The king of all beasts has been made into carrion: a Delta Green mystery scenario and monster

20 May, 2025

Group experimentation with Toasty using Phlox's automated version of Loch and Louis's monster generator (for a grab bag of various monsters yet forthcoming) led to the following delightful result:

FORM: BIG CAT
DANGER: AMBUSH
MIEN: EATEN
HABITAT: DREAMS
DRIVE: SECURITY
WEAKNESS: LEAD

I got carried away and turned it into something that's more of an adventure scenario than a standalone bestiary entry. Perhaps it's a job for Delta Green...

McKean County, PA

For the past six nights, every child in McKean County, Pennsylvania, has suffered from terrible, unceasing nightmares. Parents try to shake their children awake, but they simply thrash and whimper. When eventually they do awake, they share tales of pursuit by some horrible predator in a labyrinth of non-Euclidean corridors.

But this is not the worst of it. Every night, one child never wakes from their nightmares. To hear the families tell it, the child screams in their sleep and snaps their eyes open, but they stare at nothing—they never escape their drooling coma. Shortly after the outburst, they begin to bleed from the nose, and they die shortly thereafter. Six children have died so far. Another will die tonight.

Public opinion is that it's some sort of new virus, spread like wildfire in the schools. Perhaps a new covid strand? Parents have begun to keep their children home from school and extracurriculars. Others think it's fluoride and prevent their children from drinking the tap water, relying instead on bottled or that which comes from personal wells. No one who isn't still masking starts again.

Surgery on a child killed by nightmares reveals massive lacerations in the amygdala, as if by fangs and claws, though the surrounding skin or skull is entirely damage-free. The first autopsy was performed two days ago by a local mortician, and the results—sent to a larger regional hospital to aid in identification—triggered the interest of a Delta Green friendly, who ran it up the chain. Thus the information comes to you.

Investigation into the epicenter of the deaths and nightmares—accounting for population density—points to Custer City, a small, unincorporated community just south of Bradford. It will likely take weeks of deaths to have enough data points from deaths alone to come to this information.

16 Shep Run Rd., Custer City

Located on the rural outskirts of Custer City, itself on the rural outskirts of Bradford, the residents of Shep Run Road are a close-knit, little community—all except for the inhabitants of number sixteen. Green lawns and suburban houses are surrounded by thick oak forest on all sides, punctuated only by the occasional hunting trail or crick (the most notable being the eponymous Sheppard Run), and of the twenty-two houses nestled together on Shep Run Road, only number sixteen has a fence separating it from its neighbors.

The Washingtons moved to Custer City a year and a half ago from San Jose, when Christine, 40, took a teaching position at The University of Pittsburgh at Bradford (just a fifteen minute drive down the road!). Her husband, Michael, 33, appreciates the neighborhood's tranquility, though his remote work is impacted by occasional internet outages. They had the fence put in to give their two daughters (Sofia, 7, and Emma, 5) a space to play outside where the parents needn't supervise so closely. The open woods so close at hand worries the two native southern Californians. Of course, there was no illusion that their aging indoor-outdoor cat—a veteran traveler that's seen four moves with the Washingtons at this point—would stick within its bounds. And, of course, he hasn't, though he always returns home eventually. Until now.

The Washingtons haven't seen him in six days, and both Michael and Christine have started to worry, though aloud they only reassure the kids. No one wants to speak a terrible truth into existence. They're also a bit busy with the nightmare epidemic, an epidemic that the Washingtons have not yet realized that Sofia and Emma are immune to. They do not suffer from nightmares, and they will never be killed by the king of all beasts, who remembers snuggling up next to them while napping the hours away, safe and loved. In three days, the Washingtons will alert the family pediatrician about this anomalous immunity, and the information will reach the agents the next morning. That same day, Michael and the kids will start putting up posters: Help Him Come Home!

Six days ago, Michael was on a 10–10:30 a.m. Zoom meeting in his office (window faces the backyard) when he heard what he thought was either a gunshot or a firework—a gunshot or a firework that sounded extremely close by. He looked out the window and didn't see anything out of sort, nor did he hear another blast, so he didn't investigate further. The only result was a quick apology for the background noise: Pennsylvania's full of hunters—it must be that time of year. Yes, very different from San Jose, haha.

Investigation of the Washingtons' backyard reveals a lazily-kept lawn with an area near the back marked for a future jungle gym, a project inevitably put off until the girls are too old for it. Climbing up and over the woods-facing fence is a great, tangled azalea bush, a remnant of the previous owners. The contractors offered to tear it up when they were putting in the fence, an idea Michael was in favor of, but Christine called it off. She likes the look of the bush—it reminds her of the azaleas outside her childhood window, at the house abandoned during the divorce. It's only grown wilder since.

In the six days since their appearance, none of the Washingtons have noticed the dried blood splattered on the outward-facing flowers or the tufts of tabby fur fallen to the base of the bush, nor have they noticed the birdshot holes peppering the flowers, vines, and the boards of the fence upon which they rest. Of course, it's all much more obvious on the opposite side of the fence, where a scrap of torn, bloodsoaked cotton can be found caught in slots of the fence, but none of them venture that close to the woods.

Jacob Anderson

Jacob Anderson, 14, hasn't dreamt the shared children's dream of endless marble halls in a long while; he's grown up very quickly, and part of growing up is leaving that childish fantasy behind. He is completely immune to the deadly threat that he's inadvertently created.

Jacob generally spends his days wandering the nearby woods with his father's shotgun, idly shooting at birds. Paul Anderson, 31, owns that gun mostly just for fun; he's also got two hunting rifles, which he and Jacob use to hunt white-tailed deer. He keeps the shotgun loaded with birdshot just in case a songbird happens to land on the porch railing—a pastime he's taught his son. Jacob's started to cut class more and more often to do this. Paul, working double shifts at the manufacturing plant in nearby Lewis Run, hardly has time to care about Jacob's truancy. He's healthy, and as long as he doesn't bring a man with a badge to the front door, what difference does it make? Probably should get himself a job instead of wasting his time just walking around, though.

Six days ago, at 10:14 a.m., Jacob was wandering the shallow woods behind Shep Run Road with a shotgun full of birdshot. Eyes peeled for birds, he spotted something perched atop a nearby fence. The trigger was pulled with a grin, and Jacob realized too late that what he thought was the flutter of a wing was, instead, the lazy twitch of a tail. Immediately too horrified to even consider owning up to the act, he quickly bundled the little corpse in his sweater, which he tore on the fence in his haste.

An hour later, Jacob walked up to his house and replaced the shotgun, which he reloaded and hasn't touched since. He's guiltily terrified; Jacob now scurries out of the room every time his father receives a call, fearing that the worst has come to pass. His father tolerates the birds, but Jacob doesn't want to imagine what Paul might do if he learns Jacob shot something that someone else might care about.

The Old McCoy Trail

Follow the Old McCoy Trail a quarter of a mile up into the hilly woods north of Shep Run Road to find a well-trod side path that splits off west from the main trail. Follow that path to find a small clearing, well-known as the place where generations of teenagers have gone to drink and smoke and kiss.

At this junction in the opposite direction, heading east, there is another path—one that can be called a path only insofar as the trail a person has cleared after walking through untamed underbrush a single time there and back can be called a trail. Follow this path for five minutes to find a fallen-over log, recently disturbed by human hands for the first time. Pale shelf mushrooms grow out of moist cavities in the rotted bark, and thick moss covers the rest. Untouched as it is, the imprint on the moss where someone small sat and sobbed for a long while is still clear, and it will be for a while yet.

Beside the log, two piles of fresh dirt mark either side of a half-excavated grave not a foot and a half long—excavated just enough to start grabbing at its erstwhile inhabitant. The mangled remains of the tabby housecat rots beside the grave the coyotes exhumed it from. The predators have finished with it, and the corpse fauna have already arrived. Like the remnants of a hastily-unwrapped birthday present, tufts of tabby fur and scraps of bloody cotton are strewn around in patches, while delicate bones lay cracked and splintered: he has been laid low in death.

A nightmare fit for a king

Dead as he is, the king of all beasts yet lives in the dreamlands,¹ his consciousness preserved via its absence in the moment of death. He was dreaming when he died, but he still felt the pain of the lead shot when it buried deep into his flesh. He still feels the pain. But despite it all, the king of all beasts is still not quite dead—he's too busy dreaming.

Before, he dreamt not of hunting squirrels and sparrows along the tops of fences and through the brush of nearby backwoods, but of running through endless labyrinthine halls, tackling porcelain gazelle, and shattering their throats amidst a sea of shoulder-height grasses blowing without a single gust of wind. The grass is made of strips of papier-mâché torn from newspaper written in gibberish, while the savanna is enclosed by a domed, marble roof with a hundred geometric coffers. Electronic lights shift colors, throbbing from the other side of arched windows that lead only to grander halls; the closest thing to a sky is a barrel vault from which dangles a thousand globular lamps that pulse like neon stars. The king of all beasts travels far and wide in his domain, and there he is loved by all, especially children, who visit him in their shared dreams and to whom he gives rides on his broad, strong back.

Now, he hunches in the fringes of your dreaming consciousness, hunting you. He is a nightmare given form: a corpse, half-eaten, rotting from the inside out. Tabby fur falls out in patches, and one eye has lost its coherence: Both slowly dribble to the floor. Around him, the dreamlands of McKean County have morphed from Moreau's grand, regal palaces to Piranesi's cramped, shadowy prisons. Fantastical beauty has become paranoid terror, black-and-white in aspect. All the while, the king stalks and hunts. He is right there, behind you.

He knows death awaits him back in his dream-home. It frightens him. And he's in oh so much pain. He no longer recognizes the halls of his domain, at one time so familiar—he's scared to die in such an unfamiliar place, in such a painful way.

So find his corpse and pick out the leaden pellets, bit by bit. Hold out your hand to what's left of his nose, then fall asleep beside him. In the dreamlands, he'll remember your scent and let you massage behind his ears the way he likes. You can then bring him home, where he'll curl up and die for good. The nightmare ends, and the killing too.

Or you can finish the job by bringing a gun to the dreamlands. The king of beasts will smell the murderous lead and find you in no time. He will be too enraged, too frightened, to ambush you properly. Then, kill the nightmare before it kills you. A bullet to the head will put him down. You will never sleep peacefully again, the gun now a part of you forevermore, but at least the killings stop. The day is saved.

The Six White Kings Who Rule in Dreaming

The second night that the agents spend in McKean County, they share the same dream. There is something strange about it, beyond its communal nature—it lacks the impressionistic nature of other dreams, ever-shifting to follow the dreamer's whims, and is unnervingly realistic. It is easy to think one has awoken and found themself in another world entirely.

The agents find themselves kneeling on the broad sandstone balcony of some fantastically-ornate palace, overlooking an ancient (and extremely orientalist) city utterly devoid of life. Cloth overhangs cover the alleyways between flat sandstone roofs, and monuments of gold and lapis lazuli adorn the center of every plaza. Resting upon a long, velvet pillow at the agents' feet is a longsword that gleams with shining purpose. Its silver hilt takes the form of a dove, the crossguard its outstretched wings.

The whole scene could be some place in Earth's past, except for one fact: The sky is aflame. Like Edward Teller's nightmare, white fire has transformed the dome of heaven into the surface of the sun. A man's face is clear in the roiling blaze, the size of the sky itself. He has a regal mien, vaguely reminiscent of Ian McKellen's Gandalf, and is haloed by flaming strands of hair and beard. He speaks directly to the dreaming agents in a voice that shakes the very ground:

A GREAT EVIL HAS TAKEN HOLD IN THIS PLACE... IT IS YOUR DESTINY TO VANQUISH IT BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE... TAKE THE SWORD, ENTER THE LAND OF DREAMING, AND SLAY THE BEAST OF NIGHTMARES...

The face disappears and the agents wake when one takes the sword in hand or when it is clear all have refused. Either way, the agents awaken to a package shipped overnight to wherever they're staying (or to a very confused deliveryperson if they, e.g., decided to camp). The label reads "TrueSleep Natural Supplements," and it contains a minimalist white package of pharmaceutical pills with instructions to take two before bed with water, as well as to perform a meditative chant, in order "to help access the natural state of dreaming that's so hard to achieve in the modern world, revitalizing the body and spirit." Agents that take the supplements and perform the meditative chant awaken in their home in the dreamlands. An agent that picked up the silver sword in their last dream holds it in this one, and can continue to carry it with them. The sword holds no special power over the king of all beasts.

As they always are, the wizard behind the flaming curtain is far less imposing than his projected image. Investigation into TrueSleep Natural Supplements reveals that it is a small, primarily-online business incorporated in California. Their advertising is centered around natural alternatives to GMOs/vaccines/pharmaceutical medicine. The laziest amount of effort has been put into hiding the fact that the company is a subsidiary of DreamKings Inc., whose CEO is Sam Parker, 41.

DreamKings, led by Sam and his five longtime friends whom he met in Palo Alto during the 2010s, is the corporate front hiding the true purpose of TrueSleep Natural Supplements: to invite insecure, unhappy housewives (and their teenage daughters, equally insecure) into the halls of dreaming in order to have dream-sex with them amidst fantastical landscapes. Sam and his friends fancy themselves the Six White Kings Who Rule in Dreaming, masters of the dreamlands. (The name was chosen in homage to Gandalf, though occasionally there is talk about changing it given the unfortunate racial implications. Sam pushes back each time: Why are we giving in to political correctness?) The Six White Kings spend their nights hosting dream-orgies in perfect recreations of their favorite properties' famous locales: Tony Stark's Malibu mansion, the grand banquet hall of Minas Tirith, the Millennium Falcon. These are the guys who are the target audience of advertisements lauding the ultra high-definition next-generation of video game graphics. To them, artistic perfection means style sacrificed in all regards for utter visual fidelity. The Metaverse is only a bad thing because it doesn't look realistic enough as a secondary world.

Recently, Sam bought a cabin nestled in the nearby Allegheny Mountains for his parents. He's staying with them a while to get them settled, but here his nightly trips to the dreamlands are marred by the ugly, Gothic horrorscape in McKean County. He's going to be here for, what, another two weeks? And the view is ruined! He's hoping the agents will solve the problem for him. Sam has not considered that Delta Green might view him as a problem to be solved.

The king of all beasts and the inhuman violence

For use with Luke Gearing's Violence:
Evasion is special (see below)
Shooting N/A
Mêlée rolls are made with 2d8. Always causes one injury regardless of result.
Harm to the king of all beasts—meaning he is either injured or downed—results in a roll of 1d6 on the table below. Keep track of his injuries.

Or, for elfgames:
HD 8
AC as plate
Attacks thrice in a whirlwind of claws and fangs for 1d6+2 damage each.
Morale 7

In all circumstances:
The king of all beasts has a 4-in-6 chance to make no noise at all when he does something in the nightmare halls of dreaming.
If ambushing someone, the king of all beasts has a 3-in-6 chance of ripping their throat out, killing them instantly.
A bullet, fired at the head, instantly kills the king of all beasts. Do not even go so far as to roll an attack.

Where he finds you

#delta green #monster #mystery #scenario