MTG Salvation

The young elf lad stepped out of the chamber of his elder kin. This was not the first time he had been scorn by his forefather, and with the way he felt he was assured it would not be the last. He could not help the draw Liraphyn had on him. She seemed to glow with the moonlight and radiate with the dawn. Her deep green eyes reflected all the beauty of Morivia in them. It would not have been a problem seeing her, if it had not been for that he often neglected his duties to Morivia.
Named Syria, after his father Syrina, he followed the same path that his kin had followed for centuries. Under the leadership of head mystic Melphynn, he was charged with a very sacred duty. As the lands of Moriva have served his people for many centuries he was a mystic who served Moriva. The charge of the mystics was to protect the land from the unnatural because it was not expected of the land to protect itself. Ancient tales told the land to endow special powers into those born in it’s lands, thus is why they believe that his people have a direct connection to the flow of mana in their land.
They had heard the stories coming from the mountain city, “The Great City of Fortune” as the humans call it. The stories of a great resource of magical stones being mined from deep within the caverns that they had carved into it’s side. Syria was sure that like Morivia would cry, the mountain cried too. They were worms, unnatural occurances that were devouring the flesh of the mountain. He sympathized, but the elves were peaceful and except for the protection of their own land or Moriva, they were not to take any sort of action against them.
As he stepped away from his kinsmen’s cabin he was approached by a taller elf. His ear were elongated with a metallic piece that showed position in the tribe. He was an elven warrior, one of great ranking. He spoke to Syria in a stern tone, “Caught once again I see. If you keep this up we are going to have to do more than just scold you for your actions.”
“You have no leverage Yyrlnn” Syria spoke back, slightly smug.
“Elder Syrina can only cover for you for so long before Melphynn and Rohwyr calls you to council, and when that happens your position as a mystic will be stripped from you, and you will be cast out from the tribe. Forced to live like those who the humans cast out to the planes of Chezt.”
“Forgive my actions. Sometimes I feel that I just cannot help myself. My heart is so uplifted from the sight of Liraphynn.”
“I know of what you do. No matter how fair your maiden or how sweet her love may be, leaving your post is endangering Moriva. The land that is supposed to be protected by mystics like you.” There was a hint of despise in his voice. “I know the elders and Rohwyr do not believe in violence and force, but cannot say that I hold the same convictions. Now get going. You are meant to be at the eastern edge of the forest.”
Syria bowed before his elder and ranking tribesman before taking off on his nimble feet, easily ricocheting off of trees on his way up into the branches of the trees. He skipped along, his light elfish steps barley bending the branches as his ran through the tops of the forest.
That was not his first confrontation with Yyrlnn. Ever since they were both younger it had always seemed that Yyrlnn felt a horrible dislike for him. While Syria advanced in showing his elemental understandings and his powerful flow of mana, Yyrlnn feel behind, only making up for what he lacked in magic with brute force and nimble fighting technique. But in elf society those of heightened magical acuity were more regarded with favor than those of what was considered a more brutish style of combat that should be reserved for rare occasions and the small minds of ogres. He could only guess jealousy or malice was what held Yyrlnn against him.
Regardless of Yyrlnn’s purgative, he had been right. He was once again late to his post and would probably be scolded later tonight by his father for this again, rumors travel fast in Morivia. Any treefolk or fairie that he would pass could carry the word along back to the elders. It’s this sort of communication along with the feel that the mystics get for the essence of the forest that keeps this place so well protected.
While running through the branches he lost his balance a little. He had to stop to regain the balance he had just lost. As innocent as this seemed it had never happened to him before. In fact an elf is so incredibly light on his feet it is almost never heard of for one to fall from a tree run. Even the thinnest of branches barely wobbled when an elf delicately tapped its foot on it to continue their dance through the canopy, but this was different. He had not been sick, he would have felt it a lot earlier than this. Something else was wrong.
It wasn’t until the moment he had regained his balance completely he felt the turning sensation in his stomach. Something wasn’t right, but what could it have been? It is always possible that one animal was just consuming another and it had been a rather gruesome death for the one of misfortune. But that wouldn’t cause him to lose his balance, what could it be?
He continued along his way, patrolling the forest and looking around with sharp eyes trying to catch any glimpses of anything wrong. It wasn’t a few moments later that he lost his balance again, and this time he felt the grind in his stomach while between leaps. His foot missed the light landing on the next branch and he could feel as a force began dragging him down towards the ground. In one quick motion he threw out his hand and gripped it around the next branch he could grasp. Like a knife the raised bits and thin would sliced into his hand and smeared his blood along its bark. He did not stop falling until he nearly reached the end of the branch. With his other hand he pulled himself up and walked up to the trunk of the tree, examining the long bleeding gash that was now forming a red pool in his hand.
“A gift for you Morivia.” Syria said pooring the pooled blood out of his hand and down to the ground below muttering a soft prayer in his native tongue. Then he turned his attention to the throbbing pain in his stomach, one that kept growing with each moment. There was something wrong, very wrong. This wasn’t just him, or something dying. This was a message. Morivia was telling him something, it was in pain.
Something was hurting his home, his land, his people. The feeling in his stomach slowly grew as he held it. It’s almost becoming a burning sensation. He never felt this before, but this was what he had to always anticipate. The fate of a mystic, to feel the pain of Morivia.
Syria once again began his now stumbled dance through the trees, but the pain turned out to be to great when he finally felt that his foot had hit nothing but air. And it felt nothing again until he struck the ground. As nimble as elves are he was still a great distance up, he could feel the snap of the bone in his leg breaking. The pain caused him to grind his teeth against one another, and the world around him became hazy as the separate pains shot throughout his body.
It was a while before he regained any clarity. And when he did it was only because he could feel heat, and could see a flicker not too far away. When he opened his eyes fully he finally understood what was causing him such anguish. Morivia was being burnt alive. He could see entire great oaks go up in flames in mere moments. Living trees were becoming burnt dead coal. His eyes watered from the pain of the flames. Then he saw the cause. This could not have been any natural fire. In fact there was something in the center slowly walking his way. A human, it appeared. Shorter than average with wavey hair and unfamiliar red armored plating. This human’s fingertips danced with flames. Syria could tell that the human kept a constant chant going to call the mana to him for such a feat.
This was what was killing Morivia, and worse yet… this human had already spotted Syria. There was nothing more he could do with his broken leg. He shot himself towards the nearest tree and with the slightest touch a green flicker of energy jumped out of him and began running back along the trees towards home. A message for the others, for Syria, it was too late.