Tag: Dr. Magic Cards

For the past 8 turns, the Goldmane administration has been content to sit in office, gaining life for the special interests, while threat after threat came into play.

When he sent our troops into battle, Goldmane, who never served in the military, gave them only one +1/+1 counter. Every independent study showed that, for the safety of our troops, they needed at least three +1/+1 counters, and sure enough, many were double blocked and killed. They deserved better.

Ajani Vengeant represents a third term for the failed policies of the Goldmane administration. Vengeant claims that only he can keep the threat against us tapped down, but in fact, thanks to Goldmane, we’re now facing more problems than he can handle.




Chandra Nalaar has a proven record of taking on our opponents directly. When there’s a threat against us, she isn’t content to tap it down and wait for more problems to arrive before solving them. When Dread came into play, Nalaar dealt 6 damage to it, at great personal cost.

Nalaar promises to deal 10 damage to our opponent and its minions. Vengeant says that it’s too costly–that we can’t afford it. Nalaar asks, can we afford an Ajani Vengeant administration?

My name is Chandra Nalaar, and I approve this message.

(Discuss this item in the forum!)

The voices in the auditorium died down as the projector came to life, displaying a tranquil maritime scene: a seal swimming on the surface of the ocean.

Click. A single fin appears behind the seal.

Click. The fin becomes a pair of jaws, impaling the seal on rows of gleaming teeth.

Click. Only a tailfin remains above the water.

Click. Tranquility returns.

The curtain fell, and a bearded kithkin scientist shuffled onto the stage.

“Esteemed guests, I present to you the shark. A mindless killer, it roams the seas of Shadowmoor, devouring anything unfortunate enough to encounter it. Here at Gravelgill Maritime Laboratory, my team and I have been working to harness the primal fury of the shark, to adapt the shark to a higher purpose.

“As you know, our natural disadvantages against the merrow in our naval conflicts have been compounded by their deployment of increasingly metal forces. The swordfish, hammerwhale, and most recently the rocketmanatee have routed our forces in nineteen major battles over the last six months. It was all our brave sailors could do to pump the fist as these kickin’ rad animals tore them apart.

“Over the past ten weeks, we have labored in secret, developing a weapon so totally sweet as to be unstoppable.”

The scientist signaled to the technician in the back, who shone a spotlight onto a water tank, revealing the most metal image any of them had ever seen: a shark wielding an axe. The audience was in shock: a few unconsciously played air guitar riffs, others delivered body blows to their neighbors, but most could only stand still, trapped under the weight of the heaviest of heavy metal.

“Any questions?”

“Exactly how metal are these axesharks?”

“Excellent question. We’ve taken a spinal tap from each of our axeshark specimens, and the results indicate that, on the Osbourne scale, the average axeshark measures approximately–“

Before the scientist could finish, an elf from among the audience stood and shouted, interrupting him: “What have you done?! You’ve taken Ghastlord’s most perfect killing machine and given it an axe! You’ve knocked us all to the bottom of the deusdamn food chain!”

* * * * *

Later that evening, a pair of boggarts, undeterred by the elf’s hysterical warnings, snuck into the restricted zone of Gravelgill’s labs. The hardcore potential of the axesharks that they had seen during the presentation intrigued them, and, upon seeing the equipment at the lab, they became further stoked.

The pièce de résistance was an enormous amplifier, so huge that the boggarts couldn’t make out the top of the device in the darkness of the lab’s high ceiling and so powerful that, even turned off, the boggarts could faintly hear the howl of a death-metal vocalist. A cable led from the amplifier to a Blight Sickle, a double-necked, twenty-four stringed guitar, which was adorned by images of skulls, redcaps, and a demigod of revenge.

A water tank, larger than the one in the presentation room but otherwise identical, was next to the amplifier, and one of the boggarts walked over to investigate. He tapped on the glass, and a large, dark, and badass shape rushed by, startling him. He stumbled backward, tripping over the amplifier’s on switch. Grabbing for a handhold to break his fall, he caught the master volume control and inadvertently twisted it all the way up to eleven. This proved to be his undoing, because the Blight Sickle had transfixed the other boggart, who, moved by the guitar’s unadulterated essence of rock, plucked a single string.

The noise was so loud that it was silent. The boggart next to the amplifier exploded as the sound wave rippled through him. The other boggart was blown against the opposite wall, the Blight Sickle wrenched from his hand. The tank’s glass cracked, and the axesharks, driven mad, pounded against it until it shattered.

* * * * *

The incident at the lab set off the station’s alarms, which woke up the scientists and their guests. Following the outlined emergency procedures, they hurried to the station’s south dock. The axesharks had already broken out, but, sensing the fear of the station’s inhabitants, they were trying to smash bitchin’ holes through the glass to reach and consume them.

The water was already pouring in, and the axesharks were surfing toward their fleeing victims. Only three were left alive: the head scientist, a kithkin reporter, and the protesting elf. They ran to the end of the corridor and reached the next room, but before they could shut the door, an axeshark wedged itself in.

“What did I tell you?” The elf yelled at the scientist. “We’re gonna get ate!”

“We are almost at the south dock. There is a boat there that we can use to escape. If we can find some way to delay the axesharks, we should have enough time to push off before the axesharks can reach us. We just have to think rationally,” the scientist said. He took a moment to study his creation, but it was a moment too long: “WOOOOOO! HELL YEAH! IT’S A FUCKING SHARK WITH A FUCKING AXE! ROCK AND ROL–“

The axeshark pushed itself further through the doorway and crushed the scientist between its wicked awesome jaws.

“What’s your name?” The elf asked the kithkin reporter.

“Olga.”

“Olga, I’m Hexhunter. Run!”

They rushed toward the south dock as the shark struggled to force its bulk the rest of the way through. They found their escape vessel, a diminutive motorboat. Hexhunter swore.

“Here it is,” Olga yelled, “Let’s go!”

Just then, a trio of axesharks rose out of the water and lit into the craft, tearing off chunks of wood and plastic with their axes. Hexhunter took Olga by the arm and led her back in the other direction.

“We’re gonna need a bigger boat.”

* * * * *

Hexhunter and Olga ran through the few dry hallways toward the north dock. The axesharks, distracted by their feeding frenzies, hadn’t noticed the pair, but, just before the stairs leading up to the north dock berths, axesharks crashed through the walls between them. They turned around, but more axesharks had moved to block their escape.

A nearby alcove was marked: “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, BREAK GLASS.” Hexhunter smashed it open and claimed the shotgun that was inside. He pumped it and fired at the nearest axeshark. The force of the blast send the axeshark back, but, further angered rather than killed by Hexhunter’s attack, it persisted in working its way toward him.

Surrounded and seeing her rockin’ doom approaching, Olga pulled out a lighter, lit it, and raised it as high as her stubby kithkin arms allowed. Hexhunter slapped her hand, and the lighter fell.

“Snap out of it,” Hexhunter shouted as the axesharks began to close the distance between them, “Quickly, girl. Do you know any folk songs?”

“I used to have to sing that stuff at camp. I mostly listen to classic rock these days. Folk music is so lame.”

“Exactly! Folk music is lame. Really lame. And it’s our only hope. Sing! Sing the lamest folk song you know!”

Olga began to croon an almost unbearably lame folk song. Hexhunter had to resist the urge to cover his ears. Gritting his teeth, Hexhunter joined in. At first, the axesharks seemed unaffected, and Hexhunter considered that when the axesharks got him, the last thing he’d have heard would be this awful music from some backwater Lorwyn clachan. Then, suddenly, the axesharks stopped moving toward them began to flail about. Hexhunter and Olga ran up the stairs, continuing to hum the unrighteous tunes.

They found a large research boat tied at the north dock, and rushed up the gangway. Hexhunter severed the rope with a shotgun blast, while Olga hurried to the PA system. The axesharks had recovered from their initial exposure to folk music, but Olga’s singing over the PA proved to be too much. The axesharks broke off the chase. Hexhunter took the helm and drove the boat away from Gravelgill. As soon as they were at a safe distance, the whole station, which had been rocking and rolling well in excess of capacity, exploded in a huge fireball, taking the axesharks, the Blight Sickle, and the research that had created them down to the sea.

Continued from Part I

Sid untapped to find himself tied to a dolmen. He looked over to see an enormous foot, which he recognized as belonging to Hugo Rhodes, the giant who’d murdered his secretary. As he struggled, he heard a voice, high above him, laughing.

*****

As far as Sid could tell, the only reason Hugo hadn’t yet removed him from the game was that the giant enjoyed watching him struggle. Hugo had protection and, with it, the luxury of slow-rolling the win; there was nothing Sid could do about it. With that realization, Sid relaxed and awaited his fate.

Being a red creature, Sid had never given the removed-from-game zone much thought. He’d always known, in the abstract, that every creature ends up on the Farm sooner or later, but when the world got ugly, he’d have a drink, tap some red, and swing. Even when Ingrid took lethal, Sid didn’t stop to mourn: he went after those responsible, and, after the favor of the mighty foiled his quest for justice, the bottle gave him protection from reality. Now that Sid had the time to consider his situation, he realized that he wasn’t afraid. Faced with his imminent death, the undying rage that had driven him to revenge and then frustration began to seem like service to a fallen ideal, a mistake he was quite ready to correct if only he could find some kind of way out of this. Something within his nature was changing; he felt a new, darker sense of purpose, but, still at Hugo’s mercy, there was little he could do but stare into the distance.

He considered his position. He was tied to a dolmen in the middle of what seemed to be a large swamp. Though the giant’s lands were tapped, Hugo was holding enough cards to burn Sid out as early as next turn, when the mountains would untap. His hands tied, all Sid had were his wits. Far off, Sid could make out a large scarecrow carrying vats of acid for its kithkin masters. Overhead, a large group of faerie tokens was harassing some elementals. The giant’s rumbling laughter was coming to an end, and Sid knew that this turn would be his last unless he could act. Suddenly, Sid realized that he had the means to defeat Hugo right now!

Sid swore at the giant, in the most vulgar language he could muster, instructing the giant to perform a number of anatomically improbable acts on himself. Unable to make out the words, Hugo bent down, sizing Sid up with eyes nearly as tall as the flamekin. Sid repeated his curse, which elicited a gale of laughter that nearly toppled the dolmen, only to stop abruptly as Hugo’s expression shifted from amusement to confusion to anger.

Alarmed, the giant looked up: one of the elementals had died, only to be replaced by another elemental and a body double of the first elemental, who promptly committed suicide after first killing one of the faeries, only to be replaced by another elemental and a body double of the first elemental, who promptly committed suicide after first killing one of the faeries, only to be replaced by another elemental and a body double of the first elemental, who promptly committed suicide after first killing one of the faeries, only to be replaced by another elemental and a body double of the first elemental, who promptly committed suicide after first killing one of the faeries, only to be replaced by another elemental and a body double of the first elemental, who promptly committed suicide after first killing one of the faeries, only to be replaced by another elemental and a body double of the first elemental, who promptly committed suicide after first killing one of the faeries, only to be replaced by another elemental and a body double of the first elemental, who promptly committed suicide after first killing one of the faeries, only to be replaced by another elemental and a body double of the first elemental, who promptly committed suicide after first killing one of the faeries, only to be replaced by another elemental and a body double of the first elemental, who promptly committed suicide after first killing one of the faeries. In short, nothing was happening up there.

Then he looked over to the kithkin and their scarecrow. Howling with rage, he flung the nearest cow at them, but the giant’s ire had no effect: the huge scarecrow, an even more expensive play than Hugo Rhodes himself, had gained protection from all colors. Losing that same protection meant that he’d become vulnerable, allowing Sid’s profane command to reduce him to zero toughness.

“What a sack,” roared the giant, turning back to Sid. “Obviously you would get that! Obviously. Obviously. What was that, your only out? So of course, I leave myself open for one turn, and you have the one card, the one card in the whole format that would turn things around for you. Better lucky than good, I guess. Ugh, oh my God!”

His whining finished, Hugo stood still, in defiance of his looming defeat, for exactly ten minutes. Then he died, and Ingrid returned from the graveyard to play. After her summoning sickness wore off, she freed Sid. Together, they began their long trek back to the city.

*****

The flamekin detective and his kithkin secretary made the trip in silence. By the time they reached Sid’s building, it was already the first main phase, and Philip Barksdale, Sr., the stooped-over old treefolk who served as the building’s doorman, was there to let them in.

“This place has changed,” Ingrid said as they returned to Sid’s office. “You’ve changed.” She glanced around the room, which had suffered in her absence. She looked at Sid with concern. “How long have I been gone?”

Sid lit up a cigar without answering her. Between long drags, Sid related the news since her untimely and unexpectedly temporary death. Ingrid shook her head as he related the ruse in which Larissa de Feuilledor, the elvish femme fatale, and Conrad Finn, the merrow Mafioso, had ensnared him.

“I had been on my way back to this office to warn you. I was looking into some records on the Oakenfold case, trying to identify the boggarts responsible for destroying Mr. Oakenfold’s forest. Apparently, they had a record; they had also been involved in arson, setting fire to some scarecrows. It was a dead end, though: the whole crew had been sacrificed, so there was nobody left to pin it on. But what caught my attention was a missing page, which should have described the sale of a forest to an unknown buyer. That led me to Hugo Rhodes. According to my source, Rhodes acted as an intermediary in the sale of the forest to Conrad Finn. That made me even more curious: why would a merrow be interested in a forest? Clearly, Finn used Rhodes, who was red and green, so as not to arouse suspicion about the land sale.”

“Why did Finn want the forest?”

“It’s not the forest Finn wanted. What’s a merrow going to do with green mana? Cast a Llanowar Elf?” She chuckled at her own joke, but then looked at Sid, who showed no reaction. Abashed, she continued: “It was what was on the forest. An aura. A Twilight Aura, to be precise. I had never heard of it. I checked it out in the Orb of Insight, which seemed to corroborate the rumors about it. Supposedly, it’s a green and white aura that enchants a plains or forest, and, while that forest is tapped, gives creatures +1/+1. The details are a little sketchy: the Twilight Aura seemed to be enchanting a leafy stretch of forest, even though Shadowmoor’s trees are bare, and the text describing the aura seemed like it might have been a forgery. Still, that didn’t seem to dissuade Finn.”

“Why would Finn need an anthem? He’s a merrow. He already has access to three in his colors.”

“Exactly. All merrow have access to three, which means that no particular school of merrow can get bigger than any other. But Finn got ambitious. What if there were a fourth anthem effect, an anthem that only he had access to? His men could get huge, as big as giants. He’d have enough of an advantage in the mirror to bring all the merrow schools under his control. Then, who knows where he’d go from there. Anyway, after I found all this out, I rushed back to tell you. The last thing I remember was a huge shadow hanging over me, and then seeming to fall through solid ground. The next thing I knew, I was with you in the swamp, next to Hugo’s body. It figures that you went straight to Finn’s place. Red creatures,” she sighed, “Where would you be without me?”

“We need to find out what Finn’s up to now. Who was your source about the land sale?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Ingrid, please—”

“It was Tess de Feuilledor.”

“The one-drop? Larissa’s sister?”

“The same. Do you know where to find her?”

*****

The Springleaf Drum was easy to find. Just follow the smell of lotus. Girls come to Shadowmoor from all around Lorwyn, expecting to find fame and fortune in the big city. Most of them end up in casual decks: a lucky one might get to put on an aura or three, but most of them end up chumping fatties, day-in and day-out, until they rotate, only to be replaced by fresh faces from the next set. As for the rest, if they have the looks (and lack the shame), the Springleaf Drum can get them mana of any color they like, whenever they like, as long as they’re willing to tap for it. Recent events had changed him: now a red and black creature, he was wary. The girls at the Drum might look like white creatures, but Sid knew they’d have deathtouch and first strike.

As he went to enter the club, Sid was double-blocked by a pair of merrow bouncers. He glanced at Ingrid, whose eyes glowed: Sid got +1/+1. The merrow were no match for that combat trick, and Sid brushed them aside, drawing a card in the process. It had been a long time since Sid had gotten his last three-for-one. It felt good.

Sid looked over at Ingrid, who was hesitating. She was mono-white; as his secretary and sometime research assistant, she’d been to some rough places, but the Drum inspired a different kind of discomfort. Realizing that he was waiting for her, she blushed and moved on. Together, they entered the club.

TO BE CONTINUED

Forget it, Sid. It’s Shadowmoor.

Sid Burns reclined on his darksteel armchair, tapped a mountain, and lit his cigar against his forehead. Bitter, too bitter; but the way business was going lately, Tattermunges were the best he could afford. The chair wasn’t comfortable either, but he needed something that could survive his temper. He fished out a bottle of Ballynock from his desk drawer and took a swig. It burned. At least something still worked.

The flamekin private detective’s office had seen better days. Back when Ingrid, his kithkin secretary, was still working there, the place had been spotless. She was a good kid. Then she went missing, and Sid next found her at the bottom of a five-toed grave. Sid tracked down the giant responsible, but, favor of the mighty being what it was, he couldn’t deal even 1 damage and would have ended up in the graveyard if he’d tried.

Things weren’t the same after that, and soon his business started to fall off. Now, it was all Sid could do to burn through his cheap boggart-made cigars and work his way to the bottom of his last bottle of Ballynock single malt.

A knock on the door derailed his train of thought. The veil of cigar smoke parted to reveal the tall, lithe figure of an elf. One look at her, and Sid got +2/+0. The color of her deep brown eyes, the sheen of her long hair, the gentle curve of her horns: this one was a knockout, and the -1/-1 from the smoke made her features all the more delicate. Sid knew she was trouble—there were only two kinds of elves, and green creatures don’t wear dresses like that—but he didn’t care.

He said: “Won’t you sit down, Miss?”

“Larissa,” she replied as she sat down. “Larissa de Feuilledor.”

Sid gestured toward the Ballynock still on his desk, but she shook her head. She was trying to look strong, but Sid figured she only had 1 toughness left. She smiled, poured herself a double, and took a long drink. All moonglove, this one.

“What can this eyeblight do for you, Miss de Feuilledor?”

She considered her answer. The building was quiet at this late hour, and Sid could hear the cackles of caterwauling boggarts from somewhere down the street. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood that could expect warren-scourge patrols, and that meant gangs of boggarts coming out nightly to set tarfires and pursue all manner of shenanigans. Just as Sid began to wonder whether she’d heard him, Larissa spoke up, this time in a soft voice that forced him to lean toward her.

“Could you—?” She looked downward, then shot Sid a captivating glance, moving so close that his heat became almost painful. The words spilled out: “It’s about my sister, Tess. She moved here with her new husband, Jack. She’s not like me— They were… Are. Good creatures. Green creatures. I don’t know why, but he started working for a merrow, Conrad Finn. He’d work late, and she’d call me up, crying that this time he wouldn’t make it home. One night, she turned out to be right. The cloudgoat rangers discovered the body in such bad condition that they couldn’t even make out his subtype: if not for his veteran’s armaments at the crime scene, she might never have figured out it was him. Of course, when she saw the pictures (he’d been hit with a volley of shards and then inverted), she couldn’t take it. I warned her what that meant: someone wanted him dead and bad enough to take a one-for-three, but she wouldn’t listen. She went to Finn’s place in the Hotel Juzam. I heard that she’d been pounding on Finn’s door, screaming at him from the hallway, and they had to have security bounce her. Nobody’s seen her in play since then. She’s a one-drop; she’s never been away this long.”

Larissa’s composure started to crack. Sid handed her the handkerchief from his suit’s front pocket, careful not to set it alight. He put his hand on her shoulder as she sobbed gently. If this was an act, Sid thought, she was good enough to play the Ancient Amphitheater.

“Miss de Feuilledor,” he finally asked, “how long ago was this?”

“It’s been six— No, seven turns now. You don’t think she’s been discarded?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions, Miss—“

“Larissa. Please call me Larissa.”

“Miss de Feuilledor,” Sid contined. “She might be hiding out from removal. I’ve heard of Mr. Finn, and he’s the kind of merrow who’s put the scare into 4/4’s, let alone one-drops like your sister. I’ll tell you what, though, I’ll start looking for her this turn.”

“Thank you. And about payment?”

“Three red mana per turn, plus expenses.”

“Of course. I’ll have to stop by the Grotto. You’ll understand if I don’t carry red mana on me.”

She meant the Springleaf Drum, but Sid was too polite to correct her. A broad like her could have any color of mana she wanted, as long as she was willing to tap herself to get it. Hard times had kept Sid away from the Drum, but he knew the kind of girls they had there—long on legs, short on scruples—and he doubted that the Grotto would let Larissa in, even to filter her mana.

She returned the handkerchief to Sid, and strode out of his office. Her scent lingered, which Sid finally recognized as black lotus. Her sister might have been a one-drop, but she wouldn’t come cheap. Her story was almost convincing, but this business about the husband didn’t add up: to have been killed like that, he either had at least four toughness, or someone was taking card disadvantage to send a message. Whatever he’d gotten himself into, it was bad news. Sid drank another Ballynock, then followed Larissa into the night.

*****

Sid knew the way to the Hotel Juzam. He arrived outside just to see a frustrated kithkin shaking his fist upwards. Some faerie had stolen his hat, and were playing a game of Frisbee with it around the fourth story, illuminated by the hotel’s neon sign. He looked about ready to do something, but, apparently having thought the better of it, just shouted a curse and left. The flamekin have an expression: “You may as well try to swat a faerie.” It means “impossible.” Sid didn’t know what a white creature was doing in this part of town, but at least he had the sense to run off before he lost more than just his headgear.

Sid approached the front desk. He heard a distant melody coming from the bar, but he didn’t have much interest in the music when there were no other flamekin around. He’d attracted other attention, though: from the corner of his eye, a squat boggart wearing a spiderwig looked up from his newspaper to stare. Sid got Finn’s room number from the desk, slipping the boy a generic mana. He took the stairs up, and, hearing footsteps, he ducked into an alcove and waited until the boggart passed. Sid noticed an ill-concealed Thornbite Staff under the boggart’s suit. He snuck behind the boggart and tapped him. That boggart wouldn’t be a problem until next turn, but, to be safe, he also shattered the staff.

After a knock on the door, another rough-looking boggart let him in without saying a word. Sid didn’t think much of boggart goons: most of them would sacrifice their own aunties just for +2/+2. Still, he had to be wary of anyone who had enough cards not to worry about his flunkies ending up in the graveyard.

The boggart seemed to be leading him into the bathroom, but just as Sid was about to ask a question, he noticed the huge bathtub full of water, holding the fattest merrow he had ever seen. His chubby fingers were clawing at a changeling steak, which metamorphosed into a different meal with every bite. Sid shuddered, as the food briefly took a form resembling his own face in between shifting from a potato to crème brulee. The boggart poured Sid a glass of wine from the merrow’s bottle; the wine was cheaper than he’d expected, but it steadied his nerves.

“Welcome, Mr. Burns,” the merrow drawled. “I am Conrad Finn. I understand you’ve been looking for me. I sent Miss de Feuilledor over because I knew you’d head right here.” Sid was about to speak up, but Finn put a hand up and continued. “You’ve had some business with a mutual friend,” Finn laughed, “He told me that you’d never come if I asked. So I sent that elf over, and here you are. Did you like her story? Someone makes trouble, who should know better than to make trouble, who was warned not to make trouble. Then the troublemaker disappears.”

Finn stuck his finger into Sid’s glass, making a whirlpool motion in the wine. At the same time, the room around him began to spin.

“You could say I’m an expert in making things disappear. Of course, I wanted to see who could make trouble for our mutual friend, first.”

Sid’s image once again appeared on the changeling steak, before settling on rack of lamb. Finn tore off a piece, chewed, and swallowed.

“I’m not impressed. I don’t think Miss de Feuilledor would really have first-picked you anyway. A good detective would have known better. How do you like the wine? It’s a Pestermite.”

Sid collapsed.

*****

Sid untapped to find himself tied to a dolmen. He looked over to see an enormous foot, which he recognized as belonging to Hugo Rhodes, the giant who’d murdered his secretary. As he struggled, he heard a voice, high above him, laughing.

TO BE CONTINUED