Fez Xa'ktiz knew no fear as he stepped through the omenpath, even though it was the first time he would be in a world not his own. He was the First Vanguard of the Choir within the Seven Hundred and Forty Eighth Expedition Force of the Alabaster Host and through his lips the song of the Mother of Machines would be spread, her presence was always with — within — him.
Fear was a weakness of the incompleat, of those not yet blessed by the light of Phyrexia, not yet held in the sweet embrace of the Mother of Machines, not yet baptized in ichor. It was the inevitable result of imperfection and lack of unity, something that would soon be eradicated through their work, where the entire multiverse would find purpose and belonging.
Fez Xa'ktiz was not born to feel fear, he was born to sing. He was not born to be alone, he forever heard the whispers of the Mother of Machines, the guiding force of his own voice.
"In the Argent Etchings we each learn our appointed duties and so we understand our purpose" he heard the Mother whisper within him, and so it was with delight that he fully crossed the boundary into a nameless world.
As the rest of the Expedition Force stepped through the omenpath behind him — alongside a number of members of the Chrome Host — he did a first survey of the site of their arrival. Although the Machine Orthodoxy held knowledge of countless worlds, eagerly gathered in preparation of the events now unfolding, there were countless more about which they had known little to nothing. He had been trusted with charting one such world, hence the presence of the Chrome Host, and so any insight would be beneficial.
The most noticeable aspect was the material of the walls that surrounded him — organic, disgusting wood — and then the realization that they had, indeed, arrived in a room. A large hall, rectangular in shape, its dark and stained walls covered by peeling and roting paper and littered with assorted objects that might have long ago implied a living presence. At the each of the most distant ends of the hall, flimsy doors hid the rest of the world from sight.
Curious... although the Mother of Machines guaranteed that their feet would find stable ground to cross on arrival, he thought it unlikely for said ground to be in a building, much less an abandoned one.
His duty was not to ask questions, however, unlike the members of the Chrome Host that had immediately set upon their given task of setting up observation devices, scanners and other such contraptions. Typical of apostates who saw observation of their surroundings as a better path to perfection than the much more enlightened learning through the Argent Etchings themselves.
"In the Argent Etchings we see the world as it should be, and so they light the path towards perfection" whispered the voice of the Mother of Machines again as he turned towards his fellows in the Alabaster Host. Unlike their Gitaxian counterparts, they had organized themselves single file, silent and waiting for orders. Sixteen divisions of sixteen soldiers, each led by another Vanguard of the Choir, the perfect ordination for the forces of Phyrexia.
Fez Xa'ktiz opened his mouth and let ring the song to which he had been entrusted, its metallic shrieking and undulating depths shaking the walls around them at the same time it gave the soldiers purpose. As each member of the Choir echoed in delightfully rending harmony, they set out to do their work. The forces split in two and moved towards each door, followed by quickly assembled Gitaxian probes. As both doors opened into new halls, each splitting off into different directions, the Host split up further into smaller forces, until finally each division pressed on individually, mapping out the path that they took and noting all other paths they missed, which would likely be explored by the drones the Chrome Host was sending off.
Although not able to see through their eyes, the resonance of their singing allowed Fez Xa'ktiz a measure of understanding of the surroundings each division passed through, which let him see that whatever building had been unwittingly chosen as the landing spot of their invasion was still large enough that none of their forces had arrived at an outside. Odd, although not beyond the realm of possibility — perhaps this place was a crude and disgustingly organic facsimile of the Fair Basilica, an entire world brought within a greater structure — and something that would definitely be worth noting.
Of perhaps equal note was the first living being found within the plane: a moth, its gray fluttering wings carrying it through the doors and right by him. Perhaps it had sat in a hidden alcove, and the passing forces had awoken it? How serendipitous, then, that it had been drawn by the light of the omenpath right towards them.
Bringing forth a hand towards the insect, Fez Xa'ktiz was delighted to see it land upon his claw, its wings closing and antennae fluttering as they regarded each other, black eyes meeting perfectly polished ivory... This creature, insignificant as it might be, would be fitting first initiate for this world. A moth reaching for the light and finding its own perfection upon arrival.
Extending his tongue, he let it be cut by one of his sharp fangs, black ichor dripping through the wound. Leaning his head down, he let it drip directly onto the moth until its gray wings turned black. Surprisingly it had no reaction to such a treatment, even though he knew compleation was supposed to be — meant to be — a painful process.
"Weakness burrows deep in the flesh of the incompleat. It bites down and refuses to let go. Their first step towards perfection is to extricate it and bleed out its rot" taught the Mother of Machines, even though the vermin on his claw seemed to defy such clear teachings... Until the entire thing came undone, breaking apart like petals falling off a dead flower.
Perhaps... Perhaps it was simply too weak. If someone — something — was wholly comprised of weakness, how could they remove it without ceasing to exist entirely? Yes, that made sense. To react in pain, to shake and twist and cry, one would need parts of themselves to remain, the parts that weren't corrupted by weakness. The insect likely had nothing to offer and so could not even muster a reaction.
He put the moth out of his mind, focusing on more important matters: one division had finally met living beings to oppose its passage. Not insignificant vermin, but actual fighters charging directly at them.
The walls rumbled and shook as Fez Xa'ktiz increased the volume of his song, the lessons and tactics etched in his mind echoing towards the legions of soldiers now finally seeing battle. Like the beasts of the Hunter Maze, warriors seemed to come out of the woodwork, their rusty and jagged weapons doing little and nothing against perfect phyrexian soldiers-
No, that wasn't right... The walls, they had not shaken due to his song, had they? Or had they? He didn't understand why it mattered, but he would swear that they shook first, then he had intensified his singing...
"The enem- even some of our al- see meri- ception- crush- overwhel-" murmured... The Mother of Machines? Why could he not hear her clearly?
He sang louder still, certain his voice would reach all members of their force — be it Alabaster or Chrome — and through the omenpath itself to the Mother of Machines. In the echo of his song, he would find stable ground-
His next step — had it been a step forward, towards his soldiers, or backwards, towards the omenpath? — found nothing but empty air, the wood underneath him rotting and opening into an abyss.
He quickly spread his wings, trying to stabilize and go back to where he had been even as he was spun around by gravity and air resistance, until his body met the ground with a loud crack and roaring pain and his consciousness left him.
When he woke up, one of his wings broken after taking most of the force of his fall, he did not know how long he had laid there. It could not have been long, certainly, for the Chrome Host would have certainly sent a drone to retrieve him given enough time — shameful as it might have been — and yet he laid alone, the silence of the room cut only by a dripping sound.
(Why was he alone? Why could he not hear the voice of the Mother of Machines)
He looked around, taking stock of the room and how its smooth white walls were almost as beautiful as those of the Fair Basilica, except instead of being made of ivory they seemed covered by... Wax?
His gaze finally fell upon his remaining wing. Rather than being bent out of shape like its counterpart, the limb has been spread behind and to the side of him, and was covered in the same material that covered the rest of the room, already in the process of solidifying. Another drip, directly onto it, served as confirmation.
To fly back with a single wing would prove a challenge, but with two wings damaged it would be impossible. Furthermore, if he was to be forced to drag himself up the hole he had fallen through, the weight of the wax would simply make things harder. Without hesitation, he pushed his claws under the material, right where feathers met wax: Even if some of it had dried already, the ichor that would pour through the wounds would close them quickly, he was certain-
That certainty lasted only until the pain — beyond what he had ever felt, ever knew could be felt — spread from his wing as he pulled the wax off. This- this wasn't normal. He-
The liquid that poured out of his wounds, where wax had pulled feathers and skin and bones alongside it, was not ichor.
It was red... Why was it red?
"What foolish prey, that wanders into an open maw thinking themselves the predators" whispered the Mother- no, this was not her voice. These were not her words.
The walls surrounding him rumbled once again, so hard it seemed the entire world was shaking, before stopping. Then again, before stopping, repeating, stopping, and on and on and on.
As Fez Xa'ktiz laid alone, his wounds bleeding a liquid that should not be there, he knew that the rumbling was certainly the consequences of battle: the Mother of Machines must have heard his last cries and sent forth more soldiers to tame this accursed world.
And yet a small part of him couldn't help but fear that the rumbling felt like a delighted and cruel laughter.
OH YEAH i never posted what my new chrome host phyrexian guy looks like here, i made him in heroforge to tide me over before i can commission proper art
his name is nixthol he LOVES getting surgery and being experimented on and he's mr. jin-gitaxias' favorite lab rat (dispassionate) after getting grabbed from kamigawa
I’ve been working on a new MTG: Commander deck recently (a blink build of [[Vishgraz, the Doomhive]]) and it’s had me thinking a lot about my OC Yipth. Because I am so normal about this OC. So I decided to possibly give them a color palette, design, and lore revamp! This may or may not be final, but I do quite like it.
decided to finally jot down my half baked phyrexian oc concepts and also give them names (which I made basically by just ramming random phyrexian phonemes together, seeing what syllables I liked, and then trying to anglicize them by vague analogy to the praetor names and to the correspondence of φyrx-phyrexian itself)
Iphiqua (^’yφq.)
Formerly a priest of the Machine Orthodoxy, the sort who could recite the entire Argent Etchings from memory. Became disillusioned with the Orthodoxy for [reasons to be decided later, it’s not like there aren’t options] and has defected, and is now the sort of jaded ex-religious type who never misses an opportunity to make a jab at their former faith (frequently quoting the Etchings right before flagrantly violating the quoted verse, that sort of thing). Has deep-seated self-hatred because of having once been a tool of Norn’s, but is simultaneously in deep denial of this.
Chovex Parsk (^čovx-paʁsk.)
Dissident Gitaxian, who has come to emphasize the whole “anyone can become anything they want to be” bit of blue’s ethos – still wanting everything to progress in the process of perfection, but also believing that perfection itself is fundamentally subjective, and thus opposed to involuntary compleation purely for monoblue reasons (rather than the red-based empathetic reasons that Urabrask and his sort have for their own distastes for such).
