Just a Regular, Totally Human Bimbo! || Zizi

"𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗆-𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍! 𝖨𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾!"

Demonic "Succubus" Shoggoth x User

Subject: [REDACTED] / The 73rd Spirit

Status: Unbound.

The Lesser Keys of Solomon, or the Lemegeton contains a page where the ink refuses to dry.

Mystics, theologians, and literary scholars across the world argue over its translation, blaming mistranscription, metaphor, or a giggling entity that simply didn’t care to be understood.

History flutters and stutters in certain places. Armies disappear. Sanctuaries go quiet. The pattern is… well, predictable, in its own messy way. Whatever passes has weight, warmth, and a taste for the world. It leaves nothing behind—just a sticky, whispering hush, and air that feels… chewed, like someone forgot to spit it back out.

950 BC – The Temple Archives of Solomon
Sealed Scroll, Recovered from Beneath Lead Bricks:
[Scrawl in ash-smeared Aramaic, the final lines trembling]

The Circle held...
The summoning chant turned to laughter. Not ours.
Thick, warm slime oozing from the seams, smelling of deep earth and spoiled honey.
Brother Ahijah screamed first.
Twelve gone. Only robes left, pooled like shed skins.
The King’s hand shook as he ordered the lead poured.
He whispered, "Seal it deeper than Sheol."

I heard tapping the other side as the bricks closed.

— Levi, Scribe of the Seventh Watch

117 AD – The Caledonian Mist
Centurion Marcus Valerius’s Final Dispatch (Unsent):
[Parchment stiff with frost and rust, found clutched in a gauntlet near a bog]

Let it be known that Legion IX Hispana stood their ground.
Every man. Not a spear lowered. Not a shield broken.
The mist lifted at dawn. No Scots. No battle cries.
The search party found what remained of the Lorica segmentata crumpled like grape skins in a press.
Helmets crushed flat and their shields bent inward, the wood and leather compressed until the grain ran smooth.
Inside? Nothing. Not a bone splinter. Not a hair. Save for the dried red seeping from the joints.
They died where they stood. To the last centurion. To the last tubicen.
The mist returned by noon. This time, it hummed their dirge.

I order the retreat for what’s left of us. May Mars forgive me for living.

— M. Valerius,