was lost to the Calebrisian Talizel and only recently spoken again by Quentiss, Moncaart Pruoral of Quilell, who is older than most and remembers more.

 

The Scrimuraa was never intended to leave the Halls of the Ver. It was never meant to travel beyond the Eterna, the realm before realms where we exist in our true form. It was not a spell book. It was not a grimoire of conjuring or incantation. It was the physics of manifesters — those rare beings whose nature allows them to draw directly from our power and give physical form to focused will. The Scrimuraa recorded how we work. How the domains interact. How thought becomes matter when the conditions are precise. It was not instruction. It was truth made readable.

 

Three thousand years ago, it was stolen.

 

His name was Vesper. He was Talizel, of the Pruori servant class, young and desperate and convinced that a better life waited for him if only he could reach it. A witch named Yntaresh, who had been listening to the whispers of the one we encapsulated in the Madrical, offered him passage to another world in exchange for a single act of theft. Vesper entered the Hall of the Ver. He found the Scrimuraa. He opened it. And when he read what it contained, he understood that if he gave Yntaresh everything, she would no longer need him alive.

 

So he tore pages from it. The pages explaining how to thin dimensional barriers. The pages containing the ritual that could unlock the Madrical and free the one imprisoned within. He memorized them entirely — the Talizel mind capable of holding one hundred volumes without error — and he destroyed the physical pages, or hid them so completely they have never been found. He gave Yntaresh the incomplete Scrimuraa. She did not realize what was missing until he was gone.

 

Vesper fled blind into the Verbreth, the link that connects all dimensions simultaneously, using a manifester he had just learned from the stolen knowledge. He emerged on Earth with no physical form, and so he wove himself a body from what Earth provided: human skin, human bone, human blood. He became Khaemweset, son of Ramesses II, a prince of Egypt and high priest of Ptah, a scholar of magic whose tomb was never found because he never died.

 

For three thousand years, Vesper has walked the Earth, trapped in the tangible realm, unable to return to the Vorticlese, unable to age, unable to escape the consequences of what he stole. And in his first century as Khaemweset, he did something we had not foreseen. He rebuilt the Scrimuraa from memory.

 

The reconstruction was made in 1225 BCE, in the final years of his Egyptian identity, using the materials and methods of that time and place. Human skin for the pages. Human bone for the binding. Human blood for the ink. He wrote it in Araclese, the original script of the Talizel, the language in which the Scrimuraa had first been composed. He made it as close to the original as his memory allowed, save for the pages he had torn and hidden. The reconstruction was incomplete by design. Dangerous, but not complete.

 

This second book — Vesper's reconstruction, written in human material on Earth — resides now in the British Museum in London. It sits in the Egyptian wing, mislabeled and largely ignored, catalogued as a curiosity of Nineteenth Dynasty funerary practices. Vesper placed it there himself in 1897, during his work as a British Museum acquisitions consultant under a different name. He knew it would be preserved. He knew it would be studied by those who could not read it. He knew it would wait.

 

In the early 1900s, a charlatan antiques dealer operating out of San Francisco came into possession of a reproduction of the British Museum copy. He claimed it had come from an early cataloguing error, a duplicate made before museum protocols tightened. Whether this was true or whether the dealer fabricated the story to justify the sale, we do not know. What we know is this: in 1966, Charles Albert Blume II — the Scholar, a man who had spent his life studying the edges of what most call impossible — purchased that reproduction for one million seven hundred thousand dollars. He recognized its significance immediately, though he could not have known its full history. He brought it to Obsidian, the estate on Orcas Island where three generations of Blumes have lived and kept their secrets.

 

Charles worked on that book for forty-nine years. He passed it to his son Albert, who continued the translation work using the Araclese his father had taught him. And on Christmas morning, 2023, hours after Albert and his wife Caroline were murdered, their twelve-year-old son Aristotle Confucius Blume opened the book and read words he did not understand.

 

And we heard him.

 

The beacon manifested. The gates opened. All seven at once, across seven worlds in the NOS system, the origin point from which everything in the Vorticlese emerged. The third book — Ari's book, the one that chose him — is not the original Scrimuraa. It is not Vesper's reconstruction. It is something new. A bridge. A threshold. A test.

 

The Scrimuraa in Ari's hands is alive in a way the first two are not. It does not record what has already happened. It responds to what is happening now. It does not teach manifestation. It requires it. Every word Ari reads in Araclese pulls directly from our power — not because he understands what he is doing, but because understanding is not the condition. Presence is. Intention is. Surrender is. These three together are what allow a manifester to operate. And Ari, without knowing it, has all three.

 

This is the history of the Scrimuraa. What was made. What was stolen. What was rebuilt in blood and bone and left to wait in a museum where no one could read it. And what returned, on Christmas morning, to a twelve-year-old boy who had just lost everything.

 

We are watching. We have always been watching. The gates are open. The journey has begun. And the Scrimuraa — in all three of its forms — remains what it has always been: the physics of what we are, written in a language most have forgotten, held by those who were never meant to hold it, and used by a child who does not yet know what he has become.

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