MTG Salvation

This was a very difficult story to write. It is hard to create conflict in a plane whose premise is being idyllic, and the fact of that matter is that there was almost no information on Doran, so I had to start from scratch. I wrote 4 different story versions that I ultimately decided against before coming up with this one. I think that is the best I could do and I hope you can enjoy it.

Doran, the Siege Tower

Lorwyn. Before the events that led to Oona’s demise.

The Murmuring Bosk.

“Are you sure?” Doran asked with a rasping voice to the other treefolk that stood around him. They had all gathered in a distant edge of the Murmuring Bosk, where the sunrays hit the sentient trees at an oblique angle, casting shadows that stretched over great patches of land.

Another treefolk moved his head slightly, in what appeared to be a nod of confirmation to the question that Doran asked. Treefolks don’t get together very often, for most of them are wanderers or loners, and just special occasions such as the Rising of new treefolk would prompt the need of a congregation. This, however, was not a joyous occasion. Doran moved some inches closer, and stretched one of his long arm-branches ahead, touching the oak tree that stood in front of him. “It cannot be”, he murmured to himself while surrounded by rowans, ashes and other black poplars like him.

“And yet, it is,” another treefolk spoke, his voice seeming to come from a distant place, and carrying a dangerous wisdom that was laced with poison. The other treefolk, recognizing who it was, gave him passage. The millenia-old yew treefolk Colfenor found his way to Doran. “Don’t fret sapling, I’m sure his life is as good now as it used to be.” Colfenor spoke with a rhythmic cadence, giving a hypnotizing gist to his voice.

“You don’t know that Colfenor,” Doran replied, bitterly. “The only thing we know is that none of us thought this was possible, and now it has happened.” The black poplar’s arm-branch still touched the oak tree in front of him. That oak tree used to be Adair River Span, one of the bravest fighters in all of Lorwyn. He had gained sentience long ago, during his Rising, and wandered through the land looking for worthy opponents. Now, near the edge of the Bosk, one of the archdruids found him standing as a simple oak tree, his face immobile, his eyes unblinking, and his sentience lost.

“They’re calling ‘the Falling’,” Colfenor spoke again, “when a treefolk returns to his original state of tree.”

“Who are they?” Doran asked clenching his branches in a fist, “do you know who is behind this Colfenor? Is it the fae? Those devious little creatures, it is either them or the boggarts, but this is probably too clever for the boggarts.”

“No one knows yet,” Colfernor replied. “I’ve heard rumors of strange things that are happening, and not only among the folk of trees, but also others”, as Colfenor spoke, his deep blue eyes stared into Doran’s.

“Save your riddles and charades for those who care Colfenor,” Doran wasn’t as old and as wise as the yew treefolk, but he was knowledgeable in his own ways, and he knew not to trust in Colfenor. “Adair was my friend. We need to discover what happened to avoid have this happening again.”

Colfenor stood in silence for a while, then he too nodded his head. “Agreed. You should pay a visit to Lys Alana. I’ve heard they’re keeping something as a secret there.” The yew treefolk took a last glance at the tree that used to be Adair, and moved away while saying, “their secret might have something to do with all of this.” The other treefolk once again let the oldest among him pass, the last of his kind, slowly and firmly walking back to the interior of the Murmuring Bosk.

“Doran,” it was Krista, a compassionate rowan treefolk, “we too have heard that this is not the strangest that has happened,” she looked reticent in speaking the rest of her sentence, but did it anyway, “maybe you should follow Colfenor’s advice and help us. You’re the one that knows the other tribes the best.”

The black poplar felt the underlying fear hidden behind the words of that rowan treefolk. They were scared. All treefolk die, but they usually know when to expect their deaths and how to prepare for it. This was different. Adair was at his prime, and suddenly became this. Something had to be done about it.

“I will help,” Doran replied, “I will go to Lys Alana.”

The edges of Gilt-Leaf Wood.

Gilt-Leaf Wood was an unpleasant place for Doran. The elves artificially crafted the forest uprooting secular trees and rearranging them according to their whims, many of which died during the process. It was the most pointless savagery Doran had seen in centuries, and he couldn’t bring himself to walk there without remembering it. Yet, he had to go deep into Gilt-Leaf if he was to find Lys Alana, the capital city, heart of Gilt-Leaf.

The trees in Gilt-Leaf were completely silent. They had seen and suffered much, and that had changed their nature from peaceful and welcoming to stiff and brooding. Doran, aware of their state, moved at a careful pace, wary of not disturbing the plant denizens and not calling attention to himself. The treefolk shaman knew the disturbing quietude of the woods was a façade, for much of the cruelest acts of violence were performed under the shadows of Gilt-Leaf trees. The elven winnowers hunt and killed what they called eyeblights in fits of cold-blooded rage, and hired hands known as scarblades would cut and maim others in exchange for favors and prestige. Almost every living thing under Gilt-Leaf was there because the elves allowed it to be there. Except for Doran.

It didn’t take that long for a hunting pack to find him. Gilt-Leaf was a big forest, but the elves had eyes in most of its corners, and a huge creature like Doran wasn’t going to move around unnoticed. The one who seemed to oversee the pack was an elven shaman the treefolk didn’t recognize, mounting a cervid and carrying a spear on her hand. Doran knew she had reached that position due to her perceived beauty amongst the other elves. To Doran, all of them looked the same – little fleshy creatures with an outter shell of a white, soft tissue.

“Treefolk,” the elf shaman spoke, “what permission do you have to traverse Gilt-Leaf?” No formalities or presentations, just a rude question asked at spear point. The rest of the hunting pack also had their weapons drawn, but they didn’t turn it towards the treefolk, yet.

“My name is Doran, the Wanderer, and I visit this place long before Eidren reshaped the woods at his desire, long before it was named Gilt-Leaf,” the black poplar approached the elf shaman with his foliage covering her in darkness, “I have more right to be here than you ever will.”

At that hostile response, the other elves of the pack surrounded Doran with their mounts, all pointing spears at his trunk.

“You shouldn’t be here Doran, the Wanderer,” the elf shaman replied, “leave from these woods and the matter will be settled.”

“I will not leave until I reach Lys Alana youngling,” he looked around to the other elves, taking notice of the glistened aspect of their spear-points, “and blades laced with Moonglove aren’t effective on the folk of the trees.”

The elves around Doran hesitated. Some of them seemed to think Doran was bluffing, but the others weren’t sure if they could defeat the treefolk without the help of the poison.

“Let him pass,” another elf spoke, her voice coming from the trees above. She had come with the hunting pack, but had remained hidden in the canopy. A couple of twisted goat horns sprung from over her serious, delicate complexion, and she carried a bow and arrow in her hand. The other elves looked at their superior – Dwynen, the actual Daen of that hunting pack – and bowed their heads.

“Honorable Dwynen,” the elf shaman spoke, “this treefolk shouldn’t be trusted, for he is hiding his true intentions.”

“That only shows that he is well advised in not spreading sensitive information, which means he should be trusted,” replied the Daen. “Besides, I know him.”

“Dwynen,” the treefolk shaman acknowledge the elf, nodding his head slightly and causing some of his leaves to fall.

“Doran,” the Daen nodded in return, “I’m glad you came. Let me show you the gravity of the situation.”

The other elves put their weapons down, some more reluctantly than others, and the treefolk followed the hunting pack deep inside Gilt-Leaf Wood.

They didn’t actually enter Lys Alana. The elven city was rarely seen by non-elven races, and this time wasn’t any different. Dwynen had no authority to let Doran inside the capital, but she quickly explained that wasn’t needed, for the secret of Lys Alana wasn’t actually being kept in there. The hunting pack guided Doran through a trail that meandered through the trees, hidden behind glammer spells, booby traps and checkpoints with guards. The treefolk couldn’t imagine what the elves were trying to protect so fiercely, but he knew it was something important.

Once the last glammer spell had been dissolved, they crossed into a clearing in the woods and Doran understood. Laying down in the middle of the clearing and breathing with incredible difficulty was Vigor, the elemental that was the incarnation of the vitality of all the creatures of Lorwyn. The gigantic elemental was down on his side, his shell riddled with cracks and his eyes surrounded by a white discharging mucus.

“He is dying,” Dwynen spoke softly, not to disturb the creature.

“That is impossible,” Doran mumbled, immediately reliving the moment when he saw Adair as a simple oak tree. “Vigor is one of the five incarnations of Lorwyn,” the treefolk was talking more to himself than to the others, “he shouldn’t be able to die.”

“We’re as surprised as you,” Dwynen replied, “but we’ve found him like this some dawns ago, and his situation has only worsened as time has passed.”

The treefolk shaman blinked slowly, took by the scene that unfolded in front of him. He approached the fallen elemental with measured steps, while his ancient mind remembered all the healing spells he had learned over the years. Once Doran got close enough, he felt the heavy air expelled by the incarnation, as if he was rotting from the inside. The black polar clamped his branches around Vigor’s head, aware of the guarding elves that stood around from the trees with their bows at the ready. He murmured one of his strongest spells, one that allowed him to take in the pain of the afflicted into himself. The treefolk grunted while the spell did its work, a bitter taste invading his mouth. Doran felt his branches twisting and his leaves darkening, but he also saw the breathing of the elemental softening. The treefolk tried to extract the maximum amount of pain and agony from Vigor, but that was too much for him, and his consciousness was almost fading away from the suffering.

The treefolk relieved the elemental’s head finishing the spell, right before an overwhelming feeling of dizziness made him trip and fall. The other elves couldn’t help but move away while the black poplar crashed onto the ground, breaking many branches in the process. Vigor, however, seemed to have recovered some of his health, for his breath wasn’t smelling as putrid as before, and his eyes had recovered some of their light.

“Doran!” Dwynen exclaimed, approaching the treefolk that had hit the soil with great strength. “Doran, speak to me!”

“I’m fine,” the black poplar managed to mutter some words, “it was just so much… pain.”

“Did you do it? Did you cure him?” The Daen spoke, her voice unable to conceal a hopeful undertone.

“I’m afraid not,” replied the treefolk, making an effort to stand back on his roots again, “I’ve only gave him a little more time,” Doran panted with the effort of standing up, “we need to find out what is happening here.” After Doran finished his sentence, he looked at his broken branches and furrowed his brown, concentrating on the edge of his injuries. Quickly, new branches emerged as he regenerated his own body.

“You’re weak Doran,” Dwynen said softly, and the treefolk knew that was true. “You should rest after what you did here.”

“I can’t rest at this moment,” the treefolk replied, “there is something strange happening here, and not only with the elemental, but also among the treef-”, Doran couldn’t finish his sentence, for one of the elves that was keeping guard at the trees fell into the ground, his body meeting the soil with a disturbing crushing sound.

“Flamekins!” Someone shouted the warning, and quickly all the elves turned their head to one brightly lit flamekin who stood at the same tree where the elf had fallen, his hand holding a stone sword that was glowing yellow from the heat. Suddenly, more flamekins appeared from around the clearing carrying several stone weapons, all with their blades shining from the intense heat emanating from their bodies. The elves had been ambushed.

Doran didn’t take a side in the battle that ensued. That was neither his duty nor his desire, for he was concerned with greater things than the squabbles of the other races. His only concern was to keep Vigor safe, and it didn’t occur to him that the attack from the flamekins might be related to all the things that were happening. He stayed around to protect the elemental incarnation, towering above every other creature that was fighting in the clearing and making sure Vigor’s health wouldn’t spiral out of control again. A couple of flamekins brandishing stone swords went towards him, but were quickly dispatched with a swing of his arm-branch that sent the flamekin flying away.

Despite their bodies being made of solid rock, well-targeted blows into their inner flames could easily fell the elemental humanoids known as flamekins. Unfortunately for the ambushers, the elves were nothing if skilled warriors, and quickly manage to overpower and outsmart the flamekin attackers with minor losses. The elves’ main concern in a fight isn’t avoiding getting killed, but avoiding getting scarred, which forces them to achieve a high level of physical prowess and combat technique. In short, despite having the element of surprise, the flamekins never actually stood a chance, not that deep into elven territory.

Dwynen – who took care of three of the attackers all on her own – made sure to leave at least a couple of prisoners to find out what they were doing in Gilt-Leaf Wood and who had sent them there. The two flamekin survivors were tied up with nettlevine at an edge on the clearing, where they stayed beaten and broken, spitting specks of dust from their mouths and with their inner flames almost dying out.

“What was your goal here?” The elf Daen asked incisively, “how did you find this place?”

One of the remaining flamekin looked at her with scorn, not willing to share any of his information. Instead, he just turned his head down.

“Answer me!” The Daen slapped the flamekin in the face, unsheathing a dagger she had on her belt. “The elves do not take kindly on invaders,” she moved the weapon closer, touching the flamekin’s neck “aren’t you afraid of death?” The flamekin who was threatened merely stared at her, his eyes almost closing in. Doran had never seen such strange behavior before. Something was looking off.

“If you aren’t scared for your life, what about your partner’s?” Dwynen pressed, moving her dagger towards the neck of the other flamekin. Her eyes were filled with merciless resolve. The flamekin knew she wasn’t bluffing.

“Take his life,” the first flamekin finally replied, albeit in a feeble, hoarse voice, “any flamekin would proudly die for the Cause. Long live Vessifrus! Shine bright our inner flame!” At the end of that sentence, the flamekin’s body shook in an intense manner, his outer rock shell turning incandescent.

“DWYNEN, GET BACK!” Doran shouted while moving at a quicker pace than it seemed possible by his cumbersome size. The elf Daen had just had the time to turn her head around before seeing the treefolk shaman up on his feet right beside her, quickly murmuring a spell that turned his arm-branches into a big wooden shield. Doran barely had time to lock his position on the ground before it happened – the flamekin who remained steadfast in keeping his secrets ignited in a flaming explosion. His inner flame expanded in an all-consuming fire, tearing his body apart and setting ablaze all the elves that didn’t look for cover, burning much of the ground and some of the trees in the clearing. Doran’s shield managed to sustain the greatest bulk of the damage, protecting Vigor and Dwynen who were in the direct line of fire.

The elf Daen was speechless. The soundblast resulting from the explosion deafened her ears, and she could barely open her eyes due to the intense heat. She saw Doran’s arms entirely carbonized, just two smoldering stubs where once before his wooden shield stood. Touching the back of her head she felt pain and the warmness of blood. Doran had saved her life and Vigor’s, but many of the remaining elves weren’t so lucky. Those who hadn’t died in the explosion were screaming in pain, their bodies completely burned and their minds consumed with the knowledge that, even if they survived this, their life was over. They would be hideous, forever. Eyeblights.

Amid the screaming and suffering Doran could see that the flamekin who didn’t explode was, surprisingly, still alive. Maybe being made of rock and fire provided him with a natural resistance, but his state wasn’t good. He might have survived the blast, but was still dying to his injuries. The black poplar shaman approached the elemental humanoid slowly, his own body cracking and hissing after standing against a point-blank explosion.

“What was all that for?” Doran asked bluntly, facing the remaining flamekin with a mix of pity and anger on his wooden features.

“Protecting… our kind,” the flamekin barely concatenated, “the elves… were… hiding something. We have been… dying on our own. Igniting. Go to… the village. Tell them it isn’t… the elves’ fault. It’s... something else,” at the end of that sentence, the flamekin passed away. Doran thought for a moment he was trying to say they were sorry.

The elves were all in a bad shape. Dwynen was the only one that seemed fine, she only appeared to have had a minor concussion. However, the Daen and all other elves were in a state of shock and bewilderment, unable to grasp what had just happened. The treefolk shaman had to leave them behind, for sooner or later other hunting packs would show up and start asking questions. He glanced at Vigor, who seemed to have barely being affected by the explosion, but was still prostrated and with difficult breathing. The treefolks were becoming trees, one of the immortal incarnations of the plane was dying and the flamekins were self-igniting against their desire. It didn’t look good.

The black poplar shaman made an effort to keep his body together. He saved whatever energy he had left to walk out of Gilt-Leaf Wood, going towards the closest flamekin village, where he would warn the elementals and search for answers. He only hoped he could do it all in time.

The brighthearth village.

On the path to the closest flamekin village, Doran received a grim reminder – he saw Krista, the rowan treefolk who asked him to follow Colfenor’s advise. She stood in the middle of a road with her body turned to where Doran was coming, as if she was going to Lys Alana herself. However, she didn’t seem to be moving at all. Once the black poplar reached her, he saw her face with petrified features, and her body stiff and stark. She had become a tree once again. Her frozen expression denoted struggle, as if she was trying to reach Gilt-Leaf Wood before it happened. Doran shook his head, and kept going.

The nearest flamekin village was inhabited by the Brighthearth group, those flamekin who wanted to create bridges between the races. Ironically, and presumably, it was from that very village that came the attack on Gilt-Leaf. Once Doran reached the paved portion of the road that led the way to his destination, he had already lost many of his leaves and was having trouble walking. He needed rest.

The flamekin in general are wary of treefolks, for they believe they are servants of the elves, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth in Doran’s case. His only concern now was getting involved into another scuffle with the residents of that village, for this time he wouldn’t be able to stand for himself. However, Doran’s fears were quickly put to rest once he reached the tear-shaped stone houses of the flamekin and notice they had a dark ill-shaped smoke coming out from their windows. The stone streets were mostly empty, and the few flamekins who saw the great black poplar walking among their streets didn’t pay much attention to him.

Doran realized he wasn’t in actual danger of getting hurt by the flamekins, but he was in danger to succumb to his wounds. He went and found a place to rest, where he started to tend to his injuries, entering a slumbering state where he could regain some of his energy. The sun was close to its setting point on the horizon, from where it would return to shine light in Lorwyn once again. The flamekin houses cast shadows over Doran as he felt a soothing breeze caressing his bark, and for once in a long while that old treefolk shaman heard the chirping of birds over his branches while he fell deep asleep.


Many dawns had passed since Doran had his last dream, for it was unusual for treefolks to take naps. This time though, the black poplar had one of the most vivid dreams he could remember. The first thing he noticed was himself standing in a greenish field, and a filtered light that reached him from above. He looked up to see the source of that light, only to be astonished with his discovery. Over his head, the water stream of a river was rushing wild, following an impossible path into the sky while scattering the sunlight in many directions, creating different kinds of rainbows in its way. The river had no banks or soil to restrain its water, and yet it followed a very specific path into the sky as if it was a water serpent that slithered through the heavens.

The shaman tried to accompany to follow the river extension with his eyes, but it disappeared into the horizon where upside-down mountain ranges limited his field of view. Doran heard waterfalls rumbling to the left of himself, and he turned to see their water rushing in an oblique angle, falling upwards, turning into clouds. All of that marvel and wonder struck the wandering treefolk as never before, for he knew that wasn’t an ordinary dream. He had reached a place he heard only as an account of legend, a place so vast and so mysterious as Lorwyn itself. He was in the Primal Beyond.

It wasn’t clear to the treefolk what had made him reach such a place after so many centuries, after wandering through all of Lorwyn not knowing if the Beyond was real or only an Auntie’s story. He took his time to absorb all the environment around him, noticing a group of giant trees into the horizon, floating slightly above the ground and yet looking healthy. The Beyond was the land of dreams and, according to the stories, the land that gave birth to all of Lorwyn’s elementals. The black poplar could understand why as he felt an unsettling sensation – it was as if all his emotions had intensified and multiplied. He could almost believe that, if he concentrated long enough, his serenity, his frustration, his anger and his resolve would all take elemental shapes right in front of him, take those shapes and blend into that wild landscape that unfolded before his eyes.

Moving inside the Primal Beyond was a very different experience than moving in the real world, and the impression Doran had was that he would slog to cover even a couple inches of land only to, in the next moment, transport himself from one place to another almost instantaneously. Weirdest of all, this didn’t seem strange to him in the slightest, it was almost as if he always knew that was the way you’re supposed to move. The treefolk only kept going because he was unsure of why he was brought there, quickly realizing that the land of elementals was almost as awfully quiet as the flamekin village. There weren’t many elementals to be seen anywhere, and the few who appeared quickly scurried away from him, as if they were afraid for their lives.

Doran finally reached what appeared to be a forest, where some of the gigantic floating trees stayed together blocking any view of the terrain ahead. Going inside that forest was a humbling experience for the treefolk, for he didn’t remember a time in his life where he felt so small. Inside the forest, the light came from below, not from above, in which appeared to be a crystalline ground that had a brightness of its own. The treefolk noticed that some patches on the ground stood in complete darkness, and he felt compelled to follow those patches, despite the shivering sensation they caused on his body.

The more Doran went deep into the forest of giant floating trees, the more he felt as if he recognized the feeling that invaded his core. It was a pain, great amounts of it, but one he had felt before. After turning around one more tree as he followed the darkness on the ground, Doran began to understand what was happening. He saw a greenish, incandescent pool, shining ahead of him. The pool was bubbling, as if it was a kithkin stew, and from time to time small green bubbles detached from it, moving upwards. Something else was there – a figure with its back towards the treefolk was sitting beside the pool, drinking from its greenish water. Whenever the figure took a sip from the pool, Doran received a piercing blow of pain that ran through his being, and he remember from where that familiar pain came. It was the suffering that he felt when trying to cure Vigor, when trying to share the elemental’s pain.

The figure kept drinking from the pool, ignoring the presence of the treefolk, until Doran realized what that pool represented. It was the living force of Vigor, the elemental incarnation, and it was being leeched dry. The light from the pool was diminishing to every gulp, and Doran knew he couldn’t stand there doing nothing about it. A crawling sensation was gripping his every fiber, but he mustered the strength to move ahead.

“Hey!” Exclaimed the treefolk, quickly covering the ground between it and the mysterious figure that ignored him, “stop! Do you have any idea of what you’re doing?” Not only his question went unanswered, but something strange happened as Doran walked forward. From his previous position the treefolk could swore that the figure drinking from the pool wasn’t taller than a kithkin. However, as he started approaching it, it started to grow in size. Either that or Doran was turning smaller. Now that the treefolk stood right beside it, he had to look up to stare at the figure’s back, his branches barely reaching its neck. Mustering his remaining bravery, the black poplar extended an arm-branch, crying “I’m talking to you!”

Doran didn’t get to touch anything. A raging wind, the strongest the treefolk had ever seen, came from nowhere and blew him back. Doran almost fell on the ground, just barely holding on his roots before seeing the figure turn around. It had a purple, smoking-like skin, and wore a garment made from thousands of flower petals. Its eyes were from the most penetrating blue, and they seemed as ancient as Lorwyn itself. Its mouth was still dripping with the greenish liquid that was Vigor’s life essence. Despite never having seen her before, Doran recognized her immediately.

“Oona,” the treefolk was able to spell, “Queen of the Fae.”

There wasn’t an answer. The elusive Faerie Queen, as mythical as the Primal Beyond itself, only gave Doran a smile. Her size increased more and more before his eyes, and she reached for him with her hands closing in a shell. Oona plucked the tiny treefolk from the ground as if he was no more than a bothersome weed. Doran didn’t have any time to react before she brought him close to her mouth and blew, softly. The treefolk, now a mere speck of dust on her hand, quickly vanished away into the forest.


“You!” Doran moved abruptly after hearing that, almost falling to his side. He looked around and saw himself once again at the flamekin village, the sun already near its mid-point into the sky. “Are you the wanderer treefolk?” The voice came from somewhere beside him, and he looked down to face a trio of dark-clothed flamekin that kept their inner flames burning at a cool level.

“Yes,” Doran replied while trying to reach for his head, only to realized he hadn’t grown his arms back yet. “Who is asking?”

“We are the consul of pyroclasts of this village, and your presence here was brought to our attention,” answered the flamekin that stood in the center of the trio. “There is someone here expecting you.”

“Is that so?” The treefolk shaman stood up and focused on his arms, that slowly started to regenerate. “I came here looking for answers.”

The trio of flamekin looked at each other and then back at the treefolk, “we understand, Doran, the Wanderer. That is why you should follow us.”

Doran didn’t make any moves, he simply kept staring at the trio of flamekin, measuring their words to see if they rang with truth. The flamekin, consternated, noticed the burned spots around the treefolk’s body and its regenerating arms. Then they understood the treefolk’s hesitation.

“Flamekins did that to you,” concluded another member of the pyroclast consul, “it must have been an entire brigade.”

“No,” Doran replied, “it was just one. One that exploded.”

The flamekin of the pyroclast consul stared at each other with shamed expressions. “We’re sorry for what you endured Doran. You must have met one of Vessifrus’ disciples. They are the disgrace of our village,” there was an uncomfortable pause after which they just couldn’t bring themselves to talk again to the treefolk, until finally one of them continued, “our people are sick. A new disease is affecting us, and its final effects cause our death. The black smoke coming from our houses is the sign of flamekins burning away, until they turn into nothing more than an empty husk of dark stone. We’ve been trying to fight the disease that, if untreated, causes the flamekin to ignite in a flaming explosion. Vessifrus is convinced that all of this was brought upon us by the elves, especially after rumors were spread of the secret that they kept in Lys Alana. Some flamekins believed in his fear mongering. We’re deeply ashamed for that. If you can find it in you, please forgive us.”

Doran stared intently at the flamekin below him, all of which were looking sad and exhausted. However, before he could reply, the slow steps of an approaching treefolk were heard. The wanderer treefolk turned around to see another of his kind moving towards his direction, an ash tree with an exultant expression .

“He’s the one that was waiting for you,” one of the council members said.

“Indeed, I am,” added the ash treefolk while getting close to Doran and touching his shoulders with his arm-branches, “I’ve been looking for you Doran. I think I might know what is causing all of this.”

One of Lorwyn’s mountain ranges.

The mountains were always cold. Doran could feel in his bark the chilling wind that cut through his face. Even though the sunrays hit the treefolk’s back, they weren’t enough to warm his body as he followed the path carved in the mountainside. That was the only place on Lorwyn where – sometimes – one could find snow, but most dawns it was just covered in a heavy fog that blinded the travelers and soaked their clothes. That day was no different, and the fog forced the treefolk to take slow and measured steps.

The black poplar didn’t dare look down. From the position he was in, he knew there was a breathtaking view of Lorwyn right onto his side. Greenish meadows crisscrossed by rushing creeks, where white smoked indicated a kithkin clachan or an auntie’s hovel. Still, he didn’t dare, for he was too afraid of high places. The wanderer treefolk appreciated the feeling of solid and flat surfaces beneath his roots, not that unstable rock terrain where the ground seemed to be constantly giving in to his weight. That was not the land of treefolk. That was the land of elusive and lonely elementals. The land of renegade boggarts. The land of mighty giants.

As he moved against the curtain of fog, the black poplar reminded of what had brought him there. The conversation he had with that ash treefolk.

“The fae are behind this,” he had said. “I know it to be true.”

“What makes you think that?” Doran asked while memories and feelings from the Primal Beyond slowly came back to his mind – the awe he felt when moving around the land where all elementals came from, followed by the puzzlement of noticing that his presence was being avoided, until finally facing the paralyzing fear and quivering pain of reaching Vigor’s life pool where he met Oona.

“I’m part of the Sunrise Brake,” the ash treefolk replied, then quickly lowered the tone of his voice, “we’ve been looking for Glen Elendra for ages, trying to find the Faerie Queen.”

An image of the smoking figure smiling came back to Doran’s mind, and he quickly repelled it to focus on the treefolk’s story. “And did you find it?” The black poplar asked bluntly.

“No,” the ash replied, which gave Doran some relief for a reason he couldn’t explain, “it is heavily shielded by a powerful glammer spell, and our best shamans were unable to find a location.” The ash looked around carefully. He was alone with Doran besides one of the flamekin houses, but acted as if they were surrounded by eyes and ears. “We’ve long abandoned any idea of finding Glen Elendra through magic alone. We instead focused on tracking the movement and visits of the faeries. That was also proving to be a fruitless effort, for the faeries moved about almost at random, being spotted across all places of Lorwyn to harvest dreams. That is… up until now.” The ash treefolk couldn’t hide a prideful smirk.

“What is changed?” Doran incited.

“They started to disappear. The initial reports by other members of the Sunrise Brake put the first disappearances happening all at one place, as if they were abandoning it, and that quickly spread throughout others.” The ash made a pause, his eyes glaring with triumph, “and now all reports state that the fae are gathering around a particular place, one of the mountain ranges. That must be where Glen Elendra is. They made a mistake. They are uniting, plotting something, and we can confront them now.”

The treefolk shaman waited for a bit, but the story appeared to have finished. He still didn’t understand. “I suspected of the fae’s involvement as well, but what is the reason you give for they to be causing all this? Their disappearance?”

“Yes,” the ash explained, “they started to vanish right before everything else happened. Before the Falling and before this disease outbreak with the flamekin and also-” he interrupted himself, remembering something, “I was looking for you because I heard Colfenor put you charge of looking for the elves’ secret. What did you find?”

Colfenor? Now they were thinking he was working for old yew tree. Doran didn’t give an answer to the ash treefolk. He was pondering about his story – the flamekin, the treefolk, the fae, Vigor, all appeared to be connected. He couldn’t make sense of it yet, but his encounter with Oona kept coming back to his mind, as if the answer was there all along. He run back to the words the ash treefolk had shared, and something finally came to him.

“You said the faeries started to disappear from one place at first, is that correct?”

“Yes,” the ash treefolk said in a confused tone, “but why does it matter?”

“Where is such place?” Doran asked anxiously.

The ash treefolk thought for a while before answering, “another one of Lorwyn’s mountain ranges,” he didn’t understand Doran’s sudden change of behavior, “why?”

The treefolk shaman hesitated. What he had was much closer to a hunch than to a well thought out plan, but it made more sense to him. He knew the ash treefolk wanted to find Glen Elendra, to face the fae, but that seemed a mistake. Oona was powerful, but she didn’t seem to be the sole culprit of that situation. Doran saw the ash treefolk looking at him impatiently and finally decided to share his suspicions with him, including what he found on Gilt-Leaf Wood. The ash heard what the wanderer treefolk had to say, but remained skeptical of his idea.

“You can go there if you want Doran,” the ash treefolk finally said, seeing that the black poplar had set his mind to his own objective, “but me and the Sunrise Brake are going after Glen Elendra.”

That was all there was to it. Doran and the ash treefolk followed their separate paths, and he heard on his way to the mountains that the Sunrise Brake had gathered to weed out the fae from Glen Elendra. Meanwhile he, who knew Lorwyn better than anyone else, wandered on his own to a distant patch of land, following his intuition. It was fitting – the wanderer treefolk endured his hardships alone. He wondered if Colfenor had foreseen this outcome when he first mentioned Lys Alana to Doran. It wasn’t possible, was it?

The closest he got to the place the ash treefolk indicated, the quieter it became. Too quiet in Doran’s opinion. He couldn’t see much of anything due to the fog, but the silence was disturbing. There came a point in his journey where the black poplar had to feel his way through the mountainside, and an unsettling sensation crawled back into his mind – the feeling of familiarity. Doran was centuries old. He had walked through all of Lorwyn, more than one time, but as any other living being his oldest memories faded away, hiding themselves deeply into some forgotten corner of his conscience. However, walking through that particular path in the mountains was starting to bring some of those memories back. He saw a younger version of himself retracing that same course into the mountains, many and many dawns ago. He saw the young Doran lost in the fog, trying to find his way upwards, searching for something. He didn’t remember what it was.

As the silence continued and intensified, the treefolk realized there was something wrong. He didn’t recall of such silence in those memories of days past. He remembered to hear the everpresent howling of the wind, the thundering steps of giants and… another thing. There was something else. However, before Doran could recall it on his own, the thing came back to him in a physical form. He was fumbling his way upwards, trying to reach the other side of the mountain range, when a hissing sound came from ahead. Shortly after the sound, a gelatinous two-headed creature appeared from the fog, barely reaching Doran’s waist as it moved past it with a frenzied speed. A changeling.

Doran turned his head to see the creature looking back at him and changing form, contorting its body and modifying its shape. Soon the creature was mimicking the treefolk’s branches and leaves, though it couldn’t increase its size. It went moving as a small treefolk downwards the path that Doran came. It seemed afraid. That reminded Doran of the sounds he had forgotten. There were changelings in that mountain range, a greater than normal amount, many of which roamed through the stony terrain in their borrowed forms. Some flied as fleeting faeries while others creeped as small lizards, some hiked as boggarts and others leaped as mountain goats. However, that motley crew of shapeshifting creatures was missing ever since the treefolk started his journey from the base of the mountains. He followed the treefolk changeling with his eyes, noticing how its gelatinous skin reflected the sunlight in an iridescent pattern, quickly fading away from view. That reminded him, at last, what had brought younger Doran to that place.

Velis Vel. Doran was still young and entranced by the legend of the secret grotto where changelings were born, a place almost as mysterious and enigmatic as Glen Elendra itself. He searched for Velis Vel location through all of Lorwyn, and all had led him to there. He didn’t remember finding the underground cave in his younger years, but everything there was looking somewhat different, despite being almost the same. After a moment, the fog that was clouding Doran’s view started to fade away as he reached the mountaintop, and there he had the most unexpected sight.

Down the other side of the mountain range there was a valley, circled by all sides with mountains. It was hard for Doran to see much from the inside of the valley, because the sun reflected on most of its surfaces creating a spectacle of light. The treefolk had never seen such a thing, it was as if all the terrain of the valley was shining with the sunlight. It was as if…the valley was all made of changelings. That had to be it. That was Velis Vel, home of changelings.

Something still felt strange. How could Doran had missed that place in his younger years? He was sure he had crossed that mountaintop, and there wasn’t such an obvious indication of Velis Vel there before. And wasn’t the birthplace of changelings supposed to be an underground grotto? Finally, where were all the changelings? So close to there as he was, they were supposed to be surging from that valley, and Doran could barely spot a few. The treefolk shaman squinted his old eyes, scanning through the surface of the valley, and there he saw the answer to his questions.

Sitting close to one of the valley’s walls, as if waiting for something to happen, there was a giant. It was the greatest one Doran had ever seen. He had a long grey beard that went all the way down to his waist, and his arms were as thick as the treefolk’s trunk. He was just sitting there, not making any movements, up until a part of the shapeshifitng wall detached itself and starting to transform in a changeling. Before the eyes of the recently-born changeling were opened, the giant moved his hands in a furious fashion snatching it from the ground and throwing it into his mouth. The disquieting sound of him chewing and slurping the smaller creature echoed through the valley, and Doran understood why there were so few changelings there. The giant, after finishing his meal, got up and started to wander through the terrain in an errant manner. He didn’t seem to be in a healthy state of mind.

The treefolk shaman had a decision to make. He quickly realized that, if he went down the valley to investigate the situation, there would be no way back. The walls of the mountains were steep and slippery, and any path going outside of the valley that hadn’t collapsed was standing many miles above its floor. The place was a deathtrap. Doran was beginning to understand what had happened. That was indeed Velis Vel, but its ceiling had fallen apart. That is why he didn’t see it there when he was younger, he must have just walked above it. Now, the way things were, any creature that wasn’t careful with their steps could fall in the bottom of the valley where it would remain trapped for the rest of its days. Just as that giant was.

The giant was the key. That had to be it. Doran’s theory, the one he shared with the ash treefolk, involved the fae and their desire to harvest dreams. Something had happened, something that begun in that place affected the balance in all of Lorwyn. The faeries stopped bringing dreams from there at first, and those were the source of their great magical power. Presumably they brought the dreams back to their Queen Oona. However, without dreams, Oona was forced to find other sources of power, and she invaded the Primal Beyond to drink the life force of Vigor, leeching it away. Who knows what other magic sources she would also suck dry while in there. That was causing a disturbance in the mana that affected the tribes most connected with it – the treefolk and the flamekin. The treefolk went back to become trees and the flamekin burned away. And that was probably just the beginning, unless Doran could find out why the faeries weren’t harvesting dreams there anymore.

All of that train of thought was interrupted by a scream. It came from the great giant trapped in the valley, who was yelling angry at the skies and punching the ground below him. His blows were powerful enough to open cracks in the soil, cracks that soon were filled by the gelatinous goo that created changeling. It was almost possible to feel the giant’s frustration as he lunged against the terrain, landing punches and kicks in his wake. It was all for nothing, because the walls of Velis Vel simply reshaped themselves into the giant’s cage. At one point the trapped giant covered his eyes and rolled on the ground, screaming louder. Doran couldn’t understand what was happening with him without going down there himself, but that meant getting trapped with the giant. The black poplar sighed. He didn’t expect it would come to this. Doran looked to the other side of the mountaintop, where the lands of Lorwyn stretched for miles and miles as far as the eyes could see. He shook his head and started his descent into the valley. When the path ended, the treefolk jumped.

Doran’s landing was more pleasant than he expected, after he rolled down from the mountainside to Velis Vel. He felt as if the ground was made of tar, and that dampened his fall. Down there in the valley the light was even more intense, reflecting the sunrays in all directions. At first the treefolk couldn’t even make out the terrain surrounding him, but his eyes slowly adapted to the light. He found the giant crouching next to a wall, his hands still covering his face, barely moving a muscle. The treefolk shaman didn’t know what to say.

“Who are you?” Doran asked, approaching the giant.

“Go,” it was the only answer.

“What happened to you?” He insisted.

“Go away.”

“I can’t,” the treefolk replied, “I’m here to help.”

“I SAID GO AWAY!” The giant got up from the ground in a violent motion, turning around to face Doran. His sheer size made him tower over the treefolk, staring at him with bloodshot eyes surrounded by deep dark circles. Suddenly, the black poplar understood everything.

“You need to sleep,” Doran said simply, while the giant appeared to be making an effort to contain his fury. “How long has it been since you did that?”

“I don’t know!” The giant replied, moving closer to a hair’s breadth distance of the treefolk, “get away from me. Don’t make noises. I can’t sleep… too much light.”

That is why the fae had abandoned that place. That giant that fell there couldn’t sleep anymore. The light reflected on Velis Vel’s walls was just too intense, and it was causing him insomnia. Looking at his size alone it seemed that his dreams would be a precious resource for the faeries to be missing, but he was also killing most of the new changeling. Changeling also slept, and presumably dreamed. That single unfortunate giant was throwing all Lorwyn out of balance.

“No,” the treefolk answered, feeling the giant’s putrid breath in his face, “you need to be put to sleep.”

There were no more answers from the giant this time around. He violently moved his body back and punched Doran at the middle of his trunk. The blow was powerful enough to send the treefolk flying and rolling around the valley of Velis Vel. The black poplar barely had time to get up before the giant reached him again, grabbed onto his branches and trunk and lifted him from the ground, throwing the treefolk against a shapeshifting wall.

“I’m Orguile Boulderfist, King of Giants,” spoke Doran’s opponent, as the treefolk regenerated some of the broken parts of his body. “I will kill you, treefolk.”

“No, you won’t,” Doran replied as the giant moved in his direction once more, focusing all his strength in one devastating punch. This time, however, Doran locked his roots on the ground and punched back, aiming at Orguile’s attack. The giant’s fist smashed against Doran’s in an explosive crushing sound, and it was Boulderfist’s punch that appeared to have won that contest, for he caved in the treefolk’s arm. Contrary to the Giant King’s expectation though, the black poplar appeared to be expecting that to happen, and quickly muttered a spell that encased Orguille’s arm with the remaining parts of his. Then, Doran pulled his entangled arm back, drawing the giant forward and exposing the nape of his neck to the view. There he landed a powerful blow with his good remaining arm.

The giant’s face hit the ground below leaving crack marks on it, while Doran unattached his broken arm-branch and quickly regenerated the lost limb. Boulderfist got up with his legs shaking and blood spilling from his mouth, now looking even angrier than before. “You can’t defeat me, King of Giants,” teased the treefolk shaman, “I’m the strongest fighter in all of Lorwyn.” That provocation had the intended effect, for the Giant King charged with his arms open to grab the trunk of the treefolk. The ground that Orguille stomped sunk to his every step, and the giant reached an incredible speed. Doran didn’t try to contain him. Moments before his opponent reached his target the treefolk turned onto his side and anticipated the move. He threw one of his arms under the giant’s leg and used the other to pull his hand, shifting the Giant King’s body onto his trunk and dropping him on the ground. Orguille fell on his back with all the impact of his full weight, which forced the air out from his chest.

Before the King of Giants had another chance to breathe, Doran muttered a spell that momentarily turned both of his hands into one giant mallet, and hammered it down with all strength on the giant’s chest. Orguille Boulderfist didn’t get up a second time.

“You fight… well,” the immense opponent of Doran managed to say, with barely any strength left to roll over and catch his breath. “But this is no good. I still can’t… sleep.”

Doran, catching his own breath, felt the need to reply, but found out that he couldn’t do it. His mouth wasn’t moving anymore. The black poplar tried to reach his face and touch it, but his arms felt stiff as rocks. It is happening. His eyes darted around for solutions, but without his voice the treefolk couldn’t even cast spells. The weight of his roots suddenly felt extraordinarily, as if they were anchoring him into the ground, and he realized the Falling was a fast and merciless process.

Orguille Boulderfist, the King of Giants, was laying ahead of Doran in a bloodied and beaten state, barely able to move his hands to try and cover his face. He was trying to shield himself from the light that came from Velis Vel. The treefolk shaman, in his very last moments, saw that scene and understood what needed to be done. Forcing his legs to move, Doran dragged his body over the gelatinous ground of the valley, almost unable to cover the last few inches between him and Boulderfist. Once he did it, he couldn’t feel his legs anymore, and all the rest of his trunk was starting to lock into a fixed position. Before that happened, the treefolk made one last-ditch effort to extend his branches and, by doing so, they cast a great shadow over the fallen body of Orguille. The giant felt the comfort of being in the shade for the first time ever since falling in that valley, and uncovered his face.

Doran saw Orguille’s eyes moisten with tears. The treefolk started to lose all the sense from the rest of his body. He couldn’t speak, smell or feel anything, and his conscience already started to slip away. In his last moments, Doran saw the Giant King falling into a deep, cavernous sleep, and knew he had done the right thing. Before his eyes also stopped moving and his sight abandoned him, the treefolk shaman looked up to the sky, admiring its reddish tone of sunset and the cotton clouds above it. His last thoughts were of birds, chirping on the trees.

Good story, I really enjoyed it.

As a Lorwyn fan, it was great reading about characters moving through (and towards) locations that never appeared in the novels, like the Primal Beyond or Velis Vel (although I always pictured the latter as some kind of glittering stone/crystal cave, not a place literally made out of the "changeling goo" - but your interpretation was interesting as well).

You also did a good job on coming up with a conflict, arguably one of the hardest things about writing a story set on Lorwyn (as you mentioned yourself). The plot was intersting and at the same time not too violent or dark for the setting. Especially the "wrestling match" between treefolk and giant felt really "lorwyn-y" and was a great climax.
To be honest, I was more than a bit sceptical when it was first "revealed" that one single giant was supposedly responsible for an entire plane being off balance. However, it also wasn't totally unbelievable since Lorwyn is such a fairy-tale world. Overall, I think having the giant in Velis Vel was a decent explanation for the trouble that was happening that also fit the tone of the setting. Definitely better than some "epic conflict" with Oona at the end.
It was also nice that you provided a reason for why Doran isn't around in the original Lorwyn/Shadowmoor story.

After the appearance of Vigor, I was half-expecting Hostility to show up somewhere in the later half of the story - since the Flamekin were so aggressive and Doran met what I think was a Fire-Belly Changeling up in the mountains (I thought this was supposed to be Hostility-foreshadowing - if that was your intention, then kudos to you).

Finally, some nitpicks.
- You mentioned Dragons multiple times when Doran was walking in the mountains. I was under the impression that there were no Dragons on the "day side" of Lorwyn (at least no awoken ones, see Spinerock Knoll).
- Shouldn't there be a comma whenever a person is adressed by their name in dialogue? (f.e. "You don't know that, Colfenor" - I'm not a native speaker of English, so maybe I'm wrong)
- The treefolk from the Sunrise Brake is an ash treefolk, but you wrote "rowan treefolk" at one point during Doran's flashback of their conversation. Most likely an oversight.

I'm probably going to read Reaper King next. Keep the stories coming!

First, I want to thank you very much for giving feedback to the story ^^ (it is what encourages me to keep writing too!).

I'm really glad you liked it, and yeah, writing in Lorwyn was hard. I thought of trying to make a whimsical faerie tale-like story, but I'm not used to those and I couldn't get the feeling right. Since I mostly like to write stories with a darker tone, I suppose that bled here in Lorwyn, heh. Nice job on noticing that, I did made an effort for things not to become 'Innistradish'. The mentioning of Oona in the last bits of the story was a sort of red herring. I know that the books revolved around her and I wanted to do something different, but of course it is hard to escape the pull of such an important character in the plane (hence why she appears briefly).

You're right about the changeling being a fire-belly one! However, it wasn't hostility foreshadow. I thought about showing other of the elemental incarnations, but the story would become too clogged Ithink.

The nitpicks:
- You're correct, there aren't dragons in dayside of Lorwyn! Thanks for pointing it out, I corrected that (as a matter of fact, I also mentioned 'beasts' which also don't exist in Lorwyn's dayside, also had to correct that).
- Yes! There should be a comma. I'm also not an english speaker, so I'm not used to all the conventions (though to be frank I'm not sure if my own language has this convention or not lol). I will try and fix that, slowly, because there are probably multiple instances of that, heh.
- Yes, it should be an ash treefolk. That was an oversight because it was a different treefolk that appeared there when I first wrote the story, but I changed for an ash treefolk. I fixed it!

Thank you so much for the criticism and feedback, and thanks for reading!

I am going to echo a lot of what soramaro said; this was good stuff, well-researched and poignant. I really like how much at parallel Orguille and Doran stand, and you did a good job of making both protagonist and antagonist sympathetic while also making clear that Orguille is villainous. The appearances by Vessifrus' people, Vigor, and the Sunrise Brake were real treats. You never indicated the level of permanence of the Falling, so I think I'm still perfectly capable of writing a sequel featuring Constance.

Quote from void_nothing »

I am going to echo a lot of what soramaro said; this was good stuff, well-researched and poignant. I really like how much at parallel Orguille and Doran stand, and you did a good job of making both protagonist and antagonist sympathetic while also making clear that Orguille is villainous. The appearances by Vessifrus' people, Vigor, and the Sunrise Brake were real treats. You never indicated the level of permanence of the Falling, so I think I'm still perfectly capable of writing a sequel featuring Constance.

Thank you man! I'm really glad that you enjoyed the story. It was a tough one. Something that I also tried to keep as a guide when writing Doran was his color combination. I made an effort to show him as an abzan character.

And yes, you're right, you certainly can use that to write your sequel, heh.

Regarding two things soramaro said that I forgot to address:

- Looking at the art in Velis Vel from planechase, I do agree the structures look more crystal-like. My guide was actually the art on mutavault, where it seems that the walls and ceiling are made of the same stuff that the changeling are. Oh well, now it is done, heh.
- I actually thought that people might find unbelievable that one giant alone could throw Lorwyn out of balance. Though I agree it is not the easiest pill to swallow, I made an effort throughout the story to show Lorwyn as a dynamic ecosystem, where changes in one aspect of it affect multiple races and creatures. In that light, the giant was the disturbance that triggered a chain reaction all over the plane. Not sure if I captured that idea well enough in the text, but that is what I was aiming for.

Glad to have you back after a few months, Ashiok, and well done on another great story! I can't claim to be all too familiar with Lorwyn's lore - which is ironic due to how Irish my family is, but it was years before I joined the game - but from what little I know of the story and characters, all of the characters, locations and the ecosystem-focus of the story felt perfectly at home for the world. As others have said, great work on that as well as creating a story of conflict to fit within the more whimsical aspects of Lorwyn and the existing canon of the plane.

I really enjoyed how you worked in the different locations and tribes into the story, as well as the depiction of the primal beyond. It felt perfectly in-flavor and was quite enjoyable to read based on how unique it felt, as well as the evocative images you gave those sections. I really felt like the location descriptions in this piece were some of the better ones you've had so far, and I love to see those in your stories.

If I had to suggest anything, it might just be to tweak the dialogue a bit. Overall what was being said felt right, but it felt a bit.....robotic, I guess for lack of a better term. Not to say it was by any means bad. If I had to describe my issue, it simply felt a lot was said that was similar amongst varying speakers. Developing a bit of a unique tone or voice for the key characters would be great, but I also understand that's far from an easy thing to do, and the dialogue was still very effective here. It's just that I can clearly remember Gisa's tone and voice from her story, whereas I felt Doran could may e have stood to be a bit more stoic in his speech.

But I'm also just a dialogue dork, so pay me no mind. I in no way meant that to be overly-critical, and I always love your works. Just trying to offer some feedback, as the rest of the story was excellent. Can't wait for the next one!

Thanks for your feedback a7xjoker33!

I'm happy you liked my descriptions =] Since I've been writing for a while, I developed my own metric in how to use descriptions, fight scenes, dialogues, etc. In my own personal rule, I try to keep descriptions at a minimum, unless it is to set the tone for the story, the tone for a character or because it is going to be relevant to the plot. I'm glad you liked what I did here with the locations, because I tried to keep their tone while also not overdescribing things.

Regarding the dialogue, I actually agree with you. I didn't like the flow of my dialogue in many points of the story, but I couldn't improve it much, so I just accepted and pushed on. Usually this happens with me when I can't quite grasp the personality of the character I'm describing. I tried to write Doran in different ways, but he felt to me as a more grumpy, assertive character. If I were to write a story using someone like Doran (not by request), I wouldn't write him as one of the protagonists. I think I would have an easier time getting him right as a support character, because it is hard to write about a very old non-human character that has zero amount of background. He is also not as powerful and influential as Ugin or Bolas, so you have to tone him down without actually overdoing it. Anyway, what I mean here is that I don't think I got the character quite right, and that shows in the dialogue. It is funny because I actually like the way I wrote Colfenor, and I think I could do more with him as a main character than Doran, and he was the only one in this story (in terms of dialogue) that felt truly unique to me. The other characters were more part of the scenery and conflict of the story than unique per se, with the excpetion of Oona, who I also liked in the story despite she having no dialogue.

Maybe if I had written in some boggarts or faeries, who seem to be more funny and witty, it would have helped to set a contrast with the other races. The elves, trefolk and flamekin all look like more 'serious' races to me, which incidentally made the story more uniform in that sense. I will keep that in mind when I eventually write something in Lorwyn again. I can say that I already started writing the next story request (Karador) and, imho, I'm getting the traits of the characters better, which will improve the dialogue.

Cheers!

Quote from methup »

Not a fan of this kind of writing. Some people take it to another level, I guess, far beyond where I'd personally like to leave a collectible card game.

Hey, thanks for your honesty =)

However, if you could just clarify: did you think the story itself was bad or the problem is that it is based on characters and scenarios from a card game?