Amateur mtg shortfic writer. He/him. Icon art by Svetlin Velinov, card art for Maximize Velocity. Background art by Noah Bradley, card art for Izzet Guildgate
“Hey, Demetrius.” The viashino nodded in greeting to his friend, as he donned his goggles, tail guard, and knee pads.
The human standing off to the side folded his arms judgmentally at the other Izzet. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Yes,” Kenneth assured him, while mounting the hoverboard floating beside him.
“Have you even…what’s the word…tested it yet?”
“Huh? Aw, dang. I knew I forgot some-”
The hoverboard suddenly flared to life and shot forward. The sudden momentum propelled Kenneth directly into a brick wall, knocking him unconscious. He crumpled to the ground, his board smoking and sputtering as it shut down.
Demetrius smirked, and shook his head at Kenneth’s prone form. “Remind me again why you’re my boss, and not the other way around?”
—
[Hi. I write short stories about Magic cards. Stories are tagged like this one, and by plane. Any story I can’t find a plane for generally defaults to Shandalar. Also hey, I now have a non-mtg reblog blog @danco111!]
It’s a great game! I haven’t beaten it yet but I have gotten to the…I think last area? And although it’s tough there, it’s still fun!
The areas are satisfying to explore and unlock, especially the mirror world. Soundtrack’s great - my favorites are ironically the first track on the beach, and the tower climb.
I’ve heard some discourse on the difficulty, and idk for sure, but it seems ok to me. Definitely not the easiest game to get into at first, before you get any upgrades, but it opened up pretty quickly for me. Although, that might just depend on which way you go at first.
Trinket and weapon synergies can make for some pretty busted combos. Barring that, there’s even some individual items like the Pit Preserver that also cut down on the annoyance factors.
My favorite build so far is hyper aggression with Whisper and Vesper. I’m running all the plasma vial buffs I have, alongside Intraveinous Vial so I can keep up the pressure.
So yeah, pretty dang fun so far, at least on the first playthrough!
He doesn't know how long he had been walking, wandering, following that stubborn tug and pull in his very being. He doesn't know for how long it had taken for him to see the surface again, nor why he was back, nor how. He was gone, then he was not.
He was surrounded by jungle. The light of the sun was just hitting the sky. He could not feel its warmth. He had no flesh to feel it with.
All he knew is that he had to get back. To make sure she was safe, that they were all safe. He had the terrible feeling that something was wrong, utterly so. He must right a deadly wrong. He must make sure they were safe. That she was safe.
He needed to get back. To follow that pull.
But how?
He didn't know. All he did know that he had to keep going. Keep… moving. Everything felt… distant. Not quite numb, simply not there. But he was walking, he thought. He had to climb at one point to get here, to see the sun again.
The sun…
He remembered chasing the sun. A different sun. A fabled one. Brighter than bright, one that would scour away sins and… and…
And now it was gone. That sun was gone, long gone now, but something else was here. Something… no, someone, yes, someone was here now, someone who was a savior, a savant, someone who could save them, someone who… who…
Who he… could not quite name. But the rose upon his armor was connected to them. To.. to her.
She? Was it her? Was it… oh, blessings of the… Why couldn't he…?
He paused. No. She was someone different. She needed to be found, to be made safe. No, no, the… the Blessed One did not require him, not now… not until he made sure others were safe, were alive, were not… not like he was now.
He had to move. To go, to find someone, anyone to help him. Help him find her, help him find them, the survivors, to understand what this wrongness was, to help him remember…
… remember who he was. Why he was moving the way he did, why he was the way he was, he needed to understand, to know, why didn't he know? How could he not know? He was of importance, obviously, but… but who was he?
He found one answer in the startled looks of the pale faces that stared at him as he finally broke through the high vegetation. It was stammered to him through frightened lips.
"Director?"
He responded with the only thing that came to mind;
"Where is she?"
The sight of a dead man walking was enough to unnerve even the most steely of paladins that still occupied Queen's Bay. The echo -- the spirit, the remnant, among plenty of other whispered names he had been accruing in his short stay -- wandered while someone was getting answers for him.
He knew his name now. Bartolomé del Presidio, the deputy director -- formerly -- of the Queen's Bay Company. Other aspects of his personhood were fuzzed, indistinct. It was the same feeling he had when standing too close to one of the braziers full of incense at a sermon.
Although, he noted, he could no longer smell. Or feel, really.
A set of finely dressed merchants approached him, all large, formless clothing with intricate patterning and impressive enough facial hair. One came forward, offering a low bow to him as he did so.
"We believe we have the information you are seeking, good sir," he said. "You seek the girl who came to us with the warning?"
"Yes," the spirit said, straightening a little. "Have you found her? Is she safe?"
"That we do not know, my goodly sir," he said, holding a rolled set of papers. The nonchalance in which he said it was infuriating. "All we do know is that the one you seek did give us the warning, which we did ferry to Torrezon shortly thereafter. It did not do us much good, however."
"What do you mean?" Bartolomé asked. He took a step forward. Some of the entourage stepped back. "What has happened?"
"You mean to say --" the merchant stopped himself, chuckling. Again, it was enough to rile him. "Of course you wouldn't, you've been deceased, my good sir. No, our home is at war once more."
"With whom?"
"With itself, of course," the merchant said, brushing out his thicker overcloak. Given the rising heat of day, Bartolomé was surprised he wasn't sweating enough to fill the Deoro. "As I said, the warning was too little, and too late."
Bartolomé was stunned a moment. He staggered a half-step, his mind whirring. So the schism has finally happened, he thought. The Church is cracking. My death meant nothing.
The merchant who approached him must've noticed how distraught he was. "We can assure you that your family-"
"What of them?"
"--has been very well taken care of by the Company," the merchant finished a little imperiously. "As far as we know, they are safe."
A little comfort. He squared his shoulders a little. Not all is yet lost. "Thank you," he said. He then looked to the open docks at one end of the settlement, casting his eyes at the horizon. The merchant was continuing to speak to him, but the words were falling on deaf ears. He was beginning to feel a pull, hard and distinct.
Come to me, something whispered to him. Rejoice with your kindred.
The merchant was trying to get his attention. He balled his hands into fists and took a step forward, disappearing into the open air.
A cavern, slicked with ice greeted him. Had he the flesh to feel it, he knew he'd be shivering. It was quite different to the warmer climes that he had trekked through just to make it back to the surface again.
At least there weren't goblins and gnomes and all sorts of myriad insects and other skittering creatures to greet him.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. There were plenty of other skittering things, but those things had wings and tiny eyes and were trying to convince him that they had a kinship.
He had been drawn here, and he wasn't alone. There were others like him. Spirits, shades, echoes.
They were being drawn like moths to fire. Something had called them here. Bartolomé understood what it was, and doubtless the others down here did too. It was the very thing he had died in vain to try and prevent from ever digging its claws into his home. But now it was trying to greet him and all the others with open wings, with promises of power and freedom, with promises of all things being right and proper according to his whims.
Heresy, blasphemy, and lies, all of it. But he would do as he did initially on that fateful journey into the Core of Paradise, into his grave; he would bear witness, be out of the way, be unassuming until the time was right to fight back.
The caverns were filled with thousands of bats. Demons lurked and moved among the shadows. They whispered in languages that Bartolomé should not understand, yet he did.
Welcome. Welcome, brother.
Welcome.
Freedom is at hand, brother. Welcome.
If he had a brain left somewhere, it'd feel as though something was snaking around it. He hid his intent as well as one could.
He saw traitors. Some of whom he recognized -- there was Albina, someone he served with on a handful of tours before the unification, alongside Fausto, not too far away from her -- and many whom he did not. He saw humans, some of them thralls, others nothing more than hapless peasantry that didn't have enough hands raised to protect them.
He had to keep himself in check. They would be mourned, and they would be most properly avenged. There was nothing good he could do for them now.
His eyes lingered on the traitors. Their bodies were warped, made wrong, blasphemies written into their very flesh now. They smiled and laughed as though they were not bringing ruin to their own home and people.
The main event was about to begin. Shadows and darkness gathered in the center of a massive chamber, and out of it came the incarnated form of butchery, savagery, and madness itself.
Welcome my children, it whispered to them all. Welcome to our new kingdom.
Screeching and cheers went up around the cavern, enough to be deafening. Bartolomé kept his face as neutral as he could. A good skill he picked up when he was becoming more accustomed to dealing with nobilites and merchants.
Soon, my errant daughter shall fall, and after her shall the people of the accursed sun, it went on. There was more chaotic cheering. Soon, very soon, all that light once touched shall be ours, as is our right!
Now that caused a stir. He could hear the beating of weapons on stone and fists on armor.
Privately, he formed the sign of the rose in one hand. He felt a few pairs of eyes staring at him soon after. He stared right back.
If we are to accomplish this, the whispers continued, then we will need strength. We will need only our most daring and strong for this conquest. That is why I call to you, as I call to all of my most worthy children.
More beating of weapons and armor.
Thanks to our hidden weapon, we know precisely where our erring brethren are going to be and how they intend to strike at us, the beast at the center of the cavern went on. My Antifex already has begun making designs for all of you. You will not be alone -- more will follow in the nights to come. We will stand as an army that is greater than any of flesh and metal that they can throw at us. We shall stand as an army immortal, an army of death, an army greater than any that this plane has seen before.
Something was creeping closer to Bartolomé. He remained standing and focused.
Is something wrong, brother? a demon asked, right in his ear.
"No," he answered. "Aside from you interfering with the words of our lord and master."
The demon pulled back, folding its wings in a display of apology, before it went on. If the thing at the center of the cavern noticed, it did not make a show of it.
There was plenty more grandstanding and encouragement and blood-stirring. The others in the cavern were eating it up. It made him sick. Surely, he couldn't be the only one who wasn't agreeing with this. But there were too many that were.
His mind began to click even as the Antifex began to speak. He was surprised at how... strangely normal she looked. Glamours? Did she reject the daemonification of the others? He was keeping track of locations she was outlining, of their own movements, anything and everything that could be of use later. They already had the compromised plans of the Legion -- how did that happen? The beast mentioned a 'hidden weapon'. Something to bring up later once he was out of here -- so he would return to the Legion with the plans of the enemy.
A draw wouldn't be pretty, but it was better than letting the enemy win. He had learned that several times while sitting on one side of a regicide board.
Some of the traitors were beginning to rally a number of the collected spirits to their sides. The demons were moving in to help. Bartolomé was going to be corralled like a sheep.
So he let them. Fleeing now would do nothing. He needed to remain beneath notice, and already he was worried he roused too much suspicion. He had to set things right. He had to make sure his death mattered. That was one of the most ignoble things to suffer; a meaningless and unremembered demise.
So he would wait. He would watch. And when the time came, he'd finally raise his arms in defiance to strike.
Revenant, they were calling him now.
Shade. Spiteful One. All sorts of titles he began to accrue.
Sometimes the names were spoken with reverence, other times with fear. He didn't care. All that mattered to him was the rebalancing of debt.
Bodies of traitors and the stolen and trapped essence of the dead and damned would be left by the gates of various bastions and at the walls of cities, as well as pinned warnings.
YOU HAVE TURNED ON YOUR FAITH, AND SO I HAVE TURNED ON ALL OF YOU.
REPENT AND YOU MAY YET BE SPARED THE WRATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS AND THE HOLY.
No one suspected him. No one expected him.
He was dead, gone, he was no great champion nor hero even in life. He was a paladin and soldier turned mercantile broker.
He walked the fields of his homelands by night, alone, going to where he felt himself being pulled hardest. From there, his job was simple; take as many as he could.
Unwinding the very aspects of the traitors, the ties to their heathen and debaucherous god, was made far easier when you were now formed as part of that essence. Tearing their very souls from their flesh had been a delicate and difficult thing to learn at first, but now he was doing it with a very practiced ease.
It was only a handful each night, but that was better than nothing. His heart broke when he realized the gravity of what he was doing, but he steeled himself against feeling such pity when they were the ones visiting destruction upon their home first. Of course, they wouldn't see it that way -- and they plead for him to listen to their perspective often -- and he found himself caring less and less as the nights wore on.
He made sure he had no witnesses. No one to linger, no one to breathe a warning and ferry it and get himself undone as he was doing to these traitorous bastards.
That was easy enough. He was able to make himself into a watchman and scout. The disappearances? Too many Legionnaires in the area. He fled at the first sign of them to give warning, but they would be gone by the time he retrieved reinforcement. He'd get chastised for his fleetfooted nature, of course, but never suspected of wrongdoing.
He spread himself as far across the continent as he could to avoid it for as long as possible. He knew it'd catch up with him, but he wanted to make sure the enemy would already have paid in droves by that time.
And yet, the whispers of a "revenant" still went up through the ranks. Some were worried the Blessed Saint had found a way to ultize echoes and shades in a yet-unknown manner. Perhaps she had been able to hijack a portion of their god's power?
Bartolomé wished that was the truth. Perhaps they had developed new techniques in regards to utilizing shades. He didn't know. All he did know was that he had to keep moving, keep working, keep spreading unease and fear in the ranks.
There was something more he had to do in order to properly atone.
The warning from Amalia had come too late, so he would ensure his own warnings came early. These, too, would be anonymous. Unsigned letters appearing on the desks of captains and commanders, as many as he could find close to where he had been "assigned", started turning up. Murmurs would travel up the chain fast.
In quieter nights, when he could wander alone, he sometimes heard the chattering and knew it'd be enough.
Even if no one knew it was him, he would be happy to perish with the knowledge his home would be protected and safe. That his family would be safe and sound.
That, wherever she was, Amalia would be safe and sound. That girl didn't deserve all of this, no more than his own daughter had.
Bartolomé looked to the sky that was beginning to lighten. Day was approaching. It meant the rest of the traitors would begin fleeing back to their darker and danker hiding spots, and that he would have to join them, too.
He looked at the tiny silvered jar he held, feeling the undying wrath and hatred of the latest victim of his own internal crusade from within. He took a step back and threw it over a stony wall, hearing it thunk off of a bit of armor. He was gone before the confused soldier could find the strange assailant.
He would be back at holy dusk, as he always would be. There were more souls to reap, more unheard prayers to hear, more hope to give to the hopeless. One bastard at a time, one night at a time, he'd continue for as long as he had.
And until he was caught, he had a veritable eternity to make them pay.
A human woman startled at the rough voice suddenly close behind her. She turned from her gardening work, and was forced to crane her neck to meet the gaze of a muscular, armed centaur looming over her.
“Uh. Hello. Thank you. And, I have a name, you know.”
“As do I. I am Stella. What is yours?”
“Oh, right. Uh. I’m Valerie.”
“Well met, Valerie. You keep a good garden.”
“Oh! Thank you!” Finally, the gardener began to relax. She gestured to the lush plant life around her and Stella. “I worked very hard for it.”
“Yes. Nylea must be proud.”
Valerie tilted her head in puzzlement. “Nylea, you say?”
“Yes. You must worship Nylea, to be maintaining such a garden, no?”
“Uh. No. I worship Karametra.”
Stella blinked slowly. “Who?”
“Karametra. God of harvests!”
“…Who?”
“Another nature goddess, like your Nylea?”
“You-” Stella stared, bewildered, at her verdant surroundings. “How can two gods represent the same thing?”
“I don’t know. Different…emphasis, maybe? You’re definitely a little more wild looking than I am. And I take it, you don’t have a garden?”
“No.” Stella nodded to herself, slowly at first but quickly gaining confidence. “I suppose two gods can have the same focus. Nature, and all that entails.”
“Exactly! So, we don’t have to fight…right?”
“Of course not!” Stella exclaimed. “Why would we fight?”
“Well, you’re armed. So…”
Stella’s eyes widened. “Do you not carry a weapon?”
“No. Why would I? I am but a gardener.”
“Nylea teaches us…” Stella sighed. “Perhaps our two gods are not so alike, after all.”
“W-Why would I need to fight?” Valerie asked, oblivious.
[They’re both worshipping different gods but still call on devotion to green!]
Captain Lannery Storm stood on the deck of the Gallant Angel with her arms crossed. She had a cutlass on each hip and had made an initial attempt to brush her hair, though she had quickly given up on that front in favor of just tying it back.
Behind her was the Omenpath back to the Stormwreck Sea. Somewhere on that side, Andres and Cristomo were working on the last bits of paperwork for Andres to formally return to Torrezon and for him and Cristomo to be legally married by the Church of Dusk so that their child wouldn’t be born a bastard. Somewhere else, her half-brother and half-sister, Marciano and Evereth, were setting up protections to keep the Betrayer from sinking his fingers into Luneau. And in a third place, her cousin and her grandmother were keeping Jagged Teeth Island in line.
But in front of her, on this side of the Omenpath, was the towering metropolis of Towashi.
The elderly rat man Captain Storm was meant to meet stood at the dock with his hands folded behind his back. Gathered around him were five kids: two nezumi, two kitsune, and an ogre. Both nezumi and one of the kitsune were just seven years old, followed by the other kitsune at eight, and finally the ogre at nine. Children. Orphans. Just like Storm herself.
Storm jumped down off of her ship as soon as the gangplank was lowered. “Hey, Mister Silentsign,” she said, trying to sign as quickly as she spoke. Nezumi sign language was a little difficult for her, but she had been watching videos about it on her communicator and heckling a few people she knew used it. “Everyone ready to go?”
The nezumi signed back. “They’re ready. I’ll be coming with you to ensure that they settle in, of course.”
“Of course,” she repeated. It was what the old man had done the previous times that the kids went to Jagged Teeth Island to meet their potential parents. “Want me to stop anywhere so you can jump in to fight a fish?”
Silentsign’s left ear twitched in amusement. “Perhaps on the return trip.”
“Sounds good, old man.” That was, of course, said with the highest respect. Like pirates, Reckoners rarely made it to their seventies. Storm turned back to the kids. “Alright, let’s get on the ship! Any of you who makes Adrian tell stories about Durron gets the dragon’s share of candy before we make it to shore again!”
Storm hated returning to Jagged Teeth Island. It felt like everything she was supposed to want, and it just made her feel bad that she didn’t want it. Thankfully, she wasn’t here for an extended visit, because she would rather eat her own legs than listen to her grandmother talk at length about the cultural benefits of settling down again. She had gotten enough of something vaguely adjacent to that while dealing with Andres and Cristomo’s entire everything lately, when they weren’t trying to put a new hole in the wall of their cabin.
Honestly, she was about ready to find an extraplanar nunnery just to avoid all of it.
She kicked the gangplank down to the dock and slid down it just to show off, which turned into a short jog at the end. Her crew started scrambling to unload things, while Silentsign bid the orphans goodbye so that they could join their new families here. Storm recognized most of the people living on this island, of course, but her gaze drifted past the crowd to try to find two women in particular.
Mariah Storm stood like a solid pillar of stone with her shoulders squared. She was the head of the island’s trader’s guild. At a glance, she and Storm looked like sisters rather than cousins: same brown hair, same sun-crisped tan, same squared shoulders and commanding gait. Storm considered that to be because of the good genes from the sides of their family that they shared. The difference was, as always, in the details: Mariah bore green eyes rather than the brown that Storm shared with her half-brother and half-sister, and Mariah was a powerful geomancer like their grandmother while Storm had...nearly nothing.
And standing beside her was Tetsuko Umezawa, a Dominarian woman with black hair and a shaved undercut that Storm honestly was pretty jealous of. Even though Tetsuko now wore the same clothing as everyone else on the island, she carried a weapon she called a jitte rather than go without one. She was probably closer to Storm’s age than to Mariah’s, but Storm never bothered to ask.
Storm counted to three, then pivoted in time to catch an orc girl flinging herself at her legs. The child was probably eight or nine years old, but Storm couldn’t remember. Her black hair was braided carefully and laid over her shoulder; probably Tetsuko’s work. One of the women had obviously convinced her to wash up so her green skin wasn’t covered in dirt and sand like it usually was. “Heya, Dolly,” Storm greeted, hefting the girl into her arms. “You’ve gotten bigger!”
Dolly giggled. “Hi Auntie Lannie! Did you bring my new brother?”
“Patience, Dolly,” Mariah reminded her as she and Tetsuko crossed the dock to join Storm. It wassounfair of her to be taller than Storm. “Let them have time to get their things together first.”
“But I wanna see him again!” The orc’s cheeks puffed up as she pouted.
“Hey now, cannonball, don’t argue with your momma,” Storm laughed as she set Dolly back down on her feet. “He’s on his way.”
The other kids who had been adopted – the nezumi twins by an older human couple, Maple-Paw by a goblin family unit that had already taken in a bunch of other orphans of varying species, and Flower-Nose by a younger orc man and his siren spouse – made their way down the docks and to their new families. Finally, Takuroshi made his way down the gangplank. He was fairly tall despite being somewhere around Dolly’s age, and Silentsign had warned Mariah and Tetsuko at length that ogres never stopped growing, though the speed at which they did would slow down in time. Storm was just glad that they had gotten him moved to the island before he outgrew her ship.
The ogre boy had short beige fur, which made him look almost bald. His ears were pointed and pinned back a bit when he saw the crowd, like he had during previous trips to this island. But he carried his own luggage toward Mariah and Tetsuko and Dolly.
Dolly darted forward. “Hi Takuroshi!” she chirped. “You get to live here now! Wanna come see your room?”
Takuroshi hesitated and looked up at Mariah, who nodded encouragingly. “O-okay,” he agreed, letting Dolly grab his hand and drag him off.
Storm snorted once the kids were out of earshot. “Either she’s going to pull him out of his shell, or they’re going to be the most dynamic duo on this island.”
“Or both,” Tetsuko agreed. “So, any chance we can convince you to stay for dinner and update us on the Storm Fleet?”
Storm glanced back at her ship. Silentsign was signing rather aggressively to Avarett about something to do with bones, Marian was cursing a storm over her maps, and Udolf had already vaulted off of the ship in order to get their food stores replenished.
She turned back to her cousin and her cousin’s partner. She offered them a grin that felt more forced than it looked. “Yeah, absolutely.”
“Would it really make any difference if I did promise?”
Vraska frowned as she watched her partner read the morning newspaper. Jace looked up from the article he was studying, and gazed directly into the gorgon’s glowing eyes without fear.
“It would mean you’re willing to acknowledge the stakes, at least. We are presumed dead, after all. Anyways, if not you, is it someone you know, then?”
“For the last time, I have no connection to this murder. Although…” Vraska swiped the paper from Jace’s hands and studied the illustration of the crime. “I know that orc. And I know that silhouette. Looks like Alita finally stood up for herself. Good for her. But to refocus, no. I didn’t do it.”
This, finally, seemed to break the tension. Jace smirked and said, “You must know every assassin in the city.”
“Most of them, from my time, anyway. It was part of my job as Queen, after all.”
“Fair enough. And, I apologize for my implicit accusation-”
Vraska interrupted Jace by raising an open metal claw facing him. “I get it. We’re both stressed. Our plans; having to rely on the papers for information; as well as dealing with…” She clenched her fist, revealing the Phyrexian symbol still etched into the back of it.
Jace nodded, the motion jostling the chrome cables poking out from beneath his cloak. “Ah, likewise. But, I mostly meant…This fits your MO, doesn’t it? From back in the day?”
“I’m not a black widow, Jace! I just…dressed elegantly. While killing. But there is a difference!”
“Yeah,” Jace chuckled, reminiscing on his and Vraska’s previous battles. “You were never big on typical assassin’s garb, were you?”
“No. But I dressed for the job I wanted,” Vraska stated, fully confident.
“And you certainly got it, Your Highness,” Jace smiled.
Cornwall's Random Card of the Day 30/05/2026: The Beamtown Bullies
The Beamtown Bullies is a rare from some commander thing,
So, Blitz was a keyword from New Capenna, where this card is set, which let you play a creature for cheap with haste, and draw a card when it dies, at the cost of it being sacrificed at the end of turn. This cardobviously tries to play around with this mechanic by getting your creatures back. But instead your opponents get them, and they're goaded, which is a little more complex but does at least have some multiplayer shenanigans which can result.
You can also use it to give creatures with downside to your opponents. In theory, a Jund self-mill or discard deck with a bunch of downside creatures which gives them to your opponents would be pretty neat. Probably not enough in those colours to fill a 99 card deck, but it CAN fit a regular magic deck with 4-ofs, so there's that.
I give it a Strangely Complex But Maybe Worth It/10.
Genen was born a vedalken, but at a relatively young age joined the Simic combine, becoming a hybrid, with a pair of tentacles on φaer back, and a number of added eyes. As a researcher, φae focused on mental enhancement, using the principles of the guardian project. Φae refused to use Blue mana for this, arguing that the Combine should try to change biology, rather than enchant beings for intelligence, although φae supported use of short-term use of Blue for problem solving. Φae especially argued that any changes on Simic members for long term use should be as difficult as possible for other guilds to get rid of.
During the Phyrexian invasion, φae were fascinated initially with the physical, and then the mnemonic effects, of the glistening oil. After what research on Phyrexian politics φae could achieve, Genen resolved to join the Quiet Furnace, drawn by its creativity whilst repelled by the cruelty of both Maze and Engine. Φae found the highest-ranked Furnace Host corpse available for oil collection. Before drinking, φae reinforced φaer neurology, aiming to preserve φaerself from total loss of self.
This was mostly successful. Phyresis of the Furnace rendered φaer more compassionate and more creative, as well as strengthening the joy φae found in biomancy. It also greatly weakened φaer link to Blue mana, already in second place to φaer green.
Collecting φaer tools, and a few favoured experiments, Genen snuck through an omengate, finding φaerself on Innistrad. There φae learned to shield φaerself from the worst of Norn's whispers, and practiced use of the oil and φaer link to it. Φaer main experiments in this period were combining the oil with φaer own knowledge of anatomy, biomancy, and some basic artificing and ichor magic passer down by that oil. The product of this experimentation was a form of almost-stitching, using the transmutations of the oil to weld flesh together, and a varient of the equipment used to infuse Viscus Vitae to infuse it into subjects' veins. This equipment was also used on φaer own ichor, repeatedly exhausting φaerself using mana to slightly warp it to φaer liking before replacing that within φaer veins. Eventually satisfied, φae travelled to the Furnace for compleation.
It was this experimentation that saved them during Phyrexia's banishment. Φaer altered oil was almost entirely stripped of power, and φae are now hiding in Urborg, attempting to use biomancy and ichor magic to produce a reliable source of the oil from local life whilst using traces of that which seeps from Yawgmoth as 'booster shots'
I think the writing suffered a bit from the fact all other characters I have made have had to be, to some extent, me – they've all been for me to play in RPGs, and I'm only able to roleplay so much difference from myself, especially at larp. I might write the version of the world where they were on New Phyrexia during its banishing.
The illvoi turned away from their mechan navigator and sharply saluted their superior. “Captain Carybdea. I am preparing Unit 64’s chassis for surface exploration. A preliminary survey might show us what we need to survive on this planet.”
“Ah, yes,” the captain chimed coolly. “I was just considering sending a team. Great thinking.”
“Thank you, Captain. I…a team?”
“Of course! I couldn’t just let Unit 64 leave on its own, could I?” Carybdea gestured with a tentacle to the mechan, who gave a gracious nod in return.
Rhopilema grimaced, already dreading what came next. “All right…Who will comprise this team?”
“Well, you, of course. Since you’re already making modifications to Unit 64, you should be well-versed on the modifications you’ll need to make to your own exosuit.”
“…Very well…” came Rhopilema’s strained response. As they stalked away to make their own preparations, Carybdea drew close to Unit 64 with a warm yet knowing smile.
“You are part of the crew. Though any of us may be asked to make sacrifices for the good of the crew, I won’t have anyone valuing you any less than us. And on a solo mission on an unknown planet? Please.”
Unit 64’s gaze, focused on the floor, darted upward in surprise that not even their silence could mask. Carybdea made a quiet laugh and patted it on the back with a tendril.
“At times I wonder, ‘Why is this such an uncommon opinion among us captains?’ You explore alongside us. You create, as we do. You even attempt to understand yourselves. As we do.”
Carybdea gestured past Unit 64, to another mechan sitting at a workbench. The other machine tinkered with a pile of dissembled robots. And despite its inhuman visage, it’s movements displayed the lively creative energy of an inventor.
“As I said,” Carybdea repeated, “you are part of the crew.”
[Interesting range in the flavor text here. I guess some illvoi just see mechans as test dummies, while others see em as thinking beings, like themselves?]
Finally found the time to do another animated MtG card. This one was suggested to me over a year ago on Bluesky. It was quite the challenge, because the layer effects gave me trouble in the 3D version, but I like how it turned out. :)
support me on kofi | commission me on vgen | buy a print
Can i ask about your mtg OCS? How many do you have?
I have made many over the years, but here are three of my most active. Maybe unsurprisingly, they're from New Phyrexia. I have some info pages about them, but at this point they feel outdated, so I'll try to write short and sweet summaries with up-to-date information on them as best I can. Unfortunately most of them don't have art or designs that I'm happy with yet.
For two of them I'm including illustrations from last year's Artfight, whose artist credits are included below.
Xena Gitaxias-Vadri (UB) (first art piece, by @memento--moray) is a compleated Neurok human Planeswalker residing on the plane of New Phyrexia. During the Mirran-Phyrexian war, she had been a traitor Mirran--a glistener--willingly seeking compleation on Phyrexia's side, for which she allied herself with Jin-Gitaxias's cause. Her unusually willful spark repeatedly pushed back her phyresis until the Reality Chip was created, a method by which Xena could be compleated while preserving the spark's own existence. As a result of this strange, drawn-out process, she became an oil vampire while suspended in the in-between state of human and Phyrexian, preying on other Phyrexians to survive. Now, she's thrown in her lot with the Phyrexian rebellion as they slowly rebuild the world, forced to reckon with her past actions and amend as much as she can for the future.
Imnyrix (RGBU) is a core-born Furnace Phyrexian rebel who during the Mirran-Phyrexian war led a small united cell of Mirrans and Phyrexians who sought coexistence and the end of Norn's tyranny. Formerly an ingot slave, he reforged himself into a warrior-poet symbolizing the struggle for a free Phyrexia, covered in multicolored plates from every other Phyrexian lineage. He is known for his swordsmanship and oratory skill with the Phyrexian language. Though an ally of Urabrask, he dislikes the praetor and distrusted his plans of weaponizing Halo against the Orthodoxy. Now that active war is over, Imnyrix has somewhat fallen out of favor as a leader amongst other Phyrexians due to his unaddressed self-loathing over being a Phyrexian, and has to reassess his view of himself and his people now that the plane has been sealed off. Imnyrix's design has been difficult for me especially because of his array of multicolored plates, and in particular I can never for the life of me figure out a face design. He would be on Artfight if I could just come up with one.
Ak'sholix (WB) (second art piece, by @sorinmarkov) is a core-born Orthodoxy Phyrexian ichormage who had been selected for the highest of honors within their station: becoming a node of control for Elesh Norn's invasion of the Multiverse. Though a prodigy in divining and controlling Phyrexian oil, Ak'sholix had always resented that they were held back from further ascension by not being a cleric of Norn. To grow their power they secretly made a pact with Kraynox, the Deep Thane of ichor divination, with terms that have since been scoured from their memory. After the failed Invasion, they emerged miraculously alive; they know they were deliberately spared, and their patron has a use for them yet. Ak'sholix is nominally a Phyrexian rebel, but not because they actually oppose the dogma that raised them quite yet.
I have many other MtG OCs with varying levels of development. They include a World Tree guardian Gladewalker changeling (Borealis, my beloved), a scrappy human ex-Monoist eldrazi wrangler, and an eldrazi-touched Illvoi alabile smith. There are also, needless to say, many additional Phyrexians. I've been working on making some OC reference sheets for Artfight in other fandoms, but this reminds me that I'd really like to develop my MtG OCs some more, especially the newer EOE concepts.
Oh and I've got some fucked up shit cooking for Xena in the Echoverse 🙏 since I'm taking a guess that Jace's "fixed" version of events includes no Phyrexians and no Mirrodin, her double is from Avishkar since that's where her family originally came from, and... let's just say, different, without having found compleation.
“‘Toxic Abomination,’ was it? Hello. Please have a seat.”
The lesser Phyrexian looked around the putrid swamp for a chair. Seeing none, it collapsed into the muddy water before its praetor.
“Let’s begin your evaluation.” Sheoldred’s serpentine body coiled slowly around the grunt as she studied the surprisingly mundane clipboard in her hands. “It says here, you waited hundreds of years for Phyrexia’s return, only needing reactivation upon our arrival. Quite some loyalty, that. Also, you were once…renowned for your abnormal strength?”
Toxic Abomination nodded eagerly, bobbing its armless torso instead of a head.
“…Unfortunately, however, this strength is no longer so exceptional.”
Toxic Abomination startled at this statement.
“Yes. I’m afraid such power as yours is no longer even passable. Quite below average, in fact.”
Toxic Abomination began to rise from the muck, only for Sheoldred to make a placating gesture with her upper body.
“Please, no need to get angry. You were inactive for quite some time, now. It’s only natural to react to such news with anger. But a Phyrexian like you should conduct yourself properly.”
Defeated, Toxic Abomination collapsed back into the mud. Sheoldred watched passively as the fight left it.
“Worry not. Unlike the incompleat, we look after our own. I’m sure we could find work of some kind for you, given your service record.”
Toxic Abomination’s body angled hopefully upward. That was, until it heard Sheoldred’s suggestion, read aloud from her clipboard:
“Yes, I believe ‘chump blocker’ would be a perfect lateral position for you! If you’re interested, please speak with my assistant on your way out.”
Toxic Abomination suddenly rose and stomped out of the brackish water. During its egress, it saw a human woman with a glowing red eye standing on the shore.
“Hello. My name is Rona. I heard you might be interested in a-”
Toxic Abomination continued its indignant departure. Behind it, Rona and Sheoldred shared sly smirks.
[Poor Toxic Abomination. You woulda been a monster back in the day!]
“‘Finest in the Multiverse,’ Peony? We’ll see about that.”
The traveling merchant waved in greeting at the white-clad official fast approaching her stall. “Mornin, Kieran! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“A surprise inspection. Show me your wares.”
“Not a problem!” Using the leg of her scale as a baton, Peony pointed to the various goods lining each section of her cart. “What you see is what you got. Anything in particular catch your eye?”
Kieran studied the setup for another few moments before answering, “No - which is good for you. Your wares and structure are all in order. You’re clear to continued peddling…all this junk-”
“I don’t rightly appreciate you callin it that, Inspector.”
Kieran startled at being called his formal title. Peony’s statement was immediate, terse, and formal. The warmth had drained from her tone, replaced by something far more stern.
“It ain’t junk.”
“I apologize, Peony. I meant no offense. These curios just aren’t my particular-”
“They ain’t just curios neither!”
Kieran arched a skeptical eyebrow. “All right, then. But still, who living around here would ever want anything like this?”
“Folks who want a taste of home! There are people here, from Amonkhet, and from Fiora, and from all over the place! Don’t you think they get homesick too, like me or you? It ain’t just lawmen and bank robbers here. People live here! Not a lot, but people still!”
“Who? A bunch of prospectors and-”
A crash came from up the street. A mob marched into view, hauling with them a bandit bound in thick rope.
“Ah. A bloodthirsty mob.”
“‘Bloodthirsty,’ Kieran? We’ll see about that.”
The mob quieted as they drew near. They deposited the outlaw at Kieran’s feet, as one of their number stepped forward.
“Caught him stealin from the gunsmith. Do what you want with him, just so long as it’s far from here. We’re goin home.”
The group dispersed without fanfare, leaving Peony giving Kieran a sly smirk.
“See? No blood. Just folks who’re willin to look out for each other.”
—
[I know it wasn’t really helped by only spending one set there, but Thunder Junction leaned a little too hard into the western tropes imo, like all of em, and all at the same time too.]
“Now, if Syr Damon was right, I should be able to…Come on. Start glowing, already!”
The Embereth knight jostled the sword in her hands. Though she was shouting now, the blade refused to light. And so, she was forced to brandish her perfectly mundane weapon at her foe.
“H-Have at thee!”
“Hmm? Not so brave without an enchanted sword, are we now, Syr Bianca?”
A titanic dragon landed before the knight, flattening the trees beneath him. He grinned at the practically defenseless fighter.
“S-Stay back, you monster!”
“Monster? I’m afraid you paint us dragons with far too wide a brush! My name is Fang. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, brave knight.”
“O-Oh yeah?”
Fang stretched languidly before Bianca, taking his time with his explanation: “Indeed! I am but a humble traveler! And yet here you are, hoping your magic sword would spring into action and help you murder me.”
“Murder? No! I am destroying a threat to the realm.”
“‘A threat to the realm,’” Fang echoed, still in no hurry at all. “Seems to me, you are far more worthy of that title than I.”
Bianca’s grip trembled as she weakly asked, “What?”
“Yes. You see, three of my fellow dragons were bound for Castle Ardenvale - envoys sent to negotiate with King Kenrith. But reports say they were waylaid on the road. Naturally, with the king’s disappearance, no one paid them any mind. But I have searched high and low, for signs of either them…or their killer.”
Fang’s talons, dug into the earth, began to glow with the bright blue light that had failed Bianca’s blade.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
[The buff from Righteousness is enough to survive Sundering Stroke.]
