You walk alone through the forest, bow drawn, moving at a brisk pace, careful to not move so fast that you will be easily detected. The wind blows at a decent rate; not so strong as to suggest the coming of a storm, but enough so that the rustling of the forest tree limbs might help to obscure the sound of your passage through the fallen autumn leaves at your feet. The sun sets in the west, above the entangled tree branches overhead, painting the heavens above in swaths of burgundy and crimson. Once, you would have admired such a sight. Once, you could have sat for hours doing nothing but watch the sun make its descent, as the daylight slowly surrendered ground to the night.

But that was a long time ago. That was before the world ended.

You snap your mind back to reality, back to the situation at hand. The creature you track is in sight now. A lone deer, a buck, beautiful and majestic, a large set of horns protruding from its skull. Your prey is large enough that it could provide food for your camp to last for a couple days and its hide could be fastened into a coat for the encroaching winter.

All at once, it stops and turns its head to you. You must have done something to draw its attention, or perhaps something else nearby did and you were simply unlucky. Regardless, there’s no point in worrying about it. You consider making your move now, but you don’t have a clear shot of any vital organs. Something seems wrong with the way the deer looks at you. You can’t put your finger on it, but you can feel it in your bones. Suddenly, it charges you, head lowered, massive horns like twin spears. In a single moment, the two of you have switched places, with you the prey and it the predator. As it closes the distance between the two of you, for the first time, you notice the ebony teardrops streamed down the deer’s face. Blighted, you realize, all too late. You can both feel and hear your heart pounding, hard and fast, as if it will soon burst from your chest, like a hammer slamming against a wall made of glass. You feel yourself begin to panic as the fear surges through you, crippling and consuming. The idea of trying to run briefly crosses your mind, but you cast it away. The beast would be too fast to escape on foot. You force your fear down. Fear is a luxury that you can no longer afford in this world. You stand your ground, taking a deep breath to steady yourself as you pull an arrow from your quiver, notch it, pull back on the bowstring, line the charging creature up in your sight, make the necessary calculations for wind, then loose the arrow. It’s like clockwork. The arrow slams through the beast’s heart. All of this happens within the span of only a couple seconds, but it feels like a much longer stretch of time. A black ooze bursts from the creature’s chest at the arrow’s impact, and the Blighted buck makes a squealing sound as it tumbles forward mid-stride, only about a dozen feet away from you.

You glance around, making certain that there are no more of the Blighted nearby. When you’re satisfied that this was the only one, you approach the downed deer, notching another arrow in case it’s not as dead as it appears to be. In the calm, your heart slows. You notice now that the encounter, brief as it was, has left you covered in a thick sheen of sweat. In an awkward motion, you attempt to wipe your brow with one arm while still keeping a hold of the bow and arrow. You stand over the fallen corpse now, bow still locked on it. When you’re confident that it won’t rise, you bend down to examine the carcass, its chest now painted pitch from the oil that flowed through its veins. You note that there are no metal limbs. It was blighted, but not yet compleated. You are careful not to touch the Oil. A single drop on your skin, no matter how small, is all it takes to become Blighted, yourself. You have seen it happen before, both to strangers and to friends.

The Phyrexian’s first attack was called the Black Rain. Winged monstrosities flew over cites, targeting those that posed the biggest threat or had the largest population density, pouring the Oil from the sky. There was panic, then confusion, then sickness, then more panic. Cities fell and hundreds of millions became infected. They waited a few days, long enough for the infection to start showing in people, before bringing in their actual armies: Humans transformed into monsters of flesh and steel, winged beasts that attacked from above and giants forged of indestructible metal. Worst of all, nobody even knew where they were coming from. It was months into the war when the portals were first discovered. They were placed underground in warehouses, often in the middle of populated areas. The Phyrexians used a combination of shapeshifters; machines capable of morphing into anything they desired, and mind control to gain a foothold on your world, on Earth. They had clearly been planning this, while your governments were caught completely off guard. The creatures came from another universe, another plane. They were a living virus, using weapons of magic that humanity could barely even comprehend, let alone successfully counteract.

By the time your governments realized what was happening, they were too fractured and too occupied with their own survival, to mount any type of offensive action. Some civilizations still exist, even today, outside of Phyrexia. Some nations, once they realized what was happening, were able to regroup, using anti-aircraft weaponry to defend the skies, digging deep trenches to prevent invasion on foot and banishing or executing anyone even suspected of being Blighted. It was a crude way to live, but it was a way to live

It’s odd, thinking back as you do now, to the world before the Phyrexians, a world where you had everything. Not just the technology, the television, the internet, but also your friends, your family. You took so much of it for granted. Now, here you are, living in a world where you are constantly at the edge of life and death, having lost everything and everyone you ever cared about. You stare at the Blighted deer in front of you, thinking of it as a symbol of what your life has become. Of wasted opportunity, of things stolen from you.

There are other hunters at your camp. You think its possible that one of them bagged something to eat tonight, but even then, food will likely be spread thin. Salvaging anything edible from this deer is out of the question, though. You scold yourself for not noticing the black tear drops before you had wasted so much of the evening on the creature. There’s no help for it, though.

You haven’t always been a hunter, but it was a skill that circumstances forced you to acquire. It was something you needed to learn in order to survive in this new world. For the first six months or so, you were able to get by just through the looting of homes, finding food that would no longer be put to use by its owners in abandoned areas that the Phyrexians had little or no interest in. As the days went on, this became more and more difficult, and you were close to starvation. That was when you met Andrew.

Andrew was about twelve years older than you. He had a wife and two children, a boy and girl, in the days prior to the Black Rain. He found you starving, alone in the woods. He shared some of his food with you that day. After that, he taught you how to hunt with bows, and how to craft arrows out of animal bone and wood. Bullets are hard to come by in this world, and are better saved for a different kind of enemy.

For about a year, Andrew acted as a friend and mentor to you, teaching you whatever skills he knew. To this day, you do not understand why he took you in as he did, back when you were of no real use to him. Maybe he simply sought whatever form of friendship he could get. Maybe he foresaw the day when you were stronger, as you are now. Maybe he just needed somebody to watch his back while he slept. You never felt the need to ask, though now that he’s gone, you wish that you had. Whatever the case, the two of you bonded through your shared losses, becoming friends in a world where friendship was a rare luxury.

The wind stops, and the sound of crunching leaves snaps you out of your reminiscence. Your first instinct is to turn and look in the direction the sound came from, but you know that would be a mistake. Better to let whatever it is think that you aren’t aware of its presence. You don’t hear it again while the wind is silent. You realize that it’s waiting, only willing to move while the wind will mask the sound of its footsteps, just as you had done with the deer. It’s hunting you. The wind picks up again and your eyes glance side to side, searching, even as your head remains still. There. You see the shadow out of the corner of your eye, to your left. It’s brief and shapeless, but it’s all you need to see. The Phyrexians are here.

You close your eyes. You recall woods you visited as a child, picturing them in your mind in vivid detail, remembering the green of the leaves, the sweet scents of nature, the insects that flew through the trees. You go there, mentally, connecting with the soul of the land.

One night, Andrew told you why he was out here. Prior to the Black Rain and the invasion, he and his wife were practitioners of the pagan religion, Wicca. When Earth became linked with Phyrexia, its mana came as well, infusing in the land of Earth. Or, perhaps, the mana had always existed and remained dormant for one reason or another. Whatever the case, the occultists and the mystics, those that already believed in the existence of magic, were the first to discover its power. Andrew’s children were killed in the initial invasion, but he and his wife managed to make it to a human stronghold back before the trenches were dug and they stopped allowing outsiders within their walls. Humans are an ignorant and superstitious people, though. Those in the city believed that the practice of magic allows one to become possessed by the Phyrexians. It was something they couldn’t allow within their walls. Andrew’s wife started a coven within the compound, herself being the High Priestess. They came into Andrew’s house and took her in the middle of the night, to make an example out of her. She was executed within three days. They said that a magic user was too dangerous to leave alive for the time a trial would take. After that, Andrew fled the city of his own free will, believing that the monsters outside of the city couldn’t possibly be worse than those within.

After he was done, you asked him to teach you the art as well. Since then, it has saved your life on a larger number of occasions than you can count. You keep the skill secret from everyone, even the party you’ve recently been traveling with, out of fear that you won’t be trusted, that you’ll be an outcast just as Andrew and his wife were. You summon this magic now, reaching deep into the woods you became bound with so many years ago. Your body tingles as the mana fills your veins. You form the spell you need, shaping the mana to your will, programming it to fulfill your wishes and desires. Then, you release it.

A thick fog encircles you, then spreads outward to the surrounding forest, coating everything in a white haze. Whatever was watching you realizes what you have done too late, and you hear it running for the spot where you had just stood, but you’re already getting away, fleeing through the forest. Its footsteps are light and human sounding. A scout, you guess. If the Phyrexians are here, you need to get back to the camp to warn the others. The fog will mask your scent and you laced it together with another spell, one that will make the sound of your footsteps seem as if they are coming from every direction at once. There is no possible way it can track you through this, but the spell won’t last for long. At best, you have ten minutes, but you’re about thirty from your destination.

You move as quickly as you can manage through the grasses and foliage, but the fog is thick and makes it difficult to run. With any luck, the Phyrexian that hunts you will be led in another direction and put a ways off course. Wishful thinking, you know, but its all you’ve got. When the fog dissipates, you are able to increase your speed, but are still careful to pace yourself. Run too fast, and you will exert all of your energy before reaching your destination. You believe you are going in the direction of the camp, but can’t be sure. The sun has set completely now, giving way to the night, and the fog may have turned you around. You run on, anyway, searching and listening for signs of the Phyrexian as you do, but find none.

It is a while, though the adrenaline that pumps through your blood makes it difficult to know how long exactly, when you hear the flapping of wings overhead. They’re loud, not like any bird you know of. It takes a moment to register the noise. It was a scout, you remind yourself, only now comprehending the implications. You had foolishly been expecting the creature that you just escaped from to be the one pursuing you, all the while, it had reported back to the others and sent these winged monstrosities after you. For the second time today, you chide yourself on your negligence. It’s a mistake that you, given your level of experience with Phyrexians, should not have made.

You watch their flight through the holes in the web of entangled branches above. They circle you like vultures to the dead. They’re drakes. There are three of them. Possibly four, but you can’t be positive. They are large, at least eighteen feet in wingspan, and their reptilian bodies formed of an odd mixture of muscle, sinew and steel, or a similar metal. The sole exception is their wings, which are tan and leathery. You wonder for a moment if the wings were made from from human skin. They’re certainly the right color and texture, and it would definitely be the Phyrexians’ style. Disliking the prospect, you turn your thoughts to the matter of surviving. You consider your magic, but aren’t sure what spells you know will be of any use against the winged horrors. You look for weaknesses that you can strike with your bow. Their reptilian heads look as if they’re made of metal. A headshot will likely do nothing but waste an arrow. Below the head, on the drakes’ necks, there’s a fleshy area that you think you might be able to use to disable the creatures if you can land an arrow through it, but that’s a big if. You have only five arrows in your quiver. You weigh the odds that you can actually strike the weak spots on all three, or four, drakes, while only missing twice. Needless to say, you don’t like them.

You put your hand against a tree, leaning up against it for support, feeling its rough bark against the skin on your hand. The drakes continue to circle overhead, now beginning to screech, in case you weren’t aware of their presence. They’re trying to scare you, you realize. The trees are spaced too closely together for their wings to fly through. They want you to run, to unwittingly go into more open territory, where they can swoop down and kill you. Good. That means, for the time being at least, you’re safe here. They’ll figure a way to get to you soon, but you have time.

You find yourself wishing Andrew was here, as you had done so many times in the months following his passing. If he was, perhaps he would have a plan for getting out of this mess. You had been attacked by a group of Phyrexians. You were fast asleep when they came, while Andrew kept watch. The two of you barely survived. When you were to safety, Andrew revealed that he was stabbed by one of their needles. You went out into the middle of the country. It was only a couple days when he began showing symptoms of the Blight. Even when he did, you stuck with him. He was your friend, and you refused to leave him to die alone. Both of you knew it was a risk, that there was a chance Blight could corrupt him, transforming him into one of the Phyrexians, rather than just killing him, but you were willing to take it.

You watched Andrew slowly decline, both mentally and physically. You did all the hunting and foraging, bringing back food and water when it was needed. It didn’t last long, though, before the Phyrexians found your hideout. You never understood how they did it, but it happened nonetheless. They sent Hulks, massive brutish golems, made purely of a thick metal. Andrew ordered you to run, and you did so with only a moment of hesitation, casting the fog spell to hide your escape. Part of you still wishes you had stayed to fight by Andrew’s side, but you know that he would have died from the blight had the battle with the Hulks not killed him. Then both of your lives would have been wasted. After you were a ways away, you turned around to see the whirlwind in the sky, a massive vortex that tore apart even the mighty Hulks. It was the most powerful spell you had ever seen.

That’s it.

You shut out the sounds of the rustling leaves and the shrieking of drakes. You’ll need more magic than you’ve ever called on before. You look around at the forest. Andrew told you once that you could pull mana easier from locations near you. You practiced at this a bit, but were never particularly skilled at forging manabonds in new places. You definitely have never done so when the stakes were this high.

You use the tree in front of you as a starting point, taking in its feel, becoming it. You sense its life force as if it is your own, feel its roots sinking into the ground, pulling nutrients from the Earth. For this brief moment, you and the tree are one. You pull nutrients from the forest in the same way the tree does, though not of the same type. Using the tree as a conduit, you summon the mana into you from the surrounding forest. Next, you reach into the manabond you used before, the wood you had once explored as a child. Finally, you tap into the memory of the forest that you stayed in when Andrew was dying. It was a place that gave you shelter when you had none, a place that became a friend to you when you had lost yours, a place that provided comfort when you needed it more than anything else.

This is the first time that you’ve ever felt this much mana surging through you at once. The feeling is breathtaking and empowering. You feel as if you’re invincible, as if nothing can harm you, even though the rational portion of your brain knows how foolish this line of thinking is. You shape the mana into the spell you need, just as you did before, molding it, sculpting it. All of this power is yours to command. You are its master, and it, your faithful servant. You program the spell differently than Andrew did. Andrew was willing to commit suicide to make sure that you had a chance to live. The spell you cast has to be different. When you’re confident that the mana knows what it must do, you release the magic into the wind, into the skies above. The release leaves you feeling naked and exposed, your sensation of invincibility and power gone.

The spiraling wind comes from above, not granting the encircling drakes time to escape. It rips through the treetops, but you programmed it not to go below that. The drakes aren’t aware of this, though, veering right and left, trying futilely to escape the massive vortex that threatens to swallow them whole. With the tops of the trees torn off, you can see that your original assessment was correct, that there are only three drakes present. One is torn to shreds in an instant. The next is as well, only a moment later. Somehow, though, against all odds, the third drake pulls away from the windstorm and crashes into the ground, shattering every tree in its path as it does so. It lands about thirty feet away from where you stand. Its wings are tattered from your storm, too much so to catch wind and fly, but that doesn’t mean it’s not still a threat.

The creature rises. It has no legs, but it stands with the tips of its wings and its tail. The drake moves toward you at what is likely as quick as it can go, though barely even a crawl. You consider running, but your energy is drained. You exerted too much energy on casting that last spell to have a chance at running away from this thing on foot. You remember the weak spot. The front of its neck. You ready an arrow and pull back the bowstring. Right then, a twig slashes across the top of your dominant arm, causing you to release the arrow early and leaving a gash through your flesh. While you had made certain the storm wouldn’t reach you, you never considered what would happen to the debris. As the storm begins to dissipate, you see pieces of tree and parts of torn drakes crash into the ground around you. For the third time today, you find yourself cursing your own shortsightedness.

You pull another arrow as the creature draws nearer, notch it, and pull back on the bowstring. Your arm flares up in a sharp pain, but you force yourself to ignore it. You launch the second arrow, this one slamming into the creature’s neck, right on target. The creature lets out a howl, and topples over on to its side. It manages to pull itself up again, using its tail as a lever. Black ooze dripping from where the arrow is still stuck in place, running down its chest in a steady stream.

You ready a third arrow. If you can just hit it once more, you’re sure that it will be finished. Even now, it appears to have difficulty walking, as the oil it uses as blood drains away. You fire the arrow, but creature has gotten wise to your moves. It drops its head in the split second after the arrow is loosed, its metallic skull taking the brunt of the impact. The arrow fails to pierce its target, but the force of the arrow slamming into the creature’s skull knocks the drake off balance. It doesn’t fall over completely, but as it tries to regain its positioning, it fails to notice that you have your fourth arrow readied by now. You release it, and it plunges into the drakes neck with your other. The drake falls onto the ground, the oil in its body drains out more rapidly through the holes in its neck.

You collapse as the drake had, finding yourself without the energy to move. The gash on your arm is worse than you first believed, but manageable, once you get away from here. It was bleeding, but not to the extent that you’re in danger of losing too much blood. The main problem is that it could lead a trail in the direction you decide to take. That is, of course, if you decide to move at all.

You find yourself thinking once more about what your life has become. The Phyrexians have undoubtedly discovered your camp by now. Returning would be a death sentence, you know.
You could search for survivors, but none of them have the magic that you do. Most, if not all, would be dead. If any survived, they would be scattered in all directions and on the run. You have no chance at finding them.

You’re blighted, you realize. Not physically, but spiritually. Ever since the Black Rain, you have watched those that you care for die, one by one. Your friends, your family. Each time, its taken a little piece of your soul. Now, you feel the last piece is finally dead. There’s no reason left to go on. No reason left to fight. You can’t control your emotions any longer, and you see no point in doing so, regardless. Tears streak down your face.

You stare up into the stars through the shattered treetops. The cyclone spell has ended now, though you’re not sure when it happened. The stars are all that’s left in the night sky, like a million eyes watching over you through the veil of the night sky. Once, before the invasion, humans were learning more and more about the universe. They had traveled to the moon, to other planets. Had the Phyrexians never come, you have no doubt that the humans would have eventually found their way to one of those stars. Had you been up there, somewhere, maybe you wouldn’t feel the pain you do here.

It’s in this instant, that something within you awakens. You will never be certain whether it was reacting to your despair, or from your desire to leave behind your broken world, but it happens, nevertheless. The feeling causes your body to go stiff and rigid, and it makes you tingle like the magic you summon. It burns like fire, but doesn’t inflict pain, and it numbs like ice. It’s euphoric in a way that you have never experienced before.

The next thing you feel is drowning. You can’t breathe, and you begin to panic. You can’t hear anything. All you can see is blackness. No, not blackness, you amend. Nothingness. You aren’t sure how, but instinctively, you know it to be true. Your senses are gone here.

When you can see again, the sun is shining bright above and the features of the landscape are nothing like you’ve ever seen on Earth.


. . . . .


You walk through the forest, bow drawn, moving at a brisk pace, careful not to move so fast that you will be detected easily. A boy walks beside you, a bow in his hands as well. He would have been about nine years of age on your homeworld. His name is Andrew, after a close friend you once knew. The name is one of Earth, not one of this plane. He knows little of his namesake, and even less of the world of his ancestors and what became of it. You’re fine with that. When he’s older, when he can handle it, you’ll tell him.

It took you years to discover what you are, a Planeswalker, a being capable of moving through the worlds, possessing a Spark that only one in a million do, and even less ignite. Even once you learned to control your ability, you never did return to Earth. The memories of what happened there are still too fresh and too painful, even almost two decades later. You don’t want to see what became of your home. You don’t want to see the inevitable outcome of the war. This new world came with its share of problems of course, but you can survive them. You traveled to so many planes, from Kamigawa to Theros, each with their own dangers, before coming to and settling on this one. Before finding somebody that you love, and who loves you in return.

You snap your mind back from the past, back to this place and time. The creature you track is in sight now.