Halberd training. One of my… more preferred parts of the week. Keeps me sharper, I feel. The feeling of steel colliding with a target is one that not much can compete with. Every swing, every stab, block, parry, riposte, all of it, drives me deeper into my own head. Lazaro still sat in the back of my head. His voice rang about, constantly prodding me. “Finding the thing that guides you is necessary for beginning to learn how you can find absolution and make peace with your blood-stained past, but only if you also endeavor to keep such things in the past.”
So what does guide me? Part of me says survival. I’m just a human. No more than a man, simple as. I’m no cephalid, able to squish and squeeze with no bones to worry about. Not a vampire, undead, fast, flying, none of that. Well, maybe fast. Similar to a rhox, but even though I’m strong, I’m not a brick shithouse like Perrie. My skin is soft, stabbable. No horns to pierce. Elves? My life is short. I’ll barely live half their span, I don’t have the time to rest. Hell, I’ve barely got the time to reflect. Survival, though? It guides everyone. That’s the point of life, to stay alive and reproduce. I don’t think it’s what guides me specifically.
I set my halberd down, taking a drink of water and stretching. That was enough of that for now. I roll my shoulders. My tense, nearly 40-year-old shoulders. Angels, how the hell am I this old? Nearly all of my colleagues have died, usually in some horrific accident, or murdered, or just gave up. A few betrayed the Family, I never much cared for them anyway. They didn’t have what it takes to be a Broker. You have to be quick. I jab my sparring partner repeatedly. You have to be defensive and offensive, a perfect balance. I parry an incoming overhead, ducking under and weaving behind. You have to be opportunistic. I sweep their leg, their stance is shoddy after all. But above all else: You must be decisive. My form falls onto my partner. My fist rests right above their throat. Victory.
I step back, taking a breath and moving elsewhere. Right. Who am I, exactly? Clearly one hell of a fighter. Even for your normal human, I had everything done right. Wrestling in high school. Various scraps and bouts through the years. Enough blood on my hands to make a weapon… a weapon like me. What am I if not the result of my battles? A… loser, probably. I’ve lost a lot of the more recent ones. Kylem, specifically. My ribs still hurt, as does literally fucking everything. I deserved it. But still. NO HOLD ON I’m getting off topic again. Why do I fight? For the Family. Well that’s the default answer. Wrong one though. It’s right, I do, but why me specifically?
My hidden blade. An interesting little invention of mine. Refined and reforged, over and over. Also like me. Though quite unlike myself, this is far more subtle. The dummy in front of me is more similar to an actual human than the others. Best for trying new methods of killing. The outer blade easily pierces in multiple points. The inner blade pivots smoothly in my hand, slicing and stabbing exactly as I need it to.
How about figuring out why I fought so much? Well. Kylem. I wanted to… be strong? I wanted to restore my name. After the genocide. Why that? Why did I lash out, so furiously? I was angry, no shit. My friends were taken from me and I failed to protect them.
Hmm.
Why did I want to kill all of those devils? Because I wanted to make Capenna safer. For Shadowstep and for everyone else. Why did I go into Duskmourn? To rescue Biilzie. As much as they might have resisted at the time. Why do they keep showing up at my home? No, no, that’s for another time. Alright, what about shield generators? Profit. Some damn good profits too, until I had to sell the rights. But, well, I made them for additional protection to those we couldn’t help. Why did I work for the Sterling Company? They offered the best protection Thunder Junction had to offer.
Why did I… help Nadine? She was young. She needed the help. At least I could be better than my piece of shit ex-father. And I was, up until that day. I did what I could. I’ve come to terms with that. Someday I’ll come to terms with the genocide attempt. I hope. I did everything for her because I wanted to see her safe. I raised her best I could. I’ll raise Shadowstep best I can.
I’m no more than a man. I’m more brash and impulsive than I want to be. I’ve suppressed that side of me relentlessly, but it always seems to come through at the worst of times. Maybe I just need to… come to terms with it. The warrior in me is there for a reason. To rouse me. To keep me moving forward. But it’s also a test. To make sure that I am more than my instincts. Eric made me into something. A beast. A bunch of muscle, able to be pointed wherever. The Brokers honed me. Gave me the purpose of protecting the plane and getting rich while doing it. And then my two daughters. They gave me a reason to put my effort into it. To care for people that were more than just faces and wallets. And they’ve guided me better than anyone else. So why try and work for myself? Why not work for the people that matter to me? That care about me?
It’s always been hard for me. I’ve always had to struggle and fight and that’s made me strong. But I always seem to overcorrect. Wallow in my sorrow. Lash out in my anger. Repeat. I can never seem to just let things go. I’m defined by my past. But it doesn’t have to force me to be this way. I am the master of my own fate. Once I can move past this, learn myself, work towards my own betterment, maybe then I can rest easy. I’ll live the rest of my life making up for everything. I won’t make it right. But I will make it better.
Halberd training. One of my… more preferred parts of the week. Keeps me sharper, I feel. The feeling of steel colliding with a target is one that not much can compete with. Every swing, every stab, block, parry, riposte, all of it, drives me deeper into my own head. Lazaro still sat in the back of my head. His voice rang about, constantly prodding me. “Finding the thing that guides you is necessary for beginning to learn how you can find absolution and make peace with your blood-stained past, but only if you also endeavor to keep such things in the past.”
So what does guide me? Part of me says survival. I’m just a human. No more than a man, simple as. I’m no cephalid, able to squish and squeeze with no bones to worry about. Not a vampire, undead, fast, flying, none of that. Well, maybe fast. Similar to a rhox, but even though I’m strong, I’m not a brick shithouse like Perrie. My skin is soft, stabbable. No horns to pierce. Elves? My life is short. I’ll barely live half their span, I don’t have the time to rest. Hell, I’ve barely got the time to reflect. Survival, though? It guides everyone. That’s the point of life, to stay alive and reproduce. I don’t think it’s what guides me specifically.
I set my halberd down, taking a drink of water and stretching. That was enough of that for now. I roll my shoulders. My tense, nearly 40-year-old shoulders. Angels, how the hell am I this old? Nearly all of my colleagues have died, usually in some horrific accident, or murdered, or just gave up. A few betrayed the Family, I never much cared for them anyway. They didn’t have what it takes to be a Broker. You have to be quick. I jab my sparring partner repeatedly. You have to be defensive and offensive, a perfect balance. I parry an incoming overhead, ducking under and weaving behind. You have to be opportunistic. I sweep their leg, their stance is shoddy after all. But above all else: You must be decisive. My form falls onto my partner. My fist rests right above their throat. Victory.
I step back, taking a breath and moving elsewhere. Right. Who am I, exactly? Clearly one hell of a fighter. Even for your normal human, I had everything done right. Wrestling in high school. Various scraps and bouts through the years. Enough blood on my hands to make a weapon… a weapon like me. What am I if not the result of my battles? A… loser, probably. I’ve lost a lot of the more recent ones. Kylem, specifically. My ribs still hurt, as does literally fucking everything. I deserved it. But still. NO HOLD ON I’m getting off topic again. Why do I fight? For the Family. Well that’s the default answer. Wrong one though. It’s right, I do, but why me specifically?
My hidden blade. An interesting little invention of mine. Refined and reforged, over and over. Also like me. Though quite unlike myself, this is far more subtle. The dummy in front of me is more similar to an actual human than the others. Best for trying new methods of killing. The outer blade easily pierces in multiple points. The inner blade pivots smoothly in my hand, slicing and stabbing exactly as I need it to.
How about figuring out why I fought so much? Well. Kylem. I wanted to… be strong? I wanted to restore my name. After the genocide. Why that? Why did I lash out, so furiously? I was angry, no shit. My friends were taken from me and I failed to protect them.
Hmm.
Why did I want to kill all of those devils? Because I wanted to make Capenna safer. For Shadowstep and for everyone else. Why did I go into Duskmourn? To rescue Biilzie. As much as they might have resisted at the time. Why do they keep showing up at my home? No, no, that’s for another time. Alright, what about shield generators? Profit. Some damn good profits too, until I had to sell the rights. But, well, I made them for additional protection to those we couldn’t help. Why did I work for the Sterling Company? They offered the best protection Thunder Junction had to offer.
Why did I… help Nadine? She was young. She needed the help. At least I could be better than my piece of shit ex-father. And I was, up until that day. I did what I could. I’ve come to terms with that. Someday I’ll come to terms with the genocide attempt. I hope. I did everything for her because I wanted to see her safe. I raised her best I could. I’ll raise Shadowstep best I can.
I’m no more than a man. I’m more brash and impulsive than I want to be. I’ve suppressed that side of me relentlessly, but it always seems to come through at the worst of times. Maybe I just need to… come to terms with it. The warrior in me is there for a reason. To rouse me. To keep me moving forward. But it’s also a test. To make sure that I am more than my instincts. Eric made me into something. A beast. A bunch of muscle, able to be pointed wherever. The Brokers honed me. Gave me the purpose of protecting the plane and getting rich while doing it. And then my two daughters. They gave me a reason to put my effort into it. To care for people that were more than just faces and wallets. And they’ve guided me better than anyone else. So why try and work for myself? Why not work for the people that matter to me? That care about me?
It’s always been hard for me. I’ve always had to struggle and fight and that’s made me strong. But I always seem to overcorrect. Wallow in my sorrow. Lash out in my anger. Repeat. I can never seem to just let things go. I’m defined by my past. But it doesn’t have to force me to be this way. I am the master of my own fate. Once I can move past this, learn myself, work towards my own betterment, maybe then I can rest easy. I’ll live the rest of my life making up for everything. I won’t make it right. But I will make it better.
The Magic Multiverse has its own school of Magic at Strixhaven with plenty of secrets still to explore. Our Universes Beyond roadmap currently doesn’t have us visiting any others.
pain. Hebi felt pain. All consuming, her very veins on fire. It was horrible.
the gorgon. She had taken Hebi on her way to Chima, drugged her and whispered things. Terrible things about Chima, about House Dimir, about Ravnica. And the worst thing was, Hebi knew she was telling the truth. She could hear the hurt and the anger in the gorgon’s words.
and she had felt the cup being held up to her lips. And she had felt pain.
Indescribable pain.
Hebi felt when Chima found her, moved her. But she did not have the energy to respond. And even if she did, what would she do? Chima had kept so much from her. Fitting, it would seem, from the Dimir.
Months passed, and Hebi could not move. She could barely muster the energy to drink the soups Chima brought her.
Chima began to disappear for longer and longer. Perhaps she had found someone else. That old Orzhov fling, maybe.
Her family was probably looking for her. What did they know?
Hebi could feel her strength returning. Little by little by little. But she didn’t feel strong enough to face what would happen when she opened her eyes. And so she sank deeper into her stupor.
And she hated herself for it. She was just as weak on the inside as she had been on the outside.
So she opened her eyes. She struggled, and it was blinding. But she opened her eyes.
Xecau awoke, which was his first surprise. His second surprise was that he was no longer face-down in the wastes of Grixis, but instead strapped to a stone slab, spread out like an X. Leaning over him was the face of Ushruk Draakhide, a viashino whose features were more draconic than crocodilian. Ushruk, or High Master Draakhide, as he preferred to be called, was Xecau’s… boss. He was a wizened, red-scaled lizardfolk wearing a horned helm made from devil’s horns and the black steel of Grixis. The majority of the rest of his clothes were of Grixian make as well. All except a single piece of rough armor made of green scales. Dragon scales.
“Ah, you’re awake. Good, good. I wanted to explain the rite before I performed it, but if not, then not,” Ushruk said in a gravelly tone.
“The rite?” Xecau asked, also confused as to why his body didn’t hurt.
“The Rite of Bloody Rebirth. The first step towards ascension to a perfect form. I have finally perfected a successful version. Well, successful on goblins. You will be the first human to experience the blessings of our lord! I pulled you back from the brink of death to grant you the honor of approaching perfection, taking a step not even I have! You will become our champion! You will no longer be defeated by a lone human warrior, you will have strength beyond the highest heights reached through sangrite consumption! You will be superior!” Ushruk declared, slipping into his preacher’s voice by the end.
“And can I have some time to think about it?” Xecau asked, sweat running down his brow, wetting the bloodstains on the altar he laid upon.
“Think? What is there to think about? It is a high honor! And, considering all the effort I put into restoring your form to undertake it, you should be doubly thankful,” Ushruk replied, smiling wide, each eye looking in a different direction like a chameleon; one was staring at Xecau, and the other observing his kathri attendants as they finished assembling the apparatus for the ritual.
“Now, be still. I will need to attach three tubes to your veins, one for demon blood, one for dragon blood, and one to remove the frail human blood,” Ushruk commanded, inserting each of the bone needles into a major artery or vein.
Xecau grimaced in pain, but held still as the needles pierced into his flesh. He did not hold still as hot dragon’s blood flowed into his blood vessels, writhing in agony. Nor did he hold still when he felt the touch of demonic ichor, caustic and cold, rush into him. He knew the moment the two met within his body, screaming out as they reacted violently.
But, this was a mountaintop in Grixis. Xecau’s screams simply added a nice baritone to the chorus.
Shregresha and Turrak sat down with Durkrag for the morning meal. It was two days after they found him passed out, and since that time, he hadn’t spent a moment without one or both of them within ten feet. Including when he went to piss, Turrak was facing the other way, within earshot. Durkrag didn’t know how he felt about this. On one hand, this was the most time he’d spent with his mom in months. On the other, he loathed not being trusted enough. He wouldn’t do anything, he’d learned his lesson. He wouldn’t touch peppermoss again. No matter how much his arm hurt. No matter how much he felt cold and empty. No matter how much his hand shook as he ate the tukatounge porridge Shregresha had prepared. It was nice eating it again, she hadn’t made it since he was a little kid, and her recipe was sweeter than any other in the clan. It didn’t fill the emptiness, but it provided some warmth.
“So, we were going to tell you this when we got back, but considering everything that happened… we’re doing it now. Our father’s dead,” Turrak said, not meeting Durkrag’s eyes.
“And I killed him,” Shregresha said, “I know this is a lot, so if you want us to leave you to your thoughts, we will. I also understand if you just want me to leave.”
Durkrag blinked. Once, twice, then he was blinking as tears trickled down his face.
“I… I wished I could’ve spoken too him… Just once. Asked him why. Why his dragon cult mattered more to him than his son! I wish I could’ve looked him in the eyes, seen if he felt regret. See if he still loved me, if he ever did,” Durkrag sobbed.
“I… I should’ve tried to knock him unconscious, given you that chance,” Shregresha said, tentatively putting a hand on his shoulder. “I just… I hated him more than I’ve hated anyone. He betrayed my love by offering you, my son, the one person I loved more than him, to a fucking dragon. I regretted that I wasn’t able to kill him then. I didn’t want him to slip through my fingers again. He nearly prevented me from seeing you grow up, from getting to know the person you’re becoming. Xecau is– was, a craven, power-hungry man, but he was also charming and strong and… …And I wish you’d gotten to know a version of him that I did. If that version ever really existed.”
“He was always sort of distant. Like he didn’t want to be around his own kid, but didn’t know how to step away. I don’t remember him getting angry or anything, but I also don’t have any memories of him making me happy or playing with me when I was young,” Turrak said, hugging Durkrag.
Shregresha sat there awkwardly until Durkrag pulled her into a group hug. The three of them began crying. Durkrag sobbed, water pouring down his cheeks. Turrak’s tears evaporated as they left his tear ducts, creating a salty, stinging mist. Shregresha shed the least tears, and did so without a sound.
Inside a Sokenzan mountain, hundreds of feet into the granite, a team of akki technicians were picking through the wreckage of a Futurist facility. The facility of the late Dr. Selestri Zlovol. They were cataloging the various pieces of machines and specimens, and currently were on sub-level 6. It was a cloning facility, combining the technology that the Imperials used to make enforcers with the biomancy of the Simic, and had largely gone untouched in the initial raid, except for a conflict at the stairwell and elevator. And the results of the structural damage caused by a dragon destroying the uppermost level. Most of the specimens were clones or hybrids of various creatures from across the planes. The hybrids tended to incorporate species native to Kamigawa, although not all of them did. Some had died during or after the attack and the damage to the power systems, but most were still in their pods, being kept in stasis by the restored generators the technicians had repaired after much argument with the Order of Jukai. Some specimens had also escaped, and long since fled. The akki knew they would eventually release all of the specimens, even the dangerous ones, but they wanted to make sure that they did it in an order that prioritized both safety and speed. If it had been just up to Goro-Goro, speed likely would’ve been the only consideration, but some more pragmatic akki convinced him that if the end goal was to free the most animals and people, then making sure that no one started fighting in the laboratory was necessary.
“Uh… hey, go get the boss,” Ike-Ike said to Nib-Nib as she jailbroke the terminal to the pod the two were in front of. “This fellow’s one o’ the ones that we need to call someone about.”
A minute later, Nib-Nib returned with Uukke-Tukke, the lead artificer for cataloging this floor.
“So, what’s the deal?” Uukke-Tukke asked, pulling out his communicator.
“By what we know of Zlovol’s categorization system, this seems like a clone of one of the Jundians that were kept here as her… special projects. Specifically, they’re encoded as JH-3a, meaning they’re a clone of the original JH-3, which would be the third Jundian Human that Zlovol abducted,” Ike-Ike explained.
“Alright, I’m calling Goro-Goro, he’s got a way to contact the Jundian leader. Don’t do anything with this one, I’ll handle it from here. Good job alerting me,” Uukke-Tukke said.
Ike-Ike began disconnecting her hacking console from the terminal, but as she did so, something went wrong. The terminal blinked, and the lights inside the pod turned on. The bio-fluid drained, and the air tubes disconnected from the clone’s mouth and nose. Their eyes opened, and moments later, their fist went through the glass.
“Hey there, I’m Nib-Nib!” the akki chirped, being the only one of their warren-mates to not have dived for cover when the glass broke.
“JH-3a reporting. Where is Dr. Zlovol?” the clone said, in a flat monotone as it smashed through the rest of the pod.
“Uhh….” Nib-Nib glanced from side-to-side, “She’s not here?”
“Unless she gave you orders for JH-3a, JH-3a will go find her,” the clone said, glancing around.
“Yeah, uh, she did give me orders! She told me that you should stay here and not do anything else until we gave you new orders,” Nib-Nib said, sweat running down their brow.
“Understood. Can you please provide your authorization code?” the clone asked.
Nib-Nib scampered for cover.
“Adjusting trajectory,” the clone said, touching a finger behind their ear. “Dr. Zlovol… Come in Dr. Zlovol…”
“Dr. Zlovol is deceased? Switching to Delta protocol. Vengeance.”
The clone, only wearing briefs, set out. As they made their way through the facility, they obtained an akki-sized naginata, a tantō, and some clothing. At the surface, coordinating the operation, Goro-Goro was surprised to see a human burst through the doorway. He was even more surprised that the human looked somewhat familiar, almost a dead ringer for one of the Jundians that came out of the facility. This surprise meant that he barely had time to dodge as the blade of the human’s naginata darted forward, stopping inches from where Goro-Goro’s neck was.
“Did you kill Dr. Zlovol?” the human asked.
“No- Who are you?” Goro-Goro asked, drawing his katana, lightning crackling from his scabbard as he did so.
“JH-3a. Do not impede my mission,” the human said.
“Dr. Zlovol’s dead and you’re better off for it. Now, you’re free to do what you want, rather than what she commands. How about you put down the naginata and I can show you some of the fun things you can do?” Goro-Goro said, mentally preparing to summon a lightning dragon if things went south.
The clone stared at Goro-Goro, then leapt away, jumping several feet down the mountainside. Goro-Goro watched them for a few seconds before calling Kresh.
JH-3a darted between the shadows cast by the moon as they made their way towards the omenpath. Something about it and the jungle beyond felt… familiar. But, more importantly, according to one of the akki they had interrogated, it was where Dr. Zlovol’s killer lived. Taking advantage that the akki guards were more focused on making sure nothing came out of the omenpath, they dashed past them through the hole in multiverse, the akki not registering their presence until they were on the other side. As their feet touched the dirt of Jund, they quickly disappeared into the brush, careful to not leave a trail.
(credit to @jasper-graphics for the lovely dividers)
Hey there Gesserith. Look, I know I wasn't the best father. But I know you've adopted a daughter now. That's wonderful. But you aren't letting me see her. You don't respond to my letters or anything. I want to see my granddaughter and you are depriving me of that. I want to settle this professionally. But if you aren't up for it, I'll find other ways to make time to see her.
-- Eric Edmund
You motherfucker. You stay away from my life. You stay away from my inbox. And you stay far, FAR away from my daughter. If you ever. And I mean EVER, threaten anything like that again, I do not care what I promised to Mom. I will kill you and I will feel good in knowing that the world is one problem shorter. Do not fucking test me. You were a horrible father but that does not mean that I am the same.
How to each of the ten guilds like a slice? What are their culinary traditions and the practices around them?
Did Maro's post leave you hungry for more lore? Or just want to read a bunch of MTG fanlore about Pizza? Look no further.
Also on AO3, where you can find my other Ravnica fanlore and fanfics.
Introduction
Ravnica, the city of guilds. Of all the planes on which to seek a delicious slice of pizza, it is perhaps the one with the widest variety of options. Indeed, each of the guilds has their own traditions surrounding this classic dish.
The Azorius Senate
Senate Pizza is typically found in cafeterias of official Azorius buildings. As one might expect, it is heavily regulated in terms of ingredient sourcing and quality and preparation method. The result is extremely consistent and decidedly average. It’ll never disappoint but it’ll never impress.
Variety is also extremely limited to predefined options; usually just two or three very basic options per location, usually just the most popular ones of the local area. Of these, cheese, pepperoni, and some variety of vegetables are the most common trio.
Perhaps the best part of Azorius pizza is that it’s cheap. As the price of internally manufactured foodstuffs requires an extremely extensive process to update, Azorius pizza prices are often unbeatable anywhere else. While food prices elsewhere across Ravnica rise steadily, one can always count on Azorius pizza to feel like an absolute bargain, as it was often a fairly reasonable price a few decades ago and hasn’t been updated since.
House Dimir
The Dimir, as one might expect, do not openly advertise their culinary practices. That said, in some ways they serve the best pizza in Ravnica, largely by virtue of having stolen the best recipes and techniques of every other guild.
The house are avid collectors of secrets of all sorts, and while secret recipes are low on the list of valuable secrets, they are still secrets and thus the Dimir seek them. In fact, their fairly low-stakes nature is why they are the subject of something of a coming-of-age ritual for those raised in the practices of the Dimir.
Young would-be Dimir agents are tasked with obtaining secret recipes from other guilds through whatever means they wish. This could be telepathy, social engineering via false friendship, or simple thievery. In this way, a secret recipe is often the first official secret that young House members contribute to the vast stores of their guild’s illicit knowledge. Pizza being the popular food across guilds that it is, more than a few of these stolen recipes are for pizza.
Using these recipes, the Dimir open a variety of pizzerias offering affordable, delicious pizza. These are of course, fronts – for money laundering and for information gathering. Many secrets are spilled over meals people believe to be private.
Additionally, almost all pizza places that are secretly run by the Dimir offer cheap or free delivery. The convenience draws in customers who then allow covert agents to visit their homes. Not only does this obtain addresses, a skilled Dimir agent can do a lot with just an open door, even without being formally invited in.
Funnily enough, while some might expect that Dimir pizza would often be poisoned, this is frowned upon as a method of assassination. The house sees it as both too likely to catch unintended targets but more importantly, to be traced back to the Dimir-run pizzeria, exposing an establishment that took time and effort to establish for its other information-gathering uses.
The Cult of Rakdos
Rakos pizza is often feared by those outside the cult as dangerous, even deadly, but those who have eaten it will say otherwise. Being a guild with a strong focus on entertainment and a frequent thrower of parties, Rakdos pizza is often quite good. Pizza devils who climb inside the ovens themselves to check on cooking progress are a respected profession within the cult, who understand that staying fed is important to keep up one’s energy for… activities of all varieties.
Rakdos pizza varies wildly in terms of toppings and styles; though the most consistent traits are being spicy and served piping hot (though of course, one can always wait for it to cool). Rumors of pizza being intentionally laced with drugs or survivable poisons are true, though not as widespread as they are often made out to be. Most Rakdos parties that serve such things have other options, and they are… usually labeled as such.
Aside from being served at parties, the cult runs quite a few restaurants as well, and though some distrust them (especially their cleanliness), they are often quite popular among locals. These pizzerias are amongst the Rakdos’s most profitable legitimate business ventures.
The Gruul Clans
The Gruul are often seen as simplistic savages by outsiders, but they do have their own culinary traditions. After all, one of the two most common proclamations of their guild leader is ‘We Eat!’
The clans are masters at cooking meat, with their barbeque skills unrivaled by any other guild. It’s rare to see a Gruul pizza not stacked high with meat and on other toppings like fresh herbs and vegetables from the city’s wild spaces. Crust styles and specific prep methods vary by clan, but the devotion to heavily-loaded slices is near-universal.
Food and the raw ingredients to make it are a surprisingly common target of Gruul raids, and the materials to make pizza are especially prized. Some clans enjoy the food so much that they even stoop to engaging in regular commerce and just buy ingredients, a practice reserved only for the necessities, which goes to show the food’s importance to them.
The biggest taboo with Gruul pizza though is eating pizza that you or your clan didn’t make yourselves. Already cooked pizza obtained in the process of a raid is an exception, but no self-respecting member of the Gruul would be caught dead at another guild’s restaurant.
The Selesnya Conclave
The Conclave, as one might expect, has some of the freshest, highest quality ingredients of all the guilds. Selesnya pizza’s most universal quality is its vegetarian nature. Aside from that, toppings vary quite a bit, and while it’s not to everyone’s tastes, if you like it, you likely love it.
The primary ingredients such as cheese and flour that the other guilds use in their own pizza often come from Selesnya-run farms and are responsible for the generally high quality of the dish across Ravnica. It’s often immediately obvious whether your pizza’s ingredients were sourced from the Selesnya or another guild like the Golgari or Simic simply by the freshness and taste.
It’s a little-known fact that due to the cult of Rakdos’s love of quality pizza, they usually source their ingredients from the Selesnya. This is one of the only ways in which the two guilds interact regularly in a peaceful fashion, a classic example of food bringing diverse groups together.
This wasn’t always the case however, as in olden times Selesnyans would often refuse business to Rakdos customers. This in turn often led to the pie-denied cultists enacting fiery and bloody revenge. Eventually, the Conclave made an official proclamation that Selesnyans must sell to any customer who is respectful during the purchasing process, regardless of guild.
The Orzhov Syndicate
Another frequent customer of the conclave’s fine ingredients, the Orzhov are known to serve pizza through a variety of restaurants, which are often far fancier than one might expect. Many suspect the majority of these are fronts for less legitimate operations, but it’s far more common that they are simply outlets where the Syndicate elite and those wishing to rub shoulders with them can spend their exorbitant wealth.
Aside from offering huge salaries to keep the most elite chefs on retainer the Orzhov are known to obtain first pick of Selesynan harvests through well-placed bribes. These shady practices lead to some of the finest slices on Ravnica, if not some of the priciest as well. That said, not all Orzhov pizza is delicious – they have a habit of using ingredients that are more about being showy and expensive as opposed to strictly flavorful. It’s not uncommon to see Orzhov throw caviar, truffles, gold flakes, and the like on their pizzas without regard for anything but the optics.
The Izzet League
The special element of Izzet pizza isn’t so much the ingredients as it is the methods of cooking. As the producers of the majority of Ravnica’s ovens and other cooking tools, the Izzet are often attempting to innovate new ways to cook pizza that are faster or ‘better’… though their definition of better often clashes with a reasonable person’s.
Though cheap, reliable ovens have been commonly available on Ravnica for quite some time, it is not in the league’s nature to settle for merely good when ‘better’ is always out there. The Izzet have blown up more than a few kitchens with their experimental ‘upgrades’ to cooking tools. Similarly, the less said about the injuries resulting from their experiments in automatic slicers, the better.
For every pizza place spitting out perfectly cooked pies in seconds thanks to an experimental oven, there is another that has burned down due to something being improperly calibrated. As such, the Izzet’s involvement in the pizza-making process is considered ‘high risk, high reward’.
The Golgari Swarm
The Golgari’s underground rot farms and other grow-zones provide foodstuffs for a huge portion of the Ravnican population, especially among the lower class. With pizza being a popular food across the plane, its to be expected that the Swarm has their own twist on this classic dish.
Many Ravnicans, especially those more used to classier options, associate Golgari pizza solely with mushroom toppings and cheese substitutes sourced from places many greatly dislike thinking about. In truth though, the Swarm has perhaps the most diverse pizza culture out of any of the guilds by a substantial margin.
While it’s true mushrooms are the most common topping, few realize the truly staggering variety that exists among fungi, and the corresponding depth of flavors they can bring. Cooking styles and other toppings also vary considerably – one will rarely find two members of the swarm who cook pizza the same way. Even among families, recipes aren’t treated as sacred so much as the basis for one’s own experimentation and evolution of flavors.
The Swarm’s focus on using everything they can find also means that ingredients are often ‘whatever is available’. As such, it’s almost impossible to make any sweeping judgments on the quality of Golgari pizza. Many pies, especially to outsiders, come out tasting quite gross, but among the rough patches are unrivaled flashes of culinary genius, often popping up unexpectedly and dying out just as quickly.
The Boros Legion
Boros pizza has the most in common with the Azorius – primarily served in mess halls and mass-produced cheaply. In another unusual cross-guild arrangement like that of the Selesnya and Rakdos, the Boros source the vast majority of their ingredients from the Simic. The cheap, mass produced nature of the ingredients are a priority for the legion over quality. The fact that the Selesnya can bioengineer their ingredients to be extra nutritious and calorically dense doesn’t hurt either – the legion understands the need for an army to be well-fed, after all.
All these traits lead to Boros pizza being something often not eaten for pleasure, which is just as well as its rarely served to outsiders. While those not from the legion who find themselves trying a Boros slice often find it to taste weirdly ‘off’, legionaries who eat pizza elsewhere often find that the pies of other guilds are missing a certain something that they’ve gotten used to.
The Simic Combine
As one might expect, Simic pizza is both highly varied and highly weird. Though Simic bioengineering produces a decent chunk of the ingredients sold to other guilds, the mass-produced stuff is mostly just made for that purpose. Pizza made and enjoyed by members of the Combine is very rarely so pedestrian.
Like most Simic cuisine, their pizza is extremely varied, often to the point of uniqueness. Using personally modified ingredients or meats from specially bred hybrid creatures is a point of pride among the Simic. There is no such thing as a ‘typical’ Simic pizza, with almost every person or restaurant’s offerings not being able to be found anywhere else.
Simic pizzerias are quite the popular spots for adventurous eaters, with their menus rotating frequently and often being extremely widely varied even within a single establishment. As a common saying goes, ‘the only thing as long as an Azorius lawbook is a Simic menu’.
While it is true that many Simic flavors are very ‘out there’ and niche in their appeal, the Simic are scientists at heart, and recipes and ingredients are almost always thoroughly tested before hitting the plate. As such, despite common myths perpetuated by picky eaters, the Simic’s pizzas and other foodstuffs are almost always both edible and nutritious, if not always tasty. The Combine, however, would argue that they’re all delicious to someone, even if that someone hasn’t been properly hybridized into existence yet.
My chest heaved as I pulled my primary sword from the now-still hydra’s body. The band of satyrs who had joined me in the fight were checking their wounds and doing initial medical care with healing magic and bandages. One poor satyr had wound up taking a direct hit from the hydra’s poison breath and was now ten years older than she should have been. I wiped my brow and flicked the blood from my swords before dismissing them back into the core of my being.
“Dea Soteira!” Another satyr trotted over. He had returned his xiphos to his hip since the end of the fight, so its sheath bounced against his leg. He was probably into his hundredth year, about halfway through the natural lifespan of a satyr. His fur and hair were as uncontrollable as every satyr’s.
“Krotos,” I greeted with a nod. “Casualty count.”
Krotos straightened up immediately. “No deaths, plenty of injuries, we’re gonna drop back towards Latessos so the band can recover. But we found what the hydra had been going after.” He trotted away and soon returned with something roughly the size of a puppy in his arms. “We didn’t know what to do with it, so we decided to defer to you.”
I pulled my wings in and peered at the small animal. It was serpentine and dark grey in color with patterning like a Tarkiri python. Two wings with tattered black membranes between the fingers and small claws. More tail than body at this rate. Its eyes were an odd color – a bright yellow just like my own.
It was a baby dragon. The first one I had seen since the Phyrexian invasion three years prior.
I frowned and held out my hands to take her, so Krotos dutifully handed the dragon over. The dragon allowed herself to be handed off. That was also strange – the few times I had previously seen a baby dragon, they scrambled to get back towards swampland so they could hide and keep growing until they could face hydras or mortals. But this one just wrapped herself around my arm and settled in to be cradled.
“I’ll handle this,” I promised Krotos. I jerked my head to gesture in the direction of Latessos. “Fall back and heal up. Thank you to you and your band for your help and service.”
Krotos bowed low and then trotted back to the other satyrs. I readjusted my hold on the baby dragon slightly and pulled all four of my wings in close around both of us. “Alright, little buddy,” I whispered, even though I wasn’t sure if she could understand me. “Let’s take a quick trip to the divine realm and have a look at you, alright?” I received a soft noise that was a mix between a hiss and a purr in response.
My feathers and horns gave off a flash of light as I slipped sideways out of the mortal realm with the dragon curled up in my arms. I beat my wings and flew up to my own divine realm.
Some of us applied names to our divine realms just so we could personalize them a bit more. I called my portion Megálofýllo. It was bright and exposed entirely to my sister Ending’s sun, even in the winter like it was now. Other realms had temples of wood or stone or metal; mine was merely a large plant, the broad leaves serving as the ground. I kept my equipment close to the stems of the plants instead of on the bouncy leaves. As such, I gently set the baby dragon down for a moment to remove my armor and readjust my tunic. Then I scooped her back up and stepped back towards the edge of the leaf so I could peer down into the mortal realm.
I frowned, blinked a few times in case I still had blood or dirt in my eyes, and looked down again. No, I wasn’t blind; Thyrsus was alarmingly green considering what time of year it was. Most of the land was pastoral and hilly, but the parts of the continent that were dedicated to the fights of the Primordial Dragon and Primordial Hydra were also full of lush green forests.
There wasn’t a single swamp on the plane.
I frowned. “That’s...not right. This can’t be right,” I said, as though the baby dragon would be able to explain why something was wrong. “Húdrā shouldn’t have this much territory, Drakôn should have forced her back...” I looked down at the dragon in my arms. “Okay. Let’s get you patched up first, then we’re going to look for her.”
The baby dragon looked up at me and yawned widely. The poor thing hadn’t even grown teeth yet. And unless Drakôn made more swampland with her breath, this dragon wouldn’t grow at all. I felt a sudden twinge of guilt; I had recently helped mortal defenders kill another dragon, Ismenios, and now most of the monsters that we faced were hydras or manticores. Had that been one of the last remaining fully-grown dragons? Was I holding an endangered species now? What had become of Drakôn?
I pushed that aside. I knelt down on the broad leaf of my realm. The membrane of her wings were beyond mortal repair, but luckily neither of us were mortal. I made sure the fingers were spread appropriately, took a deep breath, and drew on the power of light that suffused my realm and my being. Beneath my glowing hands, white membrane stretched to fill the tattered spots. The baby dragon let out a delighted chirp and nuzzled my hand once I was done.
I smiled and gently scratched her behind her horns before I got up and pulled my armor back on. She spread her wings and jumped up to my shoulders, settling across them like a very odd cat. “There you go, anipsiá,” I cooed as I gave her another scratch behind the horn. “Let’s seek out Drakôn.” After an affirmative chirp, I spread my wings and slipped down and sideways back to the mortal realm.
We landed in the dense forests. I waved my hands to shake off the light that drew itself to me in a desperate bid to be at least a bit stealthy. There wasn’t much I could do about the glowing green of the ends of my antler-like horns beyond dimming it. My paws made a little noise across the grass and dirt as I padded through the foliage. I kept all four of my feathered wings drawn in, hoping that the black and green feathers would hide the white ones below them.
Together, the baby dragon and I traveled through the forest.
And more forest.
And even more forest.
And way more forest.
Way too much forest.
I stopped in front of a cave. This one was large, yet not deep. It did not lead down to the House of Endings. It couldn’t have. It was not the home of the dead. No goddesses dwelt here. Only two primordial beings would call this place their lair, had they the sapience to do so. Perhaps they still called it home regardless. Either way, I ducked inside, keeping the baby dragon on my shoulders as I moved. My horns illuminated the area enough for both of us to see.
Great coils of mottled blacks, dark greys, dark purples, and dark browns wrapped up and around stalactites and stalagmites and pillars where the two had joined over the centuries. This was the only place in Thyrsus that smelled of swamp.
I realized that what I was stepping into with my bare paws wasn’t condensation from the ceiling or puddles of bat poop. I leaned down and scooped some onto my fingers, then pressed it to my tongue. A slight tinge of spice and acidity; an overwhelming surge in power for what magic I wielded. This was dragon blood.
I slowly straightened up and took quiet steps towards the nearest coil. There was no way that Drakôn hadn’t realized I was here. The coil moved steadily, following a pattern set by breathing. Extremely labored breathing. The type I had seen on the battlefield before soldiers beside me died of infection well after the initial injury. If I strained my ears, I was pretty sure I could hear its head further in the cave.
I dared to speak. “Drakôn?” I stayed still and waited.
The coils next to me moved. It was a slow slither like any much smaller snake or dragon. They weren’t very fond of exposing their stomachs to air. It was a weak point, after all, and one should always guard their weak points.
I saw its head. It was crowned in many great horns that curled like its coils. Its eyes were a deep violet color, the kind that poets swooned about at length without actually being brave enough to see. Its many fangs were sharp enough to cut through stone as though it were merely parchment.
Its mouth was slightly open, each breath desperate, and its throat was wickedly ripped open far wider. Blood dripped from the damaged muscle and torn scales. Its hiss wasn’t even a warning; it just sounded exhausted.
Like every goddess, Drakôn could not die, even if we wanted to.
Despite my years of oration training and these thoughts, the only thing that came from my mouth was, “Mētrokoítēs.”
The raspy noise that came from Drakôn came not from its mouth, but from its throat directly, causing the wound to open slightly more. More blood dripped from it. On my shoulder, the baby dragon let out a soft whimper. I gave her a small, reassuring pat with my right hand.
I reached up and gently pressed my left hand against Drakôn’s snout. “Is this where you’ve been for the past few years?” I wondered aloud. It looked like the injuries I had sustained personally during the Phyrexian invasion. “How come you haven’t healed?”
It snorted slightly. It turned its head out of my grasp and attempted to use its venom breath. But instead of the familiar blast, all that came out was a smoldering glob of mucus.
I thought about what I was seeing. I had read over pretty much everything my sister Lily had written about dragons, hydras, and manticores in order to be better at protecting the mortals. And one of the most important things she had stressed was that dragons needed swampland to retreat to in order to heal. Not even a healing goddess could heal the Primordial Dragon or Primordial Hydra, it was a careful measure created by my mother in order to keep the goddesses from using them in proxy wars against each other. But with no swamps on the plane and with Drakôn unable to make more... It couldn’t recover from the invasion. Not like Húdrā obviously had. Without Drakôn, there were no swamps. And without swamps, Drakôn couldn’t heal or plant its teeth to make more dragons.
Which meant that the baby dragon sitting on my shoulders was definitely the last mortal dragon. Which meant that Húdrā would just keep overrunning the plane primarily with hydras instead of the balance that had existed before between them.
“Motherfucker,” I repeated with a groan, rubbing my face with both hands. “Okay, shit. I’ll...find a way to fix this, Drakôn. Somehow. I promise.” Drakôn’s hiss sounded a bit like a laugh before it sounded pained and the Primordial Dragon’s head withdrew back into the depths of the cave. I waited a few moments, then cursed again – much quieter this time – and turned back to the cave entrance. “Okay. This is fine. I’ve just gotta...manually make a swamp. That’s a feasible thing, right?”
The baby dragon slow-blinked at me.
I sighed. “If I had the family spark, I could just go to where Lily is and she could tell me what I need to do first.” But if I had the family spark, then Lily wouldn’t, and she’d just be in Actalia. She loved that port a lot. “I guess we’ll have to travel ourselves, eh? And you’re going to need a name...” I hummed softly and tried to think of the names I had heard from other dragons. Every dragon and hydra had an innate understanding of its name, an understanding that passed to the people who killed them. But she’d need something now. Finally, I snapped my fingers. “Kholkis.”
Kholkis wrapped herself more around my shoulders, sinking somewhere between my armor, my chiton, and my wings. I chuckled and pressed a hand to my breastplate. It transformed into another layer of cloth above my chiton and a heavy hooded cloak, enabling Kholkis to cuddle among the layers and make herself more comfortable. “Alright then, we’ll just head west, pick an Omenpath, and go from there.”
I had mixed feelings about traveling without the family spark.
On one hand, Thunder Junction was lovely. I had learned enough from the Abzan Houses to turn sand in my favor. Unlawful or extra-lawful folks both gave me a wide berth after I used just one wing to send a would-be attacker flying the length of a stadion.
On the other hand, the plane that Kholkis and I wound up on was the Grixis part of Alara, and I was sick to death of...well, the death. I had located some wonderful swamps to examine thanks to directions from some of the locals that didn’t attempt to attack myself and Kholkis on sight. The main one that we were currently at was apparently called the Dregscape. Everyone I spoke to about it called it bleak and disgusting.
And while it was that at a glance, it was also the most thriving ecosystem I had seen on this shard. Even without the greenery I expected thanks to growing older on Thyrsus and despite the fact that two-thirds to three-quarters of all “life” was rather a type of unlife, there was still a lot of diversity in the creatures I found or watched from a distance. Bats, large beasts called dreg reavers, vultures, large cats, particularly agitated dragons that looked more like lizards than the serpentine ones of Thyrsus, elementals that were so visibly furious that I gave them a wider berth than was technically necessary, some miscellaneous creatures that the locals I spoke to just called horrors, insects such as banewasps, barely-comprehendable leviathans in the distance, an abundance of rats, and plenty of worms made up the living animal-to-undead animal population. These were occasionally accompanied by undead peoples in various forms – zombie, skeleton, vampire – or living human necromancers or ogres. There were also other animals, but most of them were just undead and seemed to have wandered in from another shard.
I was taking notes on the animals in the swamp in a journal, trying to figure out how to determine the salinity of the brackish water, and internally arguing with a strawman version of Lily about taking plants and introducing them to Thyrsus (an argument which I was losing), when I realized with a start that I truly and genuinely had no idea what the hell I was doing. I was a war goddess, the first one proper in Thyrsus, made because of a gap in the pantheon that my mother recognized and wanted fixed. I was not the goddess of knowledge and information. I didn’t have the existing skills necessary for this. My notes were simplistic, just going over what animals I recognized, but just dragging animals to another plane wouldn’t actually turn a forest into a swamp. I could take all the notes I wanted, but would that even help?
Then Kholkis shifted on my shoulder to nuzzle more underneath my cloak. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was doing all of this for her and for Drakôn. I would figure out whatever I needed to learn. This would just take more time and a lot more research than I thought. It wasn’t like a battlefield. I couldn’t just take a look at the soldiers under my command and the size and injury state of one opponent.
“Okay. New and updated plan.” I summoned my communicator. “We’re going to ask some other folks for suggestions and for other swamps to come look at. And I can message Lily and get her thoughts and recommendations. How’s that sound?”
Kholkis responded by yawning, exposing her fangs. Despite us standing in a swamp, she hadn’t grown an inch. That had swiftly killed off the idea I had that we could just bring baby dragons to another plane to let them grow. In order for her to grow as quickly as she was supposed to, in order to heal Drakôn, in order to have more dragons and restore the balance, we needed to figure out how to introduce swamps back to Thyrsus without Drakôn.
And fast. I was a highly-required goddess back home. If there were too many hydras and no dragons to take them out for territory, it fell solely to the mortal militias that I trained and fought alongside. The militias were well-trained and capable, but they were mortal. They faced more danger than I did.
My hand lowered to my lower abdomen. I still remembered the feeling of a Phyrexian made of a dark metal and flames tearing into my body. I still remembered my ichor on the blades at the end of its arms. I still remembered fighting regardless of what I lost or how injured I had been. I was a goddess. I could not die. Compleation did not strike us. So I had been the vanguard.
I still found myself thinking about the invasion. Analyzing every move. Analyzing our response. Analyzing how it could have been better. Sometimes those thoughts reared their heads during a fight and froze my muscles. Lily had mentioned a very long name for what I dealt with. I just called it soldier’s shock. I had seen it in some of the militia members I had trained. But it was only after the invasion that I truly understood what it was like.
I moved my hand away from my stomach and gave Kholkis some more scratches instead. “Look at my mind wandering like that,” I said softly, chiding myself rather than the baby dragon. “Let’s focus on sending messages and taking notes, yeah? That way you can grow up big and strong.”
Kholkis let out a chitter-like hiss and settled down for more scratches. I frowned slightly. It had not escaped my notice that Kholkis growing up meant that she would become a threat for the mortals. A threat that I might be called upon to help put down. This had never bothered me before. It was my duty to protect the mortals, and when a hydra or dragon threatened them, I would respond. But I was getting more and more attached to Kholkis as we traveled together.
“Focus, Soteira,” I quietly chided myself.
I summoned several jars from my magic. Into two jars went some of the brackish water. Into two went soil samples, one from next to the water and one from a little further away. And into the final two went various twigs and leaves so I could get a better look at what they were. Then I flared out my four wings and took to the air. I headed back towards the Thunder Junction Omenpath.
There was so much that I needed to do and ask. And I had so little time. But I could at least travel on short expeditions to other planes using the Omenpaths, then return home to help guard and protect the mortals. I just needed to chip away at all of this bit by bit, like the cyclopes did to stone.
Loke knew this was dumb. quite possibly the stupidest thing ever. the Dimir were not known for forgiveness. But He needed the money. and that strange person with strange accent had promised him, if he managed to return with even one file from the Dimir Archives, the riches received would be uncountable. his loan with the Syndicate was deep, and he knew he would never make enough as a guildless. But this could help
Tock
Loke knew this was dumb. quite possibly the stupidest thing ever. The Dimir were... the Dimir. He couldn't quite remember much about them. But he knew he had to get a file. the strange person promised enough money to pay out his loan to the Orzhov. And he needed that.
Tick
Loke knew this was dumb. quite possibly the stupidest thing ever. The Dimir... exsited. and the strange person had told him... oh. he couldn't remember. but he knew it had to with his loan to... shit. who did he owe money to?
Tock
Loke knew this was dumb. probably. he had met someone, and they wanted something, and now he was in a... library? why. why was he in here? he was scared. he wanted to go home. Somewhere there was a clock, and it was loud.
Tick
Loke didn't know anything. Why he was here. Where here was. What his own face looked like. What that sound was. what was happening? he was scared
Tock
his name. what was his name? he couldn't remember. he couldn't remember anything. help. please someone help I don't know-
Tick
another.... moving thing? with, uh, the thing that makes sounds. it was humming, putting thing things into little boxes and moving the boxes somewhere else. it had a long, dark thing starting where he had his two mover things. covered in little things. the thin strands of stuff on it's head began red but ended in black. looked messy. he started forward. it could help him
Tock
Chima had been tracking the intruder. He was guildless, and in debt. In other words, send a courier to the Orzhov and no one would miss him. She had been picking out his memories, filing them away in case they turned out to be useful. Loke, that was his name. He was shambling towards her now, like he couldn't remember how to walk properly. Which, of course, he couldn't. It would be too distracting for him to run. Chima slithered towards him, and drew her knife.
hima had started to go out again. Hebi wasn't getting any better, and watching her wasn't going to change that. She needed a social life again. So she had slithered out the disguised entrances to her house, into the Undercity.
And she saw them.
An Elf. Wearing the Golgari’s insectoid crest on their chest
Chima wasn't one to judge some based on their guild. But at some point, the Golgari had crossed a line. First they had planned to overthrow the other guilds before the First Invasion. Then they killed Isperia. Finally, they had essentially allowed the Phyrexians to take control of their guild and use them as an invading force. And yet they continued. Many had shunned them, but they had been shunned since their inception as a Guild.
If you looked deep into them, almost every single major Ravnican event had their hands all over it. Even if they were exploited and controlled, they made no attempts to improve. For a guild focused on Death and Rebirth, they sure seemed stagnant
Accidents happen in the Undercity. A soratami can meet the wrong gorgon. A Simic biologist fall into the wrong plant. And an elf can slip on a puddle and break their neck. These things just happened.
Chima felt a little better returning to the apartment.
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