Card of the Week: Scavenger Folk

It's such a strange-looking piece of art. For a long time, I wondered if Scavenger Folk were humans or a lineage unto themselves. When the card was reprinted with new (and inferior) art, I decided that they were human after all.

Scavenging to Survive

Few records exist from the first decades that followed the violent end of the Artificers' War, when the last mortal act of Urza broke Argoth into pieces and melted its sands to glass. It was not only disastrous for those unlucky enough to be on Argoth to die in the blast, but for the rest of the world. For the devastation was so immense as to kick dust and debris high into the air above. The larger objects fell back to the earth soon enough, but the dust remained there for years—and in large enough quantities to block out the sun. Across Dominaria the land cooled, the crops failed, and the people suffered and died.

Fear and famine crowded people into the cities, huddled for protection. Without anywhere else safe to go, those who seized power were free to ruthlessly use it to consolidate power further. Even those rulers who spoke words of a higher purpose were no more than tyrants jealously holding onto what was theirs. But things were just as bad outside of the cities. In the wilds it was a white-line nightmare, where only those mobile enough to scavenge or brutal enough to pillage survived.

Hundreds of years had passed since the destruction of Argoth before I was born, and though the world had healed of the immediate trauma it was still gravely wounded. The pillagers persisted, both as highwaymen in places like the Scarwood and the priests of Tal that ruled the cities in all but name. Much has been written of these folk, but less so of the scavengers. Yet these, too, survived, and perhaps better than did the pillagers.

To be fair, I (and Pappagallo) consider Max Rockatansky to be a scavenger—and there are four movies about him. I guess they do tell stories about scavengers after all.

Perhaps the most well-known of these much-ignored people persisted into the times of my youth. The very same Scarwood that became a hideout for bandits also became a refuge for the destitute and homeless. The woods offered them a shelter from the terrors of the outside world. But it was not safe even discounting the bandits, dangerous goblins, hags, and other dangers also stalked the woods. The refugees first banded together for safety in numbers, and eventually managed to cobble together a society for themselves in towns of hovels and caves.

Perhaps the greatest factor in the survival of the Scavenger Folk was their poverty. They were disadvantaged one and all—the homeless, the farmers driven from their lands by goblins and raiders, the believers in faiths persecuted by the Church of Tal, and the like. Living on the corpse of the old world, making use of the broken and discarded, they tended to have nothing worth stealing. Even the most bloodthirsty of the pillagers tended to leave them alone, as they could often sate their bloodlust on richer victims.

And yet, the skills that the Scavenger Folk developed to survive made them into great thieves. To most of them, it mattered not whether a find was broken or intact, claimed by another or abandoned—they could take it for themselves if it could be used for shelter, fuel, food, or other necessity. Tales abound of their duplicity, where they steal great riches or powerful magical artifacts. It is only after such thefts that others would take notice of Scavengers—in wrath over or greed for the stolen items, others inevitably found a reason to attack the Folk. But even then it was almost always too late: once in the hands of the Scavengers, their treasures were lost forever.

Written Out of History

As mentioned above, the Scavenger Folk are mentioned very rarely in histories and tales. Even then, they are incidental—lurking about the margins of stories. Their unsavory reputation is notable, and perhaps the only reason they’re mentioned. But other than being unwelcome in cities and being rumored to be grave robbers, little is said. Perhaps those who recorded the tales assumed that their readers would already be familiar with the Scavenger Folk and felt no need to tell more. In this, they follow a well-established pattern—the powerful and successful tend to write the histories, and show little interest in speaking of the weak and powerless.

Aside from the card itself, this book contains what little information there is about the Scavenger Folk. It's only an incidental mention or two, so you'll be disappointed if you read it for that. I didn't like the book—it doesn't fit the feel of The Dark expansion at all—and was disappointed in any case.

Offensive Scavenging

It is rare, but not unheard of, for great mages to ally with the Scavenger Folk. Their skills in plunder are just as effective against a rival mage’s artifice as against an unguarded refuse pit. And while there are more efficient ways to remove a rival’s artifacts, not all mages are able to use them. Those mages who rely solely on green magic, unable to Shatter or Disenchant threatening artifice, sometimes choose to employ the Scavengers. Granted, they can also Crumble, but the ability to also send the Scavengers into battle is not to be overlooked—especially if they’re magically enhanced in stature beforehand.

Scavenger Folk: a 1/1 for 1 with an upside? Perfect for a Green Weenie deck!

Danatoth of Alsoor


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Card of the Week: Ironclaw Orcs

Ever since I discovered Tolkien and D&D, I've loved orcs. It's a shame that they never took off as a creature type in Magic.

From Prisoner to King

It was only a moment of weakness. I had exhausted my magic, and without it I was just another human. I was younger than I am now, but even then I was no paragon of strength. I had a sword and could defend myself with it, but I was no expert swordsman. And the Ironclaw Orcs that captured me towered above my height and looked far stronger. Without my magic I was no match for them, so I accepted their chains instead of dying in a futile gesture of combat.

The orc-folk led me deeper into the Ironclaw Mountains, squabbling all the way—“Gakul sanguth othgha makh!”  “Nar! Tur mok othghukh murn, kul glong sha ga gromnashk!”—and so on, their harsh gloating voices leaving little doubt to my fate even though I did not then understand them. For two days they dragged me along, allowing me no rest longer than enough to choke down the foul dried meat they gave me (never enough) or when an argument came to blows (brutal, but over quickly). Even when they slept at midday, those guarding me would mercilessly poke at me with their spears—an entertainment, no doubt, to make the time of their watch pass the quicker.

When finally we reached the caverns that served as their home, I was treated no more gently. The rest of their tribe gathered around to welcome the raiders, and they quickly took to jeering me. I was pushed into the dirt more times than I can count as the warriors showed me off as a prize, and pelted with offal and rocks by the women and children. But before I was hurt beyond recovery, I was shoved into a dark and loathsome cave—I assume that if the raiders wanted me dead they’d have killed me rather than captured me, and so I must have been meant for some other purpose. But despite the filth and discomfort, despite the incessant noise from the tribe outside, I was finally allowed to sleep.

I do not remember any dreams from that night, evil or otherwise, for I slept as one dead. I awoke all too soon to the prodding of my captors, and though I was far from well-rested I had rested enough to once again call upon my magic. I did not wait even for the Ironclaws to open the crude portcullis that held me in—with the green mana I drew upon, I Grew my own self to Gigantic size. With newfound strength coursing through my body, I smashed through the gate like it was kindling, then turned upon my captors. Flinging them against the walls of the cavern with ease, I advanced upon the rest of the tribe.

But as fierce as the orcs had been when I was weak, none now dared to stand against me. Each one I approached shrunk away, some throwing their weapons to the floor in surrender. And when I came to the leader of the warband that captured me—the leader of the whole tribe, as far as I could tell—he cowered from me too.

“Right!” I bellowed, even as the magic wore off and I shrank back to my normal stature. “Are there none who would stand against me? None who would contest my rule here?” I knew that for as long as the orcs remained intimidated, they would do as I say. To ensure that they did find new bravery in my reduced size, I called upon the Mountains and sent forth Lightning amongst them. As I suspected, they cringingly followed my orders thereafter.

I remained the ruler of the tribe just long enough to commandeer food and supplies for myself. I took only what I could carry—my own possessions returned to me, heavy clothing and a sturdy tent, and water and gray stale bread (I had no desire to eat the suspect meat that they fed me again)—enough to get me out of the Ironclaw Mountains and back to the relative safety of Sursi. I suppose that they were as happy to see me leave as I was—without their fear of me, they could return to their usual raiding and infighting. Perhaps they would be more careful in who they captured next time.

As for myself, I was relieved to leave them behind me. Sure, I could have stayed in the caves. I could have even been king. But in my own way, I knew that my rule would only be as secure as the fear I could hold over them. It would be no use being a king only to die to a knife in the back, and I am sure that the knife would have come sooner rather than later.

Orcs Across the Multiverse

Orcs are relatively rare on Dominaria, as well as most of the other planes of the Multiverse that are well-traveled by dueling mages. But on other worlds, this is not so. Orcs are populous or even dominant on many worlds all but untouched by planeswalkers—known mostly through legends and lore—such as Azeroth, Faerun, and the world of Bretonnia and the Empire. But the most famous of such worlds is Eä.

The orcs of Eä are, if not the literal progenitors of orcs elsewhere, the quintessential orcs. Though the orcish races are as diverse as the planes on which they're found, they all share characteristics of Eä's orcish folk. Quarrelsome and wicked on their own, they were most powerful when united under the domination of a greater power. Indeed, the greatest of these Dark Lords is said to be their creator. Several theories abound on their creation, though the most widely credited is that the great evil Power of Eä tortured and mutilated elves until they became a ruined and terrible form of life.

"The Age of Men is over. The time of the orc has come!"

The Narrow Usefulness of Orcish Allies

Ironclaw Orcs are rarely called upon in battles between mages. Though they are strong, their cowardice is a significant drawback. For the energy it takes to summon them into battle, there are many other beings that are more powerful, useful, or loyal.

However, some red mages have found a use for the Ironclaw tribe. These disciples of Sligh depend on the full and efficient use of all mana available to them, and it so happens that the mana needed to summon Ironclaw Orcs fits the requirements of such a strategy. There are very few other beings, at least summonable with only red mana, that require the same expenditure of mana. To the these mages, the cowardice of the Ironclaw tribe is not enough of a drawback simply because there is little alternative to summoning them.

Sligh decks are where you're most likely to encounter Ironclaw Orcs. Maybe the only place.

Danatoth of Alsoor


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Card of the Week: Strip Mine

Man, all I need now is an Anthologies printing. Then I'd have all of the (English) old-school legal Strip Mines!

This Wasted Land

In the years after I left Alsoor, I wandered far and wide across the ruined continent of Terisiare. In one of my journeys, I had just crossed the Kher Ridges into the west. Descending from the high passes into the drier climes bordering the Great Fallaji Desert, I came across a gaping wound in the land. It was the remains of a mine, a pit gouged out from the surrounding land. Perhaps at one time it was overseen by Mishra himself—for this was once his territory—but now it was abandoned, willfully forgotten by all.

Although it was undoubtedly ancient—decades or centuries of rare rainstorms had cut deep gullies into the terraced slopes and water had collected into a deep pool the bottom of the pit—it still festered amidst the surrounding hills. Aside from the odd scrub, nothing grew here. Though the water looked clean and clear nothing swam in it, for it was toxic and acid. The contrast with the surrounding mountains was severe: though too dry to sport lush vegetation, they were bursting with life compared to the pit.

As severe as it was, the mine’s damage did not end at the physical boundaries of the world. The spirit of the land all but cried out in pain, and I could sense the wrongness of its ley lines without even trying. The mountains around felt alive in their usual way, with barely controlled impulsiveness and chaos. But the pit felt like nothing—or more accurately, the absence of anything. Both shocked and curious, I decided to stay and study the mine and so bind its ley line to my soul. The Fallaji Desert could wait.

For the better part of a week I walked the paths of the pit. I climbed up to the highest point of the rim, down to the water line, and to all the terraces between. I crumbled the ore-laden dirt and the discarded tailings in my hands. I tasted (but did not drink!) the poisoned metallic water. As I studied, the tragedy of the place became clear. Here was a place that had blighted its surroundings for hundreds of years, and would continue to do so for countless more. Though the tainted water was low now it had undoubtedly spilled over the edge of the pit many times when the rains came, and each time it had spread its poison to flood the lands beyond. The bones strewn about the pit spoke to flocks and flocks of unsuspecting birds seeking shelter in the caustic waters but finding death instead. I could not imagine the place ever healing again, no matter how many years passed.

After I had bound the Strip Mine’s ley line to myself, I was only too happy to leave for healthier lands. When I came to them, even the most barren stretches of the Fallaji Desert seemed more alive than the pit. And as I traveled farther away from it, the trauma of the pit faded to a dull ache in my memory. Only then did I experiment with its ley line.

At first the ley line was a mere curiosity, only good for supplementing other ley lines or powering artifacts. The mana I drew from it was entirely devoid of any feeling: not the soothing calm of the plains, not the furious excitement of the mountains, not the deep strength of the forests. But there was something else about it, something just beyond my reach. It took me months of tinkering with it to discover its true power, but it finally came to me. I had woven it with other ley lines to shape a spell, but did not complete the casting before I pulled on it just so...and the spell collapsed! The Strip Mine’s ley line was gone, as was one of the other ley lines I had woven. Understanding came in a rush, and I imagined that I could use it the same way against a foe, deactivate another’s ley lines just as I had deactivated my own. I had discovered a new weapon to take into battle, one more subtle and insidious than I had previously known.

Wounds that Do Not Heal

People have mined the planes since there have been people, but Strip Mining is a relatively recent activity. Surface mining—quarrying away stones or minerals from at or near the surface of the land—seems to be the oldest form, followed by shaft mining where veins of minerals are followed into the earth. Strip Mining, which involves removing a large amount of overlying earth or stone from a seam of mineral before digging it out of the ground, requires more effort than simple surface mining or shaft mining—usually in the form of machinery like that employed by the Artificiers.

Berkeley Pit just outside of Butte, Montana, is an abandoned strip mine. The water that's in it is extremely acidic and has so much copper dissolved in it that the metal can be mined directly by precipitation. The water level keeps rising, and when it reaches the surrounding water table it'll poison the rivers and groundwater in the surrounding area.

With the greater effort expended in Strip Mining comes a greater effect on the lands about it. The scale at which it is practiced can be far greater than simpler methods of mining, and as such even the physical damage to the land is greater. Moving such great amounts of earth and stone wreaks havoc on the local streams, and the tailings and ores washed away choke the remaining rivers with pollution. When abandoned, water collects in the pits and leaches minerals from the remaining ores, and the caustic results poison the land further. Even decades or centuries do not heal these wounds, and the effects of these mines will be felt for generations to come.

Mining for Victory

The utility of the Strip Mine in sorcerous combat cannot be overstated. It is so effective that it is used whenever possible by almost all serious strategies. Not only can it deactivate any ley line—from cutting off the knowledge contained in the Library of Alexandria to just destroying a second Island to ward off a Counterspell—it does so instantaneously and unstoppably. So great is its power that most convocations of dueling mages, even many of those of the oldest school, restrict its use to just one instance per spellbook.

The ever-popular land destruction strategy. I distinctly remember a Stone Rain deck (more than four Stone Rains because we were barbaric kids who ignored tournament rules, no Sinkholes or Ice Storms because we were poor kids that started playing during Revised) as being the first deck that I just couldn't beat.

While most mages bind as many Strip Mines to themselves as possible, a few go further and make its feared ability the focus of their spellbooks. Combining their Strip Mines with spells such as Stone Rain, Ice Storm, and Sinkhole, they seek to cut off their opponents’ mana before they can use it to threaten them, and then keep it cut off while they summon threats of their own. And assuming that the Strip Mines and destructive spells keep coming at a steady pace, it is a strategy with results that cannot be denied.

Danatoth of Alsoor


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Card of the Week: Verduran Enchantress

The artwork for Verduran Enchantress is one of my favorites in all of Magic.

A Forbidden Land

She sat down across from me and made herself comfortable, lounging back on a generous pile of cushions. She looked me over with a skeptical eye but she must have found me acceptable, for she smiled and spoke. Her voice was low but powerful—I had no trouble hearing her words despite the quiet of their forming. “I understand that you seek the heart of Verdura, yes?”

“I do,” I replied. In the silence that followed she stared at me, obviously expecting more of an answer—a request that was all the more powerful for being unspoken. “I have heard of the primeval forests of this island, untouched by axe, and would see them with my own eyes,” I added, unwilling to state the obvious.

Her smile returned, but this time it was cold. “Just to see them, yes? You must think me a fool, to tell me such a lie. I am an Enchantress, and I know another mage when I meet one. You are here for the forests, but not to observe. You wish to bind its ley lines to yourself, yes?”

I bowed my head. “I mean no insult to you, or to anyone else,” I said. “Yes, I do wish to find new ley lines, but I assure you I mean no harm to the forest.”

She nodded, apparently satisfied. “Very well. But even if I believe your intent is good, you cannot enter the forest, yes? You cannot pass beyond the borders of this port city.” She glanced down from my face. “It is forbidden for one such as yourself to intrude on our domain.”

Did she refer to my status as a foreigner? As a mage who practiced other colors of magic? It took me a moment to realize what she meant. “Men cannot enter the forest?” I asked. “Just mages, or all men in general?”

She shook her head. “All men are forbidden. Just as the spirit of Verdura is mother to all who live here, so too must we be as mothers to the children of her sacred forest, yes? Men cannot be mothers, and cannot tend to the children of the forest as we do.”

“So no men, even those born to this land and devoted to the spirit of Verdura, can never enter the forest? Even if they are equally as devoted as their mothers, their sisters, their wives? Would not Verdura rather have more who tend to her ways than less?”

The Enchantress was silent for a long moment, a frown creasing her brow. “It is not for me to know the thoughts of Verdura’s spirit,” she finally said. “But this is the way that we have honored her for generations upon generations, and it has served us well. Those men who wish to may revere her in their own ways, and those who chafe at the ancient laws may leave. There are, I hear, plenty of places for them elsewhere in the world.”

For a moment, I thought to argue against Verdura’s rules, but I held back. Who was I to tell this woman how she and her fellow Enchantresses should manage their own land? Trying to force my way in would only, in the best case, see me on an outbound boat sooner rather than later. “Very well, I understand. You have my word that I will not go inland.”

“That is good,” she replied. “I would not wish to kill you, yes? For that is the price that a man must pay should he intrude in Verdura’s forests. But do not be disappointed—for those not native to our land, one forest is much like another, and you will find others.” She smiled at me, and this time it seemed genuinely warm. “But you are welcome to stay in this village for as long as you like. You surely know magic that we do not, and we know that which you don't. We can learn from each other, yes?”

Women and Magic

The Enchantresses of Verdura are not unusual in their connection to magic. In many cultures, magic is seen as a feminine art. Depictions of women mages are varied, from images of old women hunched over bubbling cauldrons to women as oracles and seers to temptresses who ensnare their victims with dark magic, but are not at all uncommon. Indeed, in some cultures that see magic as the purview of women it can be seen as taboo for men to practice magic.

In Germanic traditions, prophecy and other magic is often the purview of women. Veleda, Jules Eugène Lenepveu, 1883.

An Enchanting Strategy

Calling on the Verduran Enchantresses is perhaps not the most effective way to fight a battle, but the lure of its promise has long been a siren's call to those mages who seek creative new strategies. Some day, they hope, perhaps someone will find the right combination of spells to make the Verduran Enchantresses a power to be reckoned with. But even if that day never comes, there are still many mages willing to ally themselves with Verdura.

I assume that wombats are popular pets on the island of Verdura. Like the Enchantress, the Popcorn-Eating Wombat goes well with enchantments. Combine the two for greater effect!

Naturally, those who ally with the Enchantresses fill their spellbooks with enchantments—many of which are staples of sorcerous combat in any case, but take on a new prominence here. With the backing of the Enchantresses, each enchantment cast is another source of knowledge—knowledge that often results in yet more enchantments to cast. If all goes well, one’s Enchantress allies can enable a mage to access a great portion of their knowledge at once. With all resources at hand, a mage need only to pick and choose a spell to seize victory.

Danatoth of Alsoor


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Card of the Week: Mind Twist

The artwork feels isolated and claustrophobic. I can feel his anguish!

The True Depths of Evil

It is said that there are wounds that never completely heal. Indeed, legends tell of wraith-knives whose cuts plague their victims for the rest of their days and spear-thrusts whose venom can only be contained by the corruption of a dagger-wound laid on top. But not all wounds are physical, and these too can persist long after they are inflicted.

It should come as little surprise to those who have listened to me before that I find black magic distasteful. I have found it so from the very beginning, as my earliest rival threw herself willingly into its maw and never looked back. I’ve battled against black wizardry since I first became a mage, and have battled against it more often than any other. But as distasteful as I find skeletons and zombies, as corrupt as vampires and demons are, they do not hold a candle to the true evil of black magic.

I would say I remember it clearly, but I do not. What I do recall is that it was a battle like any other. I sent my summonings against my foe, defended against the same, and cast my spells of aggression and defense. Until I couldn’t. Until some fell force took hold on my mind and squeezed, squeezed until nothing was left. No spells, no summonings, scarce any idea even of who I was. I reeled, utterly lost as to where I was or what I was doing. Needless to say, my foe defeated me that day.

Days at least and probably weeks passed before my memories returned and I felt comfortable that I was who I thought I was again. Instinct must have guided me after the battle, for the strange tower I first woke up in gradually became familiar as my home. As more time passed, I recalled more and more, from childhood memories to potent spells. But even now, many years and several more Twistings of my Mind later, a fear still gnaws at my heart. How can I be sure that I have remembered everything? What memories might never have come back? And if I have irrevocably lost memories, am I a different person than I was before? Just how many wounds do I bear, not even knowing how I am wounded?

Alas, suffering such an evil spell as Mind Twist is not the only wound that does not heal completely. For I have discovered since that using such a spell wounds one’s soul as well. I am not proud of resorting to such foul sorcery—it shames my every waking thought! But desperation is ever more powerful than morality, and when the battle for life and land is at risk my will is as weak as any other mage’s. And in the heat of battle, the thought of victory at any cost does not seem unjust.

But the aftermath is different. To see a foe, no matter how hated or corrupt, gibbering and drooling without any trace as to who they once were forces you to see just how depraved and monstrous you truly are. And this, too, leaves a wound. But unlike the other, this wound is obvious and it festers. It eats away at you as you remember what you’ve done. And you realize that as bad as the realization may be, the true horror is that you feel less guilty each time you cast a spell such as Mind Twist. One day, you’ll feel no guilt at all, and then you will truly be a monster—you’ll have finally succumbed to your wounds.

A History of Forgetfulness

While the amnesia of the Mind Twist is a grave cruelty, forgetfulness is an integral part of sorcery. Once brought to mind and cast, a spell cannot be readily cast again in the same battle. Mages have devised numerous spells and artifacts to mitigate this weakness, but mitigation is the best that can be done. Though some may curse it, it is only when the forgetfulness is forced that it is evil rather than merely inconvenient.

Though this forgetfulness is well known to mages, it is a feature that predates the laws of magic set forth by the great deity Garfield. In his creation, Garfield may have taken inspiration from older gods still, Gygax and Arneson, patrons of dungeon-delving. Gygax, likewise, was inspired by a primordial god known only as Vance, whose legends speak of wizards of a Dying Earth who must force spells into their minds only to forget them after casting them.

Memorizing spells and forgetting them after they're cast is often known as "Vancian" magic, and originates in the Dying Earth books. It also fits the mechanics of removing spell cards from your hand after casting them. M:tG isn't exactly like spellcasting in Vance's novels, of course, but it's reasonably close.

Wringing Out Victory

As monstrous as it is, Mind Twist has no shortage of practitioners. It is too powerful for many to forgo, even those who otherwise eschew black magic. To reduce a rival to a helpless wretch or just to erase a spell or two from their mind is too much an advantage to pass by when victory can be attained with but one dire spell.

This'd be part of a promising opening hand.

Though many risk corruption in its use, there are truly vile wizards who make Mind Twist and similar spells the entirety of their strategy. Not content to merely strip the minds of their foes, these mages further torture their victims on The Rack. In this sadistic manner, the memory loss is not just a way to keep their opponents from casting spells, but also the direct way to defeat them.

There are a few mages, however, who have seen the disastrous effect that Twisting a rival’s Mind has and have vowed not to employ such a vile spell. While these gentlefolk may have not eschewed its use entirely, they have agreed to forgo its use when battling each other.

Black Rack—easy to put together on a budget, powerful, and fun to play!

Danatoth of Alsoor


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Card of the Week: Land's Edge

The rift behind that guy's head makes him look like he has antlers. Or maybe he does have antlers and that isn't a rift...I'm not entirely sure.

The End of the World

When my sister and I were children, our mother and father would tell us stories to lull us to sleep at night. Whether about faraway lands, fantastic journeys, and fearsome beasts, we would hang on every word...until we could no longer when sleep finally dragged us down. Many of these stories lost their potency as I grew older and more jaded, and our parents stopped telling us stories after some time anyway. But one of them still fascinated me long after the others became mundane: the edge of the world.

It wasn’t the silver horses that brought us to the edge of the multiverse, or the portal through which we could see eternity that fascinated me, though those words were powerful all on their own. Rather, it was the idea of the very end of the land beyond which was nothing that captured my imagination—or rather lack thereof. For in all my mind, I could not picture what lay beyond the land. I could imagine the end: a place where the seas spilled over the edge of the land, perhaps, but beyond? No matter what I thought—endless skies, countless stars—I could not conceive of nothing, for even skies and stars are something.

After I grew to manhood, I realized that there was no end to the land. While the seas stretched out beyond Alsoor’s eastern horizon and the lands beyond the west, there was always more land or sea to cross until a traveler might come back to where he or she started. But even later—after discovering other planes—I learned that that while there may be no edge of Dominaria, there were some planes that did just end.

I made a point to visit the edge of the world on the first of these planes that I visited. I am sure that the sailors that I hired thought me insane. Indeed, they feared for their lives: the waters near the edge of the world were dangerous and fickle, they said. Out there, the currents of the water spilling over the edge were so strong that no ship could escape should they be caught in them. A skilled crew might be able to avoid them, but still, the risk was great. But ever are people willing to risk their lives for treasure, and my gold was enough to hire a crew.

We sailed for days, and the sailors became ever more nervous as the shore fell farther and farther behind. In front of us, the sky grew dark even in the middle of the day. A great sound arose, first so low and deep that I could scarcely hear it over the wind and waves. But it soon strengthened until nothing else could be heard—the roar of a thousand waterfalls as the sea crashed over the edge.

And then, the edge came into view. It terrified even me: on one side the ocean, turbulent and wild but still real, and on the other nothing. The sky tapered off above the edge, too: the sun still shone far behind us, the sky above us was dark, but again there was nothing over the edge. I heard the sailors behind me, crying out orders to turn the ship around, and indeed the ship began to swing away from the doom in front of me. But as it did, I caught sight of a rocky island at the very edge, the waters of the ocean rushing around it as they tumbled into the void.

Sadak in Search of the Waters of Oblivion by John Martin, 1812. While the story that inspired the painting doesn't involve the edge of the world, the painting certainly looks like it fits the theme.

I left the ship then, bending blue ley lines to whisk myself from the deck to the island at Land’s Edge. I found myself clinging to a rock precariously close to the waters—would I fall in, I would have no hope of pulling myself back out before the undertow dragged me over the edge. I climbed up the crag until I reached the summit, then looked out before me. I cannot describe in words the emptiness I saw before me, for language fails in the face of unbeing. It was not sky, it was not the space between the stars, it was not even emptiness. It had no color—not even the black one sees when they close their eyes. I could not look upon it for long, so I turned my eyes to the waters. As they fell, they dissipated first into rain, into mist, into cloud, and finally into the same nothingness. And it was not just the waters: from time to time, they would sweep a great piece of the seabed along with them, and these too would dissipate into the void.

I watched for as long as my mind could stand, then...left. I do not know which world I arrived on, but I had never been so grateful to have solid land around me as far as I could see. And when I left that plane too, I made sure to return to Dominaria, for I knew that its land has no end.

Believing in the Edge

Even in planes where the land is shaped into a sphere, there are people who believe in the edge of the world. Most planes are so vast that a person standing on it sees it as flat, as the curve of the earth is so subtle as to be almost unnoticeable. But signs of the curvature are there if one knows where to look. The fact that one can see much farther from the top of a mountain than from the lowlands below—and yet still see a horizon—is but one way to disprove those who believe that the world is flat.

But such thoughts are not always obvious, and it is the nature of mortals to assume that the truth is only what is obvious to them. Without any reason to believe that the world is not flat, without proof to the contrary, the assumption that the world is flat becomes unchallenged. Indeed, the oldest myths and legends from cultures across the world often portray it as such. As cultures advance most learn that this is false, but myths are powerful and still resonate long past the times that they are superseded by learning. Indeed, there are strange people to this day who stubbornly choose to believe in myth in the face of evidence to the contrary, and even seek to “prove” that it is indeed correct all along.

Living on the Edge

Though my first encounter with Land’s Edge was unsettling, I have since learned of its use in battle. Like any other, those who fight here are at risk of plummeting over the edge...but the clever can use the edge to their advantage as well. By flinging the crumbling land at an opponent, a wizard can wreak serious havoc.

Ahh, a classic!

Perhaps the most effective way to take advantage of Land’s Edge is to combine it with Land Tax. Through clever manipulation of the tax loopholes, a mage may gather enough lands to fling at a foe that he or she may gain victory in one fell swoop. Other spells and artifacts may assist in this endeavor, such as the Library of Leng to ensure that enough lands are available.

While the employment of Land Tax upon it is among the most powerful use of Land’s Edge, one often overlooked use is worth noting. Since using the Land’s Edge spell physically moves the battle to the edge of a plane, it is useful in moving said battle away from an even more dangerous location. A mage who finds herself battling in the Abyss, for example, may find it advantageous to cast Land’s Edge just to escape.

Yes, it's the same deck as last week. But hey, it's what inspired me to choose Land's Edge for this week's card!

Danatoth of Alsoor


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Card of the Week: Ivory Tower

I always liked the art on Ivory Tower. The red sun and the elephant motifs made it feel like an exotic and far-off place to me.

A Pilgrimage

So-called “Dark Ages” do not bear the title for a lack of light, although the one that I was born in did suffer from clouds of dust and ash blotting out the sun. Rather, the dark referred to is a darkness of the mind, a loss or disregard of knowledge. But even in the worst ignorance and superstition of the years after Urza and Mishra ruined the land, tales of the Ivory Towers and the knowledge they cultivated persisted.

The Fall of Terisia City is well-recorded in the lays of the Artificiers’ War, and even in the Dark Age that followed was common knowledge throughout Terisiare. Its popularity was helped, no doubt, by the fact that the mages of the its Ivory Towers were both partially responsible for and victims of its fall—more proof for the Church of Tal that magic was dangerous and forbidden. But no matter what twist the Church put on the story—that all of the Towers betrayed the city to Mishra’s armies rather than well-placed spies—they could not obscure the Towers’ most important truth: that the cooperative scholarship can be as powerful as governments, armies, or religions.

Sometime after leaving Alsoor but before discovering the other planes of Dominia, I took to the exploration of Terisiare. My magic was both strong enough to protect me and costly enough to require ever more ley lines to fuel it, and travel provided an easy solution to both. (It is a path very common to mages, I would guess.) It did not take me long to remember the tales of the Ivory Towers and turn my feet towards the west. Even though I knew that Terisia City had fallen, I would see its ruins for myself.

My journey took me through the Kher Ridges still haunted by the shadows of great birds of prey. I skirted the Great Fallaji desert, following the Mardun River into the heart of the continent until I came to the vast mudflats surrounding Lake Ronom, its ebbing waters stolen by the growing glaciers. At the ruins of Sarinth, I turned once again upstream and followed the river to its source, to where Terisia once stood.

Terisia was as ruined as Sarinth had been, as so many great cities of the past had been. The white walls still stood in places, but not many, and the Ivory Towers that had studded them like pearls on a necklace were all fallen. The heart of the city was little better, with more empty shells of buildings than intact. But Terisia was not entirely abandoned. People lived there, perhaps the descendents of those who resisted Mishra’s might for so long. Maybe they found Terisia’s location too advantageous to abandon for long, or refused to leave their ancestral homes. Or maybe they had nowhere else to go.

I spoke with the people who lived there, and I learned that among them, all of my guesses were represented. But I also learned that there were those who sought out the ruins of Terisia for the legacy of the Towers. Though they had fallen, though no Archimandrite oversaw the research in their halls, still their legacy lived on. In the very place where they once stood, scholars still gathered to share and study magic. Like me, they made a pilgrimage in memory of the Towers. But they didn’t stop at just seeing the ruins—they made the Towers anew.

History and Theory

Terisia City’s Towers gathered scholars from throughout the continent—from the eastern cities of Argive and Korlis, from the Fallaji tribes and Zegon, from Sarinth, from Yumok, from Sardia, and dozens of other places. Within their walls, they researched the theories of magic and laid the foundations of magical study for centuries to come. Considering themselves a Third Path, they turned down alliances from both Urza and Mishra and resisted both until betrayed by spies in their midst.

Throughout the multiverse, the Towers have become a metaphor for those who seek knowledge at the expense of worldly matters. The spirit of the Towers allows those who follow it to focus on their studies without distractions both large, like war and politics, and small, like hunger and romantic attachment. Indeed, some see this isolation as a negative—they say that isolation from the world separates a scholar’s work from worldly applications and practical uses.

Behind the Tower's Walls

Tax/Edge is only one of many uses for Ivory Tower.

The Ivory Tower is a powerful artifact for those mages who rely on patience rather than aggression. Behind its walls, they can bide their time and hoard their knowledge. Rather than leap into battle, they preserve themselves long enough to shape the battlefield to their liking. Only once their preparations are all in place will  they then descend from the heights and join the fight.

Mages of all controlling persuasions can find advantage in the Ivory Towers. In all cases, the Towers allow their occupants to survive the initial assault of their foes. Multiple Towers increase this advantage—unchecked, they can give their occupants such a lead as to be unbeatable regardless of how many minions and spells an opponent can bring to bear.

Danatoth of Alsoor


This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.