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incorrect-mtg · 14 hours

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The Argent Etchings teach no fear

Fez Xa'ktiz knew no fear as he stepped through the omenpath, even though it was the first time he would be in a world not his own. He was the First Vanguard of the Choir within the Seven Hundred and Forty Eighth Expedition Force of the Alabaster Host and through his lips the song of the Mother of Machines would be spread, her presence was always with — within — him.

Fear was a weakness of the incompleat, of those not yet blessed by the light of Phyrexia, not yet held in the sweet embrace of the Mother of Machines, not yet baptized in ichor. It was the inevitable result of imperfection and lack of unity, something that would soon be eradicated through their work, where the entire multiverse would find purpose and belonging.

Fez Xa'ktiz was not born to feel fear, he was born to sing. He was not born to be alone, he forever heard the whispers of the Mother of Machines, the guiding force of his own voice.

"In the Argent Etchings we each learn our appointed duties and so we understand our purpose" he heard the Mother whisper within him, and so it was with delight that he fully crossed the boundary into a nameless world.

As the rest of the Expedition Force stepped through the omenpath behind him — alongside a number of members of the Chrome Host — he did a first survey of the site of their arrival. Although the Machine Orthodoxy held knowledge of countless worlds, eagerly gathered in preparation of the events now unfolding, there were countless more about which they had known little to nothing. He had been trusted with charting one such world, hence the presence of the Chrome Host, and so any insight would be beneficial.

The most noticeable aspect was the material of the walls that surrounded him — organic, disgusting wood — and then the realization that they had, indeed, arrived in a room. A large hall, rectangular in shape, its dark and stained walls covered by peeling and roting paper and littered with assorted objects that might have long ago implied a living presence. At the each of the most distant ends of the hall, flimsy doors hid the rest of the world from sight.

Curious... although the Mother of Machines guaranteed that their feet would find stable ground to cross on arrival, he thought it unlikely for said ground to be in a building, much less an abandoned one.

His duty was not to ask questions, however, unlike the members of the Chrome Host that had immediately set upon their given task of setting up observation devices, scanners and other such contraptions. Typical of apostates who saw observation of their surroundings as a better path to perfection than the much more enlightened learning through the Argent Etchings themselves.

"In the Argent Etchings we see the world as it should be, and so they light the path towards perfection" whispered the voice of the Mother of Machines again as he turned towards his fellows in the Alabaster Host. Unlike their Gitaxian counterparts, they had organized themselves single file, silent and waiting for orders. Sixteen divisions of sixteen soldiers, each led by another Vanguard of the Choir, the perfect ordination for the forces of Phyrexia.

Fez Xa'ktiz opened his mouth and let ring the song to which he had been entrusted, its metallic shrieking and undulating depths shaking the walls around them at the same time it gave the soldiers purpose. As each member of the Choir echoed in delightfully rending harmony, they set out to do their work. The forces split in two and moved towards each door, followed by quickly assembled Gitaxian probes. As both doors opened into new halls, each splitting off into different directions, the Host split up further into smaller forces, until finally each division pressed on individually, mapping out the path that they took and noting all other paths they missed, which would likely be explored by the drones the Chrome Host was sending off.

Although not able to see through their eyes, the resonance of their singing allowed Fez Xa'ktiz a measure of understanding of the surroundings each division passed through, which let him see that whatever building had been unwittingly chosen as the landing spot of their invasion was still large enough that none of their forces had arrived at an outside. Odd, although not beyond the realm of possibility — perhaps this place was a crude and disgustingly organic facsimile of the Fair Basilica, an entire world brought within a greater structure — and something that would definitely be worth noting.

Of perhaps equal note was the first living being found within the plane: a moth, its gray fluttering wings carrying it through the doors and right by him. Perhaps it had sat in a hidden alcove, and the passing forces had awoken it? How serendipitous, then, that it had been drawn by the light of the omenpath right towards them.

Bringing forth a hand towards the insect, Fez Xa'ktiz was delighted to see it land upon his claw, its wings closing and antennae fluttering as they regarded each other, black eyes meeting perfectly polished ivory... This creature, insignificant as it might be, would be fitting first initiate for this world. A moth reaching for the light and finding its own perfection upon arrival.

Extending his tongue, he let it be cut by one of his sharp fangs, black ichor dripping through the wound. Leaning his head down, he let it drip directly onto the moth until its gray wings turned black. Surprisingly it had no reaction to such a treatment, even though he knew compleation was supposed to be — meant to be — a painful process.

"Weakness burrows deep in the flesh of the incompleat. It bites down and refuses to let go. Their first step towards perfection is to extricate it and bleed out its rot" taught the Mother of Machines, even though the vermin on his claw seemed to defy such clear teachings... Until the entire thing came undone, breaking apart like petals falling off a dead flower.

Perhaps... Perhaps it was simply too weak. If someone — something — was wholly comprised of weakness, how could they remove it without ceasing to exist entirely? Yes, that made sense. To react in pain, to shake and twist and cry, one would need parts of themselves to remain, the parts that weren't corrupted by weakness. The insect likely had nothing to offer and so could not even muster a reaction.

He put the moth out of his mind, focusing on more important matters: one division had finally met living beings to oppose its passage. Not insignificant vermin, but actual fighters charging directly at them.

The walls rumbled and shook as Fez Xa'ktiz increased the volume of his song, the lessons and tactics etched in his mind echoing towards the legions of soldiers now finally seeing battle. Like the beasts of the Hunter Maze, warriors seemed to come out of the woodwork, their rusty and jagged weapons doing little and nothing against perfect phyrexian soldiers-

No, that wasn't right... The walls, they had not shaken due to his song, had they? Or had they? He didn't understand why it mattered, but he would swear that they shook first, then he had intensified his singing...

"The enem- even some of our al- see meri- ception- crush- overwhel-" murmured... The Mother of Machines? Why could he not hear her clearly?

He sang louder still, certain his voice would reach all members of their force — be it Alabaster or Chrome — and through the omenpath itself to the Mother of Machines. In the echo of his song, he would find stable ground-

His next step — had it been a step forward, towards his soldiers, or backwards, towards the omenpath? — found nothing but empty air, the wood underneath him rotting and opening into an abyss.

He quickly spread his wings, trying to stabilize and go back to where he had been even as he was spun around by gravity and air resistance, until his body met the ground with a loud crack and roaring pain and his consciousness left him.

When he woke up, one of his wings broken after taking most of the force of his fall, he did not know how long he had laid there. It could not have been long, certainly, for the Chrome Host would have certainly sent a drone to retrieve him given enough time — shameful as it might have been — and yet he laid alone, the silence of the room cut only by a dripping sound.

(Why was he alone? Why could he not hear the voice of the Mother of Machines)

He looked around, taking stock of the room and how its smooth white walls were almost as beautiful as those of the Fair Basilica, except instead of being made of ivory they seemed covered by... Wax?

His gaze finally fell upon his remaining wing. Rather than being bent out of shape like its counterpart, the limb has been spread behind and to the side of him, and was covered in the same material that covered the rest of the room, already in the process of solidifying. Another drip, directly onto it, served as confirmation.

To fly back with a single wing would prove a challenge, but with two wings damaged it would be impossible. Furthermore, if he was to be forced to drag himself up the hole he had fallen through, the weight of the wax would simply make things harder. Without hesitation, he pushed his claws under the material, right where feathers met wax: Even if some of it had dried already, the ichor that would pour through the wounds would close them quickly, he was certain-

That certainty lasted only until the pain — beyond what he had ever felt, ever knew could be felt — spread from his wing as he pulled the wax off. This- this wasn't normal. He-

The liquid that poured out of his wounds, where wax had pulled feathers and skin and bones alongside it, was not ichor.

It was red... Why was it red?

"What foolish prey, that wanders into an open maw thinking themselves the predators" whispered the Mother- no, this was not her voice. These were not her words.

The walls surrounding him rumbled once again, so hard it seemed the entire world was shaking, before stopping. Then again, before stopping, repeating, stopping, and on and on and on.

As Fez Xa'ktiz laid alone, his wounds bleeding a liquid that should not be there, he knew that the rumbling was certainly the consequences of battle: the Mother of Machines must have heard his last cries and sent forth more soldiers to tame this accursed world.

And yet a small part of him couldn't help but fear that the rumbling felt like a delighted and cruel laughter.

#magic the gathering #duskmourn #Phyrexia #short fanfic #fanfic #Phyrexian OC #I guess

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chefwhatnot · 1 day

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A Too-Close Analysis of the Double Exposure Treatments from Duskmourn (1/2)

Happy Prerelease Weekend everyone! During the announcement stream for Duskmourn, Art Director Ovidio Cartagena said that one of the goals of the "Double Exposure" Alt-art treatments was to capture the inner psyches of Legendary Characters. And that immediately tickled my neurons, so I decided to write a bunch about the different Double Exposures and what exactly they suggest about the different characters! This post will feature all the characters from Duskmourn who appear in the Main Story articles, with the rest coming sometime tomorrow probably.

The Wandering Rescuer-

In profile over the Wanderer is one of Duskmourn’s demons, seeming to show similarities to the demon depicted on the card “Vile Mutilator”. This demon in particular, and presumably other Duskmourn demons, possess the ability to kill survivors’ glimmers. The Wanderer is the only character we see in the story who has a glimmer, potentially because her will and connection to her home plane are strong enough to manifest one before any other members of the party can. So, having that connection to her home, to the place she has sought after for so many years and finally had the chance to return to post-March of the Machines, taken away by a monster… yeah, I can see how the Wanderer might be afraid of that.

Valgavoth, Terror Eater-

Unlike the other double exposure treatments, Valgavoth is the upper layer of this double exposure: he is the nightmare. He blends seamlessly into the door behind him, which is carved with a simulacrum of his core form. He is the House, and the House is Valgavoth. There is no escape from his grasp, etc.

Tyvar, the Pummeler-

Tyvar looks forward, fists raised in a fighting pose. His position suggests fearlessness, but a Cellarspawn still taunts him over his shoulder. “Oh why’d he be afraid of some random Cellarspawn” well he’s not, he’s afraid of what it represents. I posit that this Cellarspawn is the one Tyvar copies when he puts himself and Zimone into House camouflage in the main story. That action, while clever, nearly led to both of them being subsumed into the essence of the House if not for Zimone’s fateshifter. It represents bad change, the possibility that Tyvar isn’t infallible, and the way his transmutation abilities feel uncomfortably similar to that of Phyrexian compleation. But still, Tyvar stands proud and stares forward, ready to courageously curtail whatever may come. Also, only noticed this a bit after originally writing this section, but compare Tyvar’s Double Exposure card to Kona’s. Notice anything? The colors are inverted. Tyvar, the subject of the card, is rendered in magenta, perhaps showing how he is to be feared.

Kaito, Bane of Nightmares-

Kaito is surrounded by gaseous Cellarspawn who shy away from him, flinching back as though in pain. This, combined with his title as "Bane of Nightmares" suggests that there is something about Kaito that the House instinctively cowers from. Which, upon thinking things over, makes sense. He is a planeswalker: he has the ultimate trump card to ignore and escape the horrors of Duskmourn at any time. Plus, he is the only person we’ve seen who was actually able to pose a significant threat to Valgavoth, stabbing him through the chest at the climax of Episode 6. The ghastly cellarspawn are Valgavoth’s creations, and Kaito may be the only one they fear. (Kinda expect Kaito and Valgavoth to have an Ajani/Bolas or Elspeth/Norn relationship maybe.)

Niko, Light of Hope-

Niko is both layers of their double exposure, one calm and confident, the other in pain. Niko’s fears are all internal: fear of not measuring up to their ideals, fear of being forced to go along with whatever plans the powers that be have in store for them. Just as their magic creates reflections, the hand that skillfully balances five of their magic shards is reflected in agony on the "internal" layer. Yet, simultaneously, them being both layers of the double exposure seems to break the rules shown by the other cards. Extremely fitting for a master of their own destiny, wouldn’t you say?

Marina Vendrell-

Kinda similar to Victor’s Double Exposure treatment, the wings of a moth is overlaid on top of the subject’s face. However, Victor’s moth is covered in eye patterns, while Marina’s has the shape of a skull on its wings. Victor sees Valgavoth as a source of knowledge or power, Marina knows he brings only death. Notice, too, the way that Victor stares forward, making himself a part of the moth, while Marina glances to the side, attempting to reject its existence. Marina’s only safety now is that of denial: accepting how her actions doomed the plane to an eternity of nightmares would undo her.

Nashi, Searcher in the Dark-

Hey remember that time Nashi was trapped in a cage by a group of wickerfolk who slowly picked off the other Nezumi he cane to Duskmourn with and turned them into wickerfolk? Remember how a similar thing happened when Nashi ran into Tezzeret during that one side story and Tezzeret killed a bunch of Nashi’s friends? Remember how Tezzeret ALSO killed Nashi’s birth parents and everyone else in his village? Remember how everyone who gets close to him meets a horrible fate, to the point that eventually Nashi must find it easier to push other people away, to remain isolated because the only reasonable explanation is that he must be somehow cursed to bring ruin to the people he loves? Yeah.

Winter, Misanthropic Guide-

Winter pinches his forehead, deep in thought. Layered over him is a dagger with a strange handle that morphs into the hand of a corpse. This blade is a reminder of how he betrayed and sacrificed his friend in the house in order to escape Duskmourn. The blade faces the same direction as him, as though primed to stab into someone’s back. The hand is either the hand of his friend, desiccated and decaying, and/or represents the agency he had in the betrayal. Despite his claims that anyone would do the same, it is ultimately a decision he made, a path he followed, and consequences that he is responsible for.

Zimone, All-Questioning-

Over Zimone's face is a book, cover detailed with gnashing teeth and pages flipping ominously in the wind. But, as the story points out, how can there be wind inside the house? Zimone does not know, but she wants to. She wants to know everything, regardless of how outwardly intimidating the container of that source of knowledge may be. The spine of the book makes it look like her eye is closed, which combined with the reflective lens gives her an appearance of sleeping reverie. Her desire for knowledge blinds her to other potential threats, which the House knows and uses to sow the lures of her destruction.

That's it for now! Stay tuned for when I release the rest :)

#mtg #magic the gathering #duskmourn #the wanderer #tyvar kell #kaito shizuki #valgavoth #niko aris

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