November, 707 CR
It was a dark moonless night. Roger was having trouble sleeping in the cold night. The cold night. It was going to be tight whether or not he made it in the door by winter. Very very tight. Well, he'd hibernated before, and as long as the kids didn't built a giant snow fort around him that didn't melt until June, it wouldn't be a problem.
One eyestalk poked up and blinked as the other reacted similarly, looking in the other direction. Was it that time already?
"Nicto!" Roger called back.
There was a shuffle in the bushes and a black-cloaked skunk pushed his way out. "Hail brother!"
"We have the next hundred digits ready, brother! Are you prepared?"
"I am ready brother."
"May the Irrational Transcendental bless us all! All hail the word of Pythagoras brought to us by the fox"
"All hail the mighty Pythagoras!"
With that, the skunk handed over a tightly rolled piece of parchment. Turning, cloak billowing, he fled back into the darkness.
Roger unrolled the parchment and held it up, looking at its black surface. The numbers were there. More in the endless series of the — he refused to even think it! A number too holy and too secret to ever be spoken. To ever even whisper of to outsiders.
Rolling the parchment up, he pulled himself into his shell, and pushed it back into the almost complete compartment. In a few days he would seal it off, his shell growing that much larger.
And the mysteries of Irrational Transcendentalism would be safe forever!
All hail the mysterious power of the square root of two!