What Could Have Been, vol 6: Planeswalker enchantments

Let's get right to it: The Planeswalker enchantment cycle from Invasion.
I really like this cycle because it is just BEGGING for an update. The depictions of the nine titans on the cards is really cool, because it is some of the best art we have for any of the characters at the time.

So let's update it.
Rather than try to force it into a cycle it didn't want to be, such as the current members of the Gatewatch, I decided to go for the characters I thought make the most sense for the title.

Planeswalker's Mirth
Color: White
Location: A library
Action: The Planeswalker Narset is standing in a library. On shelves and desks and even the floor around her are books and scrolls. Hundreds of them. Narset, naturally curious, loves the opportunities being a planeswalker affords her. She is enjoying herself immensely.
Focus: Narset, surrounded by the things that bring her joy.
Mood: Mirth

Planeswalker's Mischief
Color: Blue
Location: The streets of Ravnica
Action: The Planeswalker Dack Fayden is running down the street, a scroll in his hand. He has just 'liberated' it from someone, and is being chased for his crime. A master thief, Dack knows what he wants and how to get it.
Focus: Dack, scroll in hand.
Mood: Mischief.

Planeswalker's Scorn
Color: Black
Location: Zendikar
Action: The Planeswalker Demon Ob Nixilis is hovering just over the ground, surrounded on all sides by the allied forces of Zendikar. Humans, elves, merfolk, maybe a vampire or two. His fist glows with power, and a number of the allies are falling to the ground in pain, visible lacerations across their bodies. Ob has spent centuries nursing a grudge; he doesn't take well to people getting in his way, and has learned a number of ways to clear his path.
Focus: Ob Nixilis, full of rage.
Mood: Scorn.

Planeswalker's Fury
Color: Red
Location: New Phyrexia
Action: The Planeswalker Koth is surrounded by Phyrexians. They think they have cornered him, but Koth is a powerful mage. Powerful and angry. At his command, the ground beneath one has erupted with molten stone. Koth is a man with a purpose; the destruction of every Phyrexian he meets.
Focus: Koth, driven by his anger
Mood: Fury

Planeswalker's Favor
Color: Green
Location: a Temple of Abandon on Theros
Action: The Planeswalker and God of Revels, Xenagos, stands before an alter at a Temple of Abandon. Before him are a number of worshippers, seeking his favor. His hand is stretched out as though to bless them. The God of Revels knows when to reward the faithful.
Focus: Xenagos, giving his blessing.
Mood: Xenagos

I am interested to hear what choices everyone else might've come up with for a new version of this cycle. Let me know what you think!

Glorious

Sedemir fell to the ground clutching his chest. Correction: What was left of his chest. An sizable portion of it had been rather unceremoniously removed from him; rather, it had removed itself. His various cytoplasmic grafts had torn themselves off his body. He heaved, breathing was difficult. He was missing a lung and one of his hearts. It was only by the marvels of Simic biomancy that he had survived the ravages of Simic biomancy.
His sight was failing him, not because of his missing eye, but rather the blood loss and the not insignificant part of his brain that had left him. But he faintly heard some great and terrible beast rampaging in the distance. ‘The Eksperiment must have been successful’ he thought to himself ‘he looked down at the pool of fluids leaking from his mutilated form ‘not quite how I might have imagined it…’ The rest of his senses began to fail him. He rolled over on his back. He could not feel three of his arms and either of his legs below the knee, when he tried to breathe out of his gills he choked and blood spat out instead. This was Master Vig’s greatest work evidentially; birthing a guild of butchered cripples.


Despair and rage began to overwhelm the usually stoic vedalken mage. ‘How could he do this. To me? To all of us?’ he thought, speech was beyond question at the present. ‘How is this, any of this, what you promised?’ He choked on rage and blood ‘The years of service and dedication. The trials and experiments and surgeries. Crafting my body into a more appropriate form for your grand plans, and this is what I receive for my tribute?!’ Sedemir’s blood pressure was inching him ever closer to death. He gurgled a curse through his agony “YOU’VE RUINED ME!”


Sedemir’s sight gave out. As did his hearing, his touch, his taste and smell, and his other 37 senses. They gave way to madness. Colors swirled around him into smells that tasted unlike anything he had ever heard. Everything. Nothing. Nowhere. Anywhere. Too much. All at once. Sensory overload. And then nothing. Sedemir fell hard on his back. “What in the hell?!” Sedemir turned to see who had suddenly joined him. A human man, in simple leather tatters, a look of shock plastered across his face. With what he had left, Sedemir cast the strongest stasis spell he could manage upon the man, and lept upon his frozen form as it fell backwards, stiff as a statue.


He cast a similar, though less dramatic spell upon himself, and held his remaining arm up to his remaining eye. He concentrated as hard as he could, channeling mana with all his might. His fingers elongated into blades. Transpecies organ transplants were tricky, especially without a proper lab, but Sedemir would not allow himself to be a victim of Momir’s deception. He got to work, removing organs from his patient and suturing them into place upon himself best he could. Doing this upon himself, in his condition, was beyond excruciating; but nothing he couldn’t handle.


After some amount of effort, Sedemir had himself a full body of organs again. He had managed to replace two of his missing arms and both of his legs. As luck would have it, his patient was of a similar build. The ham-looking flesh stood in stark contrast to his own turquoise hide, but pride meant nothing before his own survival. He fixed everything but his brain, he didn’t dare mix that with someone else. He would simply have to culture new tissue and program the missing data with what he had written in his logs.


He stood, tenderly upon his new legs. Human flesh was so unappealing looking. It resembled ham. Sedemir was not fond of ham. He wiggled his hammy toes and twisted his face in disgust. He looked at the grass between his toes and. Grass? It just dawned on him that he was most certainly not in the Simic science hall he had been in when his organs had revolted against him. He looked around. Very few buildings anywhere around, lots of rolling sandy hills, with tufts of grass growing upon rocks, simple stone huts with red banners flapping in the breeze. Sedemir did not get out of the lab as much as perhaps should have, but he was no fool. This was not Ravnica. It was simply not possible to stand anywhere on Ravnica and not see a skyscraper piercing the horizon in some direction. What had happened to him? How had he come here? Who was the man who had saved his life?


He looked down at the man who had saved his life. Correction: The remains of the man who had saved his life. He was still under the lingering effects of Sedemir’s stasis spell, but it was beginning to fade. Blood ever-so-slowly oozed from his body like tree sap. If at all possible, Sedemir would have attempted to save his life in return, he did not enjoy being indebted to another, but it did not seem possible. Without his lab or proper materials he did not have that which would be necessary to replace what he had taken, and he needed it more. A noble sacrifice. Sedemir applied an enzyme to the corpse. Nothing would be left in an hour but fillings and belt buckles.


Sedemir gazed upon the puddle that used to be the man who had saved his life. ‘What now?’ he thought to himself ‘What does a man do when everything he has ever built has become torn down? Pick up the pieces? Start over?’ What was the point, so much had been lost.’ He clenched his fists. ‘No.’ He had worked too hard to be an annotation on Momir’s journal. He would carry on. No longer a parasite to someone else’s vision, but the progenitor to his own. And it would be glorious.

Negiri the Alchemist and Vigdis the Warbringer

Negiri was born dirt poor. Poorer than you can imagine. He had nothing of his own save his name and his magic. He learned early on that he was a skilled alchemist: he could turn things into other things.

He dabbled with this for a time, until he thought of something; he turned a rock into gold. He used the gold to buy some food. For the first time since he could remember, he ate.

He tried this again, and again, and again. It kept working. But he did not thinks things through; he had started to gain a reputation. Rumors were circulating in the ghetto about a kid who had gotten his hands on some gold. Some local gangsters found out who he was and abducted him, demanding to know how he came about so much gold.

Attempting to threaten it out of him he panicked and turned one of their weapons into a bomb. It had a much bigger kick than he anticipated. Though it would have killed anyone else, it ignited his spark, and flung him to (relative) safety.

Afraid and angry and bitter. He's come to the conclusion that money makes the world go round, and he never wants to be on the bottom rung of that later again.

He wanders for a time, doing odd jobs to stay above the poverty line wherever he is. Using his skills to impress people. One day he hears about a job offering a substantial reward. A bounty hunt for a horrible monster that was terrorizing the locals. He decides to try his hand at it.

Vigdis was born into war.

That's all there was on Valla ; war.

Little else mattered on the plane but strength, and the greatest accomplishment you could obtain to her clan was a glorious death atop the mountain of deadmen that killed you.

Vigdis hoped for such a death.

She honed her skills for many years.

She met her foes on the battlefield and slaughtered them all. After a particularly grueling battle, she was caught by surprise and a lowly goblin gave her a fatal blow. She fell to the ground; bleeding out. Her consciousness faded, and her body was lifted away from the battlefield. She looked down and saw the world below, the everlasting war beneath her. She had earned her death.

But alas, things are rarely so simple. She landed unceremoniously in an unfamiliar realm. This was not the afterlife she had been promised. This was something else. This was purgatory. This was surely a punishment by the gods! They had seen her felled by a single lowly goblin and were displeased. She had been denied her place in the afterlife for she had sinned.

She was beside herself with rage. She wandered the planes, finding the most spectacular foes, and killing them. Hoping desperately to one day again earn her spot in the heavens.

One day, she heard of a great and terrible beast that had been terrorizing the countryside for many a year, that had slaughtered the dozens of champions that had been sent to face it.
She would try her hand at this beast.

Negiri came upon the beast, and was horrified. This was far beyond his capabilities. He was skilled and clever, but war was not his expertise. What was he thinking?! As he sat and tried to come up with a plan, he withheld a woman approach the monster. Her hair like braided straw, an axe in one hand, and lightning in the other. She waged war with the beast, and over many minutes, managed to destroy the monster. He was thoroughly impressed. He had never before seen such raw power wielded so well.

Just then he had a most wonderful idea.

Vigdis was disappointed. Though the monster put up a fight, it did not put up a challenge. She had expected more of the creature from the stories told to her by the peasants. Though to be fair, her definition of tough was, well, tougher than theirs. Once again she was denied her glorious deathbattle.

She heard clapping.

She turned and saw a man approach her. He was clean shaven with skin as dark as her leather boots. Adorned with resplendent clothes and gaudy jewelry. She was unimpressed, but wary; what was such a soft squishy man doing monster hunting?

He introduced himself. He said his name was Negiri, and that he was an alchemist.
He picked up a rock and threw it into air and it burst into a firecracker.
Cute trick.
Nothing before her lightning however.
He said that he had a proposition for her.

Negiri proposed to the lightning woman that they team up.
He was well traveled and had heard of many similar tales of high bounties for monsters slain. He could find suitable prey for her and she could destroy it. And they could split the profits even.

The woman told Negiri that her name was Vigdis, and she did not seek battles for the money, but the glory.

"You can have all the money, I have no need for it."

Negiri's eyes bulged. This was too good to be true.

Here before him stood a goddess of war, completely content on the idea of fighting his battles for him, for the sake of something as intangible as 'glory'? He couldn't have dreamed of a more ideal scenario.

He reached out his hand.

"I believe this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

AppearanceNegiri is a man of average build. Short, well-kept facial hair and a hair shaved short with intricate patterns in it. His skin is very dark. His eyes are a dark brownish-goldish color.

He adorns himself with the finest clothes and jewelry money can buy on whatever plane he is traveled upon, whatever they may be.

His body itself is covered in tattoos and runes, as to help augment his alchemy. He has numerous pouches at his waist full of weird fluids and powders and stones that he uses in his alchemy.There is a large sabre to his side. He's not particularly well trained in it, be often alchemically transforms it into menacing shapes in front of would be foes to intimidate them. It usually works.

Vigdis is a woman of slightly greater than average height. Well muscled. Lithe and sinewy. Straw-colored hair in chest length dreads. Grey eyes. She has a number of scars across her body from some of the battles she has fought.

She is accustomed to simple leather and armor like that of her homeworld, but since traveling with Negiri, he insists that she is to look more impressive if she is to keep his company, she insists on wearing things more functional.

They have met a compromise, and now she wears some of the most impressive and artistic leather and armor you might see on the field of battle.

About the only thing that stays the same is her axe, a family heirloom.

PersonalityNegiri is a selfish and shallow man, far too concerned with how others perceive him for his own good. To that end, he always tries to wear the most extravagant fashions. Vigdis says he looks like a twit when he does so, so he tones it down sometimes.

He abhors being looked down on, or being told he is not good enough at something or has no talent at a particular task. Even if it's true. He holds a grudge for a very long time, and holds fantasies of revenge against those that have slighted him from decades before.

Vigdis is a Vallan through and through. She loves a good fight, and does not fear death. She is rather unconcerned with what other people think of her (unless they think she's weak) and doesn't particularly care about her appearance (save for looking intimidating).

She doesn't boast about about her strengths and talents, preferring to let her actions and reputation speak for her.

She's rather withdrawn. Her clan's entire social lifestyle revolves around battle, but most planes aren't as warprone as Valla, so she has difficulty adjusting to that and relating to other people, though she doesn't take offense to those who aren't as bloodthirsty as herself. Her travels have taught her that talent for battle can come from unexpected places, so she tries to keep that in mind wherever she goes.

She finds that she gets anxious and uncomfortable the longer it's been since she's gotten into a fight. Since Valla culture revolves so heavily around battle, she's never really garnered any other skills, and she hates it when she notices that. Recently she's trying to be more responsive to other talents, because she's not used to being bad at something and doesn't like the feeling.

AbilitiesNegiri is a powerful alchemist. He is skilled at turning one thing into another. The transmute mechanic is right up his alley, as are most forms of looting or digging .

In battle, he will often summon alchemically formed servants to fight at his behest. Weirds and homunculi and the like. He can repel opponents by undoing the bonds that hold their summons in the material world.

His studies in alchemy have made him quite versed in meta-magic. As such, if he knows what sort of foe he is soon to face, he can prepare adequate counter measures to render them useless .

Vigdis wields lightning magic. She can use it to in the traditional bolt-slinging way, or to strengthen her physical attacks .

That's pretty much all there is to it.

Another entry in the character contest:
http://community.wizards.com/go/thread/view/75842/29110815/Planeswalker_Creation_Contest_3:_Third_times_the_charm?pg=45

This round was for a pair of walkers that travel together.

It took me forever to find a pair that I liked.

First I tried a Bonnie and Clyde kind of pair, but the characters never really came together in a way I found compelling. Then I tried a cop and criminal handcuffed together shtick, but I couldn't think of a pair of magic specialties that felt right.

Then I tried something I liked, something like a Han Solo and Chewbacca dynamic. A pair of bounty hunters loyal to each other. It kind of worked from there. Vigdis was the first Magic character I came up with, and I'd been dying to find a place to use her. It came together perfectly.

I'd love to hear what you think!

Berg, the Hot-Blooded

The circumstances of Berg's origin and upbringing are fairly unremarkable. He was born into a tribe of leonin, a warrior culture; they were well versed in the art of battle. However they were a well-sated people and did not go to war for glory or land or spoils. They were nomads by philosophy, and did not seek these material attachments that would hold them back. They fought for the sake of fighting, for in battle you were truly alive. Your sense at their peak, your body pushed to its very edge, every synapse in your head firing at full speed. When your very existence is on the line, you appreciate it all the more the believed. To which, they rendered their services to their less cultured neighbors. Those that still clinged desperately to such trivialities.

The day finally came when Berg would be accepted as a man. You see, his tribe's coming of age ritual was for a young warrior to be chosen as a champion by one of their 'clients' and be successful. And Berg was finally chosen. He was elated. He had trained for years, honing his skill with every weapon he could get his hands upon, and even practicing Magic from those that could teach him.

The opponent was worthy, the fight was glorious. Berg pushed his opponents well beyond their limits, and they pushed back. He could feel every cut and blow they threw at him, but still he fought on. He felt light-headed. He was losing a lot of blood. "This is fine," he thought "there can be no dishonor in a fight well fought." As his consciousness faded, he slipped away. Through the veil between worlds. Tumbling, falling, changing. Something was different. Burning, churning, igniting. He felt empowered, his thoughts returning despite the madness he could never hope to fully appreciate surrounding him. He felt amazing! He was something more than a mere fighter now; he was a Planeswalker!

He came to on an unfamiliar mountaintop. A new man. A changed man. Battle would never be the same to him. His previous efforts; finger-paints. Now he was an artist! His strength grew exponentially. His power, his magic, his tenacity. Everything! Anything a foe could throw at him, he could throw back tenfold! His mind drifted from reasonable expectations and rose to those of a god of war. He wandered the planes, taking on any foe that he considered interesting. He fought all kinds, chosen champions and wretched despots, brigands and noblemen, machines and monsters; it did not matter. What they believed in? What they fought for? These did not matter. All there was was battle; to be alive!

Eventually, he came upon a plane. A grey murky plane that seemed blighted somehow; there was a dankness in the air. The spirits were unsettled, and the clouds never seemed to part. He found the plane rife with monsters. Demons and devils and haints and the undead. He destroyed them without a second thought, but more came. And more. And more. And more. His battle drifted. From mountains, to forests, and to the plains. Towns were caught in his wake, but he did not care. They were in the way of his expressions of life. It was their own fault. This continued for a time until one fateful day.

A great and powerful angel appeared before him. She was clad in black which stood in sharp contrast to her stark white form. She carried a spear and her face bore no expression. She informed him that he was a blight upon her flock, that his mere presence wrought destruction, and that it was here eternal duty to stop him.
She could try.

Their fight was the stuff of legend. Lasting for days. Blows were traded. Magics exchanged. Any foothold gained was quickly taken away. The angel had had enough. She lead him towards a citadel. He followed; how could he not, this was the most exhilarating moment of his entire existence. She turned to face him and lunged. Her spear plunged into him and he was flung away. She pressed him against an enormous chunk of silver.

"What cannot be destroyed will be bound."

Something happened. He was losing himself. Like when he walked, but different somehow. This time it felt wrong. He couldn't control it, couldn't feel it, couldn't perceive it. His body was lost, it was everywhere and it was nowhere. He was surrounded on all sides by pitch black mana. It was angry and bitter and vengeful. There were cursed towards a woman's name and vows of revenge. He was trapped in some horrible prison.

And so it was for many years. He maintained some semblance of self by fighting off the blackness. But he did not enjoy it. It was different than before. Before he fought as an expression of self, now he fought to maintain it. Before there were whole worlds to fight, but now it was one giant inky black mess that never ended. Without boundaries it had no meaning. Without pause, there was no room for growth. This continued on longer than Berg could ever imagine.

Crack. A light shone through the darkness. Crack. It grew bigger. Crack. It spider-webbed, spreading all over; permeating the void that he knew. An explosion. There was a sharp tugging at his chest and he was jerked towards the light. He was flung back into the world, landing on his hands and feet. It hurt. It wasn't like before he was trapped, there was a sharpness to the pain that he thought he would never feel again. The darkness around him was reforming. Demons. Hundreds of them. Fleeing every which way. There was a battle before him. Hundreds of soldiers and zombies, knee deep in gore. Angels overhead, hacking flimsily at the escaping demons. A light shone behind him; the witch that had trapped him rose up out of the smoking crater in which he lay.

"Never again" and he fled away into the wilderness to make some sense of all that had happened.

For the third time in his life, everything was different. His power, it felt so far away. His body felt hollow somehow, like it had been voided of something impossibly large. When he stretched, he could feel every ligament and bone ache. The spells he attempted to cast, shadows of their former glory.

For the first time in his entire life, Berg was afraid.

Appearance:
Berg is a smilodon leonin standing almost 12 feet tall. His fur is rust colored and kept short except for tufts located at most of the major joints (shoulders, knees, elbows, etc), where there are tinges of grey. He is covered head to foot in scars of varying sizes and severity, prizes of the battles he has fought. There is a bite sized chunk missing of his right ear. His right fang is about 8 inches long, his left is size, the bottom two inches appear to have been broken off. He's afraid that it affects his speech.

He wears simple bracers on his wrists, shoulders and shins, and wears a simple loincloth. His fur keeps him warm enough on most planes, that he chooses not to wear additional clothes unless it is necessary.

He carries a particularly large war-hammer, the back end of which is sharpened to a point, resembling an over-sized pickaxe. The underside of the point is bladed.

Personality:
Berg was raised in a culture that worshipped the fine art of battle. To his people, you were the most alive when you were so close to death. To that end, he has spent most of his existence seeking out greater and greater challenges; an easy feet considering his planeswalking abilities. When he would come upon foes worthy of his self-expression, he could gauge them based on the power level and hold back accordingly, he's almost never fought at his full capacity as a Planeswalker.

But now that the mending has occurred, and he's been brought back down to normal, he has to cope with a few mighty significant challenges to his worldview. His immortality never really excited him. His people taught him not to fear death, it was merely the high cost of living. To live as a warrior you had to learn to accept death and be ready for it at any time. It is the sudden change in power that worries him.

He only had the one battle before his ascension for a point of reference, so every other battle he has been in was fueled by the power of a pre-mending spark. He was a big fish and every world was a small pond. Now the pond has gotten so much smaller, and he is truly afraid. The idea that he cannot hold is own in battles that he once could terrifies him to his very core.

Also related to the first and only 'normal' battle he had; he had never considered the possibility that not everyone actually enjoys fighting. On his world, it was such an enormous part of the culture, it was expected that one knew how to fight properly or would have someone who could on your behalf. While he was a God, any objections to his presence fell on deaf ears. It is hard to hear people so far below you. Now he is back on their level, and the idea that his battles might not be appreciated by others is starting to dawn on him. Now that he can think as a man again and not a God, he is coming around to the idea that his actions have consequences. And it scares him.

Powers:
Berg is a warrior through and through, so most of his talent lies in the fine art of hitting things. He has learned to channel that into spell craft however, and he has become quite good at the fine art of breaking everything in spell form. Any spell that results in the destruction of things is right up his alley, so things like Stone Rain and Shatter are second nature to him.

He's never really gotten on-board with the idea of "teamwork", so many of his spells are highly indiscriminant. Things like Wildfire , Chain Reaction , Rite of Ruin , Meltdown etc.

His powers are fueled by his passion; the more into a fight he is, the more powerful his magic. To that end, spells that escalate well, or better yet, out of control are also well-suited to him.



This is my entry of the fifth of the Planeswalker Creation contest. Round 5's theme was "oldwalkers". I wanted to find a way to preserve a walker from the mending til now, and getting sealed in the Helvault seemed like the best way to do it.

I've always wanted to do a scaling Wildfire/Destructive Force on a card, and making it as a Planeswalker ultimate seemed like a great way to do it. Though Berg damages players and other walkers as well.

I'd love to hear your opinions and get your vote!

Also, Aria is in a runoff vote for first place in the Round 3 contest!

A vote for Hairless Thoctar is a vote for great justice!
http://community.wizards.com/go/thread/view/75842/29110815/Planeswalker_Creation_Contest_3:_Third_times_the_charm?pg=42

The Mire

The Mire

It was a young plane, freshly formed from the swirling madness that is the Blind Eternities. The Mire does not remember much from the beginning. Not how it came to be, or when, or where, or why. It does not remember how long it wandered this congealed ball of grease that was a plane. Aimless, purposeless, alone.

Until one fateful day. Something moved. "What is that?" It thought. It took count of all of its pseudopods. This thing that was moving was not part of itself. This was something else. It's mind was flooded with thoughts the likes of which it had never had before, it had never encountered another living thing of such substance before. It had so many curiosities it wanted to fulfil. But this thing, this other thing began to attack the Mire. It tried to crawl away, but this other thing was relentless. Desperate, the Mire sprawled out as far as it could, looking for a way out. It felt a large rock, and with all its fortitude smashed the other thing. Over and over and over again, continuing to smash long after it had stopped moving.

The Mire studied the thing. Where had it come from? How long had it been there? Why had it attacked me? Where there others?

The curiosity turned to fear.

What if there were no others?
What if that was the only other thing out there?

What if

I'm all alone.

The Mire was terrified!
It spasmed and flitted about, horrified that it may have destroyed the one other thing there was. It screamed out a voiceless scream, and then the world became that much emptier.

Something ignited, and the Mire was pulled beyond the veil into the blind eternities.

What is this horrible place?
How did I get here?
Why?

It began to lose itself in this sea of madness. Then it began to see things amongs the technicolor void. It began to hear things. It saw another place, full of things!
Big things, little things, things with hands and feet and voices and magics!
The Mire crawled towards this place, hoping to get away from this godless void.
Desperate never to be alone ever again, no matter what.

+2: Untap target land. It becomes a 3/3 black Ooze creature that is a swap in addition to its other types and colors.
-3: Target creature gets -X/-X until end of turn, where X is the number of Swamps you control.
-9: Each player sacrifices another non-Swamp permanent for each Swamp you control.
[4]

Physiology
The Mire is an ooze. A mix of grey and a sickly green color mixing internally like a lava lamp. A number of softly glowing organelles are visible from within.

The Mire's default size is that of particularly large dog, though the size can vary considerably. More mass can be gained by eating, and the Mire can become utterly MASSIVE by consuming matter.

It tends to eat things it doesn't register as "alive"; plant matter and moss and the like, or drinking mana from the landscape; rather than consuming other sapient organisms.

The Mire can split into multiple bodies and later remerge those bodies if it so chooses. Naturally, the spark does not split, and will remain with only one of the bodies.


PersonalityThe Mire is a being motivated almost entirely by fear. The sudden attack and subsequent loneliness that triggered its ascension has given it a deep-set fear of being alone, whether physically or metaphorically.

Because it lived most of its life alone, it is incredibly unaware of pretty much all social conventions such as privacy, personal space, class, gender boundaries, race and species, etc.

It is incredibly curious and quick to examine most anyone or anything that piques its curiosity, though these interactions tend to end badly. Its first interaction has made it fearful of aggressive retribution from other living things, and the Mire is quick to resort to violence if it fears it is in danger or is being rejected by a would be "friend".

The Mire is genderless and has not aligned itself with either sex being entirely unaware of the concept.





This is my entry to round four of the Planeswalker creation contest on the gleemax forums. This time, the restriction was "non-humanoid walker". I rather like what I came up with.

I'd surely love to et your vote!
http://community.wizards.com/go/thread/view/75842/29110815/Planeswalker_Creation_Contest_3:_Third_times_the_charm?pg=37

Aria, the Blood Witch

Aria had lead a privileged life. The daughter of a well-to-do noble deep in the province of Stensia, there was very little she did not have access to. The best clothes, the best food, any manner of entertainment accessible. She was born into more money than most people on Innistrad could count to. Everything most people could ever hope for was provided for her on a platter.

Her parents were quick to remind her that she was special, that she was destined for greater things than most. And she believed it; how could she not? Her family brought in the best tutors for her, she excelled in every subject. Foreign languages, history, mathematics, magic, and even the alchemy that the prudes in the capital would call heresy. There was nothing that she could not do. She was clearly better than everyone else.

Everything changed on the eve of her sixteenth birthday. She was greeted in the ballroom by half of the village. Nobles and bankers and clerics. Everyone of import from her village. But something was wrong. As she walked into the room, some of them began to shimmer, an illusion was fading. Their skin paled, and their eyes began to softly glow above sharp, crooked smiles. Many of them were vampires.

They informed her that she had her family was part of a project, she had been bred specifically for the purposes of being integrated into a vampire clan. Her entire life up to this point had been planned to the every last detail, to create someone of significance that would lift their clan out of the shadows, or at the very least provide a tasty snack. They assured her that would love it with them.

As the patriarch approached her, her world collapsed around her. Had her whole life been a lie? Had she ever made a single choice for herself? Was she actually as smart and strong and wonderful as she thought herself to be, or were those all pleasant lies to keep her complacent. She was horrified. She was enraged. She began to cry. Nothing made any sense anymore.

He assured her that she would come around. "Welcome to the family", was the last thing she remembered before she passed out from shock of the bite upon her neck.

Aria awoke in a cell. They did not want their investment escaping before she turned, it would seem. She spent the next three days in a a stupor. Her mind wracked with doubts about her life up until now, being whispered with propaganda from her captors, about how they were once one of the twelve great families, and her and others like her would raise them from their squalor, and her body slowly undergoing the transformation.

In three days time, her sire returned, the final stage was prepared. He cut himself, and filled a fine goblet with his blood. She could smell it, everything she had eaten since her bite tastes increasingly like ash in her mouth. That which was in the goblet smelled more wonderful than anything she had ever experienced in her entire lifetime. She gulped it down in a single breath.

Almost instantly, she felt better. The doubts and fears and regrets that had flooded her mind were still there, but now they felt dimmer, more far away. They could not hurt her now. She had clarity and purpose now. She turned towards her sire, and approached.

"What was it you said? 'Welcome to the family?'" She brought her hand up and brushed his cheek, and then plunged her fist up to her elbow through his chest.
"I don't like my family very much."

What little color was in his face faded almost immediately, the contorted look on his face stuck there as he died. Guards rushed into the room to see what was the clamor, and she dispatched them just as quickly with her magic. It was much stronger now.

She stood there , in the bloodstained room. The puddles of blood glistened softly, reflecting the moonlight. She observed her reflection, horrible and distorted. A monster. She felt like a monster. But she was her own monster.

She would be no one's thrall. No one's puppet. No one's convenient lie. She would not live a second longer a cog in someone else's machine. She had been raised to be special, and now she was. She knew in her heart that now she truly was. And with this insight, she was whisked away. Her spark ignited, taking a monster away to planes unknown.

Appearance
Aria was a stunningly attractive specimen before turning, as to be expected of someone chosen to be sired. Her figure is somewhat understated as she had not finished growing into herself before turning, a point that irritates her profoundly that she will not be "mature" for a very long time, given vampire's slow aging. She has long, straight, crimson hair that flows down to her chest. Her nails are long and somewhat unkempt. Her clothes are tattered and matted with blood, but were quite splendid once. She thinks very little of her physical appearance, and it shows.

Aria is spoiled rotten, being raised as the only daughter of a wealthy nobleman. She had spent her entire life not only being told that she was better than most, but actually being taught to be so. She is incredibly well verse in etiquette, language, history, weaponry, science, and magic; though most that meet her would not suspect as much because she doesn't like to talk about her past and she prefers living impulsively in the moment. She is of poor temperament and is quickly prone to violence and aggression.  She deeply hates being lied to, deceived, or being told what to do, and doing any of those things is the fastest way to get on her bad side. She eats who she wants when she wants, and cares not for the consequences; she feels like having the life she knew taken away from her entitles her to get away with most anything.

She has a bittersweet relationship with her vampiric condition. She truly enjoys the power and freedom that it affords her, but she's bitter and resentful about her origins. Sometimes she sinks into a deep depression about how inconsequential most of the choices she made during her human life were, and wonders if anything has really changed. She tends to get even more violent during these periods. She will often seek out and drain someone who is happy to make herself feel better.

She claims that she is not above turning others, but she has yet to ever do so. It is quite likely that she considers draining someone to death as a form of "mercy", that they are better off dead than a monster like herself. One of her very few redeeming qualities.

She does not like to admit it, but she is not a particularly happy woman, but she lacks the forethought to make any drastic changes to improve her life.

Powers
She is well versed in sangromancy. She can take command of blood spilled in battle and shape it as she wishes into weapons and shields and any shape she desires. She has dabbled in other forms of vampire magic such as shape-shifting, glamer, and hypnosis; but none of them have taken particularly well, preferring the brute force approach of her blood magic.

She can draw strength from her foes from wounds she has inflicted upon them or even from her very presence. If she has drawn your blood in battle, woe upon you, for she can easily aggravate the condition with very little effort . She can extend such powers to those in her vacinity, but such alliances are few and far between and only for the sake of convenience rather than a lasting desire for camaraderie.

Flight was the first vampire power she put any effort towards, and she has become quite accomplished at it since she has turned. She is immesnly fond of it, and the times she flies are among the very few times that she is truly happy. Her problems and doubts seems so far away and inconsequential when she is in the air.


This is my entry into the Gleemax forums "Planeswalker Creation Contest 3; round 3, female villains"
http://community.wizards.com/go/thread/view/75842/29110815/?sdb=1&pg=last#520180087
I'd love to hear what you think and to get your vote!

Silverfawn the Seedsower

Silverfawn was born on a desecated husk of a world. It had been like that for generations. Some horrible cataclysm had broken the plane's mana flow and each passing year more and more life leaked from the plane without new life to restore it. Her plane was dying.

She was born into a tribe of Kor, venerable nomads intrinsicly tied to the land. Even they could not fathom the cause of the drought, much less a solution. Their best shamans and scholars had tried and failed for generations to come up with an answer that might not even exist, though they continued to search.

Her particular tribe had a coming of age ceremony. When a child became pubescent, they were sent into the wild to commune with the spirits of nature. They would encounter a particular spirit, which would bestow upon them the greatest gift of all, their name, and when they returned they were considered an adult by the tribe, and enjoyed all the rights and priveledges that entailed.

Naturally, with the encreasing entrophy of the plane, each passing year these rites of passage yielded fewer and fewer communes with the spirits. Many children returned empty handed, no different than when they left. Some, too filled with shame to return without speaking to a spirit, simply did not, and were never heard from again.

Even in Silverfawn's generation, they kept up the ritual, mostly out of a newly twisted tradition that said that should a child return having communed with a spirit for the first time in generations, that child would becoe a prophet, their to lead their world out of the jaws of death.

Within a month of her thirteenth birthday, Silverfawn was sent into the wild. She was afraid. She had heard all the stories growing up, and was filled with worries that should yet again let her people down. She wandered for days on end until her food and water supplies dwindled, and still she tread on. She became weak and dehydrated and collapsed. Teetering on the verge of death, she slipped into unconciousness, and dreamt.

Then a miracle happened, she heard a voice. She opened her eyes, and there before her stood an enormous deer slowing silver like the stars at night. It told her that it was she that was destined to save her world, because she was the first child of that plane in generations to receive a rare gift, a Planeswalker's spark. The same sort of spark, she was told, that had blighted her world in the first place.

When she awoke, she found herself not of her world. She knew her life's purpose. And so she has wandered the planes, learning any manner of magics she could manage to learn. Trying to discover the solution that would return life to her lifeless world.

Silverfawn began her existence almost a year ago, designed as a mono-green dryad character.

Ultimately, she was kind of boring as a character. It's hard to write for AND design for mono-green walkers. I dropped her and didn't give her a second thought.

Cue a couple of weeks ago, I'm on spring break, and I come to the conclusion that the Mad Doctor story was kind of cool. I decide I should do more of that sort of thing.

Doing a series of them based on Planeswalker characters I could design ultimately seemed like an obvious choice.

An idea came to me of a 'Johnny Appleseed' type character, and I started writing Silverfawn's backstory, then the time came to build a card. I remembered my boring dryad character. It dawned on me that all of her abilities (minus the ramping) worked equally well in white as well as green. Hell, even white is allowed the occasional land searching, so even that didn't seem too much of a stretch.

And thus, Silverfawn.

I recently entered her in a Planeswalker design contest on the Gleemax forums!
The theme is children walkers, come join us!