SQUIBIAN

“Glory to knowledge. Doom to the ill-shelved.”

Deep within the Cerebrine Deep—a midnight trench woven with psionic currents and coral cathedrals—squirm the Squibians. Cephalopodic in form, Shakespearean in flair, and absolutely feral for facts, they are both revered and reviled.

They believe that devouring the brain of a sentient creature grants not just memories, but personality fragments, languages, tastes, regrets, and mild allergies. With every squishy slurp, they become more… complete. Or deranged. It’s unclear.

Their cities are gothic, elegant things. Spires of black coral and arcane iron twist into the gloom, hiding libraries so vast and sacred that a single dropped book can start a blood feud.

To a Squibian, wisdom is the true currency. Brains are simply… delicious scrolls.

A Squibian’s worth is measured by one thing:
Bookshelves.

Each Squibian home is judged not by size, not by smell (thankfully), but by how many bookshelves it contains—and more importantly, how full they are.

One scholar, Profundus Quarn of the Deep Eight, once boasted 101 fully-stocked shelves. This ignited an arms race of shelf-building, with Squibians plumbing ruined cities and sunken ships just to steal a single page and slap it into a shelf.

But the council of arch-scholars, the Index Dominae, grew suspicious. “Hath anyone verified Quarn’s books?” one whispered. “Or hath he glorb-glorbed a falsehood?”

(“Glorb glorb” = Squibian for “agreed, but cautiously.”)

When they raided Quarn’s quarters, they found the 101st shelf was a sham. All books—conjurations. Arcane illusions. Ghost-pages.

Betrayal.

Quarn was tossed into the Squibian Trials of Shame—known simply as:

A national pastime and cultural rite, Squib Justice is what happens when brainy, vengeful squids turn social punishment into brutal sport.

All liars, traitors, and plagiarists are thrown into a series of psionic death games—modified children’s games from across Pentara, now twisted into survival challenges.

“Guess the Ingredient” (correct or become the ingredient)

“Musical Thrones” (one throne explodes)

“Red Tentacle, Green Tentacle” (move and lose a limb)

The motto?
“Yeat or be yeated by the Mercy of Maw.”

Crowds gather. Bets are placed. Tentacles are thrown.

One Squibian—Elarvok the Inconvenienced—grew tired of fetching refreshments for guests during these tournaments. He devised a solution: merge a stolen brain with an ooze-like plasma from the Grimspire shelf-floor, purchased through an ethically murky arcane vendor.

What emerged blinked once. Twice. Then saluted.
Thus, the first Gelatian was born.

“I am thy master,” said Elarvok. “Now refilleth my wine.”

The others followed suit, crafting gooey servants from the forbidden blend of stolen minds and deep-sea sludge. But some Gelatians rebelled. They were caught and thrown into Squib Justice—marking the start of a new contestant class.

Squibians are seen as monsters by many surface races—especially the Physchrin and Torqle, who find their “brain piracy” detestable.

But to the Squibians, morality is a myth made by the uninformed. What matters is truth, taste, and tower height. They speak in riddles, write in inked spirals, and name their youth things like Th’glurvok the Third.

Some have tried diplomacy. Others have vanished mid-conversation.

Still, Squibians persist. Elegant. Terrifying. Brilliant.
Forever hunting wisdom—one bite at a time.