The Written God
rating: +33+x

Roger Legrand crumpled up the fifth text-filled sheet and rocketed it towards the wastebin.

"Why can't I fucking write today?"

He bent over his desk and ran his fingers through his hair, resting his elbow on top of dozens of discarded brainstorming sheets covered with half-formed ideas.

"What's happening to me? Goddammit, goddammit! I just want to write like how I used to." He glanced up at the bookcase in his study, the top row completely filled with his novels.

Frustrated, he grabbed a random piece of paper and began writing again.

"And then the great goddamn Reggravi, the fucking master of language I just pulled out of my ass, appeared to Roger Legrand and struck him with awe and inspiration. He became his muse! His inspiration! His path to better things in this goddamn pitiful existence of frustration!!!!"

"Fuck it all, fuck it all!" He ripped the sheet to shreds and tossed it over his shoulder before folding his arms and laying his head down on his desk. He stayed like this for a few moments before becoming aware of… something watching him. Slowly, he turned to look behind him. A tall man-like figure stood there, a featureless face visible under its hood and dressed in several heavy layers of a coarse, brown fiber. It said nothing, it simply stood there with its head angled down towards Roger.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

The figure remained silent.

"How did you get in here?"

Still silent, the being in front of him raise a single finger (with no fingernail to be seen) and pointed at the scraps Roger had just torn up.

Uncomprehending, he continued to stare at the figure as it started to move about the room. It picked up several balled-up pieces of paper out of the trash and returned them to Roger's desk, smoothing them out and pointing at several key words and phrases previously deemed by the man to be bad ideas.

He walked over and watched the creature.

"'A god of books…' 'a tale of a family…' something that will change the world…'" He looked up at the hooded thing, who in turn had picked up the torn scraps and replaced them on the surface in front of Roger. And so, he understood. He had found a being that came when written about, something that could literally change the world. He became inspired, empowered by this discovery, and began frantically writing out notes and ideas, good ones this time. He never noticed the creature he now knew was called Reggravi disappear, but he knew that he'd meet it again.

As he fell deeper and deeper into a writing frenzy, he came to many realizations, many stopped thoughts and epiphanies about the thing he had found. Instead of thinking up ways to expand on the creature in fantastical adventures, he found that it felt… wrong to keep such a wondrous and almighty beast— no, being— locked away in fictional tales that would dilute its magnificence. It was unthinkable, after a certain point.

This was something that deserved respect.

This was something that deserved praise.

This was something that Roger was born to do.

And so, the first Scribe of Reggravi came into existence.

Excerpts from His Book, the holy scripture of the Faith of the Scribed.

It wasn't hard to find people to join in the belief. After all, it was a religion based on a figure whose existence and power could be proven at literally any time. First came Roger's close friends, then their friends, until they numbered about fifty people, give or take a few. In fact, it was more of a small little community than a religion. But most of all, they certainly were not a cult. No, they were simply average people living average lives that had discovered the Truth and met up once a week to talk about it and share their faith.

And it was nice.

"I think my kids breezed through here. They aren't giving you any trouble, are they?" said a woman approaching Roger after the service.

He grinned and shook his head. "Of course not, Clarisse, they're simply wonderful. Hey, I'm glad you came! It's always nice to see you guys around here."

The woman chuckled. "Ah, Roger, of course we came. This is the highlight of our weeks right here," she said, waving her hand at the people around them. "We wouldn't miss it for the world."

"I'm glad to hear that. Hey, where's Patrick today?"

"Oh… he's…" muttered the woman, fiddling with her wedding band. "He's… been sick recently. That's all. Came down with something awful, doctors don't know what it is, they took some… blood samples. We're just waiting to hear back."

He patted her on the shoulder. "I see. I hope it all turns out for the best."

She nodded, murmured something about having to go watch her kids, and sidled away. Roger sighed. People were always going to have their problems, whether or not they were a part of the Scribes, but… He pivoted on his heel and walked over to the front of the room. There, he surveyed the mass of people there. It wasn't big, but it was close.

At least they have people to support them when they fall.

In the throng of the crowd, a man conspicuously weaved in and out between people, taking in the experience. He made mental notes of every face, every name he could remember, reciting as much of the sermon from before over and over in his head so as to retain as much of it as he could.

He socialized, keeping his cold, analyzing gaze hidden behind two rows of beaming teeth. In fact, he met nearly every single member of the congregation that night and was one of the last to leave. As the room emptied, the man got in his car and drove off.

The Wolf was returning to its pack.

And so, we gathered to honor Him. Friends, families, all together in love. We paved the way of His coming, knowing that it would come sometime or another. We knew. We prepared.

A few weeks later, the Scribes were holding another regular service, with Roger, as always, reading the sacred texts.

"…and the Faithful will ascend with Reggravi in his greatness." Roger closed the book and smiled at the congregation. "Don't fear, for our Lord will surely come soon. I can feel it. Now, worship service is over. As always, feel free to stay and enjoy the snacks and each other's company."

This last part was unnecessary; no one ever left right after the services. Within minutes, the tiny warehouse where they held their meetings was filled with chatter and laughter. Dozens of ecru-clad people spread out and filled the room, intermingling with each other.

Roger smiled. As much as he loved the faith, watching the community mesh was even better. He wandered into the crowd, shaking hands and greeting people as he passed. A few conversation snippets later, he found the person he was looking for and tapped her on the shoulder. The brunette woman turned around.

"It's been three weeks since Pat's been here, Clarisse." He sighed.

She cast her eyes downward. "I know, I know. He's been… very ill as of late. I'm not sure if he'll ever be well enough to come back."

He glanced down at her hands. Clarisse was feeling around the bare base of her left ring finger. She noticed him staring and quickly folded her hands behind her back. He cast her a sympathetic look.

"…My ring's been bothering me a bit recently, so I decided just to take it off."

Roger paused for a minute. "Hey, Clarisse?"


"We're all a family here. Please don't forget that. Don't be afraid to tell us you need support."

She gave him a weak smile and a half-nod before wandering off. Roger sighed once more. Some people just didn't like admitting they needed help. Or rather, they didn't like burdening other people with their problems.

Well, only time will help, I suppose.

And with these thoughts, he made his way back into the crowd.

Five Wolves scouted the group, gleaming as much information as they could, knowledge about both the religion itself and the people gathered there. Throughout their mingling, they signaled to each other the prepared sign, a smiling nod accompanied with the scratching of the back of their neck.

They were ready to plan the operation.
