Yeah, I don't know if a nostalgia block was ever feasible in the first place. I mean, WotC hasn't exactly spoken highly of the theme, since Time Spiral. It's one of those ideas where those of us who have been in it since the beginning (man, I'm old) immediately like the idea, and forget that the vast majority of Magic players will get nothing out of it, since 50% of the player base rotates in and out something insane like every 18 months.
This set aspires to be a perfect entry point for players who have never played a Dominaria-based set, and have zero nostalgia for the setting. I'm going to make every effort to have it work both as a grand introduction and as a grand re-introduction. And then, of course, there's the thing that comes after...
you mean it gets frozen again. once the ice covers the entire plane it becomes a huge mirror and reflects the eldrazi magic when they try to invade. thus eldrazi end up annihilating themselves.
you mean it gets frozen again. once the ice covers the entire plane it becomes a huge mirror and reflects the eldrazi magic when they try to invade. thus eldrazi end up annihilating themselves.
You forgot the part where some of the reflected Eldrazi magic causes a nearby Phyrexian spaceship to explode, splattering Lorwyn with glistening oil, thus creating a race of poison Kithkin Berserkers who build a Thunderdome and start to cage fight all of the Faeries and Giants into extinction.
Vothias sits upon Chancellor's Rock, in the center of the vast water tank of the Tolarian Clepsydra. Above him, a dome of night stretches from horizon to horizon. Fifteen beleaguered students lounge in dinghies beneath him, yawning at the stars projected upon the dome. The glassy-eyed signs of milkshade intoxication weigh heavy on this lot. Vothias strokes at his whiskers, as he watches a young apprentice rest his head in the lap of another, both of them half-awake. Vothias raises his gnarled staff and brings it down upon the Rock three times, clack, clack, clack! The students sit up in alarm, scratching their heads. One young apprentice jumps for a textbook and begins to flip through its pages aimlessly, as though Vothias hadn't seen her nod off only seconds earlier.
"To your oars, urchins and cockles," says Vothias, "When our jenny gets thirsty, best start rowing."
The Clepsydra lurches and clangs to life. Across the channel from Chancellor's Rock, the copper trumpet of the beast floats half-submerged in its enormous tank. The water does not so much flow into the trumpet as it is inhaled by it, and soon both an ear-splitting roar and a vicious current drives the students madly to their paddles, rowing against the inexorable pull of the device. Above the water, the dome changes. The stars wane, and in their place, the liquescent ebb of the æther appears. Vothias raises his staff and points to an emerald whorl on the distant horizon. Slowly, the whorl expands and appears to approach the class. The haze parts, revealing a lush and verdant scene.
"Where is this?" asks Vothias, "Anybody, now. Be quick."
"Shandalar?" says one of the more corpulent students, gasping at the oars.
"Is that an answer or a question?" asks Vothias, "No, not Shandalar. Do you see any Onakke flowers? You shouldn't be making Planar Biology 101 mistakes at this point in your academic career, Jendu."
"Belenon," says another apprentice, "In the Gut of Thurcai."
"Yes. I believe that's your first mark for participation this term, Saryll, well done," says Vothias, "Now, who can tell me the significance of Belenon, in regards to where you are desperately rowing in place, right now?"
"Belenon is the furthest charted plane from the Nexus of the Multiverse," says Saryll, "And, Dominaria is the Nexus."
"No!" shouts Vothias, "Dominaria occupies the Nexus. I promise to fail anyone on the midterm who forgets that important distinction."
Vothias raises his staff up towards the dome, and the grumevines of Thurcai recede into the æther projection. Vothias swings his staff counter-clockwise, and another whorl appears on the opposite horizon. The Clepsydra coughs and wheezes, but a stern look from the gilled teacher seems to frighten the machine back into action. The apprentices sweat beneath their robes, as the trumpet takes in an astonishing amount of water. As the second whorl approaches, a new light begins to shine from the Clepsydra. It projects a gray and rocky image over the place of the oncoming whorl.
"Somebody tell me what this is," says Vothias.
"It looks like a projected image of the Flats of Teru-Teru," says Saryll.
"Yes, it does look like an image of the Flats of Teru-Teru," says Vothias, "But why is it not that?"
"Because nobody has ever been to Teru-Teru," says another apprentice, "And we can only infer its properties indirectly, based on the properties of nearby planes."
"Correct, Alseth," says Vothias, "Nobody has ever been to Teru-Teru. Would somebody besides Alseth or Saryll please tell me the location of Teru-Teru?"
"Teru-Teru is within the Shard of the Twelve Worlds," says a new student, "So, it is one of the twelve planes closest to the Nexus of the Multiverse."
"Correct, Miltao," says Vothias, "And now, to find out who completed their homework and who did not, please raise your hand if you can explain to the class why I just now could show you a crystal-clear window to the most distant known plane in all the Multiverse, but when it came time to show you an image of one of our closest neighbors, I could do nothing more than show you a creative facsimile drawn up by one of your sister students in the College of Planar Cartography."
About half of the students raise their hands. Vothias points at Alseth.
"Because, Belenon has working mana lines and Teru-Teru does not," says Alseth, "And because, without active mana lines, planeswalkers cannot travel to the plane without moving physically through the Blind Eternities for decades, or even centuries. It would be a death sentence for any planeswalker to attempt such a journey. The distance between planes does not serve as a limiting factor for planar travel, but rather the strength of the mana lines connecting any two planes. Because all mana lines eventually pass through the Nexus, planeswalkers can harness sympathetic lines to travel to Belenon from Dominaria just as fast as they could travel from Dominaria to Mercadia, or to Wildfire. But, because Teru-Teru has no mana lines, it might as well be a thousand lifetimes away."
"Alseth," says the wizened merfolk, "Half a point of extra credit for your well-considered answer."
This might be giving the whole game away, but the question isn't, "What could lead Dominaria into another ice age?" but rather, "What has been preventing this ice age from happening?"
Are you implying that Dominaria's natural state before arriving at the nexus and subsequent exposure to its mana lines was that of being frozen? If so, that's an audible "woah" from me.
Are you implying that Dominaria's natural state before arriving at the nexus and subsequent exposure to its mana lines was that of being frozen? If so, that's an audible "woah" from me.
"I am over before I begin. You melt my innards to make my skin. The fatter my waist, the quicker I run. Countless will fall before I am done."
"An hourglass," says the boy.
"There is no tricking you, child," says Kheva. The musician's gleaming smile cuts across her soot-darkened face. She reaches into her jacket and withdraws a small paper tube, bright with stripes of orange, blue and silver. The boy grabs the firecracker from Kheva's hand. Before she can say another word to him, he runs into the crowd, waving his treasure above his head. Once broken in two, a shimmersnap burns for only a few seconds, but with a hypnotizing light. They are so rare in the Shivan interior that great tribal celebrations are called around one's lighting. Kheva's jacket is lined with dozens of them. She buttons up the rough, brown fabric of it and slings her rack of keys over her shoulder.
The meeting takes place in the camp's granary tent, amidst the tall urns of dragonclay. The Academy's messenger is a plump, soft youth, dressed entirely inappropriately for the intense anabatic winds that ripple through the Ghitu lands. The seams of the messenger's soft gown are frayed and bare. Kheva laughs silently as he dips and bows in some fussy, incomprehensible Corondoran greeting, clearly orchestrated to impress her.
"I am not impressed," says Kheva, "Get to the part that involves the time rifts."
"I... uhhh..." babbles Jendu, "Well... there aren't anymore rifts, to be precise. Not for a hundred years or more. They are, ummm... well, let's just say that even the remotest outside possibility of another one opening... and I mean opening ever, is nonexistent. What I mean to say is, uhhh... we couldn't even if we wanted to. Open another one, I mean. So..."
"Then make haste and don't open one," says Kheva, "You can not open one right here, if you like. What is this about?"
"Uhhh..." Jendu hesitates as he looks at his shoes, "It's... about the time rifts?"
Kheva's eyes stab through him. "I would like you to get to the point right now."
"The, uhhh... Mending," continues Jendu, "It really worked. I mean, really really worked. Dominaria, it's... it's completely stabilized. No breaks anywhere. The Academy finished its survey of all the old, Mended time rifts. Everything is in its place. It's..."
"Zhalfir?" asks Kheva, "Last I heard it was still missing. Or does that not count?"
"Well, it's, uhhh... funny that you should mention Zhalfir," says Jendu, "Because I mean, that's really the thing, isn't it? I mean... an entire nation... well, a good chunk of Suq'Ata and a corner of Femeref, too, if we're being precise. I mean... it's just, there should be a hole. Right? There should be a mana imbalance where Zhalfir used to be. But, it's just... there isn't. Our calculations are absolutely correct, and Dominaria is completely whole. That's, uhhh... that's the thing."
"I thought you just told me that Zhalfir was the thing," says Kheva, "What else?"
"Well, uhhh... something, uhhh..." says Jendu, "Something came back. To Dominaria. In the Mending. Something filled the hole that Zhalfir left. I mean... not where Zhalfir used to be. Somewhere. Somewhere else on Dominaria. Professor Vothias doesn't know where it could be. He, uhhh..."
"He wants me to search for the missing piece," says Kheva. "I accept this task."
Kheva turned around and exited the granary tent, leaving the apprentice staring dumbfounded at the tent flap. The hot mountain winds swam through her short blond hair, and the gray Shivan ash collected on her pale skin. A group of children tugged at Kheva's jacket and clamored for her to play the rack for them. She found a rock nearby, and set up her instrument there. As her mallets chimed on the rack's stone keys, the ash fell on the keys like flakes of snow, and the rhythm of the song grew slowly faster, building towards a distant crescendo.
"I never trip before I fall. In numbers, great; in body, small. I disappear upon your breath, but stay in me and meet your death."
"The design of this artifact comes to us by way of the Academy," says Kunguru, "But rumor holds that the Balshan Bay Company is responsible for the provenance of its raw materials. My sources disagree about those materials' immediate origin, but available evidence points to either the hold of an ancient Talas shipwreck, or a looted Sarpadian archaeological dig. In either case, the magic within the Crucible is both prehistoric and extraplanar. The weight of those facts will become apparent after the ceremony, which will begin shortly."
"Why build it here?" asks Kheva.
Kunguru stretches his long, dark arm from horizon to horizon. The ivory folds of his ceremonial official's robes undulate gently in the warm sea breeze. Mere steps in front of the crowd, the ground drops precipitously away, down to the ocean tides. Ukutarefu - or just Ukuta, as it is known - was created when the Zhalfirin rift closed more than a hundred years earlier. A thousand miles of the Zhalfirin border with neighboring Femeref and Suq'Ata vanished into nothingness, creating the sea cliffs over Kukemssa. At this spot along Ukuta, the Church of Femeref erected a spire to the heavens, glittering with gold.
"Is it not beautiful here, atop the Long Wall?" asks Kunguru, "What better way to awake to your new life than to gaze at this wonder that God has wrought? As Ukuta speaks to the salvation of the people of Femeref, so does the mystery of the rift reveal the great power that was exercised here. This place is our glory, and we would have those who pass through the Crucible awaken to it. Because it is most beautiful."
As if on cue, a party of three figures descends from the staircase of the golden spire. And beautiful is the woman, flanked by Kifalme Guards and adorned with a crown of amber. Her pale robes flow like those of the official, but are deeper in their weave, and lavished throughout with copper and gems. The perfume of the woman's dark curls carries the scent of a thousand summer flowers, and her face is cast of the eastern sands, high and gentle sienna. Each step she takes is both delicate and regal, her legs caressed by long, silk threads. The shabby Ghitu appears insignificant next to the woman as she passes.
Kunguru takes the woman's hand and walks her to the foot of the Crucible. The Kifalme Guards move to stand at attention at either side of the device. As the salt winds blow, silence descends upon the crowd. The woman's kinsmen emerge slowly from the gathering and lay hands on her in turn, whispering personal reassurances to her as she smiles. A lanky, bearded man who could only be the woman's brother flaunts formality and embraces her, eliciting laughter from both the woman and the crowd. Finally, a white-haired elder kisses her on the forehead and departs, leaving the woman alone at the brink of Ukuta.
"Princess Mtambika," says Kunguru, "Today God offers the people of Femeref the purest of sacraments. He offers them the ascension of their blessed princess to the realms beyond the stars. We gather here to bestow upon you your command of the ranks of angels. We gather here to bid you visit lands across the distant shores of time. Above all, we gather here to bow to your hand, as you take hold of the greater glory that God has planned for you. Will you step into the Crucible and be recast in the fires of heaven, Princess Mtambika?"
"I will," says the woman.
The Crucible is round and deep. This one given to Femeref is comparatively small; the woman caresses her bronzed knees to her chest in order to fit inside the artifact comfortably. Kunguru reaches into his robes and withdraws a vial of white oil, which he uses to anoint the woman's eyelids as she sits within the device. As Kunguru steps back, so do the guards, who then turn to usher the crowd away, both from the device and from the cliffs. Already, the sound of the wind is stronger, more animalistic. But it is not the wind.
Ribbons of light erupt from within the Crucible. The woman's eyes fly open with the sound of crackling fire. She screams in a tone somewhere between agony and amazement as the ground shakes and the sky flickers above. The crowd falls back, covering their faces from the blinding glare that now consumes the woman's body. Even the Kifalme guards lower their gaze from the Crucible's power storm. Then, a great blast of white light radiates outward, and a shockwave of deafening sound drops the crowd to its knees. Only silence follows.
After what feels like days awash in darkness, Kheva blinks her eyes. The vision in front of her is confusing and blurry, but soon coalesces into focus. The Kifalme guards hold up a wrapping of plain linen to cover the woman's body as she steps naked from the Crucible. Gone is her crown of amber and her strings of copper and gems. Only the raw material of her body emerges from the chamber and onto Ukuta. The woman steps forward and secures the linen around her, gazing off beyond the waves of Kukemssa. She smiles the widest and deepest of smiles. And then she disappears.
"Tanuru wa Mchawi," mutters a voice next to Kheva. The Ghitu turns her head to see an old woman dusting herself off, and frowning into the distance.
"Welcome backstage," says the tall, gaunt figure. Kunguru's eyes widen in a mixture of amazement and terrible comprehension.
A scarlet tower bearing hundreds of pieces of curved Madaran steel rises from the ground in front of Kunguru. The blades within its violent angles represent at least twice as much weaponry as all of the Imperial artifacts ever cataloged by the Academy, throughout its many centuries. But the tower is merely a trinket next to what waits behind it, among the columns of the wing. Six bottles of Rabiahan glass perch atop pedestals there, each containing a cityscape of astounding detail. These pedestals circle a series of pits dug deep into the floor, the sides of each etched with twisted Sarpadian script. Next to the pits stands a single enormous, unmarked crate of soil. Kunguru barely has time to examine it before his heart is seized by a sight emerging out of the darkness behind the pits. It is the bow of the Predator.
"Do not be alarmed," says the gaunt figure, "Her engines did not survive the crash. What you see here are merely the remaining scraps of her hull, and a few pieces of refurbished Rathi weaponry. But she is quite the conversation piece, is she not? It took months to procure all of these fragments from the ruins of the Stronghold. Some of the excavators were... uncharitable."
"What is this?" asks Kunguru, "If the others learn of what you've done here..."
"The others are not your concern," says the gaunt figure, "Nor mine. And regardless, emissary, your anxieties are misplaced. What you see here is merely old Company property. A small collection of long-forgotten skeletons, waiting their turn to take the stage one last time. Theirs is a miserable and lonely life, truly."
"This is an arsenal," says Kunguru, "And a betrayal. We resurrected this Coalition so as to bring glory and enlightenment to Dominaria, but you..."
"Wish to bring glory and enlightenment as well," says the gaunt figure, "Though our glory is different from yours, priest. Our glory is the affirmation of the crowd after a scene well played. Our enlightenment is the rapture of drama, the rise and fall of heroes, the twisting arcs of a grand and sweeping plot! And the applause at the end! Oh, the applause..."
Kunguru spins around to see a dozen masked figures behind him, clapping their hands enthusiastically. They wear the faces of Llanowar and of Shiv, of Benalia and of Urborg. They are beautiful masks, exquisite in their fine details and hypnotic in their shifting colors. One figure even wears the face of a Kifalme guard, ebony and stoic. But their masquerade is perfectly choreographed, and it suddenly moves as one to bar the exit. Kunguru turns back to the gaunt figure with a gaze of stone. The vampire merely laughs, leans back against the earthen crate, and begins to flip a coin.
"What is the story of Dominaria, holy man?" asks the vampire. "If you were to tell it on the stage, how would it begin? How would it end? And who would star in the leading role? It would be the plane herself, would it not? So sick, and abused. Like one of your Jamuraan wildcats trapped in a cage, waiting for the day she is finally strong enough to pounce on her captors and rip them to shreds. It must be a tragedy, the story of this poor, beleaguered husk on which we trod. There can be no justice for her. No happy ending! But, perhaps, revenge. And through her revenge, a shred of pathos. Would that not be deserving of a standing ovation? Would not the word of mouth after the curtain be... effervescent?"
"Dominaria has never been safer," says Kunguru, "She is whole. She is healthy. And she finally stands at the threshold of true power. We have only but to usher her through it. To help her follow the path that God has laid for her. It is why this alliance between us even exists. If you do not believe that, then why am I here?"
"Because this is the third act of her play, preacher," says the vampire, "And your cue is about to arrive. But first, we must teach you your lines."
It's kinda weird seeing Jamuraans talking about capital-G God. Obviously this isn't the Abrahamic God but the term connotates Yahweh/Allah in English.
Well, monotheism and the fantasy genre don't always jive well together. But personally, I'm inclined to go there.
From my research, the religion of Femeref has only been depicted in tiny bits and pieces. It has some elements of nature reverence but it is also historically been a theocracy. I can't find any evidence of Femeref ever having any named gods, unless you count the Sun and the Moon. In my development of Femeref, I'm saying that the nature stuff is simply popular folklore, and that the Church of Femeref itself (i.e. the theocracy) is monotheistic. But it's a fantasy monotheism. They aren't Jewish or Christian or Muslim or anything else. Magic doesn't go for real-world stuff like that.
As for the use of the word "God," there's really no other name I can use without implying that Femeref worships some supreme culture god, but otherwise maintains a polytheistic worldview. Coming at it from that direction would be harder to explain, I think. As long as I keep Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad out of it, I think people will catch on that this is a monotheism of fantastical origin, and not any attempt on my part to interpose real-world religion with the Magic storyline.
But, are there significant plot implications for having a fantasy monotheism at the forefront of the storyline? Oh sure. It raises the question of how different cultures can operate in the face of so many fantastical powers and planes, and still come to different conclusions about the nature of ultimate divinity in the Multiverse. That's one of the big reasons that I want monotheism here, by way of Femeref. It lets me dig deep into those background questions. Not that I ever plan to declare that the Femeref view is "right" or "wrong", of course.
Gotta say while I've been enjoying the mechanical idea you have been exploring I'm really impressed with the depth of story and narrative here.
Makes me feel like I need to lift my game and strive to do better.
Ember shadows from the campfire drift across Saryll's face. Her eyes demure from her suitor's as her freckled cheeks betray a brief, but inscrutable smile. The elf pulls the motley coat of sable fur closer around her neck. She looks to the clear sky above and the infinite stars beyond, exhaling warm vapor into the winter night. Saryll's ginger hair still bears the triangular braid of Spice Islands street fashion, so complex as to be irreplicable by anyone of less than a year's apprenticeship in such cosmetic arts. No hairdresser in Llanowar could offer Saryll more than a sharp razor and a scalp drenched in musk oil for her coin. Her only tattoos are now hidden by the weave on each side of her head, the tattoos proclaiming maternal and paternal tribal affiliations that mean nothing whatsoever to anyone at the Academy. The poetry woven into the braids means nothing whatsoever to anybody here.
"Come back," says Aydreld, "But for good this time. Llanowar needs you more than they do. Llanowar wants you more than they do."
"Do you speak for Llanowar, now, Aydreld Orphan?" asks Saryll, "Or do you just speak for yourself?"
"Of course I speak for myself," says Aydreld, "I am a captive to your beauty, Saryll. And as your spirit deepens more every year, I am drawn into its undertow. What shame exists in wanting to touch this exquisite shell as it washes back to shore? I will not feel shame for wanting you. Nor will Llanowar. We would all celebrate your homecoming like no other's before. The prodigal sorcerer, returned... and she is magnificent."
"Though you think it a meager excuse, I have still a year left of my apprenticeship," says Saryll, "And after that, the opportunity of a proctored novitiate. Professor Eugon himself has promised to take me on as an experimental hydromancer, contingent on my final exams and the quality of my thesis. Do you know Professor Eugon?"
"No." says Aydreld.
"Some say he is why the trade winds blow again," says Saryll, "And though it may seem arcane to you, such power is so great as to move one's sleeping heart to stir. The trade winds, Aydreld. The bonds over sea between nations. The warm spring airs over Aerona that bring the rain. Dominaria lives again because of this. They teach me to wield life, Aydreld. I could no more abandon them than I could abandon... my old friend."
The man turns away his cheek and looks to the snowmelt around the campfire. His beard is thick and brown, his body tanned from harvest labors. Only the left side of his scalp is shaved, tattooed with the crest of an elf father who welcomed a human boy into his home more than twenty years before. Away through the hickory and pine, the Elfhame of Brylberon is more than five hours journey on foot. Saryll and the orphan man had walked hand-in-hand to the campsite throughout the day, sharing stories of years and friends now gone. She had rested her brow on his breast as they watched the winter sun dip below the horizon together, spreading pink and orange over the frosted hillside. Now in the darkness, he looks back into her eyes, twin wells more distant than the æther.
"I know your heart lies with the the study of this world, Saryll... and not with me. Though it saddens me, I want only to see you in the throes of your heart's desire," says Aydreld, "Tell me this and I will be satisfied... if your heart and Llanowar come to face one another with swords drawn, behind which would you have me stand? Without Llanowar I am twice-orphaned. Without the dream of you I am a husk. Give me footing, Saryll. I know not where to turn."
"Why would it ever be so?" asks Saryll, "As you say, my heart is with Dominaria. And so Llanowar is with Dominaria. In her there is only hope and joy, Aydreld. There is so much good in this world, and in time I know that good will abide in both of us. Put aside this phantom of swords and strife. Come sit by me on this log, you poor, lonely man. Let's play Circle of Seeds or Ten-Pine Morris and dispel whatever hexes you. Let's put aside this melancholy and lift both of our spirits. I hate to hold such heavy concerns while on my leave. I'll get quite enough of them when I'm agonizing over Advanced Spellbook Composition next term."
The two companions rekindle the campfire and play games until the whippoorwills call out the apex of night. Rolling out the furs, Saryll and Aydreld huddle together for warmth in the snow, and soon fall asleep with their arms entwined. At the early rays of dawn, Aydreld stirs from the bed and walks for some time through the woods. When he is out of both sight and earshot of the campsite, he reaches through the folds of his tunic and relieves himself against the side of a birch tree. When he is finished, he cleans his hands in the dew-frost, and continues walking away from the camp.
As the sun rises over the hills, Aydreld reaches into his sleeve and withdraws a coin. The rays of dawn glint off of the coin's golden surface. Aydreld tilts the coin slightly so that he can see the reflection of his face in its sheen, then he flips it with his thumb and forefinger. The creature catches the coin and tilts it again. The reflection of the young, bearded man is no more. Now the sun glows hotter, and the creature's gaunt skin begins to smoke. It pulls its cloak over its head and dons two silken gloves. With a haunting stride, the vampire turns in the direction of Estark, not Brylberon. And another stage is set.
Gotta say while I've been enjoying the mechanical idea you have been exploring I'm really impressed with the depth of story and narrative here.
Makes me feel like I need to lift my game and strive to do better.
Thanks! I really couldn't ask for a better compliment.
I also have another render of Boreal Yeti to share, as created by Eredith Driscol. Looks good!
There will be a big story update in a day or two - I'm working on a massive Kheva chapter. Well, massive in this context, at least.
I have to say that I really like your set idea! I'm not usually one for returning to old planes, but it seems to me that you've had a good idea and it's different enough that you don't tromp on used ground. Snow cards have always been of interest to me. I never understood how snow could be part of all five colors (mountains and islands are my first thought) but I understand the idea mechanically. With that being said, I enjoy a vast majority of your cards and would play them in a heartbeat. Your set looks both fun and flavorful, and it allows snow to reclaim some of its power as well as tromp into new domains.
Some of my favorite cards are:
Highland Thrasher - Obviously powerful in any aggressive deck; usually you can shrug off the one damage for awhile anyhow. Seems like a chase uncommon.
Cryogenic Sleep - Another powerful spell. I might change this to "put them on the bottom of that player's library." That would make it seem more like Cryogentic Sleep as opposed to losing your mind. It would still be just as strong, but a little less black and a little more flavorful.
The Colorshifted Common Cycle - All of them are great. Interesting and fun.
I can't wait to see more cards in your set! Keep up the good work.
Also, if you have time, feel free to check out my set, Nazura! Thanks.
"Not oil," says the man from Suq'Ata, "Estarol... astarlo... ha! I don't remember..."
"Astrolabe toner," says the Suq'Ata woman, "Expensive. Very exotic. From Esper."
Kheva clasps the brass buckle of her canvas pants. Her other garments lay in a neatly-folded stack by the door of the steam room. Seven weeks of ash and sea salt are freshly scrubbed from her skin. The soils of Verdura, Femeref and Shiv are washed from her clothes. Still, an animal tang lingers heavy in the air. Stained and crumpled cushions sit in every corner of the suite. The frame of the bed is cracked, protruding many feet from the wall. Kheva’s two pirate companions lounge naked atop its silk sheets, their long legs dangling over the sides, eyes sleepy and bewildered. Kheva crawls onto the man and kisses his neck, then turns to the woman and smiles.
"Find us another vial for tonight," says Kheva, "And I’ll nork you like an Esper girl."
The Ghitu pulls her shirt on over one arm as she walks down the hall. The scene outside the room is chaos, with the remainder of the Suq'Ata pirate crew destroying what remains of the inn that they cannot drink or grope. Kheva adjusts her jacket as she walks to the threshold. Then, throwing the door wide, she emerges from the debauch and into the afternoon sun of Port Sembi. Kheva’s rack of keys waits in the garden there, the only item untouched among dozens of upturned tables and shattered wine jugs. She takes it by the strap and slings it over her shoulder, then leaps the garden gate.
Ceramic walls squeeze the Port Sembi spice market into a space no larger than a Ghitu dance tent. Still, the merchants hawk their goods as though shouting from the mountaintops. Kheva passes by all of them, their corpulent masses shrouded under exotic perfumes, and moves towards an old, wrinkled man sitting cross-legged and alone amongst piles of klaar leaf and ruby spinach. A discerning eye could distinguish such backwater debris from the true spices of the market, but none other than Kheva's are looking. The Ghitu kneels down next to the man and produces a tube of paper from her jacket. She puts the paper on the ground between the two of them.
“The manifest of the Enchantress,” says Kheva, “Taken at sea. Name your price.”
The man does not move to take the paper. He only smiles.
“All of it,” says the man, “Plus eight years work debt from you. Else I turn you in.”
“Where was the final rift, old man?” says Kheva, “Tell me, take your fee, and go.”
“You’ll never leave Port Sembi,” says the man, “You’ll rot in an oubliette with no…”
A candelabra crashes down onto the sandstone floor of the Xor temple, inches away from Kheva. The air is dry and dusty, without spice. Twilight creeps in through four porticos in each cardinal direction while the candles scatter across the floor, but the haze is not enough for Kheva's eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. The cloud of imps smells Kheva's summoning only a split-second later, through the wisps of evaporating æther. She bends over to retch violently, and the creatures seize upon her at the same time. Before the Ghitu can so much as lift a hand in her defense, the talons of the demon-spawn cut her freshly-laundered jacket to pieces, spilling her blood across the temple floor. Her rack of keys shatters apart as she falls, and the imps swarm her body, lapping at her flesh with their barbed tongues. The light only dims further in her eyes.
Kheva awakes to the spectacle of the Xor temple's ceiling exploding from the inside out, as a hulking figure launches a massive, flaming boulder through it. Her skin itches, and when she reaches down to touch it, her fingers intermingle with her own entrails as they slither back into place within her torso. She experiences the peculiar sensation of her neck reattaching and her blood repressurizing within its veins. The enormous planeswalker turns to Kheva with its single, mad eye and makes a rough gesture for her to stand up. From the æther, the cyclops forms another fiery bludgeon in his hand, and hurls it through the temple wall to the waiting dusk outside.
"Felling shot!" screams Kheva, "Porgo! I told you never to quick-call me, you seeping orc's bladder!"
"No time," bellows Porgo, "You help, we live. You don't, we die. Grakkas."
"I was doing something important, you mule!" shouts Kheva, "Wait... Grakkas? With your own eye?"
"He calls the Quasiarch," says Porgo, "It refuses my slaughter. Sing to it."
Kheva's hand swims through the red pool on the floor. She holds up one bloody key. "I needed these."
"Make do."
The flats of Atsuv howl as the gray god-storms churn overhead. The twilight is interrupted every few seconds by blinding starfall across the horizon. Each lance from the heavens blasts a hole in the world as large as a mountain. The echoes of the approaching cataclysm shake the stones of the earth beneath the alabaster demon. Grakkas grins with all four of his saw-toothed mouths. The one-eyed Porgo plods towards him, an insignificant shape across the empty leagues of waste. Grakkas flicks one white tentacle, and the Quasiarch wakes from its slumber behind him. The Quasiarch growls with a rumble deeper than starfall, then slowly unfolds its gargantuan wings, and casts a pall of darkness across the plain.
From her hiding place, Kheva apprehends the awesome size of the Quasiarch. The masticated bodies of a hundred Ghitu could fit inside the mouth of the steed. It wears the physical form of an enormous, winged cat, and moves with thunderous weight, through the sky towards Porgo. The rider is obfuscated by a billowing, pearl cloak, and wields a black lash that cuts fissures into the clouds above. Kheva holds the ends of a bloody shimmersnap between between her thumb and forefinger. Applying only a slight pressure, she cracks the pyrotechnic in half. The ensuing spectacle of glittering pops, sharp crackles, and shooting flames spits motley colors across the bleak landscape. The Quasiarch banks from its course.
A maelstrom of dust from the Quasiarch's descent swallows Kheva as she bends down to pick up two small stones. The vortex subsides, leaving the Ghitu caked from the top of her blood-sticky body to the bottom. The antediluvian monstrosity blots out the sky above her. Slowly, the steed kneels down, and the bleak rider rises to face her. Its terrible, empty form radiates neither compassion nor hatred, only an ancient and alien majesty. The rider's black whip snakes infinitely far into the twisting heavens above. Kheva stands beneath it, some insignificant flotsam in the ocean of the Quasiarch's cosmic existence.
Kheva clicks the stones together in her hands. And then she clicks them again.
The lash's first crack almost ends Kheva's song in its ostinato. The bard sprints towards the Quasiarch in a diagonal approach, then leaps from the path of its weapon, as the slithering trunk descends from the heavens to Atsuv in a split second. The shockwave ejects Kheva from the earth, and she hurtles through the sky like a mote of dust, her eyes nearly swimming back into the blackness of her skull. But she clings to consciousness, her eyes fluttering, and clicks the stones once again as she falls. The impact is awful. Kheva only has enough time to feel her shoulder crack and separate before her body is wracked by the air ejecting from her lungs. Before the haze can settle, the Quasiarch pivots on the horizon, and raises its whip again. Crippled and bloodied, holding her stones in crooked hands, Kheva raises them up as the lash comes down.
"There was a young maid of Hurloon!" Click click.
All sound immediately drains from the flats. The rider's whip hangs in the air, the clouds torn to pieces where it touches them. Debris from the first strike stops its descent, and the world is nearly still. Kheva curls and twists her body, stifling a scream as she puts the smallest weight on her shoulder. She rises to her knees and cradles one arm in the other. Then she squints her eyes shut and thrusts her shoulder back in its socket with a gruesome crunch. She rocks back and forth violently for some time, her face reddening as she gnaws on her lip to remain quiet. Opening her eyes and inhaling deeply, the bard looks to the sky again. The Quasiarch's whip has moved an almost imperceptibly small distance, but only almost. Kheva lays the stones into her jacket pockets and stands up. She limps across the plain, towards the massive rider and steed.
Arriving at the footprint of the beast, Kheva looks up through its dense coat. Each of its white hairs is a lance, and as Kheva pushes them apart to inspect further, its undercoat is a twisted net of silver wire. It digs into her skin as she grips it, but it holds strong. Ascending the creature is a ponderous labor, and twice Kheva nearly tumbles to her death as she grips a looser patch of undercoat, or is battered by a recoiling hair. Sweat pours from the bard as she emerges from the wilderness of the steed to finally lay one hand on the rider's saddle. The seat seems to be forged from white gold and the skin of some heavenly leviathan. Kheva wipes her hands on it until they are dry. Turning around, she notices the lash descending almost halfway to the earth, and increasing in acceleration.
"Who made all the minotaurs swoon!" Click click.
The acceleration of the whip once again stops almost entirely. Kheva turns to survey the rider's glassy, black armor. No footholds whatsoever appear anywhere on its slick surface. Exerting all her might against both gravity and the throbbing of her wounded shoulder, Kheva instead hoists herself from the forest of the steed's pelt by grabbing onto a rough part of the saddle. Once upon it, she stands and stares at the rider's hips and groin. The answer is there, hidden in plain view among the camouflage of the armor's filigree. Kheva walks over to the scroll case and plucks it out of the crevasse between the rider's cuisse and codpiece. The deadly sigils on the case are unbroken, and are written in an unusual script that Kheva's eyes struggle to identify. A thin, white film on the lid of the case betrays its previous owner. Kheva smiles.
The descent is somewhat slower than the climb, until a misplaced step in the steed's wiry undercoat sends the bard spinning towards the hard earth. This time, the bard catches her fall with a deftly-executed spin, landing on her feet and her one good hand. Cradling the scroll case in the other elbow, she begins to jog across the flats. The shape of her intended target is hidden, betrayed only by one gargantuan stone, suspended in air, that another unseen figure has lobbed towards it. The distance between Kheva and her intended intercept point is staggering. She pushes her pace yet faster, silently mouthing a string of numbers in a crooked measure, keeping synchronicity with the once-again increasing acceleration of time around her. After pushing herself for nearly two miles, she turns to look back at the Quasiarch, whose whip is now inches from the earth. Kheva stops and pulls the stones from her jacket.
"She took home a stud!" Click.
"Had cream with her cud!" Click.
As time slows again, Kheva turns forward again and runs. The shapes of Porgo and Grakkas are barely visible on the mountainside ahead of her. But in the intervening moments, another shape has appeared, above. A lance from beyond the stars penetrates the sky, making a direct approach to the plain in front of Kheva. Even with the passage of time around her slowed to a crawl, the object hurtles forward like a juggernaut. Sweat and saliva streaming from her cheeks, Kheva rockets into a dead sprint, clutching the scroll case as she pumps her arms. It is to no avail. Realizing just in time that she will not outrun the stellar debris, the bard skids to a halt, changes directions, and runs perpendicular to her previous course. No more than half a mile from the point of impact, Kheva leaps behind an outcropping of rocks, and covers the scroll case with her body.
The force of the impact ripples through the earth and blasts away the stones that protect Kheva. The chunks and particles interact chaotically with the magical field around the bard, striking her body at different angles and velocities. Once again, skin tears and pieces break. A large rock embeds itself in Kheva's cheekbone, forcing her left eye violently shut. The sigils on the scroll case quiver and crackle, spilling threats of their catastrophic release across Kheva's body, burning her with blue flame. Fire, earth, and cosmic particles rain on her for what seems like an eternity. When the worst has passed, Kheva barely manages to stand, then collapses from an ankle that is no longer fully whole. But her mouth continues to form the numbers in time. She begins to crawl towards the mountainside, then stops. She holds her head with both hands for a moment, then puts the scroll case down and withdraws the stones one final time.
"And buttered his steak with her spoon!" Click click.
Sound floods back over Astuv, beginning with the impact of the Quasiarch's lash, many miles away. Kheva lurches forth on her hands and knees towards the mountainside, where Porgo's earthen volley is split apart by the touch of a white tendril emerging from the æther. The tendril quickly lunges forward and catches the cyclops dumbfounded, ensnaring him and wrestling him to the ground. A rush of air like a hurricane breaks from behind Kheva. She turns around to see the Quasiarch lurching back into the air and hurtling across the miles of barren wastes towards her. She turns her head again to see hideous, barbed knives emerge from Grakkas's æther-tentacles to penetrate Porgo's flesh. Kheva groans and slumps face-first into the dust, averting her eyes from her summoner's coming evisceration. The shadow of the Quasiarch soon engulfs her.
No sooner has the Quasiarch blotted out the sun above Kheva than the shadow passes. Lifting her head up slightly, Kheva watches the tentacled planeswalker withdraw his blades from Porgo, who still breathes. Suddenly, a booming, astral voice strike down upon the plain. Kheva watches as Grakkas turns to face the Quasiarch, as the steed's mighty wings beat to keep it aloft. The conversation is swift, and ends with a final, deafening exclamation just before the Quasiarch's whip crushes Grakkas to a pulp against the mountainside. An instant later, the Quasiarch disappears into the æther from which it, too was summoned, and the starfall which wracked the plane hisses away into the haze of oblivion. Kheva lowers her head back to the dust and exhales, her cracked ribs jostling in her chest. Darkness washes across her.
"This was buried in your heart."
The first thing Kheva sees as she blinks her eyes open is the naked, pendulous bulk of the cyclops towering above her. The next thing she sees is a shard of shocked crystal the length of her foot, pinched in-between Porgo's massive thumb and forefinger. The bard sits up and touches her face. Where before there was a crushed cheekbone, her skin is smooth again. Kheva's clothing lies half on her and half about the floor, all of it ripped to tatters, where the stones and shards from the starfall impact were pushed from her body by crude regeneration magic. She sits up to examine all of the extracted objects. There is enough to fill out a small arsenal. She then turns her attention to the walls around her, a strange part of the Xor temple left unharmed by the earlier battle. Kheva scratches her scalp.
"It didn't see me," says Kheva.
"You were a sleeping boulder, covered in space dust. I did not see you, either."
"Where is the scroll case?"
"I do not know of a scroll case."
"The leather thing. Like a tree branch."
Porgo points to the far wall of the temple. The strange object sits upright against an altar there, as holy water flows through chambers in the floor around it. Kheva shrugs off her rags and tatters, then crosses the floor in her bare feet to lay a single hand upon the case. It is not cool, but frigid. Where her fingers pass over the foreign sigils, a sickening electricity jumps up through her nerves. The bard pulls back her hand. Across the room, the cyclops stoops over a mound of charred imp carcasses and begins to devour them. Kheva picks up the scroll case and walks back to her summoner, then climbs into a somber alcove next to him. The monster begrudgingly turns his eye to look at Kheva as he gorges himself, the pink shape of the naked Ghitu clashing with the miserable blackness of the shrine.
"Porgo, imagine you're the cosmic tyrant of your own personal quasiplane, where you can rewrite the laws of reality at whim," says Kheva, "What in the multiverse could a notorious spitworm like Grakkas offer to get you up off your throne, just to travel to this horrible world to land a few punches in some grudge match?"
"No question-games. I am eating. Speak or be silent."
"The Quasiarch wanted to extend its power beyond its homeworld. It's the only thing an archon ever really wants. And Grakkas offered it to the Quasiarch in a bid to destroy you. There's planar magic in this scroll case, Porgo. Something big. Strong. If I try to decipher these sigils, even identify the language, it'll probably vaporize me."
"Then leave it."
"How about you cut the spoils to the Arigha band in half this time, and pay me the difference directly by helping me move this thing back to Dominaria? They've got enough sling-irons to make it through the sunless season anyway."
"Urjhol refuses. Says to not make deals with you. Says deliver only to him."
"Urjhol isn't the one who just saved your stinking hide from the Quasiarch."
"... hope of escape, except, ahh..."
The fetid scent of klaar leaf trickles up Kheva's nostrils as the afternoon sun of Port Sembi penetrates her eyes. The face of the wrinkled old man droops with astonishment. Immediately, Kheva ducks and pivots, narrowly dodging the strangle-rope of the thugs sneaking up behind her. She faces them, their faces also flattening with surprise and confusion. Leading with her once-split shoulder, Kheva lunges into the closest thug with all of her might, knocking him off balance and onto the cobblestones of the market. She leaps on top of the downed thug, pulls a knife from his belt, and thrusts it deep into his gut. He screams and gurgles, and the second thug runs. Kheva ignores him and leaps at the old man, touching the knife to his throat.
"Where was the last gibbering rift, you old creaker?" says Kheva, "Tell me or die."
"North. Terisiare. Farther. I don't know. Where the nights last for months! North!"
Kheva throws the knife at the old man's foot, then reaches down and yanks the cloth mat from under him, spilling him onto the pavement. Kheva wraps the mat around her body, then fumes at the speechless gazes of the merchants and customers standing there. She scans the ground for signs of her belongings and finds none. As the crowd begins to stir, Kheva composes herself and pushes through it, breaking away into the streets of Port Sembi, then further off towards the beach. Kheva ignores each stranger's quizzical glance as she brushes by them in her makeshift dress, eventually coming to a remote enough corner of one shaded cove that she sits down on the sand, puts her face in her hands, and screams.
No, I'm responding to it.
Finally a good white villain quote: "So, do I ever re-evaluate my life choices? Never, because I know what I'm doing is a righteous cause."
Factions: Sleeping
Remnants: Valheim
Legendary Journey: Heroes & Planeswalkers
Saga: Shards of Rabiah
Legends: The Elder Dragons
Read up on Red Flags & NWO
Ah, OK.
Yeah, I don't know if a nostalgia block was ever feasible in the first place. I mean, WotC hasn't exactly spoken highly of the theme, since Time Spiral. It's one of those ideas where those of us who have been in it since the beginning (man, I'm old) immediately like the idea, and forget that the vast majority of Magic players will get nothing out of it, since 50% of the player base rotates in and out something insane like every 18 months.
This set aspires to be a perfect entry point for players who have never played a Dominaria-based set, and have zero nostalgia for the setting. I'm going to make every effort to have it work both as a grand introduction and as a grand re-introduction. And then, of course, there's the thing that comes after...
My favorite part about Time Spiral was that the problem was caused by the world ALMOST ending too many times.
I̟̥͍̠ͅn̩͉̣͍̬͚ͅ ̬̬͖t̯̹̞̺͖͓̯̤h̘͍̬e͙̯͈̖̼̮ ̭̬f̺̲̲̪i͙͉̟̩̰r̪̝͚͈̝̥͍̝̲s̼̻͇̘̳͔ͅt̲̺̳̗̜̪̙ ̳̺̥̻͚̗ͅm̜̜̟̰͈͓͎͇o̝̖̮̝͇m̯̻̞̼̫̗͓̤e̩̯̬̮̩n͎̱̪̲̹͖t͇̖s̰̮ͅ,̤̲͙̻̭̻̯̹̰ ̖t̫̙̺̯͖͚̯ͅh͙̯̦̳̗̰̟e͖̪͉̼̯ ̪͕g̞̣͔a̗̦t̬̬͓͙̫̖̭̻e̩̻̯ ̜̖̦̖̤̭͙̬t̞̹̥̪͎͉ͅo͕͚͍͇̲͇͓̺ ̭̬͙͈̣̻t͈͍͙͓̫̖͙̩h̪̬̖̙e̗͈ ̗̬̟̞̺̤͉̯ͅa̦̯͚̙̜̮f͉͙̲̣̞̼t̪̤̞̣͚e̲͉̳̥r͇̪̙͚͓l̥̞̞͎̹̯̹ͅi͓̬f̮̥̬̞͈ͅe͎ ̟̩̤̳̠̯̩̯o̮̘̲p̟͚̣̞͉͓e͍̩̣n͔̼͕͚̜e̬̱d̼̘͎̖̹͍̮̠,͖̺̭̱̮ ̣̲͖̬̪̭̥a̪͚n̟̲̝̤̤̞̗d̘̱̗͇̮͕̳͕͔ ͖̞͉͎t̹̙͎h̰̱͉̗e̪̞̱̝̹̩ͅ ̠̱̩̭̦p̯̙e͓o̳͚̰̯̺̱̰͔̘p̬͎̱̣̼̩͇l̗̟̖͚̠e̱͉͔̱̦̬̟̙ ̖͚̪͔̼̦w̺̖̤̱e͖̗̻̦͓̖̘̜r̭̥e͔̹̫̱͕̦̰͕ ̗͔̠p̠̗͍͍̱̳̠r̰͔͎̰o͉̥͓̰͚̥s̟͚̹̱͔̣t͉̙̳̖͖̪̮r̥̘̥͙̹a͉̟̫̟̳̠̟̭t͈̜̰͈͎e̞̣̭̲̬ ͚̗̯̟͙i͍͖̰̘̦͖͉ṇ̮̻̯̦̲̩͍ ̦̮͚̫̤t͉͖̫͕ͅͅh͙̮̻̘̣̮̼e͕̺ ͙l͕̠͎̰̥i̲͓͉̲g̫̳̟͈͇̖h̠̦̖t͓̯͎̗ ̳̪̘̟̙̩̦o̫̲f̙͔̰̙̠ ̹̪̗͇̯t͖̼̼͉͖̬h̹͇̩e͚̖̺̤͉̹͕̪ ͚͓̭̝̺G͎̗̯̩o̫̯̮̟̮̳̘d̜̲͙̠-̩̳̯̲̗̜P̹̘̥͉̝h͍͈̗̖̝ͅa͍̗̮̼̗r̜̖͇̙̺a̭̺͔̞̳͈o̪̣͓̯̬͙̯̰̗h̖̦͈̥̯͔.͇̣̙̝
No.
Really, no.
REALLY really no.
........................
****in' Eldrazi, how do they work.
11/10, funniest thing ever written in CCC.
I̟̥͍̠ͅn̩͉̣͍̬͚ͅ ̬̬͖t̯̹̞̺͖͓̯̤h̘͍̬e͙̯͈̖̼̮ ̭̬f̺̲̲̪i͙͉̟̩̰r̪̝͚͈̝̥͍̝̲s̼̻͇̘̳͔ͅt̲̺̳̗̜̪̙ ̳̺̥̻͚̗ͅm̜̜̟̰͈͓͎͇o̝̖̮̝͇m̯̻̞̼̫̗͓̤e̩̯̬̮̩n͎̱̪̲̹͖t͇̖s̰̮ͅ,̤̲͙̻̭̻̯̹̰ ̖t̫̙̺̯͖͚̯ͅh͙̯̦̳̗̰̟e͖̪͉̼̯ ̪͕g̞̣͔a̗̦t̬̬͓͙̫̖̭̻e̩̻̯ ̜̖̦̖̤̭͙̬t̞̹̥̪͎͉ͅo͕͚͍͇̲͇͓̺ ̭̬͙͈̣̻t͈͍͙͓̫̖͙̩h̪̬̖̙e̗͈ ̗̬̟̞̺̤͉̯ͅa̦̯͚̙̜̮f͉͙̲̣̞̼t̪̤̞̣͚e̲͉̳̥r͇̪̙͚͓l̥̞̞͎̹̯̹ͅi͓̬f̮̥̬̞͈ͅe͎ ̟̩̤̳̠̯̩̯o̮̘̲p̟͚̣̞͉͓e͍̩̣n͔̼͕͚̜e̬̱d̼̘͎̖̹͍̮̠,͖̺̭̱̮ ̣̲͖̬̪̭̥a̪͚n̟̲̝̤̤̞̗d̘̱̗͇̮͕̳͕͔ ͖̞͉͎t̹̙͎h̰̱͉̗e̪̞̱̝̹̩ͅ ̠̱̩̭̦p̯̙e͓o̳͚̰̯̺̱̰͔̘p̬͎̱̣̼̩͇l̗̟̖͚̠e̱͉͔̱̦̬̟̙ ̖͚̪͔̼̦w̺̖̤̱e͖̗̻̦͓̖̘̜r̭̥e͔̹̫̱͕̦̰͕ ̗͔̠p̠̗͍͍̱̳̠r̰͔͎̰o͉̥͓̰͚̥s̟͚̹̱͔̣t͉̙̳̖͖̪̮r̥̘̥͙̹a͉̟̫̟̳̠̟̭t͈̜̰͈͎e̞̣̭̲̬ ͚̗̯̟͙i͍͖̰̘̦͖͉ṇ̮̻̯̦̲̩͍ ̦̮͚̫̤t͉͖̫͕ͅͅh͙̮̻̘̣̮̼e͕̺ ͙l͕̠͎̰̥i̲͓͉̲g̫̳̟͈͇̖h̠̦̖t͓̯͎̗ ̳̪̘̟̙̩̦o̫̲f̙͔̰̙̠ ̹̪̗͇̯t͖̼̼͉͖̬h̹͇̩e͚̖̺̤͉̹͕̪ ͚͓̭̝̺G͎̗̯̩o̫̯̮̟̮̳̘d̜̲͙̠-̩̳̯̲̗̜P̹̘̥͉̝h͍͈̗̖̝ͅa͍̗̮̼̗r̜̖͇̙̺a̭̺͔̞̳͈o̪̣͓̯̬͙̯̰̗h̖̦͈̥̯͔.͇̣̙̝
You forgot the part where some of the reflected Eldrazi magic causes a nearby Phyrexian spaceship to explode, splattering Lorwyn with glistening oil, thus creating a race of poison Kithkin Berserkers who build a Thunderdome and start to cage fight all of the Faeries and Giants into extinction.
The Clepsydra
Vothias sits upon Chancellor's Rock, in the center of the vast water tank of the Tolarian Clepsydra. Above him, a dome of night stretches from horizon to horizon. Fifteen beleaguered students lounge in dinghies beneath him, yawning at the stars projected upon the dome. The glassy-eyed signs of milkshade intoxication weigh heavy on this lot. Vothias strokes at his whiskers, as he watches a young apprentice rest his head in the lap of another, both of them half-awake. Vothias raises his gnarled staff and brings it down upon the Rock three times, clack, clack, clack! The students sit up in alarm, scratching their heads. One young apprentice jumps for a textbook and begins to flip through its pages aimlessly, as though Vothias hadn't seen her nod off only seconds earlier.
"To your oars, urchins and cockles," says Vothias, "When our jenny gets thirsty, best start rowing."
The Clepsydra lurches and clangs to life. Across the channel from Chancellor's Rock, the copper trumpet of the beast floats half-submerged in its enormous tank. The water does not so much flow into the trumpet as it is inhaled by it, and soon both an ear-splitting roar and a vicious current drives the students madly to their paddles, rowing against the inexorable pull of the device. Above the water, the dome changes. The stars wane, and in their place, the liquescent ebb of the æther appears. Vothias raises his staff and points to an emerald whorl on the distant horizon. Slowly, the whorl expands and appears to approach the class. The haze parts, revealing a lush and verdant scene.
"Where is this?" asks Vothias, "Anybody, now. Be quick."
"Shandalar?" says one of the more corpulent students, gasping at the oars.
"Is that an answer or a question?" asks Vothias, "No, not Shandalar. Do you see any Onakke flowers? You shouldn't be making Planar Biology 101 mistakes at this point in your academic career, Jendu."
"Belenon," says another apprentice, "In the Gut of Thurcai."
"Yes. I believe that's your first mark for participation this term, Saryll, well done," says Vothias, "Now, who can tell me the significance of Belenon, in regards to where you are desperately rowing in place, right now?"
"Belenon is the furthest charted plane from the Nexus of the Multiverse," says Saryll, "And, Dominaria is the Nexus."
"No!" shouts Vothias, "Dominaria occupies the Nexus. I promise to fail anyone on the midterm who forgets that important distinction."
Vothias raises his staff up towards the dome, and the grumevines of Thurcai recede into the æther projection. Vothias swings his staff counter-clockwise, and another whorl appears on the opposite horizon. The Clepsydra coughs and wheezes, but a stern look from the gilled teacher seems to frighten the machine back into action. The apprentices sweat beneath their robes, as the trumpet takes in an astonishing amount of water. As the second whorl approaches, a new light begins to shine from the Clepsydra. It projects a gray and rocky image over the place of the oncoming whorl.
"Somebody tell me what this is," says Vothias.
"It looks like a projected image of the Flats of Teru-Teru," says Saryll.
"Yes, it does look like an image of the Flats of Teru-Teru," says Vothias, "But why is it not that?"
"Because nobody has ever been to Teru-Teru," says another apprentice, "And we can only infer its properties indirectly, based on the properties of nearby planes."
"Correct, Alseth," says Vothias, "Nobody has ever been to Teru-Teru. Would somebody besides Alseth or Saryll please tell me the location of Teru-Teru?"
"Teru-Teru is within the Shard of the Twelve Worlds," says a new student, "So, it is one of the twelve planes closest to the Nexus of the Multiverse."
"Correct, Miltao," says Vothias, "And now, to find out who completed their homework and who did not, please raise your hand if you can explain to the class why I just now could show you a crystal-clear window to the most distant known plane in all the Multiverse, but when it came time to show you an image of one of our closest neighbors, I could do nothing more than show you a creative facsimile drawn up by one of your sister students in the College of Planar Cartography."
About half of the students raise their hands. Vothias points at Alseth.
"Because, Belenon has working mana lines and Teru-Teru does not," says Alseth, "And because, without active mana lines, planeswalkers cannot travel to the plane without moving physically through the Blind Eternities for decades, or even centuries. It would be a death sentence for any planeswalker to attempt such a journey. The distance between planes does not serve as a limiting factor for planar travel, but rather the strength of the mana lines connecting any two planes. Because all mana lines eventually pass through the Nexus, planeswalkers can harness sympathetic lines to travel to Belenon from Dominaria just as fast as they could travel from Dominaria to Mercadia, or to Wildfire. But, because Teru-Teru has no mana lines, it might as well be a thousand lifetimes away."
"Alseth," says the wizened merfolk, "Half a point of extra credit for your well-considered answer."
Are you implying that Dominaria's natural state before arriving at the nexus and subsequent exposure to its mana lines was that of being frozen? If so, that's an audible "woah" from me.
Storm Crow is strictly worse than Seacoast Drake.
The Riddle
"I am over before I begin. You melt my innards to make my skin. The fatter my waist, the quicker I run. Countless will fall before I am done."
"An hourglass," says the boy.
"There is no tricking you, child," says Kheva. The musician's gleaming smile cuts across her soot-darkened face. She reaches into her jacket and withdraws a small paper tube, bright with stripes of orange, blue and silver. The boy grabs the firecracker from Kheva's hand. Before she can say another word to him, he runs into the crowd, waving his treasure above his head. Once broken in two, a shimmersnap burns for only a few seconds, but with a hypnotizing light. They are so rare in the Shivan interior that great tribal celebrations are called around one's lighting. Kheva's jacket is lined with dozens of them. She buttons up the rough, brown fabric of it and slings her rack of keys over her shoulder.
The meeting takes place in the camp's granary tent, amidst the tall urns of dragonclay. The Academy's messenger is a plump, soft youth, dressed entirely inappropriately for the intense anabatic winds that ripple through the Ghitu lands. The seams of the messenger's soft gown are frayed and bare. Kheva laughs silently as he dips and bows in some fussy, incomprehensible Corondoran greeting, clearly orchestrated to impress her.
"I am not impressed," says Kheva, "Get to the part that involves the time rifts."
"I... uhhh..." babbles Jendu, "Well... there aren't anymore rifts, to be precise. Not for a hundred years or more. They are, ummm... well, let's just say that even the remotest outside possibility of another one opening... and I mean opening ever, is nonexistent. What I mean to say is, uhhh... we couldn't even if we wanted to. Open another one, I mean. So..."
"Then make haste and don't open one," says Kheva, "You can not open one right here, if you like. What is this about?"
"Uhhh..." Jendu hesitates as he looks at his shoes, "It's... about the time rifts?"
Kheva's eyes stab through him. "I would like you to get to the point right now."
"The, uhhh... Mending," continues Jendu, "It really worked. I mean, really really worked. Dominaria, it's... it's completely stabilized. No breaks anywhere. The Academy finished its survey of all the old, Mended time rifts. Everything is in its place. It's..."
"Zhalfir?" asks Kheva, "Last I heard it was still missing. Or does that not count?"
"Well, it's, uhhh... funny that you should mention Zhalfir," says Jendu, "Because I mean, that's really the thing, isn't it? I mean... an entire nation... well, a good chunk of Suq'Ata and a corner of Femeref, too, if we're being precise. I mean... it's just, there should be a hole. Right? There should be a mana imbalance where Zhalfir used to be. But, it's just... there isn't. Our calculations are absolutely correct, and Dominaria is completely whole. That's, uhhh... that's the thing."
"I thought you just told me that Zhalfir was the thing," says Kheva, "What else?"
"Well, uhhh... something, uhhh..." says Jendu, "Something came back. To Dominaria. In the Mending. Something filled the hole that Zhalfir left. I mean... not where Zhalfir used to be. Somewhere. Somewhere else on Dominaria. Professor Vothias doesn't know where it could be. He, uhhh..."
"He wants me to search for the missing piece," says Kheva. "I accept this task."
Kheva turned around and exited the granary tent, leaving the apprentice staring dumbfounded at the tent flap. The hot mountain winds swam through her short blond hair, and the gray Shivan ash collected on her pale skin. A group of children tugged at Kheva's jacket and clamored for her to play the rack for them. She found a rock nearby, and set up her instrument there. As her mallets chimed on the rack's stone keys, the ash fell on the keys like flakes of snow, and the rhythm of the song grew slowly faster, building towards a distant crescendo.
"I never trip before I fall. In numbers, great; in body, small. I disappear upon your breath, but stay in me and meet your death."
Tanuru wa Mchawi
"The design of this artifact comes to us by way of the Academy," says Kunguru, "But rumor holds that the Balshan Bay Company is responsible for the provenance of its raw materials. My sources disagree about those materials' immediate origin, but available evidence points to either the hold of an ancient Talas shipwreck, or a looted Sarpadian archaeological dig. In either case, the magic within the Crucible is both prehistoric and extraplanar. The weight of those facts will become apparent after the ceremony, which will begin shortly."
"Why build it here?" asks Kheva.
Kunguru stretches his long, dark arm from horizon to horizon. The ivory folds of his ceremonial official's robes undulate gently in the warm sea breeze. Mere steps in front of the crowd, the ground drops precipitously away, down to the ocean tides. Ukutarefu - or just Ukuta, as it is known - was created when the Zhalfirin rift closed more than a hundred years earlier. A thousand miles of the Zhalfirin border with neighboring Femeref and Suq'Ata vanished into nothingness, creating the sea cliffs over Kukemssa. At this spot along Ukuta, the Church of Femeref erected a spire to the heavens, glittering with gold.
"Is it not beautiful here, atop the Long Wall?" asks Kunguru, "What better way to awake to your new life than to gaze at this wonder that God has wrought? As Ukuta speaks to the salvation of the people of Femeref, so does the mystery of the rift reveal the great power that was exercised here. This place is our glory, and we would have those who pass through the Crucible awaken to it. Because it is most beautiful."
As if on cue, a party of three figures descends from the staircase of the golden spire. And beautiful is the woman, flanked by Kifalme Guards and adorned with a crown of amber. Her pale robes flow like those of the official, but are deeper in their weave, and lavished throughout with copper and gems. The perfume of the woman's dark curls carries the scent of a thousand summer flowers, and her face is cast of the eastern sands, high and gentle sienna. Each step she takes is both delicate and regal, her legs caressed by long, silk threads. The shabby Ghitu appears insignificant next to the woman as she passes.
Kunguru takes the woman's hand and walks her to the foot of the Crucible. The Kifalme Guards move to stand at attention at either side of the device. As the salt winds blow, silence descends upon the crowd. The woman's kinsmen emerge slowly from the gathering and lay hands on her in turn, whispering personal reassurances to her as she smiles. A lanky, bearded man who could only be the woman's brother flaunts formality and embraces her, eliciting laughter from both the woman and the crowd. Finally, a white-haired elder kisses her on the forehead and departs, leaving the woman alone at the brink of Ukuta.
"Princess Mtambika," says Kunguru, "Today God offers the people of Femeref the purest of sacraments. He offers them the ascension of their blessed princess to the realms beyond the stars. We gather here to bestow upon you your command of the ranks of angels. We gather here to bid you visit lands across the distant shores of time. Above all, we gather here to bow to your hand, as you take hold of the greater glory that God has planned for you. Will you step into the Crucible and be recast in the fires of heaven, Princess Mtambika?"
"I will," says the woman.
The Crucible is round and deep. This one given to Femeref is comparatively small; the woman caresses her bronzed knees to her chest in order to fit inside the artifact comfortably. Kunguru reaches into his robes and withdraws a vial of white oil, which he uses to anoint the woman's eyelids as she sits within the device. As Kunguru steps back, so do the guards, who then turn to usher the crowd away, both from the device and from the cliffs. Already, the sound of the wind is stronger, more animalistic. But it is not the wind.
Ribbons of light erupt from within the Crucible. The woman's eyes fly open with the sound of crackling fire. She screams in a tone somewhere between agony and amazement as the ground shakes and the sky flickers above. The crowd falls back, covering their faces from the blinding glare that now consumes the woman's body. Even the Kifalme guards lower their gaze from the Crucible's power storm. Then, a great blast of white light radiates outward, and a shockwave of deafening sound drops the crowd to its knees. Only silence follows.
After what feels like days awash in darkness, Kheva blinks her eyes. The vision in front of her is confusing and blurry, but soon coalesces into focus. The Kifalme guards hold up a wrapping of plain linen to cover the woman's body as she steps naked from the Crucible. Gone is her crown of amber and her strings of copper and gems. Only the raw material of her body emerges from the chamber and onto Ukuta. The woman steps forward and secures the linen around her, gazing off beyond the waves of Kukemssa. She smiles the widest and deepest of smiles. And then she disappears.
"Tanuru wa Mchawi," mutters a voice next to Kheva. The Ghitu turns her head to see an old woman dusting herself off, and frowning into the distance.
The Witch's Furnace.
The Third Act
"Welcome backstage," says the tall, gaunt figure. Kunguru's eyes widen in a mixture of amazement and terrible comprehension.
A scarlet tower bearing hundreds of pieces of curved Madaran steel rises from the ground in front of Kunguru. The blades within its violent angles represent at least twice as much weaponry as all of the Imperial artifacts ever cataloged by the Academy, throughout its many centuries. But the tower is merely a trinket next to what waits behind it, among the columns of the wing. Six bottles of Rabiahan glass perch atop pedestals there, each containing a cityscape of astounding detail. These pedestals circle a series of pits dug deep into the floor, the sides of each etched with twisted Sarpadian script. Next to the pits stands a single enormous, unmarked crate of soil. Kunguru barely has time to examine it before his heart is seized by a sight emerging out of the darkness behind the pits. It is the bow of the Predator.
"Do not be alarmed," says the gaunt figure, "Her engines did not survive the crash. What you see here are merely the remaining scraps of her hull, and a few pieces of refurbished Rathi weaponry. But she is quite the conversation piece, is she not? It took months to procure all of these fragments from the ruins of the Stronghold. Some of the excavators were... uncharitable."
"What is this?" asks Kunguru, "If the others learn of what you've done here..."
"The others are not your concern," says the gaunt figure, "Nor mine. And regardless, emissary, your anxieties are misplaced. What you see here is merely old Company property. A small collection of long-forgotten skeletons, waiting their turn to take the stage one last time. Theirs is a miserable and lonely life, truly."
"This is an arsenal," says Kunguru, "And a betrayal. We resurrected this Coalition so as to bring glory and enlightenment to Dominaria, but you..."
"Wish to bring glory and enlightenment as well," says the gaunt figure, "Though our glory is different from yours, priest. Our glory is the affirmation of the crowd after a scene well played. Our enlightenment is the rapture of drama, the rise and fall of heroes, the twisting arcs of a grand and sweeping plot! And the applause at the end! Oh, the applause..."
Kunguru spins around to see a dozen masked figures behind him, clapping their hands enthusiastically. They wear the faces of Llanowar and of Shiv, of Benalia and of Urborg. They are beautiful masks, exquisite in their fine details and hypnotic in their shifting colors. One figure even wears the face of a Kifalme guard, ebony and stoic. But their masquerade is perfectly choreographed, and it suddenly moves as one to bar the exit. Kunguru turns back to the gaunt figure with a gaze of stone. The vampire merely laughs, leans back against the earthen crate, and begins to flip a coin.
"What is the story of Dominaria, holy man?" asks the vampire. "If you were to tell it on the stage, how would it begin? How would it end? And who would star in the leading role? It would be the plane herself, would it not? So sick, and abused. Like one of your Jamuraan wildcats trapped in a cage, waiting for the day she is finally strong enough to pounce on her captors and rip them to shreds. It must be a tragedy, the story of this poor, beleaguered husk on which we trod. There can be no justice for her. No happy ending! But, perhaps, revenge. And through her revenge, a shred of pathos. Would that not be deserving of a standing ovation? Would not the word of mouth after the curtain be... effervescent?"
"Dominaria has never been safer," says Kunguru, "She is whole. She is healthy. And she finally stands at the threshold of true power. We have only but to usher her through it. To help her follow the path that God has laid for her. It is why this alliance between us even exists. If you do not believe that, then why am I here?"
"Because this is the third act of her play, preacher," says the vampire, "And your cue is about to arrive. But first, we must teach you your lines."
I̟̥͍̠ͅn̩͉̣͍̬͚ͅ ̬̬͖t̯̹̞̺͖͓̯̤h̘͍̬e͙̯͈̖̼̮ ̭̬f̺̲̲̪i͙͉̟̩̰r̪̝͚͈̝̥͍̝̲s̼̻͇̘̳͔ͅt̲̺̳̗̜̪̙ ̳̺̥̻͚̗ͅm̜̜̟̰͈͓͎͇o̝̖̮̝͇m̯̻̞̼̫̗͓̤e̩̯̬̮̩n͎̱̪̲̹͖t͇̖s̰̮ͅ,̤̲͙̻̭̻̯̹̰ ̖t̫̙̺̯͖͚̯ͅh͙̯̦̳̗̰̟e͖̪͉̼̯ ̪͕g̞̣͔a̗̦t̬̬͓͙̫̖̭̻e̩̻̯ ̜̖̦̖̤̭͙̬t̞̹̥̪͎͉ͅo͕͚͍͇̲͇͓̺ ̭̬͙͈̣̻t͈͍͙͓̫̖͙̩h̪̬̖̙e̗͈ ̗̬̟̞̺̤͉̯ͅa̦̯͚̙̜̮f͉͙̲̣̞̼t̪̤̞̣͚e̲͉̳̥r͇̪̙͚͓l̥̞̞͎̹̯̹ͅi͓̬f̮̥̬̞͈ͅe͎ ̟̩̤̳̠̯̩̯o̮̘̲p̟͚̣̞͉͓e͍̩̣n͔̼͕͚̜e̬̱d̼̘͎̖̹͍̮̠,͖̺̭̱̮ ̣̲͖̬̪̭̥a̪͚n̟̲̝̤̤̞̗d̘̱̗͇̮͕̳͕͔ ͖̞͉͎t̹̙͎h̰̱͉̗e̪̞̱̝̹̩ͅ ̠̱̩̭̦p̯̙e͓o̳͚̰̯̺̱̰͔̘p̬͎̱̣̼̩͇l̗̟̖͚̠e̱͉͔̱̦̬̟̙ ̖͚̪͔̼̦w̺̖̤̱e͖̗̻̦͓̖̘̜r̭̥e͔̹̫̱͕̦̰͕ ̗͔̠p̠̗͍͍̱̳̠r̰͔͎̰o͉̥͓̰͚̥s̟͚̹̱͔̣t͉̙̳̖͖̪̮r̥̘̥͙̹a͉̟̫̟̳̠̟̭t͈̜̰͈͎e̞̣̭̲̬ ͚̗̯̟͙i͍͖̰̘̦͖͉ṇ̮̻̯̦̲̩͍ ̦̮͚̫̤t͉͖̫͕ͅͅh͙̮̻̘̣̮̼e͕̺ ͙l͕̠͎̰̥i̲͓͉̲g̫̳̟͈͇̖h̠̦̖t͓̯͎̗ ̳̪̘̟̙̩̦o̫̲f̙͔̰̙̠ ̹̪̗͇̯t͖̼̼͉͖̬h̹͇̩e͚̖̺̤͉̹͕̪ ͚͓̭̝̺G͎̗̯̩o̫̯̮̟̮̳̘d̜̲͙̠-̩̳̯̲̗̜P̹̘̥͉̝h͍͈̗̖̝ͅa͍̗̮̼̗r̜̖͇̙̺a̭̺͔̞̳͈o̪̣͓̯̬͙̯̰̗h̖̦͈̥̯͔.͇̣̙̝
Well, monotheism and the fantasy genre don't always jive well together. But personally, I'm inclined to go there.
From my research, the religion of Femeref has only been depicted in tiny bits and pieces. It has some elements of nature reverence but it is also historically been a theocracy. I can't find any evidence of Femeref ever having any named gods, unless you count the Sun and the Moon. In my development of Femeref, I'm saying that the nature stuff is simply popular folklore, and that the Church of Femeref itself (i.e. the theocracy) is monotheistic. But it's a fantasy monotheism. They aren't Jewish or Christian or Muslim or anything else. Magic doesn't go for real-world stuff like that.
As for the use of the word "God," there's really no other name I can use without implying that Femeref worships some supreme culture god, but otherwise maintains a polytheistic worldview. Coming at it from that direction would be harder to explain, I think. As long as I keep Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad out of it, I think people will catch on that this is a monotheism of fantastical origin, and not any attempt on my part to interpose real-world religion with the Magic storyline.
But, are there significant plot implications for having a fantasy monotheism at the forefront of the storyline? Oh sure. It raises the question of how different cultures can operate in the face of so many fantastical powers and planes, and still come to different conclusions about the nature of ultimate divinity in the Multiverse. That's one of the big reasons that I want monotheism here, by way of Femeref. It lets me dig deep into those background questions. Not that I ever plan to declare that the Femeref view is "right" or "wrong", of course.
Makes me feel like I need to lift my game and strive to do better.
Are you designing commons? Check out my primer on NWO.
Interested in making a custom set? Check out my Set skeleton and archetype primer.
I also write articles about getting started with custom card creation.
Go and PLAYTEST your designs, you will learn more in a single playtests than a dozen discussions.
My custom sets:
Dreamscape
Coins of Mercalis [COMPLETE]
Exodus of Zendikar - ON HOLD
The Camp
Ember shadows from the campfire drift across Saryll's face. Her eyes demure from her suitor's as her freckled cheeks betray a brief, but inscrutable smile. The elf pulls the motley coat of sable fur closer around her neck. She looks to the clear sky above and the infinite stars beyond, exhaling warm vapor into the winter night. Saryll's ginger hair still bears the triangular braid of Spice Islands street fashion, so complex as to be irreplicable by anyone of less than a year's apprenticeship in such cosmetic arts. No hairdresser in Llanowar could offer Saryll more than a sharp razor and a scalp drenched in musk oil for her coin. Her only tattoos are now hidden by the weave on each side of her head, the tattoos proclaiming maternal and paternal tribal affiliations that mean nothing whatsoever to anyone at the Academy. The poetry woven into the braids means nothing whatsoever to anybody here.
"Come back," says Aydreld, "But for good this time. Llanowar needs you more than they do. Llanowar wants you more than they do."
"Do you speak for Llanowar, now, Aydreld Orphan?" asks Saryll, "Or do you just speak for yourself?"
"Of course I speak for myself," says Aydreld, "I am a captive to your beauty, Saryll. And as your spirit deepens more every year, I am drawn into its undertow. What shame exists in wanting to touch this exquisite shell as it washes back to shore? I will not feel shame for wanting you. Nor will Llanowar. We would all celebrate your homecoming like no other's before. The prodigal sorcerer, returned... and she is magnificent."
"Though you think it a meager excuse, I have still a year left of my apprenticeship," says Saryll, "And after that, the opportunity of a proctored novitiate. Professor Eugon himself has promised to take me on as an experimental hydromancer, contingent on my final exams and the quality of my thesis. Do you know Professor Eugon?"
"No." says Aydreld.
"Some say he is why the trade winds blow again," says Saryll, "And though it may seem arcane to you, such power is so great as to move one's sleeping heart to stir. The trade winds, Aydreld. The bonds over sea between nations. The warm spring airs over Aerona that bring the rain. Dominaria lives again because of this. They teach me to wield life, Aydreld. I could no more abandon them than I could abandon... my old friend."
The man turns away his cheek and looks to the snowmelt around the campfire. His beard is thick and brown, his body tanned from harvest labors. Only the left side of his scalp is shaved, tattooed with the crest of an elf father who welcomed a human boy into his home more than twenty years before. Away through the hickory and pine, the Elfhame of Brylberon is more than five hours journey on foot. Saryll and the orphan man had walked hand-in-hand to the campsite throughout the day, sharing stories of years and friends now gone. She had rested her brow on his breast as they watched the winter sun dip below the horizon together, spreading pink and orange over the frosted hillside. Now in the darkness, he looks back into her eyes, twin wells more distant than the æther.
"I know your heart lies with the the study of this world, Saryll... and not with me. Though it saddens me, I want only to see you in the throes of your heart's desire," says Aydreld, "Tell me this and I will be satisfied... if your heart and Llanowar come to face one another with swords drawn, behind which would you have me stand? Without Llanowar I am twice-orphaned. Without the dream of you I am a husk. Give me footing, Saryll. I know not where to turn."
"Why would it ever be so?" asks Saryll, "As you say, my heart is with Dominaria. And so Llanowar is with Dominaria. In her there is only hope and joy, Aydreld. There is so much good in this world, and in time I know that good will abide in both of us. Put aside this phantom of swords and strife. Come sit by me on this log, you poor, lonely man. Let's play Circle of Seeds or Ten-Pine Morris and dispel whatever hexes you. Let's put aside this melancholy and lift both of our spirits. I hate to hold such heavy concerns while on my leave. I'll get quite enough of them when I'm agonizing over Advanced Spellbook Composition next term."
The two companions rekindle the campfire and play games until the whippoorwills call out the apex of night. Rolling out the furs, Saryll and Aydreld huddle together for warmth in the snow, and soon fall asleep with their arms entwined. At the early rays of dawn, Aydreld stirs from the bed and walks for some time through the woods. When he is out of both sight and earshot of the campsite, he reaches through the folds of his tunic and relieves himself against the side of a birch tree. When he is finished, he cleans his hands in the dew-frost, and continues walking away from the camp.
As the sun rises over the hills, Aydreld reaches into his sleeve and withdraws a coin. The rays of dawn glint off of the coin's golden surface. Aydreld tilts the coin slightly so that he can see the reflection of his face in its sheen, then he flips it with his thumb and forefinger. The creature catches the coin and tilts it again. The reflection of the young, bearded man is no more. Now the sun glows hotter, and the creature's gaunt skin begins to smoke. It pulls its cloak over its head and dons two silken gloves. With a haunting stride, the vampire turns in the direction of Estark, not Brylberon. And another stage is set.
In the cold distance behind, Saryll awakes alone.
Thanks! I really couldn't ask for a better compliment.
I also have another render of Boreal Yeti to share, as created by Eredith Driscol. Looks good!
There will be a big story update in a day or two - I'm working on a massive Kheva chapter. Well, massive in this context, at least.
Looking forward to reading it. I really like how each new entry links to a character from a previous entry.
Avatar by Numotflame96 of Maelstrom Graphics
Sig banner thanks to DarkNightCavalier of Heroes of the Plane Studios!
I̟̥͍̠ͅn̩͉̣͍̬͚ͅ ̬̬͖t̯̹̞̺͖͓̯̤h̘͍̬e͙̯͈̖̼̮ ̭̬f̺̲̲̪i͙͉̟̩̰r̪̝͚͈̝̥͍̝̲s̼̻͇̘̳͔ͅt̲̺̳̗̜̪̙ ̳̺̥̻͚̗ͅm̜̜̟̰͈͓͎͇o̝̖̮̝͇m̯̻̞̼̫̗͓̤e̩̯̬̮̩n͎̱̪̲̹͖t͇̖s̰̮ͅ,̤̲͙̻̭̻̯̹̰ ̖t̫̙̺̯͖͚̯ͅh͙̯̦̳̗̰̟e͖̪͉̼̯ ̪͕g̞̣͔a̗̦t̬̬͓͙̫̖̭̻e̩̻̯ ̜̖̦̖̤̭͙̬t̞̹̥̪͎͉ͅo͕͚͍͇̲͇͓̺ ̭̬͙͈̣̻t͈͍͙͓̫̖͙̩h̪̬̖̙e̗͈ ̗̬̟̞̺̤͉̯ͅa̦̯͚̙̜̮f͉͙̲̣̞̼t̪̤̞̣͚e̲͉̳̥r͇̪̙͚͓l̥̞̞͎̹̯̹ͅi͓̬f̮̥̬̞͈ͅe͎ ̟̩̤̳̠̯̩̯o̮̘̲p̟͚̣̞͉͓e͍̩̣n͔̼͕͚̜e̬̱d̼̘͎̖̹͍̮̠,͖̺̭̱̮ ̣̲͖̬̪̭̥a̪͚n̟̲̝̤̤̞̗d̘̱̗͇̮͕̳͕͔ ͖̞͉͎t̹̙͎h̰̱͉̗e̪̞̱̝̹̩ͅ ̠̱̩̭̦p̯̙e͓o̳͚̰̯̺̱̰͔̘p̬͎̱̣̼̩͇l̗̟̖͚̠e̱͉͔̱̦̬̟̙ ̖͚̪͔̼̦w̺̖̤̱e͖̗̻̦͓̖̘̜r̭̥e͔̹̫̱͕̦̰͕ ̗͔̠p̠̗͍͍̱̳̠r̰͔͎̰o͉̥͓̰͚̥s̟͚̹̱͔̣t͉̙̳̖͖̪̮r̥̘̥͙̹a͉̟̫̟̳̠̟̭t͈̜̰͈͎e̞̣̭̲̬ ͚̗̯̟͙i͍͖̰̘̦͖͉ṇ̮̻̯̦̲̩͍ ̦̮͚̫̤t͉͖̫͕ͅͅh͙̮̻̘̣̮̼e͕̺ ͙l͕̠͎̰̥i̲͓͉̲g̫̳̟͈͇̖h̠̦̖t͓̯͎̗ ̳̪̘̟̙̩̦o̫̲f̙͔̰̙̠ ̹̪̗͇̯t͖̼̼͉͖̬h̹͇̩e͚̖̺̤͉̹͕̪ ͚͓̭̝̺G͎̗̯̩o̫̯̮̟̮̳̘d̜̲͙̠-̩̳̯̲̗̜P̹̘̥͉̝h͍͈̗̖̝ͅa͍̗̮̼̗r̜̖͇̙̺a̭̺͔̞̳͈o̪̣͓̯̬͙̯̰̗h̖̦͈̥̯͔.͇̣̙̝
Some of my favorite cards are:
Highland Thrasher - Obviously powerful in any aggressive deck; usually you can shrug off the one damage for awhile anyhow. Seems like a chase uncommon.
Cryogenic Sleep - Another powerful spell. I might change this to "put them on the bottom of that player's library." That would make it seem more like Cryogentic Sleep as opposed to losing your mind. It would still be just as strong, but a little less black and a little more flavorful.
The Colorshifted Common Cycle - All of them are great. Interesting and fun.
I can't wait to see more cards in your set! Keep up the good work.
Also, if you have time, feel free to check out my set, Nazura! Thanks.
Dunes of Zairo
SHANDALAR
Innistrad - The Darkest Night
~THE RAVNICAN CONSORTIUM~
A Community Set
Commander: Allies & Adversaries
Summoning, Part One
"Not oil," says the man from Suq'Ata, "Estarol... astarlo... ha! I don't remember..."
"Astrolabe toner," says the Suq'Ata woman, "Expensive. Very exotic. From Esper."
Kheva clasps the brass buckle of her canvas pants. Her other garments lay in a neatly-folded stack by the door of the steam room. Seven weeks of ash and sea salt are freshly scrubbed from her skin. The soils of Verdura, Femeref and Shiv are washed from her clothes. Still, an animal tang lingers heavy in the air. Stained and crumpled cushions sit in every corner of the suite. The frame of the bed is cracked, protruding many feet from the wall. Kheva’s two pirate companions lounge naked atop its silk sheets, their long legs dangling over the sides, eyes sleepy and bewildered. Kheva crawls onto the man and kisses his neck, then turns to the woman and smiles.
"Find us another vial for tonight," says Kheva, "And I’ll nork you like an Esper girl."
The Ghitu pulls her shirt on over one arm as she walks down the hall. The scene outside the room is chaos, with the remainder of the Suq'Ata pirate crew destroying what remains of the inn that they cannot drink or grope. Kheva adjusts her jacket as she walks to the threshold. Then, throwing the door wide, she emerges from the debauch and into the afternoon sun of Port Sembi. Kheva’s rack of keys waits in the garden there, the only item untouched among dozens of upturned tables and shattered wine jugs. She takes it by the strap and slings it over her shoulder, then leaps the garden gate.
Ceramic walls squeeze the Port Sembi spice market into a space no larger than a Ghitu dance tent. Still, the merchants hawk their goods as though shouting from the mountaintops. Kheva passes by all of them, their corpulent masses shrouded under exotic perfumes, and moves towards an old, wrinkled man sitting cross-legged and alone amongst piles of klaar leaf and ruby spinach. A discerning eye could distinguish such backwater debris from the true spices of the market, but none other than Kheva's are looking. The Ghitu kneels down next to the man and produces a tube of paper from her jacket. She puts the paper on the ground between the two of them.
“The manifest of the Enchantress,” says Kheva, “Taken at sea. Name your price.”
The man does not move to take the paper. He only smiles.
“All of it,” says the man, “Plus eight years work debt from you. Else I turn you in.”
“Where was the final rift, old man?” says Kheva, “Tell me, take your fee, and go.”
“You’ll never leave Port Sembi,” says the man, “You’ll rot in an oubliette with no…”
A candelabra crashes down onto the sandstone floor of the Xor temple, inches away from Kheva. The air is dry and dusty, without spice. Twilight creeps in through four porticos in each cardinal direction while the candles scatter across the floor, but the haze is not enough for Kheva's eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. The cloud of imps smells Kheva's summoning only a split-second later, through the wisps of evaporating æther. She bends over to retch violently, and the creatures seize upon her at the same time. Before the Ghitu can so much as lift a hand in her defense, the talons of the demon-spawn cut her freshly-laundered jacket to pieces, spilling her blood across the temple floor. Her rack of keys shatters apart as she falls, and the imps swarm her body, lapping at her flesh with their barbed tongues. The light only dims further in her eyes.
Kheva awakes to the spectacle of the Xor temple's ceiling exploding from the inside out, as a hulking figure launches a massive, flaming boulder through it. Her skin itches, and when she reaches down to touch it, her fingers intermingle with her own entrails as they slither back into place within her torso. She experiences the peculiar sensation of her neck reattaching and her blood repressurizing within its veins. The enormous planeswalker turns to Kheva with its single, mad eye and makes a rough gesture for her to stand up. From the æther, the cyclops forms another fiery bludgeon in his hand, and hurls it through the temple wall to the waiting dusk outside.
"Felling shot!" screams Kheva, "Porgo! I told you never to quick-call me, you seeping orc's bladder!"
"No time," bellows Porgo, "You help, we live. You don't, we die. Grakkas."
"I was doing something important, you mule!" shouts Kheva, "Wait... Grakkas? With your own eye?"
"He calls the Quasiarch," says Porgo, "It refuses my slaughter. Sing to it."
Kheva's hand swims through the red pool on the floor. She holds up one bloody key. "I needed these."
"Make do."
The flats of Atsuv howl as the gray god-storms churn overhead. The twilight is interrupted every few seconds by blinding starfall across the horizon. Each lance from the heavens blasts a hole in the world as large as a mountain. The echoes of the approaching cataclysm shake the stones of the earth beneath the alabaster demon. Grakkas grins with all four of his saw-toothed mouths. The one-eyed Porgo plods towards him, an insignificant shape across the empty leagues of waste. Grakkas flicks one white tentacle, and the Quasiarch wakes from its slumber behind him. The Quasiarch growls with a rumble deeper than starfall, then slowly unfolds its gargantuan wings, and casts a pall of darkness across the plain.
From her hiding place, Kheva apprehends the awesome size of the Quasiarch. The masticated bodies of a hundred Ghitu could fit inside the mouth of the steed. It wears the physical form of an enormous, winged cat, and moves with thunderous weight, through the sky towards Porgo. The rider is obfuscated by a billowing, pearl cloak, and wields a black lash that cuts fissures into the clouds above. Kheva holds the ends of a bloody shimmersnap between between her thumb and forefinger. Applying only a slight pressure, she cracks the pyrotechnic in half. The ensuing spectacle of glittering pops, sharp crackles, and shooting flames spits motley colors across the bleak landscape. The Quasiarch banks from its course.
A maelstrom of dust from the Quasiarch's descent swallows Kheva as she bends down to pick up two small stones. The vortex subsides, leaving the Ghitu caked from the top of her blood-sticky body to the bottom. The antediluvian monstrosity blots out the sky above her. Slowly, the steed kneels down, and the bleak rider rises to face her. Its terrible, empty form radiates neither compassion nor hatred, only an ancient and alien majesty. The rider's black whip snakes infinitely far into the twisting heavens above. Kheva stands beneath it, some insignificant flotsam in the ocean of the Quasiarch's cosmic existence.
Kheva clicks the stones together in her hands. And then she clicks them again.
Kheva's Song
The lash's first crack almost ends Kheva's song in its ostinato. The bard sprints towards the Quasiarch in a diagonal approach, then leaps from the path of its weapon, as the slithering trunk descends from the heavens to Atsuv in a split second. The shockwave ejects Kheva from the earth, and she hurtles through the sky like a mote of dust, her eyes nearly swimming back into the blackness of her skull. But she clings to consciousness, her eyes fluttering, and clicks the stones once again as she falls. The impact is awful. Kheva only has enough time to feel her shoulder crack and separate before her body is wracked by the air ejecting from her lungs. Before the haze can settle, the Quasiarch pivots on the horizon, and raises its whip again. Crippled and bloodied, holding her stones in crooked hands, Kheva raises them up as the lash comes down.
"There was a young maid of Hurloon!" Click click.
All sound immediately drains from the flats. The rider's whip hangs in the air, the clouds torn to pieces where it touches them. Debris from the first strike stops its descent, and the world is nearly still. Kheva curls and twists her body, stifling a scream as she puts the smallest weight on her shoulder. She rises to her knees and cradles one arm in the other. Then she squints her eyes shut and thrusts her shoulder back in its socket with a gruesome crunch. She rocks back and forth violently for some time, her face reddening as she gnaws on her lip to remain quiet. Opening her eyes and inhaling deeply, the bard looks to the sky again. The Quasiarch's whip has moved an almost imperceptibly small distance, but only almost. Kheva lays the stones into her jacket pockets and stands up. She limps across the plain, towards the massive rider and steed.
Arriving at the footprint of the beast, Kheva looks up through its dense coat. Each of its white hairs is a lance, and as Kheva pushes them apart to inspect further, its undercoat is a twisted net of silver wire. It digs into her skin as she grips it, but it holds strong. Ascending the creature is a ponderous labor, and twice Kheva nearly tumbles to her death as she grips a looser patch of undercoat, or is battered by a recoiling hair. Sweat pours from the bard as she emerges from the wilderness of the steed to finally lay one hand on the rider's saddle. The seat seems to be forged from white gold and the skin of some heavenly leviathan. Kheva wipes her hands on it until they are dry. Turning around, she notices the lash descending almost halfway to the earth, and increasing in acceleration.
"Who made all the minotaurs swoon!" Click click.
The acceleration of the whip once again stops almost entirely. Kheva turns to survey the rider's glassy, black armor. No footholds whatsoever appear anywhere on its slick surface. Exerting all her might against both gravity and the throbbing of her wounded shoulder, Kheva instead hoists herself from the forest of the steed's pelt by grabbing onto a rough part of the saddle. Once upon it, she stands and stares at the rider's hips and groin. The answer is there, hidden in plain view among the camouflage of the armor's filigree. Kheva walks over to the scroll case and plucks it out of the crevasse between the rider's cuisse and codpiece. The deadly sigils on the case are unbroken, and are written in an unusual script that Kheva's eyes struggle to identify. A thin, white film on the lid of the case betrays its previous owner. Kheva smiles.
The descent is somewhat slower than the climb, until a misplaced step in the steed's wiry undercoat sends the bard spinning towards the hard earth. This time, the bard catches her fall with a deftly-executed spin, landing on her feet and her one good hand. Cradling the scroll case in the other elbow, she begins to jog across the flats. The shape of her intended target is hidden, betrayed only by one gargantuan stone, suspended in air, that another unseen figure has lobbed towards it. The distance between Kheva and her intended intercept point is staggering. She pushes her pace yet faster, silently mouthing a string of numbers in a crooked measure, keeping synchronicity with the once-again increasing acceleration of time around her. After pushing herself for nearly two miles, she turns to look back at the Quasiarch, whose whip is now inches from the earth. Kheva stops and pulls the stones from her jacket.
"She took home a stud!" Click.
"Had cream with her cud!" Click.
As time slows again, Kheva turns forward again and runs. The shapes of Porgo and Grakkas are barely visible on the mountainside ahead of her. But in the intervening moments, another shape has appeared, above. A lance from beyond the stars penetrates the sky, making a direct approach to the plain in front of Kheva. Even with the passage of time around her slowed to a crawl, the object hurtles forward like a juggernaut. Sweat and saliva streaming from her cheeks, Kheva rockets into a dead sprint, clutching the scroll case as she pumps her arms. It is to no avail. Realizing just in time that she will not outrun the stellar debris, the bard skids to a halt, changes directions, and runs perpendicular to her previous course. No more than half a mile from the point of impact, Kheva leaps behind an outcropping of rocks, and covers the scroll case with her body.
The force of the impact ripples through the earth and blasts away the stones that protect Kheva. The chunks and particles interact chaotically with the magical field around the bard, striking her body at different angles and velocities. Once again, skin tears and pieces break. A large rock embeds itself in Kheva's cheekbone, forcing her left eye violently shut. The sigils on the scroll case quiver and crackle, spilling threats of their catastrophic release across Kheva's body, burning her with blue flame. Fire, earth, and cosmic particles rain on her for what seems like an eternity. When the worst has passed, Kheva barely manages to stand, then collapses from an ankle that is no longer fully whole. But her mouth continues to form the numbers in time. She begins to crawl towards the mountainside, then stops. She holds her head with both hands for a moment, then puts the scroll case down and withdraws the stones one final time.
"And buttered his steak with her spoon!" Click click.
Summoning, Part Two
Sound floods back over Astuv, beginning with the impact of the Quasiarch's lash, many miles away. Kheva lurches forth on her hands and knees towards the mountainside, where Porgo's earthen volley is split apart by the touch of a white tendril emerging from the æther. The tendril quickly lunges forward and catches the cyclops dumbfounded, ensnaring him and wrestling him to the ground. A rush of air like a hurricane breaks from behind Kheva. She turns around to see the Quasiarch lurching back into the air and hurtling across the miles of barren wastes towards her. She turns her head again to see hideous, barbed knives emerge from Grakkas's æther-tentacles to penetrate Porgo's flesh. Kheva groans and slumps face-first into the dust, averting her eyes from her summoner's coming evisceration. The shadow of the Quasiarch soon engulfs her.
No sooner has the Quasiarch blotted out the sun above Kheva than the shadow passes. Lifting her head up slightly, Kheva watches the tentacled planeswalker withdraw his blades from Porgo, who still breathes. Suddenly, a booming, astral voice strike down upon the plain. Kheva watches as Grakkas turns to face the Quasiarch, as the steed's mighty wings beat to keep it aloft. The conversation is swift, and ends with a final, deafening exclamation just before the Quasiarch's whip crushes Grakkas to a pulp against the mountainside. An instant later, the Quasiarch disappears into the æther from which it, too was summoned, and the starfall which wracked the plane hisses away into the haze of oblivion. Kheva lowers her head back to the dust and exhales, her cracked ribs jostling in her chest. Darkness washes across her.
"This was buried in your heart."
The first thing Kheva sees as she blinks her eyes open is the naked, pendulous bulk of the cyclops towering above her. The next thing she sees is a shard of shocked crystal the length of her foot, pinched in-between Porgo's massive thumb and forefinger. The bard sits up and touches her face. Where before there was a crushed cheekbone, her skin is smooth again. Kheva's clothing lies half on her and half about the floor, all of it ripped to tatters, where the stones and shards from the starfall impact were pushed from her body by crude regeneration magic. She sits up to examine all of the extracted objects. There is enough to fill out a small arsenal. She then turns her attention to the walls around her, a strange part of the Xor temple left unharmed by the earlier battle. Kheva scratches her scalp.
"It didn't see me," says Kheva.
"You were a sleeping boulder, covered in space dust. I did not see you, either."
"Where is the scroll case?"
"I do not know of a scroll case."
"The leather thing. Like a tree branch."
Porgo points to the far wall of the temple. The strange object sits upright against an altar there, as holy water flows through chambers in the floor around it. Kheva shrugs off her rags and tatters, then crosses the floor in her bare feet to lay a single hand upon the case. It is not cool, but frigid. Where her fingers pass over the foreign sigils, a sickening electricity jumps up through her nerves. The bard pulls back her hand. Across the room, the cyclops stoops over a mound of charred imp carcasses and begins to devour them. Kheva picks up the scroll case and walks back to her summoner, then climbs into a somber alcove next to him. The monster begrudgingly turns his eye to look at Kheva as he gorges himself, the pink shape of the naked Ghitu clashing with the miserable blackness of the shrine.
"Porgo, imagine you're the cosmic tyrant of your own personal quasiplane, where you can rewrite the laws of reality at whim," says Kheva, "What in the multiverse could a notorious spitworm like Grakkas offer to get you up off your throne, just to travel to this horrible world to land a few punches in some grudge match?"
"No question-games. I am eating. Speak or be silent."
"The Quasiarch wanted to extend its power beyond its homeworld. It's the only thing an archon ever really wants. And Grakkas offered it to the Quasiarch in a bid to destroy you. There's planar magic in this scroll case, Porgo. Something big. Strong. If I try to decipher these sigils, even identify the language, it'll probably vaporize me."
"Then leave it."
"How about you cut the spoils to the Arigha band in half this time, and pay me the difference directly by helping me move this thing back to Dominaria? They've got enough sling-irons to make it through the sunless season anyway."
"Urjhol refuses. Says to not make deals with you. Says deliver only to him."
"Urjhol isn't the one who just saved your stinking hide from the Quasiarch."
"... hope of escape, except, ahh..."
The fetid scent of klaar leaf trickles up Kheva's nostrils as the afternoon sun of Port Sembi penetrates her eyes. The face of the wrinkled old man droops with astonishment. Immediately, Kheva ducks and pivots, narrowly dodging the strangle-rope of the thugs sneaking up behind her. She faces them, their faces also flattening with surprise and confusion. Leading with her once-split shoulder, Kheva lunges into the closest thug with all of her might, knocking him off balance and onto the cobblestones of the market. She leaps on top of the downed thug, pulls a knife from his belt, and thrusts it deep into his gut. He screams and gurgles, and the second thug runs. Kheva ignores him and leaps at the old man, touching the knife to his throat.
"Where was the last gibbering rift, you old creaker?" says Kheva, "Tell me or die."
"North. Terisiare. Farther. I don't know. Where the nights last for months! North!"
Kheva throws the knife at the old man's foot, then reaches down and yanks the cloth mat from under him, spilling him onto the pavement. Kheva wraps the mat around her body, then fumes at the speechless gazes of the merchants and customers standing there. She scans the ground for signs of her belongings and finds none. As the crowd begins to stir, Kheva composes herself and pushes through it, breaking away into the streets of Port Sembi, then further off towards the beach. Kheva ignores each stranger's quizzical glance as she brushes by them in her makeshift dress, eventually coming to a remote enough corner of one shaded cove that she sits down on the sand, puts her face in her hands, and screams.