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The Maze of the Guilds



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Wed Dec 23, 2015 5:13 am
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SpiritedWolfe says...



Avali Smythe | Rakdos Cult


Monsters danced in the shadows of the raging fire. As the flames flickered and cracked, their shapes shifted and moved in the forest trees, but stayed a respectful distance from the real monsters that gathered around the fire. They were demons that roared of laughter and rolled in the dusty patches of the clearing. After a long day of breaking their backs hauling sheets of metal and trunks of trees, now was a time for the tension to ebb away from their muscles, from their minds.

The giant, Avali, was among them.

However, he stayed behind the rest, resting on the border between the night and the light their fire provided. The shadows tugged at his back and called for him to join them, melting into his massive jet black wings that hugged his shoulders when he folded them over. He wondered if it would be easier to join them.

There was not much struggle in the choice before the possibility was wiped from his mind. In the end, he continued to sit with his legs tucked into his chest, shielded from the biting cold by his leather wings. It was better this way, sticking around but hanging back -- staying invisible.

Raising his head ever so slightly, he cast the gaze of his demonic, red eyes to the fire and the rest of his pack gathered around it. Beer bottles were scattered all around their feet, emptied he assumed as the demons erupted into laughter from just an ember straying from the fire. When one dared to stand, their legs would wobble and sway, their balance numbed by the alcohol.

Avali stared in disgust at the bottle beside his tail. The tip of it flickered dangerously close to the glass as the agitation pulsed through him. His imagination flared, listening to the crack of the bottle as his tail barreled into it, then watching to brown liquid spill out onto the ground. Surely it would be satisfying. Then there was the afterthought of the poison leaking into the plants around his feet.

His attention once again turned to the other monsters around the fire, watching a reptilian monster shove a much smaller lynx demon. She shrieked a string of playful curses and bared her fangs at him. In the background, other demons chanted a slur of words that hardly resembled a demand for a tussle, a fight, a brawl. But the meaning was clear enough.

With an expected suddenness, the lynx leapt onto her aggressor and sunk her teeth in the crevices between his scales. He let out a raspy shriek that slid from his tongue into the air, the spectators drinking in the sound to add to their wall of cheers. The slight skirmish turned to a brawl when the reptile's bulky claws sunk into his opponent's soft flesh and she yowled, forced to release him.

They broke apart, crushing and spilling the bottles that circled the fire. Their dark liquid ran under their feet and paws, so streams making it as far as the fire. The flames absorbed the alcohol and flared up behind them, creating a wave of red and orange intermingling. Only a second of mutual hesitation passed between their dulled minds before the reptile flung himself at his challenger.

Avali blinked away the extra light flooding his eyes, turning his head away from the scene. His tail twitched again and he let out a long sigh. As if responding to him, the trees swayed and their leaves rustled from an oncoming burst of wind.

He didn't much understand his companion's fascination with fighting for worth, fighting for fun, fighting. In general. His arms ached, his legs throbbed, his mind burned with the memories. Avali fought too. He knew how; it was the only "how" he knew, but he did not fight without reason. Not like the shameless battle that unfolded in front of him, prodded on for the entertainment of those around, for the loss of the warriors.

Because surely one would not walk away alive. That was the law of these demons.

Before his gaze wandered back to the noises of the gathered monsters (cheers, screams, and roars that created a pit in his stomach), another wave of wind threw itself against Avali's shield of his wings. Still, the bitter cold managed to slip in and prick at his bare skin, sinking its teeth into his flesh until it went numb.

The rest of his body jerked into action, with his tail thumping against the ground and knocking over the bottle beside it. His wings rose from their resting position over his shoulder enough to knock away the branches beside him. Their uplifting force pulled his legs under him, and his large hoof smashed the bottle with a splintering crack. The shards of glass clinked against his the metal of his horse shoes.

The sets of horns on his head pushed aside any branches that strayed from the safety of the forest and into the clearing, especially as he moved his head up to gaze at the clearing. At last, he noticed the commotion had entirely stopped.

Even the fire, which had poured out its life in light mere seconds before, was entirely extinguished. The two brawlers no longer embraced one another, instead watching Avali. As all the others did. Or perhaps they watched the movement in front of Avali.

His eyes flickered downward, their deep red gaze intensifying. His muscles tensed and it took most of his will power for his hands to not fly to his blade.

The blade would have done no good, he soon realized – most night-gaunts didn’t appreciate the metal passing through the mass-less shape of their bodies. The night-gaunt that stood before him was not even half his size, though it floated at the level of his eyes, one arm of claws out stretched with a note between them that flopped in the breeze.

Avali took it without hesitation, turning the yellow paper up so that the moon would light up the words. He was suddenly so absorbed in gathering all the information from the sheet that he could that he hardly notice the ghost vanish, nor the fire light up and the conversations resume between the other demons.

By the time he finished making out the letters of his name and struggling through the cursive print of the paper, he felt oddly… numb. In fact, there was not much feeling at all.

Should he have felt dread? Or perhaps honor or flattery for being chosen for such a task? Whatever it was, he dropped the paper onto the ground as it burst into flames in his hands. All he knew for sure was that he was going into the Maze.
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Wed Dec 30, 2015 11:21 pm
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Persistence says...



Daryon Pippalook | Selesnya Conclave


"What kind of a name even is Daryon?" one of the group Daryon was in spoke. He was a tall boy, maybe a year older than Daryon was, with long hair falling on his dark cape. On his ear shone a silver earring with a yellow diamond - clearly this boy was privileged. "Someone must have really hated you to have named you that. Or maybe they were just really stupid. Daryon... no man should be named that."

"He's not a man," another boy uttered, equally wealthy as his long-haired friend. "Real men drink Sernick, right Jock?" he said as he raised the bottom of his bottle to point upward, and chugged down the clear liquid like it was water.

"If he's not a man, then what is he?" a girl asked. She was the fourth and final member of their group.

"A thing," Jock, the long-haired boy answered. "A thing to stay away from."

"If we should stay away from him," the girl spoke again, "then why don't we just go someplace else?"

"What's the point? He'll reek just as bad from over there."

"Yeah, he'll reek," the short-haired boy repeated. "He'll reek of... frozen feet with... jellyfish wiggling between the toes."

"Grunt," the other boy said. "You're stupid, but at least you're better than Daryon. Say, Daryon, why haven you killed yourself yet?"

"Maybe he wants to waste our air a while longer," Grunt snickered.

"Oh, leave him alone, you two!" the girl said. "Isn't being him bad enough?"

"Come on, Cheers," Jock said. "We're just playing around. A little tough love, for what he did. That's right, Daryon. We all know what you've done. We all know how big of a coward you really are."

"And what do you know about bravery?" Cheers grabbed the bottle from Grunt and started to water her throat with Sernick.

"What do I..?" Jock leaned forward. "What do I know about bravery? I'll show you what I know..." He grabbed the bottle from her hands, spilling a few drops on her leather jacket. He picked up a rock from the dirt they were sitting in, and broke off the neck of the bottle, creating a large shard-rimmed glass. He raised it to his mouth, and started drinking without regard for the cuts and lacerations the glass made in his face. "Is that brave enough for you!?" he yelled before he threw what was left of the drink towards Daryon. The Sernick spilled all over the winged boy, and what was left of the bottle fell to the ground, the softness of the dirt preventing it from being shattered.

"Wow, Jock," Grunt exclaimed. "You're the coolest guy in the world."

Jock approached Daryon, and unleashed a furious burp straight in his wincing face. Daryon did not move in the slightest as Jock picked up what was left of the bottle. "Come on, guys. Prolongued exposure to losers might be contagious."

The three got up and brushed off the dust from their expensive clothes. Jock leading the way, they slowly drifted out of Daryon's sight.

"Trostani wants to see you." a soft voice came from behind the Avian. He turned and saw a girl, about fifteen years of age, standing before him, giving him a gaze of indifference. "What's that smell?" She scowled. "Are you drunk!? And what happened to your..? You know what? None of my business. Just go and see Trostani as soon as possible."

***

He did not know how he got there. One minute he was talking to her, and the next, he was standing in front of Trostani, the Voice of the Dryads. It was as if the entire memory of what happened in between had faded away, beyond any chance of recovery. He did not even know what they had been talking about. He just nodded to whatever Trostani said to him.

"You see," she continued to speak, "the Maze is nothing but a deathtrap. Nobody from Selesnya has ever come out alive. So, we can safely assume that whoever goes in, will also die. And there are good people here, Daryon. Good Selesnyans. I don't want to send any of them. You, on the other hand... let's face it: you're no good to anyone. The best thing you can do right now is enter the Maze and save the life of a good person who would otherwise have gone. Do this, boy, and I will make sure that you are remembered for something good. Yeah, of course you can refuse, but if you do, I will let everyone know exactly what you did. So, it's either a life of being shunned and hated, or a death of being worshipped and admired. What's it gonna be, kid? Shame, or atonement?"

"Atonement," he uttered squeamishly.

It had been a long time since he was last aware of his surroundings. But for some reason, he caught a glimpse of the pond they were standing in, water soaking his boots and pants. He was holding a bottle with a broken neck in his hand, a clear liquid leaking into the water one drop after the other. He looked at his reflection in the water. His face was bleeding from several cuts around his mouth. The world grew tunnel-dark once again, but he was sobering up.
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BrumalHunter says...



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Lysander Simic | Simic Combine | Zameck


It was one of those days again… Lysander hated his life in general, for every day he continued to roam the streets of Zameck (or the corridors of Institution Hall, if he didn’t care enough to venture outside) was another day of torment and misery. He’d often wondered why he didn’t just end everything to spite his “mother” and be free of the eternal mockery, but there was some dogged perseverance in him that refused to give up hope. On that day in particular, though, it was a bloody nuisance.

Only three hours had passed since he had woken at dawn, yet he had already been insulted, ridiculed, or taunted fourteen times. On a lucky day, he would have to endure three, and on average, it was eight to ten a day – but if whatever divinity in charge of destiny was feeling particularly twisted, he had to suffer as many as the people liked. Well, he was in no mood for it.

“If one more person makes a snide comment about me,” he muttered sullenly, stalking away in no particular direction, “I’m going to knock their legs out from underneath them, bash their head against a wall, and dro–”

“Well, if it isn’t the local tourist attraction, lads! Don’t be fooled by his bipedalism – he’s as bestial as any mascot, which is why he doesn’t wear any clothes.”

Lysander spun around to his right, his fists already clenched. The uncouth youth who had spoken was a fair-skinned, fair-haired human boy with his arms crossed in front of his narrow chest. To his left was a burly centaur, presumably the muscle of the trio, and to his right, an elf leaned against a wall, a flask in his right hand. None were less than a year younger than him, but all were snickering.

“Oh, he has a nasty temper on him, but if you toss him a clump of mud and don’t wave any purple flags in front of him, he’ll be as content as a dog with a bone!” More laughter ensued.

Lysander gave them a fake smile in return. “That’s really funny. You know, I have a joke too: ‘What did the dragon say to the three idiots that bullied him?’”

The louts jeered at him and elbowed each other, whispering remarks with their hands in front of their mouths. The ringleader jutted his chin forward. “I don’t know, since I don’t speak ‘freak’.”

Flapping his wings once during the motion to generate added momentum, Lysander leapt forwards. He dove low, so he collided with the centaur, sending the brute crashing forwards. Within the twinkling of an eye, he was back on his feet, a goon’s throat in each hand. The elf he slammed against the wall, knocking him out immediately, and lifted the flask from his limp fingers, but the human… Lysander sneered at him before taking to the air.

“Do you still want to know the punch line?” he asked, once he was several metres in the air. He pulled the flask’s stopper out with his teeth, spat it out, and took a swig. “Ah, ale; I’ve always liked the earthen taste of barley more than that of wheat.” He looked at the human, grimaced, and emptied the flask over his head, asking, “You like ale, don’t you?” Once the flask was empty, he dropped it.

“Don’t hurt me!” the boy shouted. Those nearby who had not already seen the incident and rushed closer did so upon hearing the panicked request.

“Well, if that’s what you wanted, you should have let me finish the joke first: ‘If anyone is stupid enough to pick a fight with a dragon, they deserve what’s coming to them.’”

The human began crying. “Please, just let me go!”

It was too much. Lysander couldn’t help but begin laughing. “Oh, now that was a really stupid thing to ask for,” he pointed out, shaking his head in disdain. “But if you insist…”

Had there not been a crowd down below – and more importantly, had the gathering not been calling him a monster and throwing various other insults at him – he would have dove downwards and caught the falling boy a metre above the ground. However, seeing as there was, he simply let the boy fall onto the crowd below. Nobody died, but more than just the three teenagers were injured.

“Lysander Simic!” a guard called, jogging closer. “The Vision of Progress wants to see you!”

The sick satisfaction that had been playing on the draconic hybrid’s face faded away. He sighed and looked up at the sky; it was infuriatingly clear and bright blue. He closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose, and made a decision.

“No, I think I’ll pass,” he called, looking down at the guard.

“Your opinion is noted, but you still have to go see her.” When Lysander defiantly remained bobbing up and down in the air, the guard added, “Nature reigns supreme, and its Progress waits for no-one!” the motto of the Combine.

Lysander put his hands on his head in a display of frustration. “Gah, fine!” he yelled, thrusting his arms back down.

Ceasing to flap his wings, he fell downwards, preparing for the impact. Once he landed, he glanced back at the angry crowd, some of the members staggering away, others shaking their fists at him. He only focused on the trio of teenagers, though.

“I have better things to do than ruin their dumb faces anyway.”

***


Institution Hall embodied everything the Simic Combine represented: the preservation of nature, the creation of life, and a twisted tendency to manipulate both. The elite scientists, researchers, breeders, and caretakers looked upon the walls with pride, for the Guild’s banner adorned every corner and hung from each archway. More impressive still, as gawking visitors from other Guilds would attest, was the contrast between the grey-blue of the walls, floors and ceilings and the vividly green, innumerable ferns, cycads and creepers that grew within its stony embrace. Coupled with the omnipresent mist that seeped from the masonry, it created an air of primordial existence, which many found alluring. Lysander was not inclined to share their opinions.

To him, it was a misleading spectacle; the atmosphere certainly resembled the ancient aura exuded by the Breeding Pools, but only the vigilant mind would notice the feral undertones, the ominous sense of another nearby, yet unseen presence. It mostly manifested as a suspicion, but every once in a while, the walls would ooze emerald moss from between its slits. The caretakers would then promptly clean away the bryophytic blood, feigning ignorance, but to those who saw it, the confirmation was unmistakeable.

One would expect that Lysander should have found Institution Hall more comforting than anyone else, but in truth, it revolted him. His very essence cringed at the dankness of the stones and the touch of the pallid moisture. He was a creature of sunlight and sought its warmth on his skin – it was the only reason he would brave the public’s scorn.

He wasted no time traversing the unnatural labyrinth of hallways that led to his mother’s private quarters. He’d have preferred simply to barge through the cypress doors, but some vestige of courtesy that still remained in him refused and forced him to knock instead.

“Lysander, is that you?”

“Prime Speaker Zegana,” he said upon entering, bowing mockingly low. “If you were hoping I had unlocked some new ability, I must disappoint you.”

“I don’t care about your trivial fights,” she said, waving her hand contemptuously. “We have more pressing matters to discuss. Sit down.”

Even though they were in her personal quarters, the Vision of “Progress” sat atop a throne on a raised dais. The room was tastefully furnished and inviting, unlike most of the capital building, and to ensure the furniture did not mould, the room was properly ventilated. To Zegana’s right, a door led to her bedroom, to her left, an archway led to her study, and in the far left corner opposite her was the door through which Lysander had entered. Against said wall stood a couch covered in green velvet, on which he inelegantly plopped down, resting his left arm on a silken, turquoise scatter cushion.

“Well then, what’s so important that you had to address me personally?” he asked brazenly.

The Prime Speaker sat with her right elbow perpendicular to the throne’s armrest, her hand covering her mouth in a manner that conveyed contemplation. She regarded him for a moment with calculating eyes before removing her hand and saying, “It’s been a long time since I last saw you, Lysander.”

He snorted. “That was your choice, not mine. Were I younger, I would have cared, but frankly, I don’t.”

Zegana pursed her lips. “If you truly didn’t care about my regard for you, you would have done something with your life by now, instead of moping from one sunrise to the next.”

“Your ‘regard’ for me?” He laughed derisively. “That ceased to exist when six-year-old me no longer interested you. Now the best I can hope for is mild interest, and the last such interest you displayed was a year ago, when I played dominoes with an entire city district. I once thought you cared about me, but I’ve grown up since. I’ve faced reality.”

She rose from her throne and approached the couch. Despite himself, Lysander’s eyes revealed a hint of fear of being physically rebuked, but his demeanour otherwise remained insolent. However, the end table to the right of the couch was her destination.

“If you actually believe that,” she said, opening the drawer, “then why do you still keep this–” she revealed a crystallised rose and closed the drawer, “–in your room?”

Lysander grabbed for the flower, but Zegana withdrew her hand too quickly for him to reach it. “You have no right!” he seethed.

“No right?” she responded, twirling the rose between her fingers. “You are called Lysander Simic because you and all of your supposed ‘possessions’ is the property of the Guild. Seventeen years should be more than enough for you to realise that even the very air you exhale belongs to me.” Leaning forward, she whispered, “You. Are. Mine.” Straightening again, she flicked the rose at Lysander, who snatched it out of the air, and alighted upon her throne once more. “Despite this, it seems I underestimated my capacity for compassion.”

Lysander tried not to show it, but he was curious – hopeful, even. Of course, he would never dare show this emotion openly, lest Zegana gouge open his scars and make them bleed anew. Instead, he waited for her to end the dramatic pause.

The Prime Speaker had been staring at no spot in particular, but she returned her eyes to Lysander. “Are you aware of the Implicit Dragon Maze’s recent awakening?”

He nodded. “The first time it woke was the reason Ravnica became united, right? Is it really a sentient maze?”

“Yes to both questions,” she answered. “It demands twenty-two Champions to enter it whenever the Guilds get out of hand.”

“There are only ten Guilds.”

“Yes, two are sent in from each, and two Champions the Maze selects itself.”

Lysander was starting to pick up on Zegana’s hints. “How many times has it woken before?”

She sighed. “Ravnica has only been a cosmopolitan city for about three millennia now, but the Maze has existed for far longer than that. Since the first awakening prompted this world’s urbanisation, there have been nine more. Little to nothing is known of the first seven, but of the two before this one, we do know that the Champions of the Izzet League and Azorius Senate, respectively, emerged victorious.”

“We’ve never had a Champion come out alive?”

“Regrettably, we have not.”

Lysander sighed. Not out of exhaustion, or fear, or disappointment, or resignation – he just sighed. “Since I’m Combine property, I suppose I don’t have a choice in the matter.” He looked the Prime Speaker full in the eyes. “But hey, at least you finally found a use for the sterile hybrid.”

He had expected her to scoff or make some other haughty gesture, but instead, she swallowed. “I never said this, but you have every right to be angry with me. I treated you like dirt–”

“No, no,” Lysander said, sitting upright, “I eat dirt. You treated me like less than that, and you allowed the rest of the Guild to do the same.” As his body rose from the couch, his voice rose too. “I could have done something with my life, but as everyone just loves pointing out, I am nothing but a possession to you. A toy. Well, guess what, mother?” He spat the word from his mouth as if it was what the public believed him to be. “If you don’t treat a possession with care, it breaks, and no matter how well you try to glue or tape it together, it remains broken. I have been broken since the day I emerged from that festering pool, but never once did you even try to fix me!”

Lysander panted, and for the first time in his life, Zegana was crying. The silent tears rolling down her cheeks disturbed him so much, it completely removed the wind from his sails.

“No, you don’t get to cry!” he yelled at her, trying to cling on to the receding anger. “The least you could have done was dispose of the trash properly, but I wasn’t worth even that!” Having spent most of his anger, he said softly, “I’ve been resisting the urge for eleven years, hoping I might someday be the person you gave this rose to–” he lifted the crystallised flower, looking it over, “–but I refuse to be a sacrificial lamb. If I die, it will be by my hands. I have been denied everything, but I will not be denied that.”

Zegana stood up and rushed forward. She took him by the shoulders, not as the Prime Speaker, not as the Vision of Progress, but as the one who had been responsible for his creation. He was surprised to find himself not pulling away.

“Only now, when I am so close to losing you, do I realise my mistakes. It is eleven years overdue, and probably eleven years too late, but there is still a chance. If you die in the Maze’s Trials, you will be remembered as one of the Guild’s greatest members, but I don’t want you to die. I want you to live. I want you to come back to me so that we may both receive a second chance – I at being a mother, and you at being a son. If you come out of that Maze alive, I shall ensure that everyone sees your true courage. I shall officially declare you to be my heir and leave the resources of the Simic Combine at your full disposal. I didn’t always look like this, and as I have evolved in the Breeding Pools, so too can you. Together, we can fix your flaws. Together, we can fix all of Ravnica’s flaws, for the other Guilds will be forced to obey our commands.” She went down on her knees. “Will you be the Guild’s Champion? Will you be my Champion?”

Lysander’s throat was drier than it had ever been. “You said there were two,” he croaked.

“Yes. The other one is a centaur, very popular among her soldiers. But she is nothing compared to you.” Zegana stood up once more, pleading with her eyes.

He embraced her.

“I’ll come back to you.”
But the Fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance: against such there is no law.
— Paul the Apostle

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Poopsie says...



Frost stood at the entrance of the Maze. Long pristine halls of marble and brass columns spread in a silent wave of unmatched beauty. Behind him stood a large Oak door engraved with symbols from a lost language. They swirled as if alive, they probably once were, that is until The Maze had come. Frost was ready, to say the least. For two weeks straight he'd been in the mazes under House Dimir. He'd been cut, burned, and poisoned. He'd faced legions of undead and exiled warriors and he'd killed them all. He was ready. He would not be the one to die in this godforsaken maze. This was what he did, he survived. Ever since he'd been old enough to go on missions with his father he'd been surviving. This was no exception, he would survive this and he would emerge victorious.

Frost stopped at the gate. It was carved with inhuman precision, each bar of black metal arced and curved in beautiful patterns. Frost was about to climb over it when he heard the voice,

''Frost Lorelyn.''

The room seemed to change before Frost. It purred with life, like the insides of some monstrous being. For the first time in a long time, Frost felt something. Awe.

''What are you?''

The Maze echoed with cold laughter.

''I am simply the Maze, little one. To get through me, you must complete my trials.''

''I will.''

The Maze was silent at that. Frost had recovered from his awe, he was ready. The Maze spoke again.

''Eloquently put little one. Are you aware of planeswalking?''

''Enlighten me.''

''Planeswalking is the ability to travel between planes. To essentially bring a body from one realm to another. You must planeswalk from this realm to the Realm of One Million Screams, the Dungeons of Yu'lok. There you must seek one of the twenty one infinite beings, the Key Scribes, and obtain a key. Finally, you are to return to this realm and proceed through the Gate.''

Frost took in the information. He nodded.

''One more thing.''

Frost turned back to the gate.

''I will be watching.''

Just like that the voice faded. Frost squinted at the walls, looking for the telltale signs of life he'd seen just a few minutes before. Sure enough, they were there, the Maze was indeed watching. Frost looked at the Gate, he needed to planeswalk, but how? Frost mentally forced himself to planeswalk. He closed his eyes and pictured a gate between two realms opening, he pictured himself moving, saw in his minds eye the motion around him. He opened his eyes.

Nothing.

Frost stood. Silent. He was lost. Maybe what he needed was quiet. Calming himself, Frost decided to dispense with forcing himself to planeswalk. Will was not enough, instead, Frost recalled the mantra his father had taught him when he joined his gang

Match your breath with the count to ten and the road you seek will be clear again

Frost cleared his mind and let his instincts sink in. His habits, his wants, he let all of what he was swirl inside of him. He needed to be the truest form of himself in order to move anywhere at all. Frost saw in his minds eye a man forming. Tall, muscular, confident. But something was off, something about the man looked fake. Before Frost could second guess his vision, he was snapped awake by a falling sensation. Opening his eyes, Frost found himself falling face first down a rocky hole. All around him were rocks as black as night and somewhere below him came wretched agonizing shrieks of pain. What did he just do? Did he planeswalk? Shaking off the disorientation, Frost quickly righted himself in the air and landed on the ground with a clean forward roll.

Ah, he's gone

Frost unsheathed Lavyrin, who'd been silent up until now.

''Who's gone?''

You know...The Maze.

Lavyrin seemed to shiver in his hands.

It's presence was so.....alien. I saw into its mind, it's been here since...

Lavyrin broke off as a piercing scream echoed throughout the cave tunnel. Ignoring the screams, Frost recalled his mission. The Maze had said to find a key scribe. Frost assumed he'd know when he saw one.

This is the Dungeon of Yu'lok. The Realm of One Million Screams. Its a giant cave system festering with abominations and the mages that....keep them at bay. I suggest we should hurry up and find this key scribe if we are to avoid these things.

Frost looked at his sword.

''This is the first trial. It can't be that hard. The Key Scribe would be the biggest source of power in this realm. Can you locate the biggest source of power Lavyrin?''

The sword was silent for a minute, then it spoke.

We need to go lower. Towards the heart of the Dungeon. Theirs a collection of power sources there, one of them might be the Key Scribe.

Frost nodded and began making his way down the cave.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Frost was five miles out when he encountered his first monster. It was an enormous thing, towering above him at fifteen feet. It's skin had the consistency of slime and slowly dripped off it as it moved forward. Hands, eyes, and even teeth sprouted all over its hulking form, moving and twitching crazily.

Its amazing how many of these things the dark mages can control, I wonder if something else may be controlling them

Frost shuddered to think of that. The monster, seeing Frost for the first time, roared a guttural, drippy roar, and lunged at Frost, yelling garbled nonsense. Frost activated Bloodfang and dodged to the side as the monster threw its weight at the spot Frost was just seconds ago. Lavyrin glowed a deep black. Frost was about to release the energy the sword had built up, but stopped. The monster lay on the floor, rolling around and making garbled whimpering noises, it knew it was at Frost's mercy.

Poor miserable thing. Maybe we shouldn't kill it.

Frost was taken aback.

''Why not?''

Lavyrin seemed to sigh in his hand.

Their are much worse things down here than this...thing. Perhaps we should save our energies for a real opponent.

The black energy on Lavyrin dissipated. Frost felt his habits pushing in on his consciousness. Kill anything that meant him harm. Protect yourself before anyone else. Then another phrase entered his head.

When victory is in sight, leave all else behind. Frost's mind went silent. This was a victory, Frost didn't have to kill this...thing. This was one of the rare times Frost could willingly leave without killing, and Frost was more than happy to take it. Turning his back on the monster, Frost resumed his tedious journey to what was hopefully the Key Scribe.

------------------------------------------------------------

Steady Frost, the power sources are around this corner.

Frost crouched and slid himself up against the wall. His old reflexes kicked in; stay smooth, stay silent, and stay alert. Frost did that now. Activating Clarity, Frost saw beyond the wall he crouched against and into a massive circular room littered with hulking monsters and dark mages wielding lightning whips and other tools of torture. On an elevated platform lay a pile of rusting cages and next to it, a throne spotted with black stone and oozing with dark blood stood tall. On the throne sat a wisened man with a long flowing beard and red and white wizard robes. In his hands he held a gleaming silver sword and a mage's staff.

That's the Key Scribe

Frost looked at Lavyrin.

''How do you know?''

He is the biggest power source in the room. You said the Key Scribe must be the one with the biggest power source, well this is it. Are you ready?

Frost felt like throwing up. This was impossible. Somehow, he had to persuade the Key Scribe to give him a key without letting the monsters and mages milling through the room see him.

Calm Frost, calm. Nothing is impossible, only improbable. The Maze wouldn't make an impossible trial, you just need to figure out a way.

Frost focused on his breathing. He needed to be clear, he needed to....lie. That was it, no one was aware of him yet, he could become anything he wanted.

''I'm going to become the King of the Dungeons of Yu'lok. I will come out of this trial ruler of this realm.''

Lavyrin laughed in Frost's mind.

I'd like to see that happen.

Frost smiled.

''You're about to.'' With that, Frost sheathed Lavyrin and turned the corner, greeting the monsters and mages with a small grin. The Key Scribe in the throne turned to Frost and in a surprisingly strong voice exclaimed,

''Who dares enter the dungeons of Yu'lok without my permission? State your name .''

All across the room, monsters and mages alike turned to Frost. Taking a deep breath, Frost began. He knew exactly what he was going to say, often, the easiest lie was the truth.

''I am a Planeswalker, I am here to retrieve your key...'' Frost pointed to the Key Scribe, ''So I may pass on to the next Trial.''

The Key Scribe's singular laugh echoed throughout the chamber, the monsters and mages were riveted.

''That means nothing.'' The Key Scribe looked to a Dark mage who'd appeared at his side.

''Azilon, seize him.''

Before Azilon could move, Frost erupted with speech.

''I can travel between Realms, this power has not been seen in the last millennia. Surely I am more powerful then this imposter on the throne. Join me and reap your reward.''

At the last sentence, the mages surging towards him stopped, Two of them stopped the oncoming Azilon and one of them nearer to the Key Scribe tentatively spoke.

''Master, all that he says is true-'' The Key Scribe cut him off.

''Silence! This petty being will not dictate what you do! I am your ruler and I demand you seize this man!''

Reluctantly, the two mages near Frost turned to grab him. Like a bolt of lightning, Frost was at the Key Scribes side, a flaming Lavyrin in hand and an ice cold look in his eyes. Frost leaned close to the Key Scribe and whispered

''Call off your mages and give me the key. Now.''

The Key Scribe simply laughed, then, in a shout.

''Seize this man, he has breached our dungeon and assaulted me in person. Kill him and reap your reward!'' With that, the Key Scribe faded into nothing. Frosts blood ran cold, this was not what was supposed to happen. Shouldn't the Key Scribe have given him the key? With shouts of anger, the mages and their monsters rushed forwards.

Frost desperately searched for an exit. He spotted one at the far side of the cavern, adjacent from the throne. Thinking quickly, Frost activated Bloodfang, Ashfang, and his enchanted cloak, he then used the energy Lavyrin had charged up and sent five waves of dark energy through the oncoming swarm. All the monsters and mages that were in the way either dodged out of the way, or were killed. This opened up a hole in the swarm. With his enhanced speed, Frost closed the distance between him and the exit within seconds, leaping through the doorway and instantly moving into the shadows, becoming one with the black stone.

So much for king

Frost growled in anger.

''that's not what was supposed to happen. Why did the Scribe disappear? What am I supposed to do now?''

Remember what the maze said. 'I will be watching'. Maybe we need to think from a different perspective.

For the third time, Frost controlled himself. Stressing situations always demanded calm, and Frost would stay calm for as long as he had to be. Lavyrin was right, he's already thought out the trial from his perspective, now he needed to think from the Maze's perspective. Frost instantly felt like an idiot, of course the Maze would've wanted him to seek out the highest power source. If he was less competent, he probably would've ended up dead. Frost retraced his steps, he'd fallen into the realm, journeyed towards the highest power source and encountered a......

''The monster. The monster that we let live. It's the Key Scribe, it must be. Lavyrin, search for the highest power source again. It should be back where we started from.''

...You're right. The highest power source is where we last left that monster.

A roar sounded right next to Frost. A line of mages and monsters on chains filed through the small tunnel, passing right by Frost who lay concealed in the shadows at the side of the tunnel. Frost stood stock still until the line had passed, then, wiping sweat from his forehead, he detached himself from the wall.

''Lavyrin, track that line, make sure I don't run into them.''

alright. They aren't heading towards our Scribe, but I'll alert you if they're near.

Frost grunted, then set off north and up. Towards the Scribe.

-----------------------------------------------------------

They're heading our way.

''Just a little bit farther. We're almost there.''

The musty, heated air of the caves were starting to get to Frost, every once in a while he had to stop and cough out the smoke in his lungs. Up ahead lay the monster, a small greenish speck in the vast abyss of the cave.

They're almost on us

''We're almost there.''

The monster loomed up ahead, seemingly asleep. Frost focused of it, this was his key out, if he could just get-

Frost to your left!

Frost instinctively activated Ashfang and his cloak enchantment, then spun to his left and sliced the oncoming mage across the chest.

The whole line has been alerted now, its now or never to get that key.

Frost weaved in between a chained monster with eight arms, and a dark mage, slicing both of them in two wide arcs. He dodged away from the last few mages and rushed towards the monster. The monster snapped awake and began speaking. It took Frost a second to realize it was to him.

''Release me from my bonds, break this dream and the key is yours.''

Frost behind you!

Frost turned and blocked an oncoming monster with Lavyrin, then, with his left wrist dagger, stabbed the monster in the neck. In one fluid motion, Frost released the monster, Spun onto one knee, and sliced the next monster across the stomach. Turning back to the Scribe monster, Frost began to think. What did it mean? What bonds did he need to release? Then it donned on him. The first Key Scribe was in his original form. This Scribe was under some sort of spell. All Frost needed to do was break it. A bolt of lightning hit Frost in the back, arcing around his body and sending him to his knees. Frost forced himself to stand up, he would not die here. He. Would. Survive.

We need to break the spell now! The whole line's coming down on us!

Frost turned and blasted the approaching enemies with waves of black energy.

''I'm thinking!'' There was a real urgency in his voice now. He'd been hit. He could feel his muscle seizing up. In a matter of seconds he'd be at the mercy of the screaming pits of Yu'lok.

Think like the Maze! The first trial would be easy, therefore there should be an easy way to break the spell.

''Easy yet transparent. I must've overlooked it.''

Frost looked to the monster, it'd shrank considerably now and was gasping and wheezing, eyes fluttering around as if waking up from a dream. Frost gasped.

''A dream! The scribe is asleep! We need to wake him up!''

Do it already!

Two monsters about the size of dogs with razor sharp teeth leapt onto Frost's back, clawing into his shoulders. With a cry of pain, Frost stabbed the wriggling form of the Scribe monster. Instantly, the form disappeared, replaced with the transparent figure of an old man in red and white robes. As it floated up, Frost heard two words.

''Thank you.''

Everything went white.

-------------------------------------------------------

Frost snapped awake back in the Maze. The pain from his wounds instantly returned and Frost groaned in pain.

The Maze spoke in a low rumble that echoed across the marble room.

''Well done little one. I didn't expect you to take so long, but at least you survived. The question is. Can you keep surviving.''

Frost fingered his shoulders. Most of the cuts hadn't gotten through his armor and the cuts that did get through weren't that deep. What Frost needed was time to heal, and as he got up and loped through the open gate in front of him, he wondered if he'd ever get any.
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Deskro says...



Nefarias Mora | Orzhov Syndicate | Cambion


Nef sat on the edge of the bed in the room that Grand Envoy Teysa had provided and stared vacantly at her pendant that she fiddled with. The vapour inside danced and slowly shifted colour, helping to calm her nerves slightly.

A rap at the door shattered her composure.

“We are awaiting your appearance Nefarias Mora, Knight of Desire,” said the voice.

“Absolutely…” she sucked in some air and stood up, her tail flicking anxiously. As she exited her room she was met by a hooded man who bowed to her and pointed down the lobby. As she walked she could hear Teysa’s voice getting louder along with the sound of a ruckus crowd.

“…This is a once in a life-time occurrence. You should all be blessed to live through such a historic event. My glorious citizens, please give an enthusiastic welcome to our first champion. You will all know her from around town. She is unforgettable. She is the Knight of Desire and her name is…”

The crowd was brimming with tension as Nef stepped onto the stage.

“…NEFARIAS MORA!”

Trumpets blared and drums boomed, nearly drowning out the hysterical crowd. Nef squinted in the bright lights and tried to get her eyes accustomed to her surroundings, but she was escorted off stage. The guards dropped her off in what looked like a dining room. She slumped onto a seat by the table.

Her ears were ringing as she tried to make sense of what had just happened.

She was met again by the hooded man. “Hello again, Miss Mora. How was the celebration?”

“Wha – I barely know what happened out there. Some celebration I might add, I was up there for a grand total of about 10 seconds.”

“It’s for your safety. You know the kind of zealots that live around these parts. You’re a celebrity now and Grand Envoy realizes that. Many would kill to go and fight in the Maze, quite literally I might add. Jealousy can do terrible things.”

Nef slumped over the table, her head in her hands.

“Hey, it’s not all bad. Care for some food? You must be hungry.”

“Not really.”

“It’s just the nerves. You have to eat, keep your strength up. I’ll return shortly.”

Nef felt sick, she really didn’t feel like facing food.

The man returned a few minutes later, swaying precariously with an enormous plate. He placed it, or more accurately dropped, the plate in front of her. She flinched as it clanged loudly against the wooden table.

“Apologies.”

The food was piled up high and smelled delicious, but it still made Nef’s guts twist and throat tighten.

“Go on, eat. Grand Envoy wants her Champion to be satiated. And who knows when your next meal will be.”

Nef grabbed a grape from the plate and popped it in her mouth, moving it around with her tongue cautiously before bursting it with her back teeth.

They sat in silence for a few moments before the man spoke again. “Good morning, Miss Mora. I wish you the very best of luck.” He spun on his heel and like that he was gone.

She shrugged and daintily plucked another grape from the plate. She rolled it around between her thumb and forefinger before placing it in her mouth.

“Good Morning, Nefarias.” Grand Envoy Teysa stood at the doorway, with a thin but amused smile.

Nef almost choked on the grape. “Your Excellency.”

“Please, you’re my equal now. You’re a hero-to-be.” Her smile widened. “Are you ready?”

“Uhh, I guess.”

“Perfect. Come with me, you’re a little late.”

Nef grabbed another grape and followed Teysa to the Maze.

* * *


Nef tried to catch a glimpse of the other contestants. On her left stood what she assumed was an athletic man, clad in full black leather and a billowing cloak. He looked straight ahead but she couldn’t guarantee that was what his eyes were doing. She looked right to the next gate, which was some distance away.

“What the…”

She saw what appeared to be a humanoid tree, towering feet above anything else.

Holy damn, if there are contestants like that then what the hell is inside the Maze…

She suddenly felt faint. She clutched her pendant and tried to relax her breathing, the announcer’s voice fading into white noise.

She suddenly heard a voice, clear and deep in her mind.

“Nefarias Mora, Welcome to the Maze.”

Who are you?

“I am the Maze itself. If you want to survive, I would suggest you listen.”

O.K.

“Here are your objectives:

1. Enter the Gate
2. Find your Trial entry
3. Planeswalk to enter your trial
4. Find the Key Scribe
5. Receive the Key of Passage

Rinse and Repeat. Capisce? Also, try not to die. Heh.”

How do I Planeswalk?

“Sorry, even I can’t answer that for you. You’ll have to figure that out on your own.”

Fat load of help you are.

“Bite your tongue, before I send something to bite it off for you.”

Ass.


She was relieved that the Maze had already left her head. It was almost impossible to filter thoughts in your mind when communicating psychically - it’s not like she actually wanted to be hated by the Maze.

She looked at Obsidian Gate and stepped through, into pitch black.

Nef took a minute to gather herself before her night vision kicked in. She looked at her surroundings, but saw nothing of interest. A long corridor stretched ahead of her. She looked back. There was no more gate, just more corridor. She wrapped her tail tightly round her leg and gripped her chains, she had to be ready for anything.

“Here goes.”

She took a step as carefully as she could, but to her horror her seemingly light footstep reverberated down the stone tunnel. As if in response she heard a bloodcurdling howl.

It’s all an illusion. It’s just like Hallucinate.


She took another step and the corridor began to ripple. Nef felt sick. It was like she was drunk. She stumbled forward, trying to keep her balance but to no avail. She put her hand on the wall, doubled over, trying to retain reality. That’s when she felt the wall caving in.

It’s just a dream.

But she wasn’t convinced. The wall was solid, she could feel it. If she didn’t find a way out now and it was real, she was dead. She had no more time to think. She grabbed her tail and stabbed the rock for grip. She then flapped her back wings and quickly scaled up the enclosing wall.

As soon as she reached the top of the wall, she lost her balance. She again dug her tail into the wall for stability but realized that it wouldn’t help. The corridor was turning and now, she was falling.

She hit the ground and the corridor exploded with an intense light. Nef screamed, but couldn’t hear anything but a shrill ringing in her ears. She also couldn’t see.

When her vision finally returned, she found herself in a dark arena. Her ears were still ringing, but that was the least of her problems, as she spotted the only source of light in the distance.

Unfortunately, the light was being held by a 20 foot demon. He was on the other side of the arena, but making his way toward her, each step shaking the ground.

She looked around to the spectators for help. Decayed faces of the damned stared back emptily, as their mage masters hacked out hollow laughs, waving their instruments of torture and death.

Transfixed, she stared at the demon’s advance. As he drew closer, Nef began to notice more detail. Dog legs lead up to a scarlet humanoid torso, a serrated tail swinging idly behind. Huge bat wings were tucked behind his burning red body, while rippling arm muscles brandished a mace burning with hellfire. His face was triangular, with glistening red eyes and huge ram horns curling backward while his forehead bared what could only be described as a diamond. Rows of razor sharp teeth prevented his mouth from closing completely and a red tongue lolled out of its side causing saliva to drip down his soggy beard.

“Acheron…it can’t be…”

Acheron was a legendary demon, both feared and revered in the depths of Hell. Having defeated Baahaaz during one of the battles of Aryn’Fuhr he was ready to take over WestDell. However, this was not to be. A resistance group, The Black Flame, despised Acheron and his plans for the West. They sought to overthrow the Greater Demon and claim rulership for themselves. Thus, in a bloody battle, Acheron was defeated, though due to his immeasurable power he could not be killed. The Black Flame instead chose to seal him away in another dimension. And it appeared that the Dragon Maze was that place.

Acheron was now standing right in front of Nef. He bent down and sniffed her before roaring. He rose up to his full height and sent the mace crashing down, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

Nef had just enough time to roll away. She leaped up and sprinted off. She looked back and saw Acheron roaring, before the ground started shaking again as he advanced on his prey.

How do I beat this thing?


Suddenly she felt a searing pain in her head. The ground was not shaking anymore. She saw Acheron kneeling on one leg with a finger pressing on his head crystal. The pain in Nef’s head grew stronger as she realized that he was reading her mind.

Get. Out. Of. My. Head!

She scrunched up her eyes and attempted to force the beast out. She heard Acheron laugh.

“is’rahr mal do nora sah heyal.”

This was an ancient tongue that Nef had not heard before. She could understand some words but they made little sense.

Nef tried to think about nothing at all, so that there was nothing for Acheron to read. She ignored the pain and instead focused on emptiness.

It felt like an eternity, but soon the pain subsided. She felt relief for a fleeting second, before she remembered her danger.

It was time to put everything on the line.

She grabbed her chains and ran toward Acheron.

“arista bo’lu kar garu.”

She saw Acheron swinging his mace toward her as she ducked out of the way. She was almost at his legs. She dived under the mace’s second swing and shoved one of her daggers into his foot. Acheron snarled and tried to crush Nef underfoot. Nef was agile though and danced around his legs, wrapping them up in her chains. By the time Acheron realized what she was doing it was too late. She yanked the chains causing his feet to snap together. Acheron was off-balance and his huge form did nothing to stop him from smashing into the ground. Nef knew it was time to Shapeshift.

She felt her skin splitting as her muscles outgrew her body. Her bones elongated, pulling themselves out of their sockets and breaking apart to contort into new shapes. Her screams turned into roars and her blood began to boil.

By the time her transformation had finished, she looked every bit as terrifying as Acheron. She lashed her tail in challenge as Acheron kicked off Nef’s chains.

“Nefarias Mora, you will pay dearly for trying to defy our Maze, Cambion scum.”

Nef was aghast that she could suddenly understand Acheron.

”You’ve been defeated once. You will be defeated again.” Her voice was otherworldly, sounding as if there were two voices coming from her.

Acheron hissed and swung his mace at her. She spun to her left and grabbed him by the forearm and bicep. Using all her might she sent her knee flying upwards and heard a satisfying crunch as it connected with Acheron’s elbow.

“It will take more than that.” Acheron swung his fist in a vicious backhand, catching Nef on the cheek. She stumbled backwards, feeling blood burning as it dripped down her cheek. She didn’t have much time left, she had to end this.

She charged at him, flapping her wings as she built up momentum. Acheron snarled as he braced himself for imminent impact. He grabbed for Nef as she ducked down, angling her horns at the demon’s guts.

Acheron bellowed as Nef’s horns plunged deep into his torso. She could feel her back getting wet with blood. Acheron grabbed Nef’s waist and strained to pull her out. Blood spurted over her horns and head as he struggled. Nef threw a couple of hooks at Acheron’s body. Each blow forced blood out of his gaping wounds. Acheron dropped Nef and she wrenched her horns from his body. Acheron fell to the floor and Nef reverted back to her former self. She fell to her knees, crying with relief.

I did it…

The diamond in Acheron’s head twinkled. Nef watched it for a few moments before she was overcome with greed. She had to have it. She walked over to her chains and draped them across her, pulling one of her daggers from it.

She stuck the blade underneath the huge crystal and pried it off. Suddenly, Acheron began to moan.

Nef dropped the gem and readied her chains for round two. She watched him intently and realized that he was shrinking. Smoke billowed out as Acheron’s form shrunk.

Once the smoke dissipated, Acheron the Greater Demon was no longer there. Instead, a lean and attractive man lay in a pool of blood, whimpering. Well, he would have been a man, if you disregarded his horns, wings and tail.

“I ought to kill you right now.” She placed the hook of her tail across his throat.

“Please, have mercy. There’s nothing to gain from killing me.”

She sighed. “You’re right.” She didn’t want to be like Acheron.

Acheron coughed. “Thank you.” He gasped for air. “You have defeated fear itself. You should be –” he grunted in pain. “Proud.”

Nef looked around as the arena became brighter. Rocks turned into trees and the dusty ground sprouted grass. The once ominous area now offered hope and peace.

Nef smiled.

“So… how do I get out of here?”

Acheron pointed weakly at his diamond which now lay in the grass. It had shrunk too, now closer to the size of a knucklebone.

“It’s a key. Place it in the door. It will let you out.”

“Thank you.”

“Nefarias…one more thing…”

“Yes?”

“Kiss me…”

Nef was visibly puzzled.

“You’re part Succubus. I have been trapped for too long, doomed to an eternity of limbo. Please, kiss me, save me. I want to be free and I want to feel love… just once more.”

Nef clutched her pendant. “As you wish…”

She muttered an enchantment and kneeled by Acheron’s head. She cradled his head and brought her face close to his.

“Thank you, Nefarias. I am eternally in your debt.” With that he closed his eyes and placed his lips on hers. Nef felt the temperature of his lips drop and his essence course through her as he activated The Pact. He slumped in her arms and she watched as the smoky soul of the Great Demon was sucked into her pendant. Once consumed, the pendant turned an inky black.

She dropped Acheron’s corpse and picked up his mace. It too had shrunk and she knew it would be a valuable asset. She linked it to her chain and set off toward the door.

The door had a round slot that Acheron’s crystal fit perfectly. The door clicked open and the crystal fell back into Nef’s hand.

There was nothing in this room but a man in a hooded cloak. He walked up to her and Nef stood her ground. No longer afraid, no longer nervous.

He held out his hand which held an odd trinket.

“Tis a Key of Passing, and I, a Key Scribe.”

Nef went to grab it, but he pulled it away.

“A key for a key.”

Nef looked at Acheron’s crystal in her hand. It glimmered, even in the dim room. She knew she didn’t need it.

“Okay.” She dropped the crystal in the man’s palm, as he dropped the Key of Passing in hers.

“Until next time.” The Key Scribe disappeared in a spiral of darkness.

A door appeared where the Key Scribe had been standing. She looked at the Key of Passing. It looked like it would fit. Fumbling, she pushed the Key of Passing into the door. Instead of opening, the door began to grow and twist, morphing itself into the next gate. Her next stage in the Dragon’s Maze.

"Bring it on," she said as she stepped inside.
Last edited by Deskro on Fri Jan 08, 2016 12:00 am, edited 1 time in total.





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Steggy says...



Mirgajan Gedoraws | Gruul Clan | Rust Gate

It had already been a long day. Nothing short of boring, nothing short of relaxing. The cooling sun overhead was covered by thick, grey clouds. It seemed to threaten a storm or something, as the heat index rose a few degrees. Miragajan was already practicing, putting blood, sweat, and more sweat into training these creatures of the sorts. It was surprising that she, of all creatures, to go into the Guilds Trial. Mira has heard of array of tales about creatures, like her, not making it out alive. Of course, the thrill of the stories seemed to power her motivations for going into the Trials. That, and the hope of finding out who killed her father.
She was training beasts throughout the whole day, flying some Moskittos and a few Basilisks. The creatures that wanted their pets tamed looked harsh and mean. Tusks coming out from under their lips, a few bald giants, and the deadly Ce Sith.
When she was training the last creature- a Falak- a voice piped in behind her.

"How are you doing, Gedoraws?"

Alvis.

"Doing fine, thanks." was the automatic response Mira gave. The Falak was on the other side the pin, dancing around. It looked at Mira with an unhinged looked, before charging. When the Falak moved, it skipped than ran, grunting ever few seconds into it. The black muscles on its arms seemed to pump and disappear after every breath. Mira stood in a stance, as Alvis distantly watched. Despite the Falak being faster and able to pinpoint the sudden movements of the Aapep, Mira was smarter. She put her fingers into a shape of a fan, moving them in front of her- as to protect her from the incoming beast, and slowly started making a gesture toward the Falak. It followed her hand movements, soon slowing down in front of Mira and softly cooed. She put out her right hand to touch the Falak's snake-like black nose, to complete the training regimen.
It was in a trance, even after Mira had stopped. She signaled to the owner, an old Harr with scruffy white hair on his head. He had clear blue eyes that stared at wonder, at the job that Mira did.

"How can I repay you?"

Mira let out a chuckle. "I don't like to get paid. But thank you." From the corner of her eye, she saw Alvis nodding and walking off. Something was telling her to follow the tall dwarf, and so she did.

-*-


"You did a nice job training those beast, Gedoraws." Alvis stated. They were walking in the woods outside of the training center, under the dying winter leaves and hearing the different noises from the dark creatures.

"All in the day's work, eh."

"I suppose. You seem more focused on the work than some of the other trainers here, and more loved by the people who wanted their animals to be trained. Yet you don't want any money."

Mira nodded. "Before my parents left me, they used to tell me 'never take another person's kindness'. What I'm doing is payment enough."

Alvis chuckled. "Never thought I'd see a side of a Aapep like that since they are known for stabbing stomachs and raging storms."

It was a long silence after that. Until a loud screech came from the right of Mira. Then the flutter of dragon wings, beating together quite quickly. She heard the coughing of Alvis and could see him waving slowly in the distance. Mira felt two claws in her arms, a wind passing through her long red hair, and the city below her blowing away like a leaf. She tried squirming, placing a scaly hand on the claws.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the dragon spoke. Mira groaned. When she began squirming again, the claws of the dragon dug deeper into her skin.

"Ow!" She yelped. The dragon let out a throaty chuckle.

"Told you not to do that. We are almost there."

"Who is almost where?" Then she saw it in the distance: the Maze. It was a big dome with cement walls and a glass overhead. Trees and different amount of foliage kept it hidden from the outside world. The dragon circled around the Maze until hovering in one spot. Mira knew it was her chance. She squirmed some more, moving her small arms in the dragon's claws.

"If you want to leave so badly," the dragon said silently. "Then go." It let go off Mira's arm, causing her to drop a few feet. A scream bubbled in her chest, sparking the fear. She closed her eyes and hoped for the best. It was then that was safely on the ground, clenching on to herself. Mira opened one eye to see the surrounding before opening both to see the surrounding. Deep jaded trees with purple flowers encircled the Rust Gate (as Mira called it). There was a small gravel trail heading to the gate, and so she followed it. It seemed a little cooler here, with a little wind passing through some trees. There were different sounds and screeches coming from the forest she just left, that soon died out.

When Mirgajan got to the gate, there was a woman with sleek black hair and an dark indigo robe. She seemed to be staring at the red gate, clucking her tongue and hands on hip. Mira walked up the trail besides the woman. She seemed friend-

"Don't even think about it," the stranger whispered, without looking towards Mira. She knotted her eyebrows.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Don't think about it." Mira made a sour face, shifting in her place. As an awkward silence settled, an announcer spoke deeply. Just as soon as he spoke, his voice faded into a white noise.

"Hello there, Mirgajan Gedoraws. Welcome to the Maze"

Who're you?

"I am here and there. You can say I am the Maze itself."

Lovely.

"There are few things you should remember when in the Maze. For one, you should enter the gate."

That seems simple.

"The rest of the tasks are going to be harder than the rest. Once you enter the Maze, find the Trial entry. When you do, you must Planeswalk to enter it. When you do so, you'll find the Key Scribe and then receive the Key of Passage, which'll give you access of leaving the first part of the Maze."

All of this seems-

"Sudden. I know. You'll have to figure out Planeswalking by yourself, as it is in you without you even knowing. Good luck, and hopefully, you'll survive."


In front of her, the gate opened. The Maze was out of thoughts, and was replaced with a conscience of fear and hopelessness. The woman in front of her, walked forward in an opposite direction wielding a weapon of a sort. Mira ignored the person, continuing on her way. The heat inside here was heavier than back home. Walls of fire were around her and some kind of chanting. When she passed the high wall of fire, Mira saw a group of bubbly, green skinned goblins holding onto some spears and axes with wyverns. They seemed to be yelling a language that Mira never heard of. Ahead of them were humans with huge battle axes and sweaty muscles. She just walked into a battle.

One of the goblins, short in size stepped forward with a raised spear.

"We want our Scribe back. Just that. If you don't, we will engage battle."

One of the barbarians let out a loud, throaty laugh. "You are a puny thing. I can smash your head with in with a hammer."

Mira didn't want to stay here and watch the battle. It would be tiresome and boring. Boring as in a "come at me; no, you come at me" way. Just beyond the goblins and humans, was a high desert wall. It feels like a desert in here Mira thought.

Maybe I can walk around this first wall, I can be able to-

"What are you doing here, sneaky snake?" a voice grumbled behind her. When Mira looked back, she came face-to-face with a red faced barbarian. In his bandaged left hand, was a smallish iron axe. In his right hand, was a small skull. Mira glupped.

"I-I was just passing through. That's all."

"In my territory. I highly doubt that."

Something was growing in Mira's stomach, bubbling like lava. She clenched her fist.

"I was going to the wall, prick."

The barbarian let out a laugh. "Ooh name calling. How fearsome." Mira gapped. This guy was a smart-ass. "I'm not going to let you pass."

"Fine," Mira said coldly. You should kill him a thought filtered into her mind. Like gears turning a clock, the plan was set into motion. But how is she going to kill a tall dude with an axe that could most likely kill her in one slice? Easy. Attack with force. She hunched herself down, resting her arms by her side and looked up at the human. Mira reached into her boot, feeling for the cool knife handle, and held on until she was ready. The barbarian was looking for a fight, and for sure, was going to get one.

Soon, Mira leapt forward and stabbed the barbarian in the stomach. She twisted the knife around, causing the human to stumble backwards. She placed her teeth on the nape of his neck before biting down, releasing a poison into his bloodstream. Blood soon covered the Aapep's hand, as the barbarian stumbled to a stop. Mira released the neck, pushing the barbarian on the floor. He was crippled in pain, holding his stomach and staring at the red ceiling. He didn't even get the chance for swinging his axe at Mira. What a waste of adrenaline.

"Let that be a lesson," Mira coldly stated. She wiped some blood from her mouth, tasting rather sweet in her mouth. The babarbain twitched once more, before lying still with his eyes wide open.

-*-


As she walked around the fire wall, she noticed a small opening. Peeking through, Mira saw an arrayment of different beasts, tall lizard creatures with bulging green muscles, and even a Aria. She remember training one of those, back in the old days when she first started. Deadly creatures that have been known to creature misfortune and disease.

Looks like the only way out of this place is through there, the Aapep thought. When she stepped through the crack, the fire wall behind her closed and caused the creatures inside to stare hungrily at her. One of the lizards licked his lips. They seemed to be around another creature with red skin and piercing red eyes. It was wearing a yellow robe with a red lining on the end. That must be the Key Scribe.

"Who dare enter this realm of Vulshok?"

"Mirgajan Gedoraws." The Key Scribe gave a nod. "Lovely to finally meet you."

"Have you been waiting for me?"

"Nope. Just heard a lot about you," he said. He pulled something out of his robe, a gold key. "Is that what you want?"

Mira nodded, hoping he would give it to her without a fuss. The Key Scribe grinned. "Come and get it." As he finished, a group of Djinns circled around. They stared coldly at the Aapep, who glupped. She hadn't seen an Djinn before-- only heard tales about them from the old people. The main one, who was holding a black spear-like weapon, stepped forward.

"Come forth and get the key, coward." Coward. The word stung her brain. She clenched her fist, and grumbled.

"Don't call me a coward."

The Djinns let out a shriek-like laughter. That was enough to add fuel to the fire already burning in Mira's stomach. She let out a soft sigh before closing her eyes. Mira focused all the power into one spell, a short minute spell, that could cause the Dijnns to listen to her thoughts and could possibly control them. She took deep breathes and placed her hands together. She felt her thought sift away, and could sense the Djinn could feel the movement too. Although it was weak, it felt they had a strong connection.

If you can hear me, blink twice. The three Djinns blinked twice.

Good. Now I want you three to listen. You see that key? I kinda need it. Even though you are ordered to fight me using your "magic", I need you to do one thing for me: get the key.

"Do you want us to kill him?"

Not yet.


The Key Scribe grunted. "Why are you just standing there? Get the girl!" The Djinns hovered, still. They tensed up, slowly turning around to face the Scribe. They looked cold at him, flames igniting in their hands.

"Give her the key."

The Key Scribe made a "pfft" noise with his mouth while spinning the key on his limp finger. "Like I said, she has to fight for it."

"Give her the key," they repeated coldly. The Key Scribe sat up straight, squaring his shoulders and looked perplexed.

"What have you done with my Djinns?"

Mira opened one eye. "Whatever do you mean."

The Key Scribe gripped the key in his left hand. "They aren't acting as they should be."

"You can't assume things, Scribe. However, you cannot underestimate me." The Scribe made an "o" with his mouth, before leaning back in his seat.

"I never get to have any fun around here. I was locked up in here some time ago, just staring off into space and hearing the angry fights against the goblins and the idiotic barbarbins. I grew sick of it-" the Key Scribe stopped talking for a brief second, his face twitching. Behind him was a small black imp, welding a knife. It stabbed the poor fellow in the back, causing him to drop the key in his left hand.

I've seen enough death today. Mira thought. She stared hard at the imp, who in returned grinned like a madman. He must be going to get the key too. But why? The Aapep let the Djinns go for a little while, falling into a little deep sleep. She ran for the key much faster than the black imp, who was already halfway there. Only one way to get it before the imp. Mira lept into the air and now was sitting atop the imp, who was squirming respectively.

"Get off me!" the imp cried. Mira snickered.

"Only if you say please."

The imp rolled his eyes. "I don't say pl-" Mira curled around the imp, resting her hands on his chest. "Say please, and I'll get off."

"Ple-owh!" Mira tightened her grip on the imp. "Pleas-" Before he could finish, he lay stiff as a board. Mira uncurled herself, dusting off her clothes.

"So sorry," Mira said, picking up the gold key. It was heavy, but small enough to fit in her boot. Gently, she slid the key into the secret pocket of her boot. She felt something stinging in her, as asking her to go somewhere but where could she go? Where she was at, there were no doors or windows only a little light coming from the ceiling. She sighed.

When you do, you must Planeswalk to leave

This thought echoed in her mind. Planeswalking.

"Planeswalking!" Mira shouted to no one in particular. What she had forgotten was the Djinn's short, restful nap was over. They woke up abruptly, and were coming after Mira. She tried to think of a way, any way, to Planeswalk. She decided on spinning for a certain period of time, that maybe, should would be thrown into a different place of the Maze.

She concentrated on a phrase of some sort and spun. When Mira was spinning, everything was blurred and merging together like water being added to paint. When she done spinning, dizziness settled and darkness overwhelmed her. A cold wind fell over her, blowing in all directions. She fell down on the cool ground and slept.
You are like a blacksmith's hammer, you always forge people's happiness until the coal heating up the forge turns to ash. Then you just refuel it and start over. -Persistence (2015)

You have so much potential and love bursting in you. -Omnom





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LordZeus says...



Shade/Guildless/Snow Gate

Shade shook his head with disbelief as he got down from the roof of the building he had been standing on and walked towards Snow Gate, the entrance to the Maze. He had been watching the other champions make their way to their respective gates. And Shade had been shocked out of his mind at the sight of them!

A giant demon, an undead warrior, The famous Cactus Jack...So many strange and powerful beings were competing in the maze with him. And even the others were strong warriors or skilled mages. In short, he didn't feel too good about his chances. To make matters worse, Mannaric was also going into the Maze. That meant that there was a risk that he would lose hi brother and Shade certainly didn't want that.

Then Shade remembered Zeren's last words to him before he left "You'll be fine, son." he had said, clapping him on the shoulders."The other Champions won't know what hit them. You're smart, skilled and resourceful. That'll keep you alive. The other Dimir members might want Frost or Raeve to win, but I will be rooting for you." Shade felt a tear start to form near his eye when he recalled that memory. He quickly wiped his eye before walking towards the gate.

He looked up at it, and at the snowflake designs that ran along the doors.The great gold doors were open, waiting for him to enter. But before he did, he sat down and checked his small pack to make sure he had everything. His supplies of food and water were there, along with a couple of magical self-heating flasks of Khir.

They were of a set of three that his friends, the other apprentices had stolen from Orzhova to give him as a going away present. The third was at his waist on his right said near his short sword. After checking his pack, he checked his person to make sure that all his items were there. Sword, check. Shuriken pouch, check. Throwing knives, check. And like that he went methodically until he had run out of things to check and couldn't hold off entering the maze anymore.

Taking a deep breath, he was about to enter the maze when he hear footsteps behind him. Shade whirled around. This must be the other guildless champion... he thought as the person appeared from around the street corner.

Shade's eyes widened as he saw him. He was wearing a bizarre silver tri-cornered fedora with a dark green band, tucked over one eye. He wore silver dress pants and a silver bow tie over a dark green short-sleeved shirt. He was also about average height, with blond hair and sharp teeth.He was very clearly light elf.

Shade decided to act nicely to him, in the hopes of winning an ally. So he grinned and stretched out his hand and said "Hey, you must be the other Guildless Champion. I'm..."

"Severan Calerus Torin, son and heir of Isperia, and future leader of Azorius Senate. " the stranger finished, and then, shaking Shade's outstretched hand, said, "Hi, I'm Trykster Rivelle. Call me Tryk."

Shade shook his hand, dumbfounded. Well, he has maners. At least he doesn't call me disgraced son of Isperia, like others do. But how did he know me?

"How did you know who I am?" Shade asked.

He replied, "Back when I was a member of the Conclave, you came to visit us as an ambassador for your father. Remember, Severan?"

"Oh yeah." replied Shade, recalling the memory.

"Oh, by the way, please call me Shade." he said.

Tryk's eyes widened. "Wait, you're Shade? As in the Shade, master thief?"

"Yup." Shade replied the grin.

"The Shade who stole the Blood Ruby from under the noses of two hundred soldiers of the Boros Legion? And stole Syndicate mag Set's magic belt while he was wearing it, and addressing a crowd of three hundred people?"

"Yup, that Shade" he replied with grin.

Tryk shook his head with wonder. "You are very skilled."

"And as I hear, so are you." replied Shade. "Members of Gruul say that you can control the winds. Is that true?' Shade had also heard the Gruuls calling him 'Mad Windy' but he wasn't going to tell him that.

"Yes," boasted Tryk, "I once sent a dozen imps packing with my winds when they came to drive me off their land."

Shade nodded, impressed. Now's the time to strike an alliance. "Seeing how powerful we both are, I think it would be mutually beneficial to have an alliance. Not to mention that, seeing as we're both guildless, the other champions will try to kill us off quick."

Tryk considered it for a second before saying, "Yes, the three of us will be a team hard to beat!" "Three?" asked Shade, confused.

"Yes,"confirmed Tryk, "You, me, and my lover, Asmira."

Saying that, he lifted up a locket. "Would you like to meet her?" Shade looked at his face to see if he was joking, but he looked completely serious.

"Umm...no thank you, Tryk. We should really enter the maze now." He nodded and as they entered the maze Shade found himself wondering if this alliance was a good idea.

Shade and Tryk walked along the dark corridor until they came to the end, where two large gates stood locked, opposite each other. One was made of gold, the other of silver. Shade felt himself drawn to the silver gate while Tryk seemed attracted to the gold.

Suddenly, a deep booming voice sounded through the corridor saying "Welcome, Champions!"

Tryk asked, "Who are you?"

The voice laughed before replying, "I am the Maze! What do you know of Planeswalking?" Shade looked at Tryk, who shrugged.

So he said,"Nothing. Please enlighten us."

The Maze replied. "Planeswalking is the ability of travelling between planes. For a person to bring himself from one dimension to another. You two must tarvel to the Pantheon of Taj-Nar and seek out one of the Twenty-one Key Scribes, and get their key from them. Then you must return and go through these gates. And before you ask, I cannot help you planeswalk." Then the voice faded.

"Meet you at the Pantheon." Shade called to Tryk, before attempting to Planeswalk. He tried to force himself out of the dimension but couldn't.

Then he remembered one of Zeren's oldest teachings. Don't force yourself to hit the target. Just let your thoughts flow, calm yourself, and try. He took a deep breath and let his thoughts flow through him. Shade calmed himself down as he imagined that he was not solid, but liquid. And like water through a sieve, he felt his spirit flow into the space between dimensions.

He could see even with his eyes closed the glowing doorways of the other dimensions. One glowed brighter than the others, and he felt that that was the one he needed to go through, so his spirit self walked through the doorway.

Suddenly, Shade's spirit rejoined his body, and he found myself in a huge marble hall. In front of us was a stairway which led up to a balcony that ran round the whole room. There were doorways out of the hall on either side of us, and other doorways opening onto the part of the balcony on our left. Miniature pillars topped with life sized marble and stone soldiers lined the walls of the hall, and along the balcony on the side closest to the wall.

Tryk was a few feet away from him. They spoke and after some deliberation decided to explore upstairs. They had climbed the stairs and were walking along the left side of the balcony when Shade heard whoosh of wind, and the sweep of wings. He looked up at an arch nearby and saw that a helioproct (bird person) with large brown wings had flown into the room.

In his two human hands, he carried a wooden staff and a silver sword. A silver key dangled from his belt, and Shade knew instantly that he was a key scribe.

"Rise and kill them!" he shouted and then flew out of the room. Three stone warrior statues jumped down from their pedestals to block Shade and Tryk's way. Shade turned around to run but another three blocked their way to the stairs. Tryk flung out his hand at those three, and the air beneath them exploded and they were thrown into the air before they landed on the marble floor below and broke into pieces.

With a roar, the statues from behind them ran towards them, swords raised. Tryk yelled "Run!" and Shade and Tryk sprinted down the stairs and through a doorway.

Several rooms, later, they emerged into a large courtyard in the middle of the structure, open to the sky. Shade was tired, and he could see that Tryk was too, but the statues were still in pursuit. Then he noticed the large pond in the middle of the courtyard and a plan formed in his mind.

"Tryk! Has that spell you used earlier recharged?" he shouted as they ran towards the other end of the courtyard.

"Yup." he replied

"Then use it! I have an idea!" And they skidded to stop and looked towards where the statues were running towards them.

Tryk repeated the spell, and the stone soldiers were thrown back. They fell, and as they started to get up, Shade drew water from the pond and controlling it, slammed the soldiers back into the wall near the entrance.

He held them there with the water as he forced it into the cracks in their stone, widening them until they split open and they broke into pieces. Then Shade released the water and collapsed onto the ground. They both lay on the ground for a while, winded and tired.

After a bit, Tryk said "Good job, Shade! Are you rested now?" "Yeah." replied Shade, taking a drink from his canteen.

"Now I'm sure that they're hiding something on the upper floors. Let's check it out." Tryk agreed and they went up another flight of stairs then proceeded to go through several rooms, guessing which doors would lead them to their goal.

After a while of this they emerged into a large hall. Golden light filled the room from several arches, and reflected off gold paint in the room. The result was that visibility was low due to the blinding glow. Shade and Tryk walked through it slowly, looking for traps.

When they were near the middle of the room, Shade sensed a presence behind him, and he turned, slashing his sword. The being became visible for a moment as the ghostly spirit it was as Shade's sword cut through it, before it dissipated and its weapon clattered to the ground.

Suddenly ghost soldirs appeared all around Shade and Tryk, just visible in the golden light. Other non-spirit forms appeared too, leaping towards them and Shade knew that they had walked right into a trap. Then he laughed as he realized exactly how to beat them.

"Shield your eyes!" he cried to Tryk as he activated the light aura spell. His entire body started to light up, and he glowed with an incredibly powerful light, that outshone the golden glow in the room. As usual he couldn't see for the first five seconds of the spell but then it wore out.

Then he went into a battle frenzy for the next ten seconds, dancing around the room slashing down Leonin (lion-men) soldiers who for those ten seconds were dazed and blind due to his spell. The ghosts had all dissipated on exposure to the powerful light magic, so there were only the Leonins to deal with.

After ten seconds all their enemy soldiers had either been killed by Shade or knocked out by Tryk's wind magic.

"Well, that was a massacre." Tryk said with a smile. Shade grinned and replied

"Yup. They totally underestimated us."

Just as they were about to leave the room, Shade heard a groan, and turned to see a Leonin soldier with a bump on his head start to get up. Shade ran to him and put the blade of his sword on the back of the Leonin's neck in case he tried to attack them.

The soldier then let himself drop again, his lion face looking to the side, up at Shade.

"Do it." he said. "Finish me off. You've beaten me and killed my soldiers. It's your right to slay me too."

Shade felt a little confused at that but said, "You may want death, but its against my moral code to kill an unarmed person. So I spare your life." And he withdrew his sword and backed away once he was sure that the soldier wouldn't try to attack him.

The Leonin rose and looked at Shade before laughing and saying "I feel there is a great similarity between us, human. We both honor our respective moral codes. May I know your name?"

"I am Shade the Planeswalker." Shade replied simply, not wanting to speak of his grand titles.

"This is Tryk." he added, gesturing to Tryk, who looked unhappy that Shade had spared the Leonin's life.

"He will betray us!" shouted Tryk angrily.

"No, I won't." replied the Leonin. "As Shade has spared my life, I owe him a great debt. I am King Taral Goldsmane, descendant of the renowned Ajani Goldsmane and Lord of all Leonins under Key Scribe Thrun. Shade, Is there anything I can do to help you?"

Shade grinned, not believing his luck, and nodded. "Take me to Thrun!" he said. The Leonin agreed to do so and led Shade and Tryk through a series of corridors and passageways. It was at one of these corridors that they came upon a stairway leading down. Taral insisted that his master was further along, but Tryk said that he could feel something down the stairs.

"Asmira senses it!" he declares."I think it's the helioproct we saw earlier. If you're not coming Shade, then I'll go alone. See you later!" and with he ran down the stairs.

Shade was unhappy about the loss of an ally but he still followed Taral Goldsmane until they came out into a large hall lined on either side with statues. A few Leonin soldiers leaped at him but Taral ordered them back.

He led Shade to the middle of the room, where there was a marble chess table on a pedestal. Two chairs were set up, but only the one facing Shade was occupied. The person was clearly a light elf, with a shock of white hair and blue eyes. His clean shaven face looked eagerly at Shade.

"Taral, usually I would punish you for bringing this one here, but you have ended my wait!" And with that he stood up and drew a long sword from a scabbard.

"I have waited for centuries for this moment, champion! You have no idea how boring it is to sit here, watching Leonin fight with each other. They won't learn chess, or any other form of intellectual sport. All they care about are weapons. So state your name and then we can fight, and then I can finally leave!"

Shade knew that he stood a slim chance against a man who had had hundreds of years to train in swordsmanship, so he tried something else instead.

"Centuries without intellectual stimulation?" he said with pretend sympathy, "You must be bored out of your mind. Why don't we play a riddling game instead of fighting?"

"A riddling game?" asked the scribe, lowering his sword.

"Yes. We each ask each other riddles until one of us can't solve the other's riddle.That person loses. If I win you give me your key and if you win you get to kill me. I think you'd find this mentally stimulating game a lot more fun than a swordfight."

The scribe thought for a second and then said "Sounds good." and he gesture the empty chair.

Shade and the scribe sat down and the scribe said, "I'll start. What has teeth but no mouth?"

Good one thought Shade as he pondered it but then the answer came to him "A comb." he answered.

"Correct!" replied the scribe with a grin. "Your turn."

Shade said "What is tall when young and short when old?" This was a common riddle among Azorius but he doubted that the scribe had heard it.

Thrun looked deep in thought until, a minute later, he exclaimed, "Of course! It's a lit candle!"

Shade nodded, unhappy that he had got it. "Your turn." he said.

The scribe said, "What is greater than the gods, more evil than than the devils, that rich people need and poor people have, and if you eat it you will die?"

That's a good one thought Shade, his mind whirring. The gods were the greatest beings in the universe, and the devils were their counterparts and the very essence of evil. Shade knew that the rich always desired money but he knew that that couldn't be the answer as the poor people didn't have it. In fact, Shade had seen the poor on the streets of Ravnica and pitied as they had nothing.

Wait. That's it! thought Shade and he answered triumphantly "Nothing!"

The scribe nodded and said, "Good job! I didn't expect you to get that one.This is fun, your turn."

Shade quickly thought of one and said, "It has no doors, openings, key or lid, but golden treasure inside is hid. What is it?"

He seemed confused by that and looked off into the distance or a few minutes, muttering to himself. Then he turned to Shade suddenly and said, "Got it! It's an egg."

Shade nodded, impressed. The mage continued, "That was a good one, but mine is better. He who makes it has no need for it, he who buys it has no use for it, and he who uses it does not know he is using it. What is it?"

Shade was extremely skilled at riddles but even he had never heard this one. He struggled with it and failed. He knew he couldn't solve this riddle. Well, it looks as if I'm going home in a coffin. he thought miserably. Then, in a flash, he got the answer.

"A coffin." he said with pride.

The scribe nodded, looking flabbergasted that he had got it.

"My turn," said Shade with a grin. He had come up with a riddle that he knew Thrun couldn't solve.

"What is a creature born of light and darkness?"

The scribe said, "Good one." and started thinking. He muttered to himself.

An hour or so later, he said with a sad look "I don't know." and passed the key over to Shade. "What is the Answer?"

"Me." Shade answered with a grin.

Thrun laughed at that and shook Shade's had saying, "Good game!" and with that he disappeared to the place he came from.

After he had, Taral said, "Shade, for sparing my life, I have decided to award you an honor not usually awarded to one not of my people." Then he raised his paw-hand and the other Leonins gathered around us.

"Shade the Planeswalker!" he intoned, "By Ajani Goldsmane and the Gods of the Leonin, I make Shade an honorary member of my family and my Leonin tribe!" And he placed the string over Shade's neck, and the other Leonin bowed to him. Shade immediately felt a little light headed. He could feel from the atmosphere that this was an honor not often bestowed.

He said, "I am honored, Taral." and bowed his head.

Taral did the same before saying, "You deserved it. It was a favour from an honourable soldier to another." Shade thanked him and held his slim silver key up to the sunlight. Suddenly it glowed brightly, encasing Shade. Then the glow faded and Shade found himself in front of the silver gate in the Maze.

"Good job, little one!" came the maze's booming voice. "You kept calm and beat him with your intelligence. But will your brains always be enough? We will see." Then it faded.

Shade opened the gate with his key. The opening emanated golden light and he could not see anything beyond it. He felt scared, but he pushed his fear to the back of his mind and walked through the gate to meet his next challenge.
Last edited by LordZeus on Fri Jan 15, 2016 6:12 am, edited 2 times in total.





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Chaser says...



Sibylla Rathbone / Izzet League / Rust Gate

Sibylla leaned wearily on her staff in front of the Rust Gate, wondering whether she could just trick the Maze with psychic magic.

No, came a telepathic answer. No, you can’t. Maybe you could with fire magic, but...

“Glorified brick heap,” Sibylla muttered bitterly.

Shriveled hag, the Maze riposted.

I could turn around right now, and your entire plan would fall apart.

But you won’t, because you have nothing better to do.

Sibylla gritted her teeth. Psychic magic could be irritating at times.

A crunch of gravel alerted her as an Aapep woman walked up. The worst types of people were the young and friendly; Sibylla had a feeling that this one was no exception. The woman opened her mouth to speak.

“Don’t even think about it,” Sibylla murmured, twisting her staff in the gravel. She’d had enough useless conversation for one day.

“Excuse me?” The woman looked surprised, her naivety apparent. She’d lose that eventually; especially in a place like the Dragon Maze.

“You heard me. Don’t even think about it.” Sibylla put a repulsive edge behind her voice. There was no point in befriending somebody you were going to try to kill.

Turning back to the gate, she gazed at the crimson, twisted door, wreathed in purple bellflowers. Stoic trees bristled softly on either side of the road, the sunlight shining through dappled leaves. The entire effect was surreal, like a scene of a fairytale.

Why thank you, I decorated it myself.

Was I talking to you? Sibylla growled.

If you weren’t, you are now. The Maze paused for a second. Alright, I think we’re about ready to begin. Sibylla Rathbone! Psychic Master of the Izzet League! Welcome to the Dragon Maze!

Sibylla swallowed and tightened her grip on the gnarled oak staff.

You’ll be faced with twenty-two trials, courtesy of yours truly. The first one is just beyond that door.

The old woman nodded and started forward.

But wait, there’s more! Amusement began to show in the Maze’s speech. Once you’re through that door, there’s only one way to get to the first trial: Planeswalking. Don’t worry about how to do it, because people who can’t figure it out quickly aren’t worthy of these trials anyway.

Lovely, Sibylla thought dryly.

Assuming you can do that, the first trial will consist of...a fetch-quest! Find the Key Scribe in your realm, then ask and/or force them to give you the key that will open the next trial.

Sibylla nodded. Is that all?

For now. The Rust Gate began to grind open, revealing a landscape of flaming tar beyond it. Good luck, Miss Rathbone. With that, the voice was gone.

The wizened schoolteacher huffed, stalking towards the gate. The image of the burning land seemed odd, almost...painted, too still to be real. She reached out her hand, closing her eyes. No. This place was real. Believing that fully, she stepped through.

Instantly, a wave of heat assailed her, the sky seeming alight with crimson flames. She shrugged it off, walking into the rocky wilderness. Izzet’s furnaces burned twice as hot as this place.

Eventually, Sibylla found herself hobbling through a blackened canyon, the ashes stirred up by the wind, sifting down from the cliffs like somber snow. She pulled her cloak up over her face, shielding herself from the burning air.

Faintly, the sounds of fighting could be heard further down the canyon. Sibylla pressed herself against a rock, peering around a bend in the pass.

“Agh...agh...agh…” High-pitched grunts could be heard as a shadow rounded the bend. Sibylla readied her staff, concealing herself while prowling forward.

A goblin stumbled around the corner, clearly exhausted. Sibylla could see a pot lid strapped to its chest in a shoddy attempt at armor. Its black eyes darted around nervously, checking behind it as well for any pursuers. Breathing a sigh of relief, it sank against the rock wall.

She caught the goblin by surprise, lifting it up and flinging it against the wall with Telekinesis. Sibylla pushed the tip of her staff against its throat, snarling. “If you so much as think of alerting your allies, I promise that your death will be the most painful.” Her murderous eyes flashed as the staff dug a bit deeper.

The green-skinned imp stared fearfully down at her. “F-f-f-fire worshiper!” he squeaked.

“Now, you’re going to tell me everything you know-” Sibylla paused, taken aback. “What did you say?”

Tears streamed from the goblin’s eyes as he blubbered, “I don’t wanna die, Miss Fire Worshiper...please! I can give you a torch or something - maybe even a bonfire! And hot sauce! Just...please!” His black eyes shone as he begged, sobbing.

The small pang of guilt that Sibylla felt was quickly consumed by the burgeoning hellfire that had been awakened inside her, a raging insanity that no ale could quench. Drawing a knife from her pocket, she thrust it to the goblin’s cheek. “Fire worshiper?” she snarled. “Fire worshiper! Who in their right mind would worship a stinking heap of gas?”

Confusion began to show on the goblin’s face. “What-”

“Tell me where these fire-worshippers are,” Sibylla continued lividly, “so that I might scour them from the face of existence. There is only one destiny for the flames. Death.” Judging by the goblin’s expression, she was getting more and more terrifying by the second.

The goblin’s eyes lit up. “I-I could show you! But first, please let me go, Miss Fire-”

He yelped as the knife stabbed into the rock beside his head. “Rathbone,” Sibylla corrected calmly, gazing down her nose at him. “My name is Miss Rathbone. Remember that.”

The old woman removed her staff and knife, allowing the goblin to drop to the ground. It rubbed its throat, smiling nervously. “Well, i-it’s a pleasure, Miss Rathbone. Ey Bickers, at your service!” He offered a handshake, which the woman coldly refused.

Bickers got to his feet, straightening his pot lid. “I can take you to the fire-worshipper fortress, as long as you protect me on our way. Deal?” His eyes shone earnestly up at the psychic mage.

Sibylla snorted. “Deal.”

Bickers nodded, paling slightly. “Good. Um...just follow me, then!” With that, he scampered off down the canyon, leaving Sibylla to run in order to keep up.

Something registered in the back of her mind then, something about a key...but this too was burned in the all-consuming inferno that would incinerate all in its path. A hellfire born of psychic magic.

-------------------------


Bickers was still running; Maze goblins seemed to be a bit quicker than normal ones. He rounded corners like a gust of wind, and sometimes Sibylla would have to blaze forward with Telekinesis just to keep up.

The goblin would sometimes glance back, see Sibylla, and immediately speed up. They were now in the heart some kind of rock maze, one that Bickers desperately wanted to complete.

The high stone cliffs loomed over them, jagged red rocks split like teeth. Bickers was heaving, starting to slow as exhaustion overtook him. Eventually, he tripped over a pebble and hit the ground, clanging his pot lid.

Sibylla caught up, wiping sweat from her forehead. Bickers lifted a bruised chin from the earth, looking up. When he saw her standing there, he scrambled back. “H-how-”

“Where is the fortress?” Sibylla asked, folding her arms. “I certainly can’t see any signs of it. We’ve been wandering for a while now - are you lost?” She put a bit of force into the accusation.

Bickers grinned, waving his hands frantically in front of him. “Wh-wh-what? Me, lost? No, real goblins don’t get lost!” He scratched his head. “Um, the fortress...should be just around a few more of these corners!”

Sibylla stepped forward, leaning down to face him. “Are you sure? Because I’m believe we’ve taken the same left five times now.”

Bickers squeaked, his green skin paling. “O-oh, you do? Well...I...um…” The goblin began to sweat, furiously scratching his head as though to dig an excuse through his skull.

The psychic mage had heard enough. Advancing, she seized Bickers by the handle of his pot-armor, lifting him off the ground. “I’ll ask you once more. Where is the fortress?” Her knife flicked out from the folds of her robe, the blade pressing against the goblin’s arm.

Bickers’ eyes went wide, his voice ascending to a high-pitched squeal. “Um...well! You see, I don’t actually-”

That was when the sound of raucous chanting reached their ears. It burst around the passages of the rock maze, reverberating against the stone walls. Scores of voices cheering the same words, the same rhythm. Praise the lightning, praise the fire! Let the flames be lifted higher, in this song our hearts inspire! Praise the glory of the fire!

Sibylla immediately dropped the goblin and dashed to the corner, peering around it. Her eyes widened as she laid eyes upon a crowd of fire-worshipers.

They were a jumbled mess of limbs and torches, dancing around their campground. Each fire-worshiper was clad in barely a cloth and tools, merrily swarming about each other with their torches. Trails of flame licked up at the sky as they whirled in chaotic harmony. But even this was nothing compared to what blazed behind them.

A roaring fire cast the barbarians into shadow, a crimson storm that reached up to the clouds. It flared up, brighter and hotter, as a group of workers poured a pot of black liquid around the base. Before it, a shaman stood, arms wide as though to embrace the intense heat.

Sibylla smiled. “So, you were hiding here,” she crooned, her withered fingers clenching into a fist.

She turned back to Bickers, who was muttering frantically to himself. “W-we actually found them? But I was going the complete-” He immediately shut his mouth as Sibylla walked over.

The goblin stared up at the Izzet mage. “S-so, uh...I did it!” He offered a chuckle, but this was doused by Sibylla’s cold glare.

“Um...can I…?”

“Of course.” Sibylla’s gaze softened, and she turned away, starting for the barbarian camp. “Do what you want with that life of yours. I’ve no further use for it.”

The old woman activated Illusion, quickly slipping around the corner and into the camp. Wasting no time, she weaved in and out of the crowd, making sure to keep her magic up. Inching along the edge of the dancers, she scooted around the bonfire.

Sibylla smirked, cackling softly. “I’ll show you to fear psychic magic, you uncultured barbarians!” On that word, she released the Illusion, allowing her shadow to be cast along the high rock wall.

“Worshippers of fire!” she roared, splaying her hands wide. “Repent of your barbaric ways, and worship the true master of the universe! The mind!” With that, she thrust her staff forward, and all hell broke loose.

The crowd melted into a mixture of merriment and madness, torches tossed at Sibylla’s shadow in some strange attempt at worship. Then again, it could’ve been defiance; the two were hardly distinguishable here.

The leader, the barbarian’s shaman, dashed around the sacred fire to find an old woman focusing intently. With a wave of her staff, she activated Telekinesis and tore the pots of oil from beside the fire, rotating them around her.

The shaman’s eyes seemed to widen behind his mask. “Stop her!” he yelled.

“If you love fire so much, then you shouldn’t mind burning!” Sibylla cackled as she waved her oak staff, shooting the pots forward one by one.

Vats of flaming oil burst through the fire and crashed into the frenzied crowd, mercilessly burning them alive. It also didn’t help that they tried to fix the situation with more fire.

Sibylla raised her staff again, this time pointing at the shaman who stood, horrified, beside her. “Now, I believe it’s time for a change in leadership.”

The barbarian snarled, whipping his arms around in a demented dance. Heat singed Sibylla’s back, and she rolled forward as the flames burst out in her direction.

Sibylla got to one knee, brushing the soot from her cloak. “A fire mage. I suspected as much.” Leaning on her staff, she stood up. “You wouldn’t happen to be the Key Scribe, would you?”

The fire-shaman dashed forward, composure lost in a wordless cry of grief and rage. Sibylla activated Illusion once more, slipping past as he charged. “I suppose that’s a no,” she sighed, casting her staff out again.

A wave of telekinesis blasted the shaman off of his feet. Sibylla lifted him up by the throat, bored contempt on her face.

“What a waste of time,” she muttered, flinging the shaman into the fire. The barbarian was silent as the flames engulfed him, his bone-mask melting in the white-hot coals.

Sibylla turned away as the crimson beast ate the hand that fed it. The excitement of battle escaped her lungs with a sigh. The memories of her true task came back, one by one. Planeswalk. Find the Key Scribe, get the Key. Try not to die along the way. She found herself insulted by the simplicity of it all.

All the years of fruitless toil, of pointless tests, meant nothing to her. It appeared that this other world was just like Izzet. “Dragon Maze,” she said softly, raising her head to look at the hellish sky, “if you’re just going to waste my time, I will leave.” She spat the words into the smoky air, glaring at the ease of this divine fool that called itself the Dragon Maze.

As if to answer her insolence, a bone-chilling snarl came from within the fire. Sibylla whirled around to see the masked shaman sitting up on the pyre. The flames curled over his skin, burning in his clenched fists. Slowly, he stood, as the half-melted mask crumbled away to reveal an expression of pure wrath. Pure white eyes burning like the sun, he let out a deafening roar. The great fire echoing his fury, blazing wildly, doubling in intensity. Slowly, it began to take the shape of a giant torso, arms raised forward and trapping the mage against the wall.

Sibylla backed away. “You’re...not…”

“Not human?” The shaman let out a cold, cruel laugh. “No, I suppose I’m not. Take notes, schoolteacher. And watch them burn in the flames of an ifrit!” He thrust his arm out, the avatar mimicking his movements. Sibylla flung up a wall of telekinesis as the holocaust burst around her, charring the rock wall black.

The ifrit smiled, swinging its other fist around without missing a beat. The psychic mage grunted as the force of fire continually smashed against the barrier, each blow like a red-hot needle jabbing into her brain.

You asked for this.

“Shut up,” she muttered, though she couldn’t tell if it was the maze or her own delirium. Never mind that, she needed to think. She’d heard of ifrits, and certainly researched them plenty over the years. There had to be something she could use.

“Face your judgement, mortal!” the ifrit roared as it shoved the flames forward in one devastating beam. Sibylla fell to her knees as the ray of heat splashed over her.

That’s right. Ifrits were demon judges, known for their literal trial-by-fires. They had complete immunity to and control of fire, as well as a powerfully perceptive stare, with white-hot eyes that could see through any lie.

Sibylla’s eyes flashed. That’s it. White-hot eyes that could see through any lie. Now, the path to victory was clear. Leaning on her staff, she stood up from the blackened ground.

Raising her hand, the psychic mage forcibly dashed the flames to the side, the blaze petering out. The ifrit drew back, shock written on his face. He gritted his teeth. “Why won’t you die when I tell you to? You’re pissing me off!” Clenching his fists, he screamed, and the fire rose even higher around him, this time pulsing blood-red. The flames fed on the charred corpses of the fire-worshipers, flaring out with murderous intent.

Sibylla calmly raised her staff as the inferno grew, driving her back. Her lip curled in a smirk. “You fool,” she murmured, clear white magic gathering at the tip of her staff.

The shaman yelled as the flames scorched outwards, driving Sibylla against the wall. The excruciating heat was now dangerously close to her, searing her exposed skin.

The psychic mage thrust her staff forward. As of now, this battle was her victory. “Mind Piercer!” she cried as a bolt of white lightning flew from her staff, zipping through the fire and striking the ifrit in the head.

What happened next was sheer chaos. The ifrit started screaming as blisters appeared on his body, quickly charring and blackening at the center of the inferno. The fire seemed to twist and writhe with him as well, contorting upon itself in agony. A creature immune to fire was being burnt alive.

Waving its hands wildly, the barbarian shaman dispelled the flames, the embers dissipating into the crimson air. With a grunt of pain, he fell to his knees, hideous burns covering his body.

“It was smart of you to introduce yourself as an ifrit,” Sibylla said as she walked forward. “It certainly occupied me for a bit.”

She chuckled. “But you did forget one crucial detail.” She waved a finger, as though lecturing another one of her students. “The eyes of an ifrit can see through any lies, or similar spells. I used an illusion spell to invade your camp. But you didn’t see me. How is this possible?”

The ifrit’s mouth hung open; his tongue had been burned to a stump. A dry whimper cracked from his throat.

Sibylla smiled. “Correct.” She jabbed a finger at her fallen foe. “It’s because you aren’t an ifrit. In other words, you aren’t actually immune to fire. That was the work of a spell.” She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “You cast it while you were running at me, didn’t you?”

No response.

She shrugged, walking around the shaman of ash. “In any case, it had to be a spell. All I had to do was disrupt that; the fire did the rest.”

The shaman’s remaining eye stared at her, bloodshot and wide with fear. Sibylla stood over him, the knife dropping from her sleeve into her hand. She raised it, smiling slightly. “You know, I was wrong,” she said to the barbarian. “I haven’t had this much fun in years.” The blade began to fall.

“Wait!” The cry came from behind her. “That’s enough, Miss Fire-worshipper!”

Sibylla whirled around, releasing her focus. Ey Bickers stood with his arm outstretched, looking relieved as the shaman slumped to the ground.

The goblin wiped a bit of sweat from his brow. “That’s enough, Miss Planeswalker.”

Sibylla’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean-”

“Yep!” Bickers pounded his pot lid and smiled. “I’m one of the 21 Key Scribes! Ey Bickers!” He giggled into his palm. “Quite a clever little moniker, if I do say so myself.”

Sibylla rubbed her chin, deep in thought. “So, you’re the Key Scribe. I don’t suppose you’ll give me the Key without a fuss?” She summoned a little more flaming tar with her staff, glaring at the goblin.

Bickers’ eyes went wide as he waved his hands. “What? No! I’m...far too powerful for a mere mortal to…” His attempt to save face withered beneath Sibylla’s menacing onslaught.

Bickers coughed into his fist. “Rather, what I mean is, you’ve earned it! Yes, you have earned this Key of Passing!” Loosening the straps behind his back, he slid the pot lid from his body. He held it in front of him for a moment; he then removed the lid and reached into a pocket of thin air.

The goblin’s beady black eyes gleamed as he retrieved a small golden key. “This is for your honesty, courage, and sheer brutality. All traits of a fine warrior!” The key glinted gold as he tossed it.

Sibylla raised her hand and snatched it out of the air. As her fingers met the metal, Bickers’ image flashed, blinding her momentarily. When her vision returned, a young man in a scarlet robe stood before her, chuckling mirthfully; this was the goblin’s true form.

“Now go on and show the world the power of psychic magic!” Ey Bickers said as he vanished in a pulse of fire, winking out of existence.

Sibylla leaned wearily on her staff, examining her prize. It was an important key, but where was the lock?

Perhaps it’s back in the Maze. The schoolteacher stared at the key. But how do I get back?

The Maze’s words returned to her. Planeswalking. Walking between planes...slipping through dimensions, in other words.

Sibylla scoffed quietly. The whole notion sounded ridiculous. But then again, everything was ridiculous from a certain point of view.

Closing her eyes, she whispered, “I am a Planeswalker.” A common phrase and technique of psychic students; it really had no place in the Maze. But it was a symbol of belief, of will, and that was apparently what she needed.

She, Sibylla Rathbone, was a Psychic Master of the Izzet League. And a Planeswalker.
Sibylla opened her eyes to the warmth of the sun. The Rust Gate stood open before her, still lined with beautiful purple flowers. This time, however, it led down a corridor, farther into the maze.

She walked inside, moving through the darkness until she found a door. It was a tall azure gate with a golden keyhole, just the size of the trinket in her pocket.

Placing the key in the door, she turned the lock, jumping back a bit as the key shattered. The door began to rumble open, revealing a bright light beyond it.

Sibylla smiled. “Perhaps this won’t be so pointless after all…”
The hardest part of writing science fiction is knowing actual science. The same applies for me and realistic fiction.





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Steggy says...



Manelau RiTimm | Gruul Clan | Ivy Gate

It was a cloudy day with a small blue patch in the sky. The warm wind was blowing outside, gently enough to make the wind chimes sing by the wood door. There were small birds fluttering around outside, tweeting a little song while a young minotaur worked hard in the nearby field. Manelau had the day off from fighting, suggested from Rus, and do the important things in life. Even though Manelau fought Rus on it, Rus always wins. Manelau slaved over the field of different vegetables and fruits, most of which were different colors such as lynchberry (a small green fruit with small pockets in the skin), ockerdream (a huge, yellow pumpkin-like veggie that tasted like strawberries), and hemjunk (a plum sized, squash yellow vegetable that smells and tastes like meat- it is also very poisonous).
Mane couldn't wrap the idea of "grabbing a fruit/vegetable by the top and pulling" concept. He would spend forever just doing a simple task, digging around with his big hands and try to pull out the food needed. When he did this, it would move a little bit but not come out. So, he stuck with just planting the food and waiting for it to grow. Rus wasn't pleased as it was his field Manelau was tending. Day after day, Rus would see Manelau lounging in the shade of the big family tree.
After a few more days, Manelau's seeds grew into the plants Rus wanted- every single one growing off and into the distance. It was quite emotional for Rus. Mane didn't care. In fact, he didn't care about anything. Until, of course, the Campacti came.
Manelau was minding his business, staring up at the different leaves of the big family tree- some were golden, some were cherry red, and some were a little purple. It was a peaceful summer day, enough to make some sleep and wake up confused. Rus was busy doing stuff inside of the hut, planning and working hard for Manelau's next "big" battle at the Stomping Grounds. The air felt lazy, and Mane felt even lazier. Even though the month's harvest was over, he enjoyed it. He had to do something to keep him preoccupied. Manelau sat up, looking hard at the field ahead of him.
The warm wind was gently moving the dry grass, like an ocean of tan. Something was moving out there. Manelau thought, shifting in his sitting position. For a few more minutes, nothing moved. The grass kept have tides and ripples. Bored. It was then that a flicker of a silver tail, was poking out from under the grass. It could've been missed in a blink of an eye. It could've just been an mirage. But Manelau, as stubborn as he is, knew it was something.

The Campacti was snickering softly, crawling with its belly that was touching the moist dirt. It seemed to be more like a crocodile than a dragon, with a long thrashing, silver tail and a pair of blue eyes. Small, grey wings were on the Campacti's back gleaming in the afternoon sun. He spotted the minotaur when flying in the air and decided to stop by. It was a task mentioned to him briefly by the head leader, Borborygmos at a meeting. At the time, the Campacti was training for the Dragonel Training Camp and so happened just overheard. Bor spotted the young creature and ordered him to find the minotaur. A "simple task", as Borbotygmos called it. "All you have to do is get and bring him here."
Now, the Campacti stared at Manelau. He was completely unaware of the dragon-like crocodile there, thinking it was the wind itself.

Manelau shrugged. "If you want to play that game, we can play that game." It was a vague response, since he could or could not be talking to the wind. The cooling wind seemed to die down a little, resorting to the warm heat that was before. He was lazy. He didn't want to battle the wind (or the Campacti)- wanted to relax for the majority of it before his had to leave. Maybe the wind was a sign to get up and go, or a calming side-effect to just relaxing. Mane liked to relax, sure, but something was growing in his stomach to get up and do something. He did have the day off from fighting, but it was just boring sitting around. Pulling on every strength he had left, Manelau sat up. He could see a sliver body slithering through the tall weeds and grass. Scales gleamed in the sun like a piece of metal a hermit might want, and wings tucked tightly against its body.

Oh well. There goes my break for the day. The summer sun was beating down as Manelau waiting in front of tree. The Campacti could see him waiting, crossing his arms and staring. It was a challenge. It was a promise. The Campacti ran a little faster before clearing the field and before he knew it, he was picked up in the air by the throat.

"Who are you and how did you get here?" the young minotaur spat. The Campacti clawed at his strong hand, gasping for air.

"I-if you co-could let-t go, it-t mi-" Manelau let go of the poor Campacti's throat. The dragon sucked in a deep breathe, and wheezed. He looked up daringly at the minotaur.

"Do you do that often to strange creatures?"

Manelau shrugged and crossed his arms once again. "More or less. Now, answer my question."

"You didn't say please," mumbled the dragon. He was poking at the ground with a small nail. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not allowed to tell you who I am. That's defeats the purpose of all of this. However, I have to take you somewhere so if you could just trust me, everything wi-" Manelau once again grabbed the Campacti by the throat.

"I do not trust a slithy prick like yourself. I do not trust anyone who won't tell me their name or where they are from. And I especially don't trust anyone who sneaks up on me. Do I make myself clear?" The minotaur warned, and then threw the dragon on the ground. "Don't show your face here ever again."

"Please... Borborygmos needs you."

The name sparked a fire in Manelau's core. What does that bastard want?

"Why does he need me?"

"Don't you know? The Trails..." the Campacti swallowed and looked up at the sky. "I see the light.. I might go towards the light."

"Tch. You are being overdramatic," the minotaur stated. "You need to get yourself up and take me to the Trails. I made a promise. I don't want to break that promise."

The Campacti raised an eyelid. "Are you sure?"

--------


They flew over the forests that Manelau never knew about. Lush green trees sailed by as the Campacti carried him by the arms. At first, he was scared of heights and tried to find a way to go to the Trails- except by flying.

"Could we walk?"

"My feet are not made for walking."

"How about swimming?"

"Can minotaurs even swim?"

Manelau glared at the Campacti, clenching his fists. The afternoon sun was setting when they flew into the air. Small, sapphire blue lakes and different amounts of creatures traveling in packs were seen from above. It was truly remarkable, sure, but Manelau was clinging for dear life. The Campacti snickered, sometimes pretending to let go of his grasp.

"Don't you think about it. If I go down, you are coming with me."

It was a long flight, and the setting sun was a proving a difficult task. Despite the Campacti was a flying creature, it can't see in the dark. This meant Manelau was more scared than worried.

"Can't we j-just land o-or something?"

"I've always thought a minotaur would be a sign of strength, not fear."

The sky above them was fading to an inky black. A watery blue was staining the violet spectrum, a wave of pink was splashed about. It was getting colder, and a little winder.

"But I suppose we could rest for a bit. Then first thing tomorrow morning, we'll be off." The Campacti slightly dipped his wings, heading to find a landing. The minotaur sighed. It was already a long day.

------


THe Campacti and Manelau rested for a little while by a stream located in the woods. The minotaur would tell stories about his battles to entertain the dragon, while the Campacti would explain the Dragonel Training Camp and how he wished to be like the great Dragonels that flew the skies.

"I've heard some things about he Dragonels. Very nasty and wicked creatures. I think my trainer was in the path of one on his way to work. Clawed a giant gash in his left arm," Manelau stated, showing how it might've happened. Later they both fell asleep, under the twinkling night sky watching over them.

In the morning, they were off. The Campacti explained the terrain Manelau was going to expect, the creature's movements and the plant life.

"It's probably the easiest out of the group of gates. I was only told that the worse gate is the rust gate, but I am sure you don't need to worry about something like that."

When they landed, Manelau patted the Campacti on the nose and said his farewells. As the dragon flew away, something pitted in Manelau's stomach; what if he wasn't going to see his friend again? He walked down a beaten path, variety of plant light. The sun shone through the leaves, creating such a calm feeling. Manelau sighed. He felt at ease and peaceful, as nothing could stop him. It was then that he saw the most prettiest thing ever; a centaur. Not just any centaur- a strawberry blonde colored horse person.
Of course, the minotaur didn't know how to react to this new "feeling" or completely compute what "to do", so he just walked. The Ivy Gate was covered in thick vines and chipping green paint, a few pink flowers were spotted about.

I could make some conversation with the competitor.

"So-"

"Don't speak to me," the centaur said, looking at Manelau from the corner of her eye. " Gruul.

"How-what-did-"

A sudden noise filled the air. It was beginning. It was an announcer speaking before, like his fear, vanished. Soon, something was buzzing in his head.

"Hello, Manelau RiTimm."

How are you in my thoughts?

"I'm... especially talented at doing so. Anyway. That isn't the problem at hand. Before you, there is the Ivy Gate. Unlike most of the gates here, this deals with foliage and skillful creatures. Although it is not like the Coral Gate, which focuses on killing the competitors, the creatures inside of the Ivy Gate are made to create potions galore. Poisonous, at that.

"When you first enter the Trials, you need to do two things: you must find the Trial entry. To find this you must Planeswalk, an easy task for those who dig deep. Soon after that you must find the Key Scribe and possibly "kill" him to get the Key of Passage. That will be your only way out."

How do I-

"Like I said, Planeswalk comes to those who think hard enough. Now, good luck!"
As the voice echoed away, Manelau's head felt a little clearer. The Ivy Gate opened, creaking and giving out a grumble when done. The centaur and the minotaur walked in. Different noises, like that of crazy jungle birds welcomed them. Screeching, hollering, and soft screams echoed around the jungle. When the gate closed, the sounds went silence- like after a tornado is over, that awkward feeling someone could've died.

Manelau spun around, staring up at the thick canopy. The centaur had already left when Manelau began his journey. Where am I? Where is here? How am I supposed to find the "Trial entry" or the.. other thing? I need answers!

He continued walking for what seemed like hours until he came to a resting place; a hollow tree in the shining sun. Ivy grew on the trunk, purple and red flowers grew around the outer banks, and toadstools could be seen. I'm sure I can rest for a little bit. As he walked over, little voices were whispering. Bariauas were watching the careless minotaur walking to their tower. They gracefully moved from behind tall, green blades of grass. Manelau hadn't seen the Bariauas until he came closer to the tree trunk. They were scurried around, like little mosquitoes and dragonflies. Each doing a job with the little leaves for food or clothing. As the minotaur closed in on the trunk, the Grand Queen of the Bariaua was drinking her afternoon tea. Surely, she would've noticed the giant hooves that were stomping on the ground, but stared hopelessly into her cup.
The Bariauas seemed to see the giant beast and hid to cover. Manelau didn't want to bother the nice little "fairy village", and decided it was best to continue on his way.

Some hours into the forest, Manelau heard a loud shrill coming from his right. Before he could duck, black feathers clouded his vision. Anger was the first emotion to overcome, as he grabbed a Rachio by the long, black throat.

"Watch where you're going, buddy." And let the nervous Raicho away. He continued walking, bored and lost. He hadn't found a way or a clue to find the Key Scribe- that was, of course, after he stumbled across some Galar's mining in a nearby cave. They were wearing torn pants that reached to their knees, covered in some moisture. Some were wearing goggle-like glasses, while others were funny hats. In the entrance of the cave, there were carts filled with rocks and shards of glass. Maybe they know the way.

It was a fail. They muttered at his passing as if he wasn't there. Some looked up with judgement, before continuing on with their work. It was pointless. He walked out of the mining pit, leaning against an old tree trunk. Maybe if I close my eyes...

----


When he awoke, Manelau was inside somewhere dark and cold. The floor he was on seemed to made of onyx but could be seen through with light. That was the least of the problems on the minotaur's mind. How did I get in here? Something was buzzing around him, like a swarm of bees or stinging phatlo (a bigger bee whose sting could possible kill ten thousand men.) When the minotaur tried to stand up, chains clinked and crashed to the floor. Suddenly a blinding light tuned on.

"Well, well. Look who's finally awake. Mr. Manelau RiTimm, correct?" A smooth, throaty voice spoke. It belonged to a purple lizard wearing a blood red robe. It cut off by his thighs, and draped over his soft slippers. He was sitting cross legged, twirling a key on his finger. Piercings of sorts littered his face and body, yellow eyes stared curiously at the chained minotaur.

"Did you come looking for this?"

"Where am I?" Manelau asked, grimacing at the pain of the chains. The purple lizard chuckled, uncrossing his legs.

"You're in my Palace. The Palace of the Green Wisps! Tiki, could you bring me a glass of juice? Thanks." The lizard slumped in his throne, as a red lizard came into the scene carrying a gold cup. She handed it to the purple lizard before disappearing into the darkness.

"I was in a forest. I remember seeing the dwarves. Ho-"

"Shhh.. don't worry young one. I'm just as shocked as you. For one, I have no idea how you came in here. We found you laying down on your stomach, sucking your thumb." The last three words started a fire in Manelau's stomach. He pulled at the chains.

"A-a-aaah. No matter how hard you tug or pull, you aren't escaping," the purple lizard set down the gold cup and got up from his throne. "I need a prisoner for something. A prize to remember. My father would be pleased. Don't give me that look- you would like my father. He's stronger, bigger, and faster. I can see the hate etched in your face, and even though your eyes are blood red and full of rage, that's never going to let you go."

That's it. Manelau tugged harder and harder at the chains, hearing them wheeze and strength made him work harder. The prince smirked. "Like I said, you can't es-" Now, he was clawing at Manelau's big, meaty hand around his throat.

"You may seem high class, enjoy seeing other being tortured for the hell of it, and lounge around on your that pathic gold throne. You aren't even royalty; you're a creature like myself," Manelau said coldly. He gripped harder on the purple lizard's throat. "You're nothing more than a castaway."

"P-please just le-et me go-o."

"What will you do? Choose wisely."

"I'll give y-you this key. A-and not t-t-tell any-owhmyneck-one about this.. sir." Manelau grimaced, anger and fire etched in his face.

"Fine," and threw the purple lizard on the ground. The gold key clashed and spun away from the minotaur. While the minotaur ran for the key, different alarming calls were sounded. Howling, barking, and hissing were filling Manelau's ears. When he looked back, the purple lizard was at his throne pushing down a bottom.

He smirked at Manelau. "I never promised." The minotaur clenched his fists and decided it was best to just leave before something bad was going to happen. The gold key was a few feet away from him, but the Bolla (the guards) were faster with small, red wings. It sneers and groans, running sluggishly and flying some. Maybe if I slide, I can get it.

"You'll never win, Manelau. Ut fortunâ horrida fortuna venerunt tecum. " Steam rose off of Manelau, clenching his fist and jaws before staring coldly at the Bolla. Manelau put everything he had into running. Back home, he was the faster than most of his friends and could run longer distances. At some point, he would have to slide. The Bolla blew some flare at the ceiling, causing it to flake and tumble down.

What an idiotic dragon. Manelau grabbed the key and watched as the ceiling above the Bolla collapse, causing it to fall through the floor. Then it happened; a sudden shake, a sudden move could kill you. The ceiling was cracking slowly, rock falling hard on the minotaur's head.

I have to get out of here. What was that thing that the voice said earlier? Planespeaking? Pythagorean theorem? What was it! He paced around, taping a finger to his head as the cracks in the ceiling got bigger. It would collapse at any second.

Pandae Juice? Plane-something. Planesnorting? No, no.

The floor ahead of him came crumbling down.

"Planeswalkiing!" and then silence.

-----


Manelau woke up somewhere new. He felt a stinging in his arm and looked down- blood. He had hoped the next time would be easier than the first. The minotaur laid on the moss floor, soon snoring.
You are like a blacksmith's hammer, you always forge people's happiness until the coal heating up the forge turns to ash. Then you just refuel it and start over. -Persistence (2015)

You have so much potential and love bursting in you. -Omnom





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Chaser says...



Trykster Rivelle / Guildless / Snow Gate

Tryk tugged his tricorn hat over his head. A dapper fashion statement, if he said so himself. Similarly straightening his white waistcoat and pants, he waited at the entrance to the Maze.

The gate before him was an ancient golden door; but it seemed dead somehow. The cold surrounding had caused it to grow dull and pale, making the runes carved into it glow with ghostly power.

The world around him was covered a pristine shroud of snow; he’d seen more than enough of it during his time as a fugitive. It frosted the earth in a blanket of white. Tryk smiled softly as the wind rustled his clothing.

He raised the locket around his neck to his lips, speaking to Asmira inside. “You know what, I think we’ll have a cake like this at our wedding.” He grinned, nodding as he spoke. “Yes, a frosted cake that we could cut with the bones of our enemies…”

He stopped suddenly, looking around. “The wind appears to be telling me something. I suppose old habits die hard.” During his time in Gruul, he’d had to practice reading the wind: more specifically, reading the subtle changes as it went, a bit like a bat’s echolocation.

Taking care to mask his movements, Tryk vanished into a hiding place. Crouching in the snow, he watched as a figure dropped down from the nearby building, a black shadow against the white world.

His apparel was...bizarre, to say the least. Then again all Tryk had seen of clothing styles were giant robes and fur loincloths, so it was hard to truly say. The grey military jacket and bandanna were certainly imposing, and his belt jangled with countless tricks and tools. It was a brown-skinned elf with dark hair, who seemed to be far too prepared for the Dragon Maze.

Tryk twisted a knob on the locket, popping it open. Running a finger over Asmira, he smiled. He whispered, “But I have something far more valuable. That being said…”

He glanced back at the elf. Faintly, he remembered his name as being Severan. “What to do with him?”

Quietly flipping Asmira, he found the side of the scales choosing his path. He nodded, placing her back in his locket. “Wise.” With that, he stood up from his hiding place, walking towards Severan.

The other Guildless turned as he approached, beginning to introduce himself.

Tryk cut him off. “Severan Calerus Torin, son and heir of Isperia, future leader of the Azorius Senate.” The light-elf grinned, doffing his hat to the other, then shaking his hand. “Hi, I’m Trykster Rivelle. Call me Tryk.”

As per Asmira’s orders, they decided to form an alliance. As it turned out, the blue-blooded Severan was also the illustrious Shade of Dimir. After introducing Asmira, Tryk gestured down the Maze’s tunnel. “After you.”

Walking through the darkness, they soon came to two doors on opposite sides of the hall. Shade chose what was right; Tryk took what was left. Just as his fingers brushed the surface, the walls spoke. “Welcome, Champions!”

Tryk jumped back, as if the door had shocked him. “Who are you?”

The voice gave a rumbling, resounding laugh. “I am the Maze! What do you know of Planeswalking?” It then proceeded to hand them world-shattering revelations like pennies, also giving them some directions for the first trial. “Travel to the Pantheon of Taj-Nar and seek out one of the twenty-one Key Scribes, and get their key from them. Then you must return and go through these gates.”

Tryk leaned back and shrugged. The ability to Planeswalk was new to him; then again, that hadn’t stopped him before. Drawing Asmira from around his neck, he flipped her into the air with his thumb. “Asmira, let’s travel.” Closing his eyes, he snatched her into his fist as she fell. “Planeswalk!”

The air seemed to ripple at the edges of his being. Tryk smiled as his consciousness was sucked through the doorway, into another world entirely.

He opened his eyes to a glorious hall, immortalized in marble. Ornate pillars ran along the sides, holding up the magnificent mural on the ceiling. Rays of light shone through the windows, brightening the room. Statues of warriors stood proudly upon their pedestals, the pantheon’s frozen guardians.

Securing Asmira once more, Tryk walked over to Shade, who was gazing around in wonderment. “I never thought I’d get to see a place like this…” he whispered.

Tryk shrugged. “I suppose Selesnya doesn’t quite measure up. You see, now I’m glad I left.” He grinned at the assassin, clasping his hands behind his head. “If I’d stayed there, I might not have been chosen. Here, I’m at full potential. The same with you?”

Shade fell silent. Tryk cocked his head, the smile turning guilty. “Eh...guess not, then.”

“We should get going,” Shade said, walking towards the stairs. “We'll have to find two keys for the both of us to advance.”

“Right.” Tryk followed in silence as they ascended to the second floor, walking along the balcony. “

Asmira wished him to be lawful; as such, Tryk felt the need to cheer Shade up. “So, Shade,” he began nonchalantly, “did you hear the joke about Borborygmos’ pet-”

A sweeping blast of air alerted them to another’s presence. Tryk cursed as he realized he’d forgotten to probe the area. It was too late for that now, and Shade took a defensive stance as a helioproct soared through the archway, hovering before them. Tryk recognized the staff, sword and key: a Key Scribe.

“Mine!” he yelled before Shade could react. The assassin responded with a dirty look.

The bird-man smirked, raising his staff. “Rise and kill them!” it screeched, flapping its copper wings and departing.

“Hey!” Tryk dashed after it, but the stone statue of a warrior blocked his way. He drew back, surprised. “What the- why’s this here?” Shaking his head, he made to inch around it.

The statue’s eyes flashed, and it swung its staff into his chest, smashing him away brutally.

“Oof!” Tryk tumbled backwards, rolling to his feet. “What…” He trailed off as the other statues raised their weapons and jumped down from the pedestals.

“A defense mechanism,” Shade growled, “of course. I was careless.” The statues drew closer, wide stances forming a wall. He made to double back to the stairs, but the marble beasts were already tramping up from below.

Tryk clasped his hands together, forming an air grenade as he drew them apart. “Exploding Heart!” he cried as he lobbed it towards the statues. The explosion blasted them off the stairwell, to the floor where they shattered, ceasing to move.

“Run!” he yelled. Shade didn’t need to be told twice, immediately bounding down the stairs. Tryk sent a shockwave of wind at their pursuers before following him, entering the fight of his life. “Let the trials begin, Dragon Maze,” he muttered grimly.

-----------------

Tryk stormed out of the Leonin Hall, hands in his pockets. In a matter of seconds, Shade had gone from a kind ally to a self-gratifying thumb-sucker. Sparing Taral’s life was the low point.

“Who does he think he is?” he muttered angrily. “The Leonin wanted death, and it’s his world. He has no right to choose! Aagh!” He shouted as he kicked the pillar, nearly breaking his foot. “Azorius pricks! Always making up your own rules...always thinking you know justice....”

He hunched over, leaning on his knees. “I hate...you all…”

Breathing heavily, he pulled Asmira from the locket. “I can’t take it,” he gasped, clumsily flipping the coin into the air.

He caught it jerkily, smashing it down on the back of his other hand. The symbol of silver fire set him free.

Sighing in relief, he slumped against the wall. As his breathing slowed, his anger receded like an ocean tide. He swallowed. “Right. Shade can do what he wants. Rules aren’t that important, anyway. It’s what we do with them that matters.”

Heaving with effort, he stood up. “I suppose it’s time to track down that bird,” he muttered. Before, it had just been a lie, an excuse to depart from the man that had then disgusted him. Tossing and catching Asmira, Tryk strode down the grand balcony, admiring the marble floor below.

Tip-tapping his way down the staircase, he descended into what looked to be the Pantheon’s basement. Slowly, the brilliant golden lights became hallowed blue, illuminating his way down. All he could hear were the dull thunks of his feet strolling into the darkness.

Tryk stopped at the bottom, tilting his hat back. His eyes widened, and he whistled. “Well. Looks like I’ve struck gold.” The narrow stairway had opened up into a grand hall, filled with heaping stacks of jewels and coins. Not just gold, but bronze, silver, and platinum, all glittering beautifully in the dim light. Luminous blue crystals hung from the dark walls, throwing the world into marvelous shadows.

The light-elf weaved between the piles, his grin getting wider with each passing second. He was suddenly overjoyed that he’d ditched the Guildless assassin. “Finders keepers, as they say.”

He walked until he found a pile of brilliant diamonds, stars buried beneath the earth. Some were enormous; some were enough to put on a ring. A wedding ring.

Tryk clasped his hands together, smiling greedily. “Don’t mind if I do.” His fingers reached out for the smallest in the pile, brushing its finely cut surface…

The floor dropped out from under him, and Tryk gasped as he fell through the missing tile. He found cool air rushing by him in a black void. Not for long, though, as golden flames burst up from beneath him, crackling laughter.

By instinct, Tryk’s hand gripped the locket with Asmira inside. “Save yourself!” he cried, launching the necklace through the hole in the ceiling. A small wave of relief hit him as it sailed through the opening to safety.

Realizing that the fire below was still quite deadly, Tryk flipped in mid-air and pushed downwards with Wind Manipulation. It shoved a giant gale beneath him, and his progress halted abruptly, floating on a cushion of air above certain death.

The flames responded angrily, surging up through the shaft. Tryk’s eyes widened, and he pushed more air downwards, rocketing back up. This, of course, fueled the fire to explosive insanity.

Tryk leaped out of the trap and rolled across the floor, just as a plume of yellow flame erupted from the hole. Breathing heavily, he watched the embers sputter out of existence, leaving singe marks in the stone ceiling. He shook his head, standing up. He’d have to be more careful from now on.

Asmira. His head swiveled around frantically, scouring the room for his lover. He dove between the stacks of riches, blasting them apart with his wind. “Asmira?” he shouted. “Asmira!” Springing every trap possible to set, he rushed desperately about, until he was just a frenzied silver blur with an odd hat.

His ears pricked as he heard a clink from the back of the room. Dashing towards it, he found an extravagantly decorated throne, its back against a mountain of platinum coins. And resting in its seat was Asmira, her argent flames shining upward.

“Asmira!” Tryk cried, eyes shining. He ran towards her, smiling as she hovered up from her throne, flying towards him. The Guildless light-elf laughed, arms wide open to embrace his love.

Asmira burst through his chest, leaving a spurt of blood as she exited out his back.

Tryk’s eyes widened, and he sank to his knees, crimson staining his vest. Shakily, he turned his head to look at the coin. “Wh-wh-what-”

Harsh, cawing laughter assailed his ears. Tryk watched as Asmira flew across the room, droplets of blood flying from her surface. A scaly, taloned hand snatched her from the air, its owner grinning with contempt.

Tryk paled. “No…”

The helioproct cackled wildly, the sword and key jangling at his belt. “Well, well, what have we here? A little Guildless elf, left heartbroken by his lover! And when I say heartbroken, I mean it!” The bird-man doubled over, cawing.

Iron blood welled up in Tryk’s throat, trickling from his mouth as he coughed. Looking down, he realized that the Key Scribe was right. The dark stain on his chest was spreading, wet and sticky against his torn skin.

Gritting his teeth, he pressed his hands against his heart. “Heal,” he seethed, letting the nature magic flow through him once more. Soft green light emanated from his palms, knitting the flesh back together and sealing the wound.

Wiping the trail of blood from his mouth, he stood up. “You,” he spat, pointing a finger at the coin in the Scribe’s hand. “You’re not Asmira!”

The helioproct’s beady eyes gleamed. “Correct!” he screeched, flipping and catching his silver token. “I’m afraid that your princess is in another castle, champion!” Reaching beneath his robe, he held Tryk’s locket out in front of him, popping it open to showcase Asmira.

“Give her back, you bastard!” Tryk roared, boosting forward with the wind. The Scribe cackled as he raised his staff. A storm of sapphires erupted from the pile next to him, striking Tryk in the side.

The Key Scribe chuckled as the elf collapsed. “Really, now. Just who do you think I am?” His eyes went wide with glee as he raised a hand, shouting. “I am Folsguld Valcon, Magician of Riches!” With an imperious wave, a cascade of gold rushed towards Tryk’s body.

Tryk rolled, jumping to his feet and bursting forward. Folsguld lifted the fake Asmira, bashing his fist away. A burst of copper coins drove Tryk back again, and the elf backflipped to escape.

Mind racing, he seized the largest diamond he could find, whipping it at the Key Scribe. Folsguld halted it in midair, smirking. “All that has worth answers to me,” he said. Suddenly, yellow light flooded from his staff, enveloping the diamond. When it faded, another, identical stone floated alongside it. “I am their creator. I am their god!” The two diamonds shifted, flying back at the Guildless with twice the velocity.

As each stone missed him by an inch, Tryk dove to the left, rolling, wincing as the copper coins on the floor dug into his shoulder. A quick air-grenade from his hand was easily dodged with a flap Folsguld’s brown wings.

He couldn’t think; he couldn’t focus. He needed his lover by his side.

“I’m going to tell you one more time,” he growled, pointing at the locket around Folsguld’s neck. “Give me back Asmira. Now.” He accompanied the demand with a burst of wind, making his clothes ruffle menacingly.

Folsguld smiled, tossing the false coin forward. “If you insist!” On command, the coin rocketed towards Tryk, who barely managed to deflect it with his wind.

With a wave of Folsguld’s hand, the imposter flung itself back at Tryk, relentlessly attempting to shoot through his head. Tryk dodged repeatedly as the coin whipped by, thin red lines beginning to form on his body.

The Key Scribe’s grin got even wider. “Now, let’s see how you like some more!” Waving his staff, he charged up another bolt of golden light.

Time seemed to slow down as the magic erupted from the mage’s staff, flying towards Tryk. He couldn’t let it hit the fake Asmira. He couldn’t. Until an idea finally popped into his head.

As the coin attempted to murder him once more, Tryk clamped the air down upon it. Forcibly whirling around his body, he whipped it in a circular, silver shield. “Whirlwind of False Love!” he cried as the light bounced off of his platinum tornado.

Folsguld’s eyes went wide as he leaped to the side, the duplication bolt zooming past his cloak and hitting a pile of silver, causing more coins to flow from it across the floor.

Tryk immediately boosted forward with Wind Manipulation, screaming. “Give her back!” he yelled as he reached for the Scribe’s neck.

Folsguld spread his wings, flapping to the side. Tryk fell to the silver ground as he soared to the ceiling, waving the locket in his hand. “You’ll have to do better than that, elf!” He laughed as he swooped down, rupturing the world with precious gems.

Tryk cursed, grabbing a handful of copper coins and flinging them towards the bird-man. This time, he bent their trajectories, ricocheting them off of one another. Folsguld couldn’t keep up, watching helplessly as the coins scattered in the air around him.

Tryk cast his hands forward. “Shock Wave!” Lightning burst from his fingertips, arcing through the copper tokens, surrounding Folsguld in a crackling purple cage. The helioproct recoiled as the field zapped him.

Not wasting a moment, the light-elf clasped his hands together. “Exploding Heart!” He flung an air-grenade forward, with Folsguld powerless to dodge.

The Key Scribe grunted as the air burst against his chest, flinging him backwards into the wall. The silver Key of Passing snapped from his belt, flying to the side. Tryk caught it deftly, stashing it into his pocket.

The bird-man extracted himself from the dent in the wall, mumbling dazedly. “Wait,” he said, holding up Asmira’s locket. “The Key. Give me the key back. Sound like a fair trade?”

Tryk didn’t even need to think it over. He fished the silver key from his pocket. “Fair enough.”

The locket and key flew to opposite sides of the room, a simultaneous trade. Tryk caught Asmira, pulling her out and kissing the warm metal. “I’ll never leave you alone like that again. I promise,” he whispered, a tear running down his cheek.

“No, you won’t.” Tryk looked up to see Folsguld chortling, one hand shadowing his face. “In fact, you won’t be doing anything, ever again! Because you’re never going to leave this place!” Grinning insanely, the Key Scribe flung the key to the floor, drawing the sword from his belt.

“Enjoy the rest of your pathetic existence, Guildless!” Folsguld raised the blade, bringing it down like a guillotine. Tryk watched as the metal cleaved the silver key neatly in half. The two pieces clinked with finality as they split. Folsguld had broken his Key of Passing.

The helioproct doubled up, laughing wildly. “That’s right, you worthless traitor! You’re not going anywhere! Your trial ends here! That’s it! Game over! You’re a dead man now!” He shook dangerously, the gems echoing his laughter with quaking.

Tryk rubbed his chin. “Hm. That’s how it would seem, I suppose. Nothing to do now but leave.” Securing the locket around his neck, he flipped Asmira high into the air.

He gave the Key Scribe a sincere look as she fell. “Thank you for your time.” With that, he caught her, pressing his lips to the metal. As he did so, he pulled a silver key out of his pocket, waving it so that Folsguld could see it.

The bird-man’s jaw dropped, completely flabbergasted.

Tryk smirked. “Planeswalk!” With that, he was gone.

---------------------

Tryk opened his eyes, looking up at the gold gate. He still held the Key of Passing in his left hand.

The light-elf laughed as he remembered his grand feat. First, he’d duplicated the key attached to Folsguld’s belt with the reflected blast, hiding it in the resulting pile of silver. Then, he’d grabbed it when he charged and rolled. After that, it was simply a matter of getting Folsguld to drop his key, and replace it with the fake.

Tryk kissed Asmira again, smiling. “We did it, love.” Pushing the Key into the hole of the door, he stood back as it rumbled open. “Now let’s show this Maze what we’re made of.”

Glorious light shone into the Maze from beyond. Tryk flipped the silver coin, caught it, and removed his hand, looking down.

He grinned. “As you wish,” he said, striding through the gate.
The hardest part of writing science fiction is knowing actual science. The same applies for me and realistic fiction.





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Sat Jan 16, 2016 2:15 am
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BrumalHunter says...



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Aquanette Evenestra | Simic Combine | The Ivy Gate


If, seven days ago, someone had told her that she would be waiting to enter the Implicit Dragon Maze as a Champion for her Guild in a week’s time, she would have silenced any of her soldiers who was laughing at that someone and asked for an elaboration. Since someone actually had told her that she would enter the Implicit Dragon Maze as a Champion for her Guild, she subsequently had silenced her subordinates and asked for an elaboration. She received the news with no complaint, for she was a soldier too – if she was given instructions, she would follow it to the letter.

Aquanette had wanted to prepare for departure immediately, but her outpost’s garrison insisted on holding a farewell party first. She had reluctantly, yet gratefully, agreed, but forbade any crying; she charged her lieutenant with the office of Acting Commander, since she fully intended to see them again after the Trials, but she declared that if it was not her fate to return, she would not leave behind a miserable collection of sobbing sissies. Thus, they revelled long into the night, as only centaurs could. When dawn broke, she bade her comrades–

A boar erupted from the underbrush, squealing at an infinitely irritating pitch before charging through the barricade of bushes on the opposite side of the deer trail. Had it been one of Aquanette’s subordinates on the trail, the boar would have found an arrow smothering it into silence. Of course, it was not, and her years of experience in the last few untamed woods of Ravnica had bestowed upon her caution in addition to astounding reflexes.

“Damn it!” she exclaimed, stomping her front right hoof on the dirt. She lowered her bow, but kept the arrow nocked, just in case. “Now I lost my train of thought.”

For the second time that day, the trail exploded into sound. It was a minotaur, not a boar, and he was charging at the centaur with a much deeper bellow. Unlike the boar, however, he was silenced by an arrow in the throat.

“About as much wit as a brick,” Aquanette said, pawing the body before retrieving her arrow.

Where was she again? Oh, whatever. The point remained that she departed for the Maze immediately. The letter had said she would not be in time for the ceremony held in her and the other Champion’s honour, so she made straight for the Maze at the heart of Ravnica. (Then again, the Maze was the heart of Ravnica) She had travelled through the forests without much incident, living off the fauna and flora on the way. She was finally within a mile or so of the ancient structure itself, but there would probably be no time for sightseeing.

She set off at a canter, and within a few minutes, the trees began thinning. Suddenly, they disappeared altogether, revealing the largest, oldest, most dangerous building in the world. Aquanette wasn’t much of a gawker, but she nevertheless raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement. There was just one problem: the gate before her was already occupied (by an Aepep and some crone).

You are late, Miss Evenestra.

If stones could speak, the Maze would be a combination of all of them. His/her/its voice had the elegance of marble, the composure of andesite, the abrasiveness of granite, the menace of basalt, and the antiquity of limestone – it was impossible to hear it and experience only one attitude. However, it also had the intensity of all the world’s mountains crashing in a simultaneous rockslide.

The centaur winced and raised her right arm as if to shield her face from an incoming projectile. “For pity’s sake,” she cried, “would you dial down the volume?! You could have turned my brain into fertiliser!”

I assure you, no such thing can be accomplished by telepathic communication.

“I don’t give a badger’s backside! You may be an omniscient collection of corridors, but I’m not cooperating if you don’t even have the decency not to shout.”

I believe you are the only one shouting.

“Oh, no, no, no! You aren’t playing that card – you only just lowered your voice to an acceptable level. Apologise, and I’ll do as you want. Until then, I’m not moving.” She glared at the Maze and crossed her arms in front of her chest for dramatic effect.

You mortals are always so infuriatingly impudent.

“And you immortals are always so bloody condescending. This impudent mortal will have none of it.”

You do realise I could destroy Ravnica if you do not comply, do you not?

“Boohoo. End the world. See where that gets you. You can even just kill me, but then you’ll have to delay these Trials even further. That is not in the best interests of he – or she, or it – who complains about a contestant being late.”

Very well: ‘I apologise.’

“Not good enough. You want to prove you’re so superior by avoiding contractions and being verbose, so try a more informal apology.”

I’m sorry. Satisfied?

“No, because I came all this way just to find I’m at the wrong gate.”

That at least is true. Before you is the Rust Gate. You must head to the Ivy Gate, at my eastern border.

“What?” Aquanette exclaimed.

And here you said I was speaking too loudly…

“Oh, great, the labyrinth that wants to kill us all has a sense of humour. Joy. For the record, that was an interjection of shock. And dismay, come to think of it.”

Noted. Now please, stop dawdling and head to your gate.

“Why couldn’t I be at the Rust Gate?”

And here you were supposed to have a reputation for following orders without hesitation… The Rust Gate is for the Guilds aligned with Red Mana. It is reserved for the Izzet League and the Gruul Clans.

“And why couldn’t the Simic Combine’s gate be here?”

It is; the Sky Gate is to the right of the Rust Gate. Unfortunately for you, it is also already occupied. Now, do get a move on.

Aquanette felt the Maze’s presence withdraw from her mind. “Finally! I have my thoughts back to myself!”

She didn’t know why, but she resented the Maze. Actually, no, that was a lie; she knew exactly why she resented the Maze: it treated all of the Champions as pawns in its intricate game. True, they were pawns that could fight for their survival, but they were pawns nonetheless. She was aware the Maze did it to preserve Ravnica from destruction, and the loss of twenty-one lives was infinitely more preferable to the death of an entire world. Being commander of an outpost – well, formerly – she understood that, but it didn’t mean she had to like it.

She sighed and galloped northeast. The first two gates were uninteresting, each having two humans before it. The third gate, however, had a tall, animalistic demon and a wraith awaiting entrance. For the first time in her life, Aquanette felt true fear tug at the edges of her mind. Trolls she could handle. Minotaurs she killed with a smile. But the undead and the infernal… those were unholy forces with which she had no experience whatsoever. She had put up the act of indifference to assuage her soldiers’ fears, but gazing upon those two creatures of the night as she passed by, her act began to crack.

The Gate after that only had a… Wait. There wasn’t even a single occupant. She approached the gate suspiciously. Ivy adorned the tremendous arch in which the gate stood. Upon the gate was a circle composed of circles, each with one of the ten Guilds’ sigils in it. Beside the gate, two colossi stood guard. A single glance confirmed their great size, but stepping up to the gate and craning her neck to see their heads, the immensity of the Maze began to sink in. Still, there she was, alone at a gate.

“If getting here was so bloody urgent, why am I the only one here?” she called at the Maze. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

You are far more chatty than any of the other contestants, so I had to urge you to get a move on.

“You’re just as hypocritical as the Azorius Senate and Selesnya Conclave.”

Political opinions are of no interest here.

Aquanette scoffed and placed her hands on her “hips” (her real hips were too far to comfortably place her hands on them). “I beg to differ. You think the champions of the senate and the Izzet League wouldn’t stab each other in the back to gain an advantage?”

An ironic statement.

“Why?”

No reason.

The centaur meant to retort, but she spotted a minotaur approaching in her peripheral vision. You can read my thoughts, right?

Obviously.

Is he another Champion?

Obviously.

So I’m not allowed to shoot him?

Obviously.

The minotaur stopped to her right. Without looking directly at him, she could tell he was… different. Most minotaurs she encountered, the one from earlier included, were barbaric savages. They wore nothing but loincloths and the occasional fur cape, but the one beside her actually wore a white tunic. He hadn’t sneered at her yet, so she was unsure of how to act. She resolved to look straight ahead and avoid eye contact.

“So–”

“Don’t talk to me,” she said curtly, cutting him off. He might appear to be the only polite minotaur in existence, but she wouldn’t let disguises fool her. He was probably just as bloodthirsty as his brethren.

“What– How… did–?”

Suddenly, an announcer’s voice boomed through the air, his words relayed throughout the reaches of Ravnica. He was no doubt informing the land’s ignoramuses of the Dragon Trials and how they would function. The minotaur seemed to be paying attention, but Aquanette paid it no notice. He then looked like he wanted to say something, but the Maze must have interrupted, for its ponderous presence once again invaded her mind.

Welcome to my Gates, Champions! As you enter, know that despite your Guild Leaders’ proclamations, you were all chosen for a reason far greater than they could ever explain. As you make your way through me, fight well, think sharp, and use all your abilities to do one important thing: Survive my Trials.

Ominous, she remarked.

The great gate slowly creaked open, revealing narrow, dim corridors inside. Not. She had expected to see narrow, dim corridors, but instead, there was a sprawling jungle. Inside the Maze.

What the hell? she asked, both she and the minotaur walking through the threshold. The Ivy Gate creaked to a close behind them.

Not today, fortunately. In the future… perhaps.

The centaur rolled her eyes, firing off frequent glances at her surroundings, checking for danger. Oh, okay. I see. You’re playing a game. Well, I don’t know how to play chess, so you’ll have to explain the rules.

Ah, so extended metaphors are not beyond your intellectual ability – there is hope for you yet. You must Planewalk to the Tel-jilad Jungle and retrieve a key from one of the twenty-one Key Scribes there. Once you have retrieved said key, you must return here. There is a locked door further in the Maze. The key will unlock it.

You mean a jungle different to the one we’re already in?

Indeed.

Am I allowed to ask questions?

If there was a penalty, you would have earned it already.

I’m still alive, so I assume that’s a yes.

Not all penalties are immediately noticeable, Miss Evenestra.

Mmm-hmm, sure. Now please, stop calling me “Miss Evenestra”. It’s creepy.

Whatever you wish. Did you still want to ask me a question?

Several, actually: One, why do I have to “Planewalk” to the Jungle; two, how would I know when I’ve found one of these “Key Scribes”; three, do I just take the key; and four… no, never mind. Just those three.

Firstly, as the name suggests, a Planewalker travels between independent planes, so you have to Planewalk to the Tel-jilad Jungle because it is on a different plane. Secondly, you will know when you have found the Key Scribe. And lastly, you must do whatever it takes to acquire a key, lest you be eliminated first.

I take it not just anyone can Planewalk?

Have you ever met a Planewalker?

Before today, I didn’t even know they existed, if they even do.

They do, fear not. You are one too, which is why your Guild Leader chose you.

I was chosen to participate in twenty-two – if that many – life-threatening Trials because I can supposedly travel between worlds? I find that hard to believe.

I expected nothing less. In fact, I am surprised that so few actually do express amazement at being Planewalkers. It used to be more fun when the Champions profusely denied their ability. Now, everyone is either too indifferent to care or too open-minded to be moved.

How did Zegana even know I was a Planewalker?

You should give her more credit. One does not become a Guild Leader by being ignorant of certain things.

Fine, don’t tell me. At the very least, though, you can explain how I’m supposed to get to the Jungle. I’ve never Planewalked before, and now some sentient structure wants me to go to a specific location.

Declining to provide that information used to be more amusing too. Even after the first seven Trials, the past Champions would struggle for hours on end to Planeswalk. Now, it seems everyone just closes their eyes and poof! Planeswalking used to be an art.

So I’m just supposed to close my eyes and wish myself to some obscure jungle?

If that works, I suppose.

She shrugged. Why not? Closing her eyes, she imagined a place similar to the jungle in which she currently found herself. Of course, it couldn’t be a pleasant place, so she imagined more mist and heat and less space, plants that tried to eat her, and natives that tried to kill her with whatever native weaponry they possessed. When she opened her eyes, the vista was of the same, peaceful jungle.

She was clearly still in the Maze, but Panicking would be of no help. Exploring a little to calm her nerves (for they were definitely on edge) might help. The darkness of a cave’s entrance peeked out from the foliage to her right, so casting a look behind her to see if she was being followed (she was not, for the minotaur had gone), she decided to enter. The entrance appeared too small, but it was just large enough. Surprisingly, the tunnel led to a cavernous room, a pillar as thick as a small cottage in the middle. Engraved into the sides of that pillar were stone doors. Thorough inspection was not required to deduce there were twenty-one doors.

“Will everyone have to come here?” she asked, her echo repeating the question many more times, but each softer than the last time.

No. That pillar is a representation of the doors – the actual doors can appear anywhere. You are the first to discover your sector’s pillar.

“Can I unlock these doors?”

If you mean to ask whether the door you must enter can manifest on the pillar, then yes, you can, but only one.

“What happens when a door has already been used?”

It becomes a wall.

Aquanette walked around the chamber, searching for walled-off doors. There were none, as of yet.

“Huh. Nobody’s finished yet.”

The Trials are not meant to be finished in less than half an hour. Of course, all the other Champions have already travelled to their respective planes – your minotaur friend too – so if you linger much longer, they will return before you have even left.

“Why can’t I just wait here for one of them and steal their key?”

As I have already explained, there are eleven of these pillars, and the Champions do not necessarily have to use it to proceed. Even if a Champion did miraculously at your location, this is the first Trial, so you are meant to get your feet wet. Figuratively speaking, of course, since not everyone has feet or needs to Planeswalk to the Harpean Archipelago. There will be time for backstabbing later.

“Ah, but you said nothing about shooting them in the back,” Aquanette countered, pulling an arrow from her quiver. She meant to nock it, but the arrow was green. It was also pulsing. “Err, what’s this?”

An arrow. Surely–

“I’m an archer – I know bloody well what an arrow is! Why was it in my quiver?”

Do you keep your arrows elsewhere?

“You know what? I have had just about enough of you!”

If the maze refused to explain why it put a glowing arrow in her quiver, she’d get rid of it to spite the glorified heap of bricks. Thus, she proceeded with nocking the arrow and firing it. To emphasise her disregard, she fired it at one of the doors, but then… the arrow disappeared into the stone, as if it had moved through air. She gazed at the pillar, perplexed, but then the door was bathed in white light and ceased to be a door, becoming a portal.

Now why did it take you so long to do that? And for the record, though obviously, no-one is keeping a real record, you spawned that arrow yourself.

“How…?” she asked, still staring at the portal.

Do I strike you as the type to spoon-feed people?

The maze’s sarcasm jerked Aquanette awake from her stupefied state. “No, you’re right; you’d probably use the spoon to cut out somebody’s heart.”

I shall save that death for you, should your time expire within me.

“Can you still speak to me whilst I’m in the Tel-jilad Jungle?”

Only if I planewalk there myself, which I shall not be doing.

“Hallelujah!”

Without wasting another second, Aquanette dashed through the portal, emerging in what was indeed a mistier, more humid environment than the jungle she had left. She didn’t even have time to register that the Maze was a Planeswalker too or that the portal had disappeared behind her, for a swarm of bugs the size of cats descended from the canopy above.

“I’m not wasting my arrows on that,” she said, glancing up while squinting against the bright light and galloping away.

The bugs must have been used to slower prey, since she outran them within ten seconds. Unfortunately, she escaped the insects simply to run into a troll patrol - quite literally. (And she lectured her soldiers for looking backwards when retreating.)

It took her a second to pull an arrow from her quiver and train it on the troll before her, and it would have been propelled forward by the end of the next second, but once again, her target was different from what she knew.

“You’re wearing robes?” she asked the troll. It was as hulking as the trolls back on Ravnica, but that variety wore barely any clothing, if at all. What was it with the parodied racial stereotypes all of a sudden?

“Of course,” the troll replied calmly. One would think he would be as surprised as she was, since centaurs presumably did not dwell in their jungle, and an arrow was pointed in his face, but no; he was the picture of composure. “Do your people’s customs demand that they not wear clothing?”

Aquanette frowned, not lowering the weapon. “No, we wear clothes. Your kind usually don’t.”

The troll and his four similarly-dressed comrades gasped. “There are Tel-jilad in your world that engage in daily activities while naked? That is appalling!”

She shook her head, her bowstring still drawn back. It was starting to hurt her arms, though. Yew recurves were made to maintain a lot of tension, but it was not advisable to keep the bowstring drawn for a prolonged period of time.

“No, they aren’t Tel-jilad – just normal trolls. Why haven’t you attacked me yet?”

“We would never dream of attacking a Planewalker! You are our honoured guest, and we have been sent to find you. Of course, it seems you found us.”

Her muscles were about to go into a spasm, so she released the tension and replaced the arrow. After slinging her bow over her shoulder, she asked, “How did you know I am a Planewalker?”

The troll made a sweeping gesture to his right and bowed a little. “Your associate arranged your affairs beforehand. He sent us to find you a while ago. Come, right this way.”

She was clearly outnumbered, and the trolls – no, Tel-jilad, to be politically correct – seemed benign enough, so she allowed them to escort her.

“Remind me again, who is my associate?”

“A very cryptic man. He told us to go find an individual that clearly was not native to the region. We are to tell you his name is Quay-Skr Ibe. A queer name, even by our standards. Do you remember now?”

“Key Scribe…” she mumbled incredulously. Making her words audible again, she said, “You are taking me to your city, I presume.”

“That is correct. I admit, we haven’t been searching for very long, so it is not far off.”

Aquanette scanned her surroundings, taking in the colourful birds screeching high above in the canopy, the creepers writhing like snakes whenever a breeze touched them, the whistling calls of some unseen creature… She asked the troll for his name, but he dismissed it as unimportant, and that he was not due the honour of knowing her name. He offered to tell her stories of the jungle instead, to which she agreed. He was just finishing a tale of how he and his squad had vanquished a flying, pink serpent, when the city walls stepped into view.

“I am afraid my people are as suspicious of outsiders as the Leonin, so we must blindfold you before escorting you inside.”

She did not relish the idea of putting her life completely in the hands of a foreign race that might as well be acting civil so that she won’t suspect their desire to eat her, but she had no choice, so she acquiesced. “Why, though?”

“We are having somewhat of a situation. The individual that would usually have handled the matter is ill, and since we need someone of a different race than the parties involved, we didn’t know what to do. Fortunately, Mr Ibe arrived, as if sent by the gods, and provided us with a solution. Nevertheless, we have no way of vetting you, so our leaders are being cautious.”

”What exactly is it I have to do?”

“That is not for us to reveal. You will find out shortly.” They stopped in front of the gates, after which the Tel-jilad blindfolded her and led her inside.

She could hear the residents gossiping and stopping to watch her, but they spoke in a different language, possibly their native tongue. However, nobody bothered them the entire way to their destination, so she sensed more curiosity than animosity.

Once they stopped, she was allowed to remove her blindfold. She found herself in an illustrious courtyard. The centre was dominated by a fabulously carved table where Tel-jilad sat on one side, and a blue, humanlike race with antlers on the other. With each cobblestone on the floor and each brick in the walls immaculately laid; large, flowering plants in gilded vases at the corners of the courtyard; and ferns dotting the sides of the small stairs and bridges (for there were streams flowing through the courtyard too), it would make an exquisite still life.

“Ah, madam arbiter, you have arrived!” a human at the far side of the table called. “Please, come take your sea- err, place at the table.”

Unimpressed but wise enough not to show it, Aquanette walked as gracefully as possible to where the human stood. He, like everyone else, was clad in robes, but his were plain white, in contrast with the green and brown of the blue people and the warm colours of the Tel-jilad.

“May I quickly confer with my associate?” she asked the gathering, using the most formal speech she possessed.

After the attendants nodded their approval, the Key Scribe drew her aside. “They are ready to begin,” he whispered, “so ask your questions quickly.”

“Oh, well excuse me if my confusion inconvenices those gathered here,” she seethed, “but I was sent to participate in the Dragon Trials, not roleplay Law & Order!”

“Calm yourself. This is a legitimate emergency, so the Implicit Dragon Maze saw it fit to redirect one of the Champions to resolve the matter.”

“What exactly am I supposed to be doing?” she asked, still upset.

“You must arbitrate the dispute between the Tel-jilad and the Shadyr Druids.”

“You probably don’t know this, but I’m a soldier for the Simic Combine. We don’t settle disputes. We protect nature.”

“This concerns an animal, so it should be right up your alley, then.”

“No, the Selesnya Conclave pretends to know what’s vest for nature. Why can’t its Champion deal with this? I’d rather hunt that pink snake the guard that led me here mentioned.”

The Key Scribe shrugged. “If you truly feel that way, then leave. No-one will stop you. However, you will also give up the opportunity to acquire this–” he pulled the Key of Passing from one of his pockets and held it before her, “–without having to fire even a single arrow. There is also the possibility that you cannot find another Key Scribe in time, which will lead to your elimination. And as you know, your life hangs in the balance.”

Aquanette exhaled through her nose, indicating her displeasure. “Fine, I'll do it.”

“Excellent! Now, don’t take too long, since you wouldn’t want the other Champions to recuperate while you have to rush from one Trial to the next. Oh, and don’t worry about the legal jargon – it’s easy enough to understand. The parties were anyway concerned that their arbiter wouldn’t be knowledgeable in the practice of law, so I shall stand beside you, should you have any questions.”

“When will I be done?”

“When both parties have come to a satisfactory agreement. At that point, I shall present the key to you, after which you may leave.”

“Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

The centaur approached the table and removed the chair. Fortunately, the Tel-jilad and the Shadyr Druids were about as tall as she was, so she could stand without towering above the table. The Key Scribe took his position at her right shoulder.

“Thank you for your willingness to aid us, madam arbiter,” the Tel-jilad closest to her left said in a rich, melodious voice.

“We trust you will ensure that justice prevails,” the Druid opposite him agreed. In contrast with the Tel-jilad who had spoken, his voice had the resonant, gruff quality of the oak.

“Let the arbitration commence!” the Key Scribe declared.

Aquanette leaned towards him. Whispering, she said, “This isn’t a hippodrome, you fool. Save the melodrama for when I actually get to shoot something.” Sitting upright again, she asked, “Would the parties involved please introduce themselves and summarise the dispute I am here to resolve?”

“That’s a good opening,” the Key Scribe whispered.

“I am Elsenar,” the Druid answered. “My client bought–”

“And I am Ten-rok, madam arbiter,” the Tel-jilad replied. The Druid fumed at being interrupted, to which the Tel-jilad responded by smirking slightly.

“Objection!”

Aquanette glared at the Key Scribe. “I told you, I won’t do Law & Order!” she whispered.

“Suck it up,” he whispered back. “If they object, you must rule. If you feel the objection is valid, you say ‘sustained’, and if you feel it isn’t, you say ‘overruled’. Understand?”

“Whatever.” She turned back to the table. “The arbitration has barely started, Mr Elsenar, so your objection is overruled. However, don’t interrupt the opposition, Mr Ten-rok. Now will somebody please explain why I am here?”

“Certainly, madam arbiter,” Elsenar replied. “My client bought a Hiran-met from Mr Ten-rok’s client, but it was never handed over into my client’s ownership.”

Aquanette winked the Key Scribe closer with her finger. “What’s a Hiran–”

“A white elephant.”

“As in the idiom?”

“Yes. It is considered a bringer of good fortune and is thus very expensive.”

“Ah, okay. Mr Ten-rok, why has your client neglected to hand over the Hiran…?”

“Hiran-met? It did not belong to my client.” The Tel-jilad to his left squirmed.

“Your client sold an animal that did not belong to him?” Aquanette asked, flabbergasted.

“Indeed, madam arbiter.”

“Is that why the Hiran… the white elephant wasn’t placed in Mr Elsenar’s client’s custody?”

“That is correct.”

“Who sells something that isn’t theirs?” she exclaimed, startling the Tel-jilad. “You should be tried in the criminal court for being a thief!”

The Key Scribe leaned closer. “That is a premature ruling, miss. The two client’s families are ready to wage war if a settlement isn’t met, so be very cautious. Keep in mind there are clerks recording everything.” He pointed at the Tel-jilad and Druids at the other side of the table.

“All right. Strike that, but let the records reflect that the madam arbiter is disgusted by Mr Ten-rok’s client’s conduct. Why hasn’t he returned the money, then?”

“My client already spent it.”

“He. Did. What?

“He already spent the payment.”

“To whom did the elephant belong?”

“My client’s family.”

“Why don’t they absorb his debt?”

“They are as disgusted as you are, madam arbiter, but they maintain the transaction was made illegally, so it is voided.”

“Preposterous!”

“Compose yourself, Mr Elsenar. Is there a formal document that attests to the transaction?”

“There is, madam arbiter.” A contract was passed along from the clerks to the Druid, who handed it her. After briefly scanning the signatures and asking for verification of its authenticity, she announced, “The contract is binding. Mr Ten-rok, have your client return the bought items so that he can give Mr Elsenar’s client his money back.”

“I am afraid that’s impossible, madam arbiter, for he used it to pay off his debts. The former creditors have also already used their received money.”

Aquanette was livid, that time, she refrained from becoming passionate. “Mr Ten-rok, will your client’s family consent to him performing unpaid labour for Mr Elsenar’s client?”

The Tel-jilad seemed surprised by the suggestion (the Druids too), but he immediately thought about it. After a few seconds, he replied the affirmative.

“Good. Then I'll grant a recess so both parties can come to an arrangement regarding the nature, duration, and location of this unpaid labour. The arbitration resumes in fifteen minutes.”

The parties rose from the table and moved away, first discussing things among themselves before congregating. While she watched, a Tel-jilad servant offered her food and drink, but she respectfully declined. Once the fifteen minutes had expired, the parties returned to their seats.

“Mr Ten-rok and Mr Elsenar, have your clients come to an agreement?”

“They have, madam arbiter,” they replied simultaneously.

“Excellent! Arbitration is concluded.”

When she rose, so did they. The Key Scribe then faced her. “In recognition of madam Aquanette Evenestra’s service to the Tel-jilad and Shadyr Druids, I present to her this key, the customary token of appreciation for a first-time arbiter.” The Tel-jilad and Druids cheered as she accepted the Key of Passing, and despite herself, she beamed.

“Congratulations on arranging such a simple solution that so many neglected to consider,” the Key Scribe said. “You have earned your rest. Return to the Maze, and good luck with the Trials.”

He faded away before her eyes, prompting the attendants to start filing out of the courtyard. The Tel-jilad from earlier walked over. “Most impressive. It feels shameful having to do this after such a magnificent display of reason, but we must escort you back outside.”

He once again blindfolded her, but as she allowed herself to be led through the streets once more, the passersby no longer spoke in curious whispers, but called compliments and their thanks. When she pulled her blindfold off again, she bade the Tel-jilad goodbye, visualised the cave with the pillar of doors in the middle, and fired the glowing green arrow at a tree. Once again, a portal appeared, and she took one st glance around her, inpringting the beautiful jungle onto her memory, before stepping through.

How was arbitration?

“You planned that?” Aquanette asked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. (Where was the dim light coming from anyway?)

No, but I know where each of my Key Scribes are and what they require of the Champions.

“Fair enough.” She walked around the pillar, counting the number of blank spaces. “Seven other Champions have already finished?”

Yes.

“Am I allowed to ask who?”

You can ask whatever you like, but whether I answer is up to me.

“That’s a no, then.”

She approached one of the doors and placed her key in the lock. After turning it twice clockwise, a loud click resounded through the room, followed by a constant hum. The door swung open, revealing another white portal.

Aquanette scoffed. “Why do portals always have to be white or purple? Why couldn’t it be green?”

Both of my Guildless Champions reported at the Snow Gate, which is designated for White Mana users.

“So I can assume that’s your preference?”

You could.

“Biased bastard.”
But the Fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance: against such there is no law.
— Paul the Apostle

Winter is inevitable. Spring will return eventually, and AstralHunter with it.





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Lysander Simic | Simic Combine | The Sky Gate


Most of the other Champions that were to participate in the Maze’s Trials looked capable, and a select few looked formidable, but there was one Champion that defied all expectations – and not in a good way.

Apparently, she was an “Abgal”, but Lysander didn’t care what she called herself. She looked like a fish with human legs and hair, but while the merfolk he had seen before all looked elegant, she was irredeemably ugly. He knew he was an experiment himself and therefore shouldn’t judge, but he could blame his appearance on science; the fishwoman was part of an actual race, which made him wonder whether the gods weren’t perhaps as twisted as the Combine’s Breeders.

“Why do you think it’s called the Sky Gate? I know this is a Blue Mana Sector, but water isn’t necessarily always blue. The sky isn’t necessarily always blue either. It could be grey, if there is a storm, or black, if it’s night, or pink, if it’s morning, or yellow if it’s evening. Oh! It could also be orange or red once the sun has set far enough. Then again, Rayleigh-scattering causes light particles – wait, they have a name… photons, there we go! – to be visible when they hit the atmosphere at a certain angle, and since the default is blue, that means it…”

Oh yes, and then there was that: She never. Stopped. Talking. Ever. He didn’t care that she was named Iwanacio Flass or that she was a distinguished lawyer in the Azorious Senate. The fact that she thought brown leather pants and a white shirt was suitable for the most brutal set of challenges in the world proved her incompetence. If she lasted a single Trial, it would be a miracle.

“…so I suppose “Sky” isn’t an inadequate name for a Blue Mana Gate after all. At least there isn’t a Yellow Mana Gate that entails electric mana, or there would be a big conflict of interests. Electricity isn’t necessarily limited to lightning, which comes from the sky, but–”

“For pity’s sake, shut up!” Lysander shouted, wheeling on her. The fishwoman stopped midsentence, her mouth appropriately agape. “I don’t like you and I don’t want to be your friend. If I see you in the Maze, I’m killing you without hesitation. For good measure, I’ll pull your tongue out of your mouth just before I sear you with boiling water and serve you to whatever beast is nearby. So if you value your life, stay away from me and keep your bloody mouth shut.”

His tirade was barely two seconds old before she launched a defence.

“Hey, you can’t talk to me like that! I’m a distinguished lawyer in the Azorius Senate! I’ve won more cases than all the years of your life multiplied by three. I–”

“No, you haven’t. You’ve made it obscenely clear that you won exactly thirty-nine cases. Well guess what, fish-paste? I’m seventeen, not thirteen!”

“I’ve won more cases than all the years of your life multiplied by two, then!” she rectified, apparently not moved in the least. “I’ve dealt with impudent youths before, both as their counsel and their prosecutor, so your–”

Lysander grabbed the back of her head with his left hand and put his right hand over her mouth. “Yeah, but you’ve never dealt with a belligerent dragon that might snap your neck if you don’t stop talking before. Now shut up and listen.”

The announcements had begun, and he tried to listen to it, but the fishwoman was attempting to pry his hands off her head, mumbling all the while. He might actually have snapped her neck the next moment, had a voice inside his head not welcomed him and the other Champions to the Maze.

“Who are you?” Lysander asked.

The fishwoman must have heard the voice too, but she nevertheless looked at him like he was crazy – she didn’t her mouth to express that – but then her eyes glazed over. Presumably, the voice had begun talking to her as well.

I am the Maze you are about to enter, obviously. And I can read your thoughts, so try not to be so derisive.

Lysander sent off another thought. Did you get that?

I never was much of a fan of vulgarity. Now, let the Abgal go and step through the Gate. I shall then answer your question.

What question? he asked suspiciously.

You displayed a significant increase in interest when I said you were all chosen for a reason greater than your Guild Leaders could have explained. While Tāne Mahuta Selesnya was changed to serve his Guild and Severan Calerus Torin is a Guild Leader’s child, you are the only one who only came into existence because your Guild Leader desired it. That she would know something else about you and keep it secret would therefore be crushing. You want to know what she was hiding, and I shall tell you. But first, do as I asked.

Lysander looked at the fishwoman, scowled in disgust, and thrust her forwards. As the heavy iron gates slowly opened inwards, she wasted no time slipping through. Lysander himself simply straightened his posture and boldly followed.

There, happy? Now, it’s your turn.

When Zegana created you, she had no idea exactly what manner of power lay in her hands. In fact, the only reason she suddenly showed a renewed interest in you is because I told her you were a Planeswalker. As the name suggests, that means you can travel from one plane, realm, or dimension, whatever you wish to call it, to another. How you do that is up to you.

Lysander had stopped. He was in a dimly-lit, flooded hallway with moss and fungi growing on the walls. Ordinarily, he’d have recoiled at touching the primal plants, but he was too numb too care and leaned against it for support. He unfastened his knapsack and retrieved his crystallised rose from inside.

So this… this ultimately means nothing? She only sent me here because you wanted two Planeswalkers from each Guild, and she only wanted me back so she’d have a Planeswalker under her control?

She does appear to care for you, but her personal ambition greatly surpasses this attachment.

Lysander dropped the rose. Then what’s the use?

Well, that depends on you. Twenty-two Planeswalkers entered this Maze, but only one will survive my Trials. Most of the others want to be that one, so if you truly feel there is no reason for continued existence, just sit around and wait for them to finish the First Trial, after which I shall happily put you out of your misery. If, on the other hand, you decide to continue with the Trials, do so with vigour and a will to survive, otherwise you will be wasting the lives of others. And if you are to survive, you will need to find a different mindset than just “depressed” or “angry”. Are we clear?

Lysander grunted and reluctantly pushed himself off the wall. We’re clear.

Excellent! Pick up that rose, though, because you will either continue to feel love towards Prime Speaker Zegana, despite yourself, and you may even get her to love you back fully, in time, or you will give it back to her and forge your own future. Whatever the case, ditching the flower will bring you regret.

You know, you’re not that bad at motivational speaking, he thought, stooping to collect the keepsake and stuffing it back into his knapsack.

Double-edged or not, I do not usually receive compliments, so I shall accept that. However, I shall also add that my role is to maintain Ravnica’s equilibrium – I take no joy in killing those within me. But now, you really must be off to the Harpean Archipelago. Once there, you will have to search for a Key Scribe and retrieve a Key of Passing from him. This is only the First Trial, so it will not be difficult. Retrieve the key, return here, and unlock the door that leads to the Second Trial. If you are fast enough, you can have some respite before it commences.

How do I find this door?

It has a way of manifesting nearby, but worry about that later. You need to retrieve the key first.

Right. So… how do I Planeswalk again?

That is for you to discover.

Could I rip a hole in the fabric of space itself and step through it to reach the other Plane?

À la the Subtle Knife? It will not be original, but I suppose it beats closing your eyes and simply appearing there. Keep in mind that permanent tears have a way of causing catastrophes, so you will have to close it behind you.

And if I forget?

Nice try, but I am nobody’s maid. You can close any dimensional doors you open yourself.

Lysander shrugged and grabbed the air in front of him. He didn’t know why he was so surprised when he simply grasped air, making a fool of himself in the process. Perhaps he had to visualise the place?

Hey, what does this Harpean Archipelago look like?

Floo Powder requires only a name, not an image.

He had no idea what “Floo Powder” was, but he got the gist of it. Focussing intently on the name “Harpean Archipelago”, he grabbed the air again, but with the same result as the previous attempt. Things usually happened in threes, so he concentrated even harder. Holding his breath in anticipation, he grabbed for the special curtain again, but he still felt nothing. He uttered a cry of frustration and tried again. When he finally did feel something, he yelped and almost let go.

“Okay, stay calm,’ he reassured himself, ignoring the echo. “Now I just have to penetrate it.”

He moved his index finger away from his clenched fist and felt it find resistance against the spatial curtain. (It felt like an actual velvet curtain, which is why he was afraid of letting go.) He then pushed his finger forward, his eyes growing as a hole appeared in the air, with light streaming through it. He pulled his finger down, making the rip larger. Carefully, he gripped the sides of the tear, first with his left hand, then with his right, and yanked.

The effect was profound.

Like a real curtain ripping, the rift pulled away at its “seams”, revealing a series of cliffs and islands apparently dumped into the ocean. Lysander stepped through and held the tattered curtain back together. As if it sensed his desire, it quickly mended itself. A blink later, it was gone.

“Fancy that.”

So, on to the matter at hand: finding that Key Scribe. If he just picked a direction and went with it, he would likely find some clue as to his whereabouts. Scanning the environment, he saw there were countless islands, some of them barely above the ocean’s swirling surface, others stretching into the dark blue sky. Narrow bridges connected those islands, but they were all of different elevations. There were no buildings, since all the structures seemed to be carved into the cliffs themselves. Overall, it made the impression everything friendly had abandoned the place, leaving only the hostile and the indifferent.

Fortunately, there was a bridge nearby (he was about two metres above the ocean’s surface), so he approached it. No sooner than he had stepped onto the bridge, an aquatic creature of sorts appeared. It looked like a lion, except it was covered in blue scales, possessed a webbed ridge for a mane, and had a tail similar to that of a cetacean. It was a sea-lion.

“Aren’t you supposed to be an overgrown seal?”

“Do not trifle with me, outsider!” the sea-lion called with a gurgling voice that inspired more fear in Lysander than he had expected. It dragged itself onto the bridge, blocking his way. “Sometimes blue, sometimes weeping, sometimes twinkle, sometimes beaming, never indoors, and yet the ceiling.”

“Really? A water-sphinx? Aren’t you supposed to be female?”

“Answer the riddle or perish, fool!”

Lysander snickered. “Oh, he used the “fool” card on me. Well, I’m afraid you are the fool, mister sphinx-wannabe, since you gave far too much information. The answer to your riddle is the Sky. Huh, so that’s why it was called the Sky Gate…”

The sea-lion’s features sank. It must have wished that the world would swallow it, for it plunged into the water. Lysander watched it disappear beneath the waves before scoffing and crossing the bridge. On the other side, there was a room carved into the cliff. The room contained a staircase, which he naturally followed. Upon emerging at the top, another bridge faced him, with another sea-lion on it.

“Are you going to ask me a riddle too?”

“I face my brother, he faces me. At our sides, two more I see. Together, we make room for thee.”

“That’s a yes. Could you repeat the question?”

“It’s a riddle, and yes I could.”

Lysander waited expectantly. “Well? Will you?”

“No.”

“Cheeky bastard. Pass.”

“No, you must answer the riddle if you want to pass.”

“Dude, I just said I pass. That means I don’t know the answer and I’m waiting for you to attack me.”

The sea-lion frowned. “Technically, we aren’t allowed to attack you unless you try to pass without answering or unless you answer incorrectly.”

“Fine, then I get to draw first blood; in a manner of speaking.”

He drew on the ample moisture in the air and made it change phases from gas to liquid, converting its kinetic energy into heat. He directed the torrent of boiling water (“Boiling Fury”, as he liked to call the move) at the hapless sea-lion. He had expected it to burst through the torrent and attempt to rearrange his facial features, but instead, it uttered pitiful cries. After five seconds, he couldn’t take the crying anymore, so he relented.

“What’s the matter with you?” Lysander asked exasperatedly. “What kind of a half-bred sphinx can’t even take on an arrogant adolescent?”

The sea-lion was still writhing in agony, its skin sizzling, and had heard none of the taunts. “Please, have mercy! Spare my wretched life!”

“Err, sure. Get out of my way, and I’ll let you live.”

The sea-lion didn’t need a formal invitation and immediately dove into the waters below. Just as he had done before, Lysander stared at the spot where it had disappeared.

“Why do they even bother coming up here if they’re just going to dive back down?” He shook his head and continued along the bridge. Then, like a pebble launched from a sling, it hit him. “Ugh, shoot! It’s a wall!” He smacked his forehead with his palm. “Together we make room for thee. Good grief, that was stupid.”

By the time he reached the new sea-lion, he had crossed several more bridged, climbed up and down several more staircases, and was almost washed into the ocean by a freak wave when he was on one of the lower islands. (The architects hadn’t expected that he could fly a short distance. Suckers.) As a result, he was irritable.

“Look, buddy, I love water, but this is my first time at the ocean, and I’m not a fan of all the salt. It clings to my skin and makes me feel dirty. So, can we just move this along?”

“Made of ten, but two are we. Five apart and we are weak; five together havoc wreak.”

“Hands?”

The sea-lion regarded him with bored eyes. “I heard my brother screaming a while back. Was that your doing?”

“Yep.”

In the same uninterested voice, it asked, “Did you mean fists?”

“Oh, I was almost right. Err, sure. Let’s go with that.”

“Then I’ll accept it. Have a nice day.”

Lysander didn’t even bother looking down, though he couldn’t suppress a chuckle. After it became clear the next sea-lion was even further away than the third was from the second, his amusement evaporated. When he reached the fourth sphinx-wannabe, his body language persuaded the creature into asking the riddle without delay.

“D-despised am I by knave and liar. After me the w-w-w-wise enquire. I rise above all d-death and fire.”

“T-t-truth.” Lysander made a casual shooing gesture with his hand. “Move.” Once his way was clear, he said, “This is more a physical exercise than an exercise in intelligence. If it’s an exercise in futility, the last one dies.”

At least he could be sure the fifth sea-lion was the last one, for it resided in a tower that was accessible by a single bridge, and it stood a reasonable distance away from the rest of the archipelago. The interior also looked a bit more sophisticated, since the entrance’s arch was smooth and decorated with elaborate carvings. (It probably wouldn’t last too long, but hey, at least the creators tried.)

“Are you the Key Scribe?” he asked upon entering.

The residing sea-lion swam around in a swimming pool set in the centre of the room. “No,” it replied, swimming closer, “but apparently, he had urgent business to conduct, so he gave it to me and left. Who knew Key Scribes had lives?”

“As interesting as that is, this place is starting to get on my nerves, so I’d like that Key of Passing around your neck.”

“There’s no need to get upset with me. Ahem… Shapeless, I take shape. Unguarded, I escape. Death in excess, death without slake. What am I?”

You are a sea-lion.”

“Hah, that is not the correct–”

“But the answer to the riddle is what I prefer to have without salt. So please, the key.”

The sea-lion frowned. “You didn’t tell me the–”

“It’s water, you boob!”

“I’m not familiar with the insult.”

“It’s slang for a person that is regarded as unintelligent or ignorant – there, you learned a new word. Now, give me the key.”

“So much aggression…” the sea-lion muttered, pulling itself out of the pool and exposing its neck so Lysander could retrieve the key, which the dragon did. “The first riddle I ask, and it’s answered with impertinent impunity. I should get myself a different hobby.”

“Yeah, should,” Lysander agreed, ripping another tear in space and stepping through. (In his haste, he neither noticed the sea-lion’s gawk nor realised that he had successfully Planeswalked on his first attempt.)

How was it?

Lysander turned around and mended the tear. “Bunch of dim-witted wimps thought themselves smart. Hey, if you ever meet a sphinx or something that fancies itself one, recommend they go to Sphinx School first.”

Alexandria, or Memphis?

A door appeared in front of Lysander. He placed the key in the lock, turned it, opened the door, and just before stepping through, said, “You know, I was being sarcastic.”

When are you not?
But the Fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance: against such there is no law.
— Paul the Apostle

Winter is inevitable. Spring will return eventually, and AstralHunter with it.





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SpiritedWolfe says...



Zefen Fitzbyr | Rakdos Cult


Light leaked into the long hallway through tiny cracks in the wall, just enough to strew dramatic shadows across the gray stone yet not enough for him to see. There was the constant sense of eyes pinning gazes on the back of his spine while he trekked forward. He shoved it aside; a real threat would come out to fight in, a horrible idea in closed quarters such as these.

The click of his boots against the stone brick path echoed around the room, joining the orchestra of sounds from his ribs clanging against his armor. In the small space, every little noise became fuller, louder, bigger. Pebbles rolling away from his boots were suddenly boulders charging down mountains; drips of water ages away were roaring waterfalls tearing through the chasms. There was even the dampness of the air to prove it.

Even his shriveled heart kept the beat of the clamor as it pounded against its cage. His human instincts reached for the missing muscles around his mouth as a deep chuckle rumble from inside him. He was right at home, his entire being crackling in rhythm with the dark energy around him.

Before long, everything cut off, leaving Zefen alone at the end of the hall. There were no branches, doors, exits or any apparent way to advance. All he had was the way he’d--

Another stone wall had risen behind him, sealing the skeleton away in a cell void of any light. He cursed under his breath and clawed at the wall with his boney fingers. He expected the stone to cave; he expected an obvious answer that’d take him to another room, another opening. He expected anything but the structure the stay solid. Not even a flake of rock fell to the ground, leaving Zefen as hopeless as before.

How was he supposed to get to the gate from in here? It was a small space, enough for him to reach out and shove against both walls from its center, perhaps even pace for several steps. But it was definitely not the place he should have been. Could there have been another way he so blatantly missed.

No. He wasn’t like that -- oblivious was not his nature. So there had to be a way.

Rage flared as a fire ignited inside him. Soon his hands reached for his swords long before he could even form a coherent thought. They slipped from their sheathes with a calming ease, resting in his palms as they waited his next order. He clanged them together, interrupting the silence with a loud shriek of the metal grinding together.

Zefen lunged forward, hardly thinking before a sword swung forward to strike at the wall. It ripped through the air with a soft whine; surely the attack would be enough to do something, anything. It made contact in a flash, but all the energy was suddenly redirected through him, the sword bouncing off as if it was entirely rubber. His body followed suit and his skull smacked the opposite wall.

The only sound was a loud crack as bone smashed against stone through a metal barrier. Still, there was no pain. Or any other consequences for that matter. He shook his head to adjust his helmet and stormed over the short space to where he’d struck.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Any feelings of defeat he should’ve had were smothered under a new sense of a challenge. He had nothing to work with, yet he had everything he needed: two sorts and the armor on his back. It had to be enough.

In his hand, the hilts hummed with energy that crept through his palm and up through his bones. Something felt right -- that something felt... enough. Zef pulled back and took one last swing, attacking with one blade after the other.

They both fell short of the wall by almost an inch, but this time, it wasn’t his intended target. Instead, it was the air around him that his fury fell to, as it continued to prod at his agitation until he couldn’t stand it any longer. There was a pressing quality about it, like he could just reach out and touch it.

Even with that thought, it was still shocking when the air actually tore into two pieces with the sound of a cloth being shred. One of his hands even released its death grip on the blade and it clattered to the ground while a sliver of light reached into the room from the other side of the tear.

If Zefen still had eyes, he would have blinked at the sight and rubbed them until everything went bleary. Air doesn’t rip... air doesn’t-- You can’t actually tear a gas like that. But he just had and that would be his exit.

He bent down and snatched the sword from the ground, still gaping at the sight before him. Perhaps this is what the maze meant about that dimension traveling power -- planewalking it was called. Either way, the walls were still in place around him and there wasn’t anything else that he could do in this place anyway. So he pushed aside a portion of the air like a curtain and walk right through to the other side.

There, he found himself in a wide underground cavern. He stood on the edge of a steep cliff, overlooking a rather large, dark room. Even in the darkness of the cavern, he could see to the other side of the massive space where a bunch of smaller passages branched away through the wall. In the center of the space, there were massive amounts of creatures that appeared as large, amorphous blobs or black. Whether that was their actual physical form or just the dimness of the area, Zefen couldn’t tell.

He glanced upward at the ceiling, examining the large spikes protruding from it, some of them creeping down towards other stone structures building their way up. Across the room, it appeared other pairs were successful in their joining, forming the weak columns that littered the area.

His grip on his swords tightened as he backed away from the edge, finding a wall at his back much closer than he expected. A quick glance around him revealed a small pathway hugging the wall right next to his feet. How convenient. Within several seconds, he stomped down the tiny path in one of the least stealthy descents he’d ever made. Yet he was down on a much more stable ground now, so it did what he needed.

The platform he was on now was layered in stone bricks, similar to the flooring of the maze. One large difference though was how much more worn it looked. Moss stretched across in large patches and split apart slabs of ruck. Some sections of the floor and metal lined railing where completely missing, revealing the floor dozens of feet below.

And though it was worn from obvious abuse, it still has a slight charm of beautify below its worn surface. Of course, at some point it had to have been sleek and new, no matter what creatures now lurked in the depths of this stronghold.

In the process, he stole a glance at the floor of the large room once more, and though the gathered monsters were still rather small below him, he saw more than just the blobs. There appeared to be humans sprinkled within the ranks. As he scanned the area, one of the particularly towering creatures howled out in the cavern and doubled over.

The screech was ear splitting, slicing through the air in its intensity and volume.


Zefen crouched down in reaction and pressed his armor against the stone as the noise rang out above him. It was such a horrible sound that gave him the feeling of skin crawling -- something he hadn’t felt since he’d died. Eventually it cut out, but not before it shook him. For once, he was unsure whether to feel greatly disturbed or pleased with the suffering of the being.

He didn’t bother to decide, gazing at the four different entrances before him. In a split second decision, he raced through the one that happened to be closest, relieved to turn a corner and escape whatever... those were. A darker shadow fell over the hall he chose, pushing energy and excitement into Zefen. Though he couldn’t know where anything would be or even where to start his search for the Key Scribe, the anticipation was there.

His hands were even itching to put the swords to real use, considering the only time he’d fought before was for petty training in anticipation for this moment. In anticipation for the moment he’d have to fight for his life. Oh, and was he ready for it.

The chamber he walked through resembled the Maze’s hall in the same way the platform did, but the deeper he walked, the more wear the stone seemed to see. It only continued to digress until he eventually hit an area where the gray stone turned to a purple-black-ish hue, darkened even further by the little amount of light emit from the torches occasionally hung up. It almost appeared he was entering a void that swallowed everything thrown at it, like a black hole consumed the light around it.

His stride did not even falter as he passed through the mark. Not even his weariness peaked; he felt no reason to be concerned. Should he have been? Perhaps, perhaps not. If anything, it would have prepared him more for the room that spread out as he turned the next corner.

“What have we here?” a voice sneered as Zefen’s head turned into the open area.

His empty gaze made contact with the eyes of another man standing in the corner of the room. Gathered around him were five of the amorphous blobs from the original room, each of them appearing to be staring at Zefen as well. Some of them had hungry eyes and drool dripping from mouths with sharp teeth.

They hardly intimidated Zefen.

The man was young -- no more than a teen -- wearing leather pants and a tight, black shirt. Young almost always equaled inexperienced, proven by how he started at Zefen without fear. The boy lifted up his hands and most of the creatures in from of him flinched and backed away, as if frightened to what he would do. The screech from the large room sounded in Zefen’s memories.

A twinkle of dark mischief flashed in the boy’s eyes as he spoke again, saying, “Pretty blade you got there. Don’t think you’d let me have it, would you? I’ll let you pass peacefully if you do. “

Zefen gave no response, only readjusting his grip on the hilt, and the boy just shrugged. He continued. “Didn’t think so. Not much of a talker, are you? Or did your first killer steal your tongue?”

There was hardly a second before Zefen raised his blade and lunged toward the man. The creatures reacted faster, three of them meeting Zef half way. The man’s laughter soon rose and filled up Zefen’s eardrums, obviously only anticipating this battle to go one way. It was of course six to one.

It took two movements to take out two creatures. The first, Zefen used the momentum of his charge to impale the monster in its throat, its flesh soft and spongy so the blade met no resistance in its plunge. With the second, Zefen turned and reached for the second sword he’d sheathed earlier. As one raced toward him, he stretched out and met it in its chest with the sword. There was a scream as it collapsed, still snapping at Zefen so not to fail its apparent master.

Just as quick as the first two had fallen, the final two appeared. He ripped his swords from the bodies of the first two creatures and brought the blades together to parry the massive claws of one of the blobs. It moved fast, shifting its weight quickly to descend its attacks on Zefen without relent. For a second, he was almost impressed, until he redirected on blow by moving one sword up and out and landed a jab on its soft under belly.

It crumbled with a roar of pain, taking one last swipe to bring down Zefen with it. As it fell, bleeding out a stream of black sludge in place of blood, he found himself in the center of the opening, staring at two monsters and the horrified expression of the man. The two final creatures didn’t bother to move toward him, fear overwhelming their thirst for his blood.

The man screeched, “What are you doing, attack him!” The only two exits were behind Zefen, one of which he eyes with the same level of fear as the monsters. A full coat of sweat dripped down the side of his face as he stared right at Zefen.

Zef held up his swords, signaling the monsters to come at him for the second and final round. As if they’d made a unanimous decision, the two ran at and past him, utterly fleeing the scene. He let them go and instead covered the last of the ground toward the man cowered in the corner. Dropping one of his swords, Zefen grabbed the edge of the man’s shirt’s collar and pushed him against the wall, pressing the blade up against his neck.

The black ooze still on Zef’s swords dripped onto the skin above the man’s collarbone, sizzling as it contacted the skin. Some even mingled with the blood seeping through a small cut on his neck where Zefen pressed too hard. Terror lit up the man’s eyes as he stared at Zefen’s lifeless face.

“Who-who-who... who are you? Y-you should be screaming, on the ground, begging for my mercy. I’m a torturer mage. Best of my class. I-I-I can... I can break anyone.”

As the mage babbled, his eyes quivered, like from another attempt to press pain upon him. From wherever Zefen’s voice came from, there rose a sinister laugh. There was a joy, a thrill having this pathetic creature quake at the thought of Zefen striking him down. None of the undead he’d ever fought did that.

Then again, he’d never aimed to kill any of them.

“Wha-what are you?” the blundering man asked again. “All the other un-un-undead feel it. They c-crumble fast. Faster than the amalgamates.”

“I forgot how to feel pain a long time ago,” Zefen hissed. A new sense of pleasure filled him while an unmistakable expression of dread crept onto the man’s face as his skin paled. Before the man could try to speak again, Zefen continued. “Tell me where the Key Scribe is.”

“L-look. I d-don’t know where what-whatever that is, you gotta--”

Zefen pressed harder, a new streak of blood joining the blackening flesh on the man’s chest. “If I am not impressed with your answer, you will die.”

“Okay. Okay,” the man screamed as Zefen prepared to slit his throat. “G-go back the way you came and you’ll see it. Gold room -- can’t miss it.”

The instant Zefen pulled the blade away and released the man, he crumbled to the ground, pulling his hands around his knees and weeping into them. How pathetic, Zefen thought as he turned away and grabbed his other sword. He didn’t even bother to look back at the man, now curled into a ball, as he turned his back to him and went back out to the hall.

Now with blood on his blades, Zefen suddenly had a thirst for more, regretting not killing the boy anyway but not enough to go back for him. Instead, he focused on the path ahead of him, turning the corner once again.

Just as promised, there was a doorway now at the end of the hall. How had he missed that? It couldn’t have been there before. It emit a vast amount of light in the still void-like area of black bricks, probably the most amount of light Zefen had seen since he’d entered the Maze. Still, there was something odd about it, as if his bones could feel the magic coming off the room in waves.

He didn’t hesitate, storming into the room with both his blades up and scanning the area for any signs of ... well, anything. The Key Scribe could be anything.

It was a gorgeous room, decorated with gold engravings along a strip of the wall, made of what looked like black obsidian. The marble tile below contrasted the rest of the room, even the gray stone surrounding the stripe of black and gold. Silver torch holders held up the burning sticks, forcing a few of Zefen’s bones to click together.

“The fire is not what you should fear now, skeleton.”

Zefen’s gaze snapped toward the center of the room, where an old man stood. If anything, the man was just as old as he was. He rested on a long brown staff as his cane, and his silver sheathe for a silver sword stood out against his attire of a black robe with golden silk lining. The expression on his face was amiable enough, though Zefen believed it a trick.

“Give me the key,” he demanded as he eyes the man.

“Prove yourself to me,” he replied, calmly.

“Give me the goddamn key or I will rip out your throat.

A cheery laugh echoed around the empty room, lifting up to the ceilings until it suddenly turned cold. The Scribe unsheathed his sword and lowered his gaze as he said, “Then there is your proof.” Zefen hardly had a moment to react before the man unsheathed his weapon and advanced toward him.

There was only a second between that and the silver sword coming down on him, in which Zefen had hardly enough time to block and retreat. Yet the Key Scribe did not relent, beating down on Zefen with one blow after another. Oh how long it’d been since he’d fought such a formidable opponent.

Quickly, Zefen realized a pattern in the man’s blows, quickly stepping up to his part in their dance of blades. They took turns jabbing and blocking, lunging and spinning and side stepping away from wherever their opponent chose to move to next. Quite frankly, it was all frivolous work to Zefen, who could never seem to land a blow no matter how hard he swung or how fast he moved. The Scribe was always just one step ahead of him.

In their choreography, Zefen pushed his limits, taking more opportunities and more risks as he search for one small hole in his attackers form. Anything would do, even a fraction of hesitation would work. When Zefen would come down, the Scribe would come up to meet him, forcing the blades to glance off each other and freeing another moment to strike.

Back and forth they went, until they’d come back to the center of the tile room, and the Scribe felt back. Awkward footing plus a perfectly angled blow from Zefen forced him onto the floor. It was the time, the moment Zef anticipated. He followed his first attack with a swift flick of his wrist, but the Scribe rolled out of the way.

He snatched a wooden staff off the ground, something that had been dropped and forgotten at the start of the skirmish. Then as Zefen recovered his balance from the slash at air, his opponent whacked Zefen’s shin with the wooden item. Startled, Zefen stumbled, using another swipe at the Scribe to attempt to balance himself.

Despite still falling over, the blow connected with the man’s rib as signaled by a shout to his left. Zefen rolled to his side and pushed onto his feet. With both blades out to the ready, he expected the man to bounce up as well, and another round to begin. But there was only the light laugh from the start.

His gaze fell to the floor, where the man’s voice emitted from. He was nowhere to be found, but the laugh gained a mocking quality to it. In place of a body was a bright and shiny key. It was so simple looking, yet the power inside was so obvious.

Zefen sheathed his swords and reached down for his prize. He could already feel the exhaustion creeping up through his mind – his magic was weary from such exertion. Yet he was forced to trek on.

As he held it, the golden room began to feel the same pressure, the same palpable tension around it as the first confined room had. So there was only one last leg to this trial.

Once again he took his sword and attacked the air with all his might, feeling accomplished when the same satisfying tearing noise rose into the air. He pushed his way through the cut and found himself back in the halls of the Maze. But this time, he was at a rusted, old gate, locked with an oversized padlock and chains.

To Zefen’s relief, the key was a perfect fit, sending the padlock into millions of different pieces and the chains vanishing into the air. Without even having to pull it, the gate opened. And with trial one coming to a close, Zefen could feel the anticipation at his fingertips.
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StupidSoup says...



Nachturn Telamon Bias|Golgari Swarm|Shade

Nacht stood in front of the Gates, whispering the titles he'd earned over the years to himself.

As was customary before death.

The door in front of him was mossy green, with tiny vines trickling off it's curves. If one was not as observant as Nacht, it would look like the vines were part of the large stone door.

"...I am Keeper of Souls, Guardian of the Crypt. I am the Lonely Warrior, The Shadowed One..."

Nacht did not move his head. In fact he did not move at all. But he could see other guardians filtering in, being lead away and out of sight. Nacht desperately wished not to fight them. The faster he could get through the challenge, the better.

So far there were only two others at his gate.

"...I am the Swarm's Shadow, The Sister's Blade. I am the Guide, The Seeker of Swordsmen..."

The gate began to glow with a faint greenish mist. Nacht suddenly felt wind at his back, pushing him forwards.

"...I am the Bane of Light, The Lich King's Hand. I am The Stalker, The Cursed Wraith..."

Nacht's vision blurred and everything around him disappeared.

There was only the door, still shining faintly, an herbal smell leaking from the cracks in it's stone façade.

Nachturn Telemon Bias

Nacht flinched, cut off by a voice that held all the authority of the almighty.

You have entered the Maze. You are now in My domain

Nacht nodded, fighting the sense of dread rising within him.

Your task is simple. Others have already completed it, putting you at a disadvantage yes?

There was silence. Then the voice boomed, suddenly twice as loud.

I proclaim you Planeswalker! Now show me that you are worth my attention. Walk through the door

Nacht knew better than to ask questions. He stared at the massive monolithic structure ahead of him. It had not changed, remaining as shut as it had been a minute ago.

He walked up to it, feeling it with his ghostly palms. Looking for anything that might help him.

Nothing.

He stepped back, taking in the entirety of the structure. In it's center was an intricate pattern depicting what seemed to be a flower blossoming outwards.

Nacht stared at it. Not confused, but unsure.

The flower seemed to beckon him and Nacht moved towards it, eyes still glued to it.

Then, as he watched, the picture suddenly moved, small lines moving out of the petals, coming to points. The petals suddenly contracted, moving to form lips.

And Nacht found himself looking at an abomination.

He backpedaled hurriedly, breaking free of the flower's spell and unsheathing his sword. He glared at the beastly fauna but it did not attack. The lines had drawn teeth on the petals, the flower had contracted in on itself, forming a monstrous maw.

Nacht slowly circled it, keeping his blade in a defensive position.

Why had it done that? What was the point of the flower changing if it wasn't going to attack. To finish him.

Nacht stopped, still glaring at the door. The answer suddenly dawning on him.

He hadn't let it.

Slowly, he lowered his sword, and shifted from his warrior's stance to one of contemplation.

Then he closed his eyes.

Nacht found what he was waiting for in his mind's eye. The flower slowly tore itself from the door, gaining color, a fluorescent shade of pink. It snaked towards him, silently gliding just above the ground.

Nacht still did not move.

The flower's maw soundlessly opened, revealing rows upon rows of massive green thorns.

Nacht still did not move.

And the flower lunged, swallowing him whole.

Nacht opened his eyes to find himself in a rain forest. The sudden change almost caught him off guard.

Almost.

If he had been off guard, he wouldn't have remembered the moss dripping from the door, or the greenish haze flowing from it's many orifices.

The fact of the matter was, Nacht had known where he was going all along. The Jungles of Tel-jilad.

Once again, the Maze returned. He could feel it even if it did not speak. Nacht's vision blurred slightly as the Maze took control of his sight. Slowly, golden letters appeared in front of him, etching themselves out of the grayish fog that The Maze induced.

Find The Key Scribe

Nacht gazed at the shining script, memorizing it's every detail before it faded into nothingness and the Maze left him.

"The Key Scribe."

Nacht walked forwards, gliding past the thick underbrush, sword held at his side in a deceptively passive stance.

Nacht's years of knowledge gave him the edge in this trial. Every species capable of civilization had a Key Scribe. It was required, informally, but required nonetheless. The Key Scribe was always the King or Queen's most trusted advisor. He or she alone would be tasked with writing down the history of whoever ruled at the time until death. Without a Key Scribe there was no history. No record of royalty. No kingdom.

Today Nacht would destroy a kingdom.

Slowly, a clearing emerged ahead. Nacht slowly entered it, brushing away the last of the jungle's vines. Before him, herds of animals roamed the foothills, scouring the ground for sustenance. Massive apelike beings moved on six legs, towering above Nacht. Under them, smaller more fragile beings clustered, hanging onto the underbelly of the massive ape.

As Nacht watched, a loud call went up. The monster turned around, swiveling it's head, alert. Nacht followed it's gaze.

From the east, dust rose. As Nacht watched, four huge gray figures mounted the hill and raced down it, moving with inhuman speed, carrying a long red banner. The ape let out a cry of it's own before turning to face the oncoming threat.

Nacht kept watching the approaching figures. They were undoubtedly the Tel-jilad, the trolls. For they were indeed trolls, with wild stringy strands of jet black hair and feral snarls, they stood twenty feet and ruled their domain with an iron fist.

Nacht slowly walked forwards, moving to where the monstrous ape stood. Nacht reckoned it had about as much a chance as a tiger had against a pack of elephants.

It was facing it's death.

Nacht neared it, eyes still trained on the oncoming Jilad. They were here to hunt, and the ape was basically asking to be killed.

Anything on Tel-jilad land belonged to Tel-jilad.

And anything taken from Tel-jilad lan was punishable by death.

In one quick motion, Nacht jumped forwards, leaping a good fifteen feet to land on the ape's shoulder. The monster jolted, one of it's arms coming up to snatch him. Nacht waited for it, then slipped, between the finger's of it's hand as it came down. The hand thudded against it's own shoulder. Nacht weathered the sudden jolt that came from the impact, then leaped off, carrying all his momentum into his next strike.

Right between the ape's shoulder blades.

The monster staggered, giving out a snarl, then a low guttural moaned as it's brain was cut off from the central nervous system.

The beast tottered, then fell, Nacht floating down next to it, then turned, pointing his blade at the trolls, who had halted, only meters away.

"I am Nachturn Telemon Bias! The Cursed Wraith! I come to speak to your Key Scribe!"

The trolls glared at him, fury in their eyes.

"ZE NAMEN ACHT A'ZAA! TO'O ACH GANGA'T! TO'O NAMEN EN GANGA'T"

Nacht simply began walking forwards, sword at his side. The Jilad, let out a long deep roar before barreling forwards, brandishing war hammers. The trolls closed the distance in five steps. Nacht dodged the first blow of the massive hammer, leaping onto the weapon and bringing his blade down to bite into the first troll's hide. It roared, flinching back into a standing position, it's arms coming back to it's side. Nacht used the momentum of the troll's arm to sing himself onto it's back, digging his sword in there as well.

"GANAZA GANGA'T! GANGA'T MEI CASCH!"

Nacht barely had time to swing himself out of the way before a hammer strike nearly took him clean off the troll's back. His enemies were barbaric, but they were certainly good at what they did.

Nacht clawed his way up the troll's back, swinging onto it's shoulder and fending off it's massive hands as they came up to grab him. The Jilad's partners simply stared, confused and unsure if they should attack. soon Nacht found himself at the troll's neck. He plunged his sword in, then dodged a massive fist aimed at him, causing the troll to essentially punch itself in the head.

Nacht's prey gargled as blood gushed out of it's neck. It stumbled, then fell to it's knees as Nacht plunged his blade in again and again, puncturing a main artery.

Finally, the Troll shouted, fighting against the blood in it's lungs to speak.

"N'GAA! N'GAA YEU ELL SENCHTA'ANGT"

Nacht understood it. The Jilad was yielding. He slowly slipped down to the troll's ear, keeping his eye's on it's partners the entire time, and whispered,

"Yeu ber'ring mei et Key Scribe. Ei har'ten yeu. Aha'nn?"

The troll moaned, then nodded vigorously. Nacht walked over to the troll's eyes and brandished his bloody blade. The troll flinched.

Then Nacht called upon the arcane. He fused weaves of dark and light together, using the small amount of life magic he knew to mend the broken throat of the troll.

In no time, the artery had been stopped, the puncture wounds closed, and Nacht was on his way to the Jilad Keep.

Outside, the Keep looked as if it had been thrown together by a child. Sticks stuck out from under a ragged red canvas. The walls were nothing more than stones fitted together with clay filling in the cracks.

As Nacht was hurried through the front doors, two massive oak logs with bronze handle, he was astonished to find a sort of rough beauty hidden within the interior of the lodging. In front of him, a dark velvet rug led up to an ornate carved throne. Pillars of chiseled mahogany supported the ceiling, carved with images of war and glory.

"Sznii! En neu ceme'tt!"

Nacht blinked, his attention taken away from the beauty of the room. A garishly robed giant rose from the throne, his voice carrying across the hall, silencing the other trolls that roamed about.

It was time for business.

Nacht, walked forwards, making his presence known to the entirety of the room. There were some gasps from the trolls, and even more growls. Nacht ignored them, taking the time to find the Key Scribe sitting next to the king with his scroll.

As the law dictated.

"Mei namen eis Nacht. Ei ah'am nean co'or n'ngatien. Dei da'a Kniengurlen azzcht?"

The king stared at him, showing no sign of surprise at an outsider speaking his language.

"Da'a Kniengurlen azzcht. Caimen."

The King beckoned Nacht closer. Nacht complied, moving towards the throne, aware of the trolls behind him moving with him.

"Aiiggh! Ganaza! Korlen! Garri'tch! Stai'it! Ais eis n'ngatien!"

Nacht grinned at the command. He felt his guards move back, returning to their positions.

All according to plan.

Nacht followed the King behind the throne. His arrival alone to the hall would have meant death. But he had come with the brethren of the king, other Jilad. This made him an exception and granted him an audience.

"Nacht."

The name was spoken in the universal language. The king spoke with barely any accent.

"Someone like you can only be here for one reason at this...conspicuous time."

Nacht nodded.

The king sighed, crouching down to meet Nacht face to face.

"I will be forced to kill you if you dare touch my Key Scribe."

The words were said in a soft voice, as if in resignation.

"I don't have much of a choice your majesty. The Trials..."

The King nodded.

"I understand. I have no intention of defying the Maze's wishes but I cannot lose my Key Scribe. I would lose not only my name as a king, but my entire kingdom as well."

"I understand. We do not know each other. Yet I believe we can compromise as friends, not as enemies. We both understand each other's dilemmas and with understanding, the seeds of compromise can be sow--"

In one motion, Nacht unsheathed his blade and flung it into the seat behind him.

Right into the Key Scribe's back.

Nacht jumped back, not bothering to face his opponent's oncoming fist.

The first rule of politics was that silence always meant savagery.

"KILL!"

The word meant the same in Nacht's tongue as it did in Jilad. Nacht leaped over to the dead scribe's body and swiped the scroll before putting on a burst of speed and leaping towards the oncoming throng of enemies.

He barely deflected the first strike, letting it nick him. Nacht slipped under the second strike, using his speed to weave among the feet of the giants.

The next strike that found him was pushed ever so slightly to the left, just scratching his left shoulder.

His feet suddenly blurred beneath him as a burst of speed sent him rocketing forwards.

Right through the front door.

Instantly, the world around him faded. The Maze took him from the Jilad lands, dulling his senses, opening his mind to it's eternal consciousness.

Nachturn Telemon Bias. You have completed the first trial

Nacht felt vaguely proud of how he'd handled the entire Trail.

However, many still remain. And do not forget that you are still behind your competitors. We will see each other again very soon

Then his vision returned. He was back in the Maze, it's walls stretching ever onwards into the horizon.

But there was no longer a door to block him.
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SpiritedWolfe says...



Avali Smythe | Rakdos Cult


Avali found himself staring at three different choices that lead to three different pathways of death. They each consisted of their own variations of monsters, lava pools and deathtraps to cross before reaching a rusted gate at the other side. It became one of those things that Avali would deal with as he went came across it. Yet none of the paths reeked of enough death to deter him.

How was he supposed to choose something like this?

Down one of the paths, a Minotaur charged at a collection of the beasts as he screamed "For Boros!" at the top of his lungs. It was an interesting sight, to say the least, and the creature made the battles look simple enough, swinging about his long sword and charging anything that wandered too close.

Avali then eyed the opposite pathway, gazing at the massive amounts of lava pools. Some of them even had makeshift bridges over them, with worn ropes stringing together the dried wood. Even with little sense he had, Avali could determine such a structure would never hold his own weight. Perhaps he could fly the short distance?

He pursed his lips and dismissed the thought, assessing his wings as extra dead weight rather than a useful item. Especially at the time, where the extra heat sapped his strength. So all that was left was the final pathway, dead ahead. It too had a collection of lava rivers that flowed over the room, but unlike the others, the walls expanded outward the deeper they went, appealing further to Avali.

Would it be the right choice? It surely couldn’t be the wrong one.

Sweat proceeded to pour down Avali’s back, collecting especially between his wings and under the armor. It almost seemed as the beads were an extra timer that prodded Avali along, pushing the choice faster. The quicker he went, the quicker he’d get out of the heat. Probably. He assumed that, at least.

With that, Avali rose to his feet with the help of his massive wings shooting out and balancing him. Luckily the "viewing room", where Avali made his choice, was large enough to compensate for his size. It was quite plain, but more elaborate than the three paths he was to go through. The sandstone walls were relatively simple, even with the smooth area with engravings in its center at the foot of the walls. Though now, it didn’t matter what they were, so he turned and flicked his tail at one of the engravings.

That was when he stomped toward his chosen path. When he stepped through the entrance, another gust of heat splashed in his face and dove down into his armor. A nice wake-up call for sure, but a spark of agitation ignited in his mind. Was this how it would be throughout the entire trial?

For the sake of those around him, hopefully not.

The earth quaked from his steps as he hobbled into the path, even taking his sword from his back and holding it out before him. Often it was just a waste of space, having enough strength in his arms to pull apart a man if he wished. Though, watching the other Champion had inspired something in him.

A sharp wail slashed through Avali’s ear drums, as if the mere thought of the Minotaur summoned the other monsters to battle. The first was a scaly creature – essentially an oversized snake – which lunged right at Avali’s throat from the start. The blade was little help from the start, being too large and awkward for him to manure with enough precision to take down the attacker.

So Avali just used his body. His arm swatted at the attacker and even managed to take the main force out of the bite as it glanced off his armor. Avali tossed his sword to the ground and instead reached out to handle the monster with his own hands. It hissed as Avali approached, darting out his reach before swirling back around. The entire ordeal looked completely ridiculous, but that’s how it was.

The snake lunged again, and though it was fast in recoiling as it missed, Avali’s hands found themselves in the perfect spot to grip the slimy skin of the snake as it retreated. The leather of his gloves gave him an extra hold as he brought the creature to his chest and squeezed.

Once again, its horrid screech sound as it lashed out, snaking its tail around Avali’s arm and lunging upward towards his face. Its teeth only sunk into the bone of the skull he war overtop his horns. He smiled at the attempt of the creature, right before he threw it to the ground. In its shock, it laid on the ground still for long enough for Avali’s foot to come crashing down on its head.

Thus, that fight was over.

Around the path, several other monsters had collected to watch the brawl, a mix of hunger and curiosity coming across their faces. Most of their gazes flickered to the carcass at Avali’s feet, the smell of fresh blood wafting in the heat bursts. Avali grabbed his sword from off the ground and quickly sheathed it, hurrying ahead before another monster decided to get in his way. Though, surely one of them would dare walk up to him again. Maybe even a group of them daring their chances against the enormous beast presented to them.

It was the Maze, after all. These kinds of challenges were expected of Avali; even if he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to step up to them.

The rest of the path way was uneventful, at least compared to what he had expected. Most monsters had vanished to who-knew-where, and those that remained only eyed him from a distance, as they were waiting for something to happen, a signal of sorts. It was odd that one had so readily attacked him earlier but the rest hang back soon after.

The lava rivers that so lazily drifted around were easy enough to avoid. There didn’t appear to be any of the flimsy bridges or any other contraptions lying around, and it was almost puzzling when Avali reached the gate. Could it really be that easy?

Soon there were the sounds of laughter in his head as something hissed in his mind, We’re just beginning, Avali. Don’t give up on me so soon.

Avali abruptly turned around, gazing at the cast of monsters gathered. And while the snickers still went on in his head, not one of the creatures even moved enough to be the source of the sound. Who was this then?

You seem surprised, Avali. You seemed to have spoken to me before. Is it so wrong for me to speak back?

Avali furrowed his brow, sending out a large huff of air to express his frustration. What was this voice talking about? The only thought that came to mind was mentioning the Maze’s challenges, but could that be it? Did the Maze really talk? His head was pounding from all the ideas running in and out.

There was another chuckle. Please, do try to be a little quicker than that, Avali. Of the many who have already passed through here, you are one of the last. Again.

Of course, now is a more daunting task, the voice continued on before Avali could try to decipher what it meant. (He surly hadn’t been here before, so how could he be last?) Now that you’ve found the gate, the last step is to find a key to get through it. It’s only logical. But the hard part is getting to that key. You must planewalk to another dimension and find the Key Scribe. He’ll surely be waiting for you.

Avali’s vision felt like it was spinning. Never had so much information gone in and out of his head that quickly. Key Scribe? Planewalk? Other dimension? He staggered backward, hardly catching himself against the rusty bars of the gate. Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure he was ready for this.

Planewalking will not be your biggest problem, Avali. I assure you. Just be quick about doing it.

He gazed up into the sky as the voice faded from his mind’s ears. The tasks were layered upon each other and he was expected to complete each of them? It was too much, it had to be. How would he get the key, where would he find the Scribe, where—?

As the pathetic questions and whining tone took over his thoughts, Avali’s own patience in himself wore thin. No, of course it wouldn’t be easy, but he’d survived impossible tasks before and nothing would stop him now from completing them.

A hum of energy raced through his body as his mind turned onto the first impossible task: planewalking. Avali wasn’t even sure where he would be going or what he would do. There were still so many questions drifting about his brain that he had to numb out anything that wasn’t essential.

(Even though he couldn’t really tell what was essential and what wasn’t.)

The energy started to strengthen, sending waves through his wings and starting their movement. He held his head up a slight bit higher, as well as puffing out his chest and stomping the ground with his enormous hooves. There was exhilaration suddenly racing through his body as he realized he knew – he always knew what this felt like.

When it came time for him to jump, he leaped into the air like the sky had no limits and he could soar through the heavens. If only his wings weren’t so pathetic.

There was a moment of utter free fall, where the ground disappeared from under Avali and his wings gave out from the effort so all he could do was fall and wait. Of course, he was never any good at waiting and the feeling of his stomach rising into his chest was rather uncomfortable. Had the experience gone on any longer, Avali might have screamed out in the void he fell through.

His legs appeared to know what to do far before Avali could think about it, crouching and moving his body down with his momentum so not to shatter his legs. Then there was the surprising quietness as Avali rose from his crouching position to examine the area. There was no loud boom as Avali’s body collided with the ground, only a light whip of a silent wind throwing aside clouds of sand. It was the desert after all.

Avali took a deep breath of the air, grateful for the nature touch to it and to be gone from the musty, sweat odor of the heat place in the Maze. Could he still be considered in the Maze when the only walls in sight were the open canyons beside him? An interesting thought. Yet Avali didn’t dwell on it too long, a new panic settling in.

He’d completed impossible task number one with ease, which would only mean impossible task number two would be even more impossible. That would be finding the Key Scribe. But the looks of the vastness and the desertedness of the desert, that statement was appearing more and more true.

His wings drooped on his back from the sudden effort after the years he went without ever using them. Avali could only imagine the kind of stress the pair would be under if this became a common occurrence. But the only way of knowing that would be to make it further along the journey.

Avali stood there for a moment, allowing the blistering sun to continue to bake the skin inside his armor alive, but it strangely felt better than being in that heat trap. Perhaps there was less around to kill him now… well, less immediately here. Still, he stayed put for a solid five or so minutes and just basked in the sun, not even trying particularly hard to solve his conundrum.

What if he ran away? What if he just stayed in this realm and waited until his time came? Or he met a terrible creature that would end it all? It wasn’t a horrible idea at first glance. But what about the food? Food was important as well, and he was quite sure food was essential.

As his mind continued to babble, even his wings perked up a bit, spreading out wide to absorb the sun. He tilted his head back, which was daring as it served the risk of his triceratops skull toppling off. Yet it was a moment he had.

Before he had the chance to direct his thoughts back to the task at hand, the task jabbed a spear into his stomach. Quite literally. It was a group of humans that had been wandering around that stumbled across Avali, quickly noticing his enormous form and leathery, out stretched wings. As fire worshippers, they mistook him for a dragon.

And he could tell as quite murmurs would rise through the band, mostly consisting of the word “dragon” over and over in awed tones. Quite baffled by the sudden interruptions, Avali wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He moved the spear away from his armor, hoping maybe to catch a chance to sneak away, but the human holding the spear jumped up, enthusiasm in his gaze as he cried, “It will follow!”

Avali still had no words for the cheers that rose through the people.

The spear-holding human quickly turned, but kept on hand firmly planted on the spear’s shaft and tugged it toward him, motioning for Avali to follow.

The group trekked across the desert in this way, many of the people unsure as to where to place themselves. Some drifted closer to Avali, even reaching their hands out to touch his drooping wings. Others stayed on the outskirts, eyeing Avali with a mix of confusion and fear.

They walked along until the band reached a large pile of dried out sticks. All the humans moved closer towards him, shoving him closer to the pile and mutter under their breaths to one another. When he reached the very edge they began to chant.

Utter bewilderment rose inside Avali; he didn’t know what to do. Of course, his sword was on his back and the people around were unguarded. A slaughter would be easy but… as they chanted for fire, for their mistake dragon Avali didn’t see a reason. He wasn’t in any danger.

He still remembered the night – only a week ago – when he cursed the other demons for their mockery of senseless battle. Would this be the same?

Their cries and chants grew louder, as did a slight fury inside Avali. He could justify it. It was a test. The Scribe would be near; it would summon him. The screams, the blood, the sand stained red with the river flowing from their bodied.

There would be no fire, but the sun would still shine on a setting of red. Perhaps. Again, he told himself, it would be easy.

“Enough!”

Silence fell over the people. Avali gaze out to where the crowd parted for a new comer. In his palm, a light flame flickered and all the gathered people around fell to their knees. Some even pressed their hands into the sand and their faces into their leg, as if to hide their embarrassment.

“So we have a dragon?” he mocked. Though he was slightly taller than half the size of Avali, he had more the voice than Avali could ever hope for. It sounded confident and loud and it rung in the air after the words left his mouth. “Breathe for us then, dragon.”

The man wore a lavish robe made of a red main fabric and then a golden lining of its edges. His confidence gave Avali a want to have it himself. He could be confident; he could sound proud like the man. … “I don’t breathe fire.”

The worlds tumbled from his mouth and onto the sound, sounding small and pathetic. They jumbled together in slurs from the voice he never used. Heat rose up inside Avali, a new rage blossoming. The man had done this. It was the man that’d made of a fool of him for making him believe.

“So our dragon is a demon, then,” he said with a chuckle. Then he smothered the flame that danced so gingerly in his palm by closing his hand and stared up into Avali’s demonic red eyes. Even with a lowered voice, the man sounded like he spoke to the world in his next few words. “I’m sure you just wanted the key so you ‘dressed’ up for the act.”

Avali stepped through the kneeling crowd, advancing toward the tiny man in front of him. He mentioned key, so Avali assumed this man was the Key Scribe he had to find.

“Pathetic, I must admit. Just pathetic that you don’t even have the apparently brain power to go along with you elaborate scheme.” The taunting words of the man continued to flow form his mouth, each one barreling through his armor and stinging at his skin.

The onslaught went on, where the Scribe would insult him and then have a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Each sizzle against his skin was just another stick added to the fire burning in his chest, until finally the blade reappeared in a dramatic clang of the sword being drawn from its sheath.

The Key Scribe followed the movement, drawing his own silver blade. He even took the honors of moving first, scattering a spectating group of the gathered people. Their weapons met together with a loud crash of the metals screeching before they pulled apart.

For each movement the Key Scribe made, Avali was three seconds too slow. Even as Avali wielded the long sword one handed, the Key Scribe managed to easily out-speed Avali, the huge size difference putting him at a disadvantage. Yet every strike the Key Scribe made merely glanced off. It was a standstill as the two battled on.

Eventually, Avali swung back and managed to time it right so the two blades collided once more, yet this time the Key Scribe was ill prepared. The sword flew from his hand and onto the ground fairways away.

Neither of them bothered to go after it, or even continue the battle.

“I expected more from someone with a build like yours,” the Scribe said, dangling the key in front of Avali. “Go ahead, take it. Move on with the challenges.”

Avali, of course, gave him a puzzled look without moving.

“I’m sure you’re not deaf. Go on, take it.”

Avali pressed his lips together, summoning the courage just to say one word. “Why?”

“Because you’re pathetic, demon,” he muttered, tossing the key into Avali’s hands. “If I give you pity now, you’ll make it one more trial. But who even knows if you’ll get past that one? You’re dead anyway, demon. Can’t I just entice a little more entertainment?”

Heavy breaths filled Avali’s chest as he watched the Scribe walk away. All the eyes of the other humans were on him. And he hated it. The attitude of the man reminded Avali too much of the other demons, too much of all the time he’d spent in the outskirts of the Rakdos complex.

Oh, but he wouldn’t take it anymore. He was in the Maze – he was chosen for the Maze. So with a burst of speed that Avali didn’t even know he possessed, Avali charged after the man, using his wings as extra assistance to cover ground.

And before long, Avali’s horns were soaked in the blood of a Key Scribe.

They stayed like that as Avali planewalked back to the first gate he appeared at, and even when he was placing the key in the pad lock to open the gate, he could hear the voice of the man, “That anger will get you far, demon. Don’t take forever to unlock it.”
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As a former (and rather excellent) liar herself, Aru knew that, sometimes, speaking the truth felt like wrenching a thorn out of your side. But doing the opposite meant pretending it wasn't there. And that made every single step ache. It was no way to live.
— Roshani Chokshi, Aru Shah and the Nectar of Immortality