seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Netherlands
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from United Arab Emirates
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Netherlands
seen from Poland
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from United States
Durge x Wyll has some untapped potenial, I think they would both be in the "I can fix him" camp but just in different directions. Also It would be funny if Durge started projecting his thoughts about Bhaal onto Wyll and Ulder (This does not end well).
Passenger
(13)
She woke in motion.
Not from sleep—there was no beginning. Just the sudden, jarring realization that she was already moving.Her feet struck the floor in smooth, predatory strides. Her hands were slick. Warm. She tried to stop. To hesitate. Anything.But she wasn’t in control.
She was a passenger. Watching herself through her own eyes.
There was a blade in her hand. Not hers. It felt older. Heavier. Weighted like something that remembered war. Its hilt was damp, and when her fingers flexed around it—not her fingers—she felt the blood tacky between skin and steel.
Her heartbeat didn’t feel like hers either. Too slow. Too calm.And then she saw it.
Blood. Everywhere.
It streaked her arms, her chest, the creases of her knuckles. It was on her boots, under her nails, splattered up her throat like art made from violence.
She tried to speak—Stop. No. Please.
Her mouth didn’t move.
Instead, it smiled.
And a voice—her voice, but not—purred through her lips, soft and sweet like rot wrapped in silk.“See what happens when you let me drive?”
Her head tilted.
Not her choice. The movement was deliberate. Curious.A figure lay crumpled against the wall. Chest fluttering. Barely. Their eyes were wide and wet and locked on her. Kat knew that look.
Terror. Recognition.
She didn’t remember the moment that put them there.But her body moved toward them now. Slow. Measured. Ritualistic.
The blade lifted.
She felt it slide in under the jaw—felt the vibration of cartilage, the gush of heat, the final shudder. Her hands stayed steady. Too steady.
Inside, she was screaming.
Thrashing against the walls of herself.
Nothing changed.
The voice inside her purred with pleasure. Sated. And then came the ritual. Her knees hit the ground, not from weakness—from choreography. Her fingers worked symbols into blood like they’d done it a thousand times. A prayer written in gore. Her mouth spoke in a language she didn’t know, but her tongue moved like she should.
Shadows curled in close.
Not comforting. Not safe. They rippled like something alive. Like they were waiting to be fed. The body disappeared into the dark.
And Kat?
She just watched. Eyes open. Breath shaking. Nails digging into palms she couldn’t command.
Tears slid down her cheeks.
The voice didn’t wipe them away.
It smiled.
“You let me in,” it said. “You wear my teeth when you smile. You gave yourself in pieces. I only stitched them into something useful.”
She tried again to move. To scream.
Nothing. Just her own body rising.
Just that damn smile still etched across her lips.
And in that moment, Kat realized the truth—
She hadn’t lost time.
She’d been used in it.
And there was no way to fight back.
Not yet.
Only to watch.
As the voice called her by name.
As her hands found the next weapon.
As her feet carried her forward.
Obedient.
Empty.
Perfect.
The Silent Town Shaina Tranquilino September 14, 2024
The traveler came upon the town at dusk, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep orange and purple. He had been on the road for days, weary from his journey and looking for a place to rest. The town, nestled between two hills and surrounded by a forest, seemed like the perfect refuge. A thin mist clung to the cobblestone streets, softening the edges of the world, and the houses were old but well-kept, their windows dark and empty.
He wandered into the heart of the town, expecting the usual hum of activity—a shopkeeper sweeping the sidewalk, children laughing, the murmur of conversation. Instead, the town was silent.
The traveler frowned, feeling an unsettling stillness in the air. He saw people—dozens of them—standing in front of their homes or sitting on porches. They watched him with blank, almost expectant expressions, but no one greeted him. No one spoke. There were no footsteps, no whispers, not even the rustle of fabric as they moved. It was as if the town held its breath.
He approached an old woman sitting on a bench, her eyes fixed on him. "Excuse me," he said. "Can you tell me where I might find an inn?"
The woman only stared, her lips pressed into a tight line. The traveler waited, expecting her to speak, but she remained silent. He glanced around, noticing the other townsfolk had turned their heads toward him, all with the same vacant, unmoving expressions. A chill ran down his spine.
Something was wrong.
"Is there an inn?" he asked again, louder this time, hoping someone—anyone—would respond. But the silence was absolute.
His footsteps echoed unnaturally loud as he made his way deeper into the town. He spotted a faded sign swinging gently in the breeze that read, The Weary Traveler. Relieved, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The inn's common room was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth barely flickering. A tall man stood behind the counter, his face gaunt, his eyes sunken but alert. The traveler approached.
"I need a room for the night," he said, his voice tentative now.
The innkeeper didn’t speak, merely nodded and handed him a key, his hands trembling slightly. The traveler accepted it, watching the man closely. There was a strange sadness in his eyes, a weariness that seemed deeper than exhaustion.
"What is wrong with this town?" the traveler asked. "Why won't anyone speak?"
The innkeeper flinched, his face paling. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, but he quickly shut it, glancing nervously around the room. Without another word, he turned away, retreating into a back room.
The traveler felt a creeping unease. He climbed the stairs to his room, the silence thick around him. When he reached his door, he heard something—a faint whisper, barely audible, coming from behind him. He turned, but the hallway was empty. The sound wasn’t quite human. It was as though the air itself was whispering.
Inside the room, he locked the door and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to shake the growing sense of dread. There had to be an explanation. Perhaps a religious vow or a tradition he didn’t understand.
As he lay in the dark, sleep came slowly, interrupted by uneasy dreams of shadowy figures watching him with hollow eyes, their mouths open in silent screams.
The next morning, the traveler set out to find answers. He wandered through the quiet streets, the townspeople still watching him in silence. He tried to speak to several of them—children, shopkeepers, even a priest standing outside a small chapel—but none of them made a sound.
Finally, he found himself in front of the town’s only church, an old stone building with a tall, weathered bell tower. Something about it drew him in. He pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside.
The interior was dim, the only light coming from a few flickering candles. At the far end of the room, a single figure knelt before the altar—an elderly man dressed in a long, tattered robe. He didn’t turn as the traveler approached.
"Are you the priest?" the traveler asked, his voice echoing in the vast space. "Do you know why no one here will speak?"
The man didn’t answer, but he rose slowly to his feet. His movements were stiff, as though he hadn’t moved in years. He turned, revealing a face lined with age and sorrow. His eyes, like the innkeeper’s, held a deep sadness.
"They cannot speak," the priest said at last, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. "Not anymore."
The traveler’s heart quickened. "Why?"
The priest’s gaze drifted to the altar, where an ancient, worn book lay open. "A long time ago, this town made a pact. A bargain with something... not of this world. The harvests had failed. The children were sick. People were desperate. A creature came to them in the night, offering salvation."
The traveler felt a cold knot form in his stomach. "What did it ask in return?"
The priest’s voice trembled. "Their voices. Their words. The people would never speak again, but in exchange, the town would prosper. The crops grew rich, the sickness vanished, and the town thrived."
"But at what cost?" the traveler asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"The creature feeds on their silence. It lingers in the shadows, watching, waiting. If anyone breaks the silence—if they utter even a single word—the creature returns. It takes more than just their voice."
The traveler stepped back, horror dawning in his mind. "How do you speak, then?"
"I am the last who remembers," the priest said, his voice fading. "But my time is ending. Soon, I will be silent too."
The traveler turned to leave, but something stopped him. From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow shift in the far corner of the room. It was darker than the rest of the room, a shape that didn’t belong, and as he looked at it, the air around him seemed to thicken.
The priest's voice was barely a whisper now. "You must leave. Before it knows you’ve heard."
But it was too late.
The shadow moved, stretching toward him with unnatural speed. The traveler ran, his heart pounding, the silent screams of the town echoing in his mind. He fled the church, down the cobblestone streets, and into the woods, not daring to look back.
Behind him, the town remained still and silent. Forever cursed, forever watched, bound to their pact with the darkness that thrived in their silence.
Darkpact
Artist: Quinton Hoover
Rejected Flavor Text:
“My, that’s a nice Mox Sapphire you’ve got in the ante zone, there. Would be a shame if something were to happen to it…”
Darkpact
Here we have our second ante card but our first of something else we’ll see a lot of. Yes this is our first card from Iconic MTG artist Quinton Hoover.
Original art by Quinton Hoover:
One of the most consistently noticeable things about Quinton Hoover’s art to me is his clear and defined line work paired with colors that really stand out. While some early MTG art seems like it’s trying to emulate medieval art or Dungeons and Dragons art of the era, this seems more like it belongs in a comic book. A prime example of this is the brazier on the right side of the piece, in particular the thick black lines that form the flames.
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