Retribution in Ravnica 3: The Hotstepper

“I’m sorry, I don’t think you realize who I am, honey.”

It was twilight on Foundry Street. The smiths and armorers were all anxious to call it a day. The “iron artisans” as they were known—goblins, ogres, orcs, and burly humans—were notorious for both starting and ending the workday early. Often a weaponsmith could be found at her forge hours before sunrise, the metallic aria of her hammer on steel ringing out across the pre-dawn darkness. By late afternoon, most of Foundry Street had already been at work for twelve or more hours. Dusk meant relief for aching muscles, time to hang up the heavy pliers and mauls, time to douse the red-hot coals. Time for cold beer and spicy sausages.

“I said, we’re closed for the day!” The ogre scowled at the customer who’d appeared at the pick-up window a couple minutes ago. The guy was Rakdos, kinda scrawny, and dressed in a really weird getup that included a leather skullcap that covered one eye and a black half-tunic that exposed the lower portion of the man’s torso. The guy was also wearing studded leather pants that barely covered his ass.

“Ehm, that doesn’t really work for me, sweetie,” the customer said. The ogre growled and smashed a fist into the wall. The guy blinked, but that was all. “I have an order to pick up, and I need it now,” he said, pointing a pale finger at a gigantic box up in the storage loft.

“Ya shoulda come earlier!” the ogre roared, turning to the pick-up window balefully.

“I do get that a lot,” the Rakdos said, with a deep sigh. “But it’s better than the alternative, right?”

The ogre scratched his head. “Alternative?” he said. The guy smiled at him, which made the ogre really, really uncomfortable. The ogre knew he was supposed to be angry. He had told Borg and Skruz he’d be at Dumple’s by four. They were probably eating all the haggis at this very moment. Rage started to burble up in the ogre’s brain again.

“I bet you like centaurs—buck-naked, big ole chestnut-bootied centaur ladies. Right?” The leather-clad shrimp was grinning even more. The ogre cast him a suspicious look.

“Sure,” he said reluctantly, glancing around to see if anyone else was listening. Foundry Street had emptied out. “Sure,” the ogre said, more assertively. “They got a lot of endurance. Most women can’t take a real ogre, if ya know what I mean.”

“I certainly do!” said the Rakdos. “So, if you like centaurs, then you’ve certainly heard of The Braided Tail…?”

The ogre scratched his ear self-consciously. “Outta my price range,” he mumbled. The Rakdos nodded as if expecting that, and with a flourish produced a gleaming black card in his right hand. He dangled it between two fingers at the ogre.

“What’s that?” The ogre grabbed at the card as he asked the question. The mysterious man smiled and withdrew the card from reach, holding it just far enough away that the ogre couldn’t get it without going through him.

“Hot-to-Trot VIP pass to The Braided Tail. Get my order without any more whining, and it’s yours.”

The ogre’s mouth opened soundlessly. He’d heard talk of Braided Tail’s VIP experience—one of his fellow Foundry Street denizens had won a one-night sampler package in an Izzet raffle. Most of the smithys were still repeating stories of Voobor’s exploits from that one night. Voobor still walked with a limp.

“Deal,” the ogre said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “Who are you?” he asked the stranger. A VIP pass to The Braided Tail was rumored to cost more than two years’ salary.

“Darling, I’m Lucent Dao.” The Rakdos winked and flipped the black card through the air into the ogre’s eager grasp.

“You—?” The ogre stared.

“What, were you expecting some muscle-bound brute like Rakdos? Come on, peach. My order. Now.”

The ogre nodded dumbly and tucked the card safely within his tunic. He scurried over to the ladder to the loft and rushed to get the acting Guildmaster of the Rakdos Cult exactly what he wanted. Sweating, balancing the huge crate atop his shoulders as he descended the ladder, the ogre couldn’t believe he’d nearly threatened to punch the current master of the Rakdos. With a grunt, the ogre set the crate on the ground and bowed to Dao.

“Let me carry it for you,” the ogre said. “Where you headed?”

“If you insist, sweetie. Just follow my narrow ass into the Orzhov ‘hood. And don’t drop it, or I’ll have to take back the VIP card and strangle you with your own viscera instead.”

The ogre nodded and raised the crate onto his broad shoulders. “Next time you come to Foundry, Guildmaster, come to me. From now on you’ve got free work at Jov’s. Any job, anytime.”

“Thanks, honey,” Lucent said, giving the ogre an affectionate pat on the rump. Jov jumped, but said nothing. He hoped the Guildmaster would become a loyal customer, ushering in a lot more business from the Rakdos elite. And the VIP pass…! Jov could barely keep his mind on following Dao through the streets. Voobor had described, in detail, the gloriously shiny coats and godly musculature of the ladies of The Braided Tail...

Lucent Dao smiled to himself, thoroughly enjoying his power—as well as his anonymity—as he made his way through the growing dark toward Pivlic’s Grill. It was a very important business meeting.

_______

“But, but… I hate the smell of dragon ass,” Doc whined. Tezzeret maintained a stoic expression but briefly entertained the thought of drilling his own temple with a pithing needle to shut the voice in his head the hell up.

The narrow shadow that cut across the outside of the Aerie was Tezzeret’s--the planeswalking artificer a neat study in lean muscle mass, practical metal augmentations and can’t-pinch-an-inch-to-save-my-life physiques.

The voice in the artificer’s head was courtesy one Elder Dragon whose name began with Dick and ended in Hole. Tezzeret and Bolas had an ongoing rivalry that was entering its second or third decade, with the dragon having the upper hand for the last five turns or so.

But, one day… Tezzeret looked at the sunset-soaked skyline of Ravnica and knew it was inevitable. He would dominate the dragon eventually, once and for all. His favorite cocktail was the Last Word, and it wasn’t an accident.

The artificer’s pale blue eyes, nearly gray, flashed as he began to climb the side of the Aerie like any other manual-labor lackey. Doc’s voice grated on his consciousness every step of the way. “Tezz, do you think Setessan women or Meletian women are hotter? I kind of like the idea that the Setessans could beat our ass, but… Oh yeah, Tezz? Did you think that Ulamog’s gut looked a little paunchier than last time? I think he’s gained at least a couple tons of weight… Hey, did you remember to send those scouts down to Urborg to check on--”

“Shut up, Doc,” Tezzeret ordered. The extra parasite of a consciousness that burdened the artificer was merely an elaborate tracking device conceived by the Elder Dragon. Should Tezzeret try to go rogue or do anything outside of the interests of Nicol Bolas, Doc administered a hefty shock. During all other times, Tezzeret merely had to live with the relentless and inane chatter of the witless symbiote.

Tezzeret’s long, dreaded hair was flecked with metal shards and moved subtly in the breeze as he ascended the Aerie tower. Once a street urchin in the ghetto of Esper on the plane of Alara, Tezzeret was used to hard times. At this point in his life there was nothing he hadn’t seen or done, and nothing he found daunting. The blood-orange hues of the setting sun touched his skin with gold and his etherium arm with sanguine shades.

Up, up, up…

Babysitting dragon ass. Yes, one day… Bolas will pay up. Tezzeret envisioned roasting pieces of the Elder Dragon over a red-hot blaze of coal somewhere out in the Eventide wilderness. Maybe he’d feed it to the giants and the bogles.

“Do you think dragon tastes more like beef or pork?” Doc mused, privy to Tezzeret’s thoughts.

“I think it tastes like fucking chicken,” the artificer said.

_______

Pivlic hovered anxiously around the back patio of his restaurant and bar. The entire section had been closed and reserved for this evening’s meeting, and now Dao was late. Pivlic dabbed his brow with a finely embroidered Orzhov handkerchief and hazarded a glance at his other guest. That was a mistake. She was staring at him icily, with those creepy pale green eyes, and Pivlic realized her glass was dry… again.

“Going to drink this imp right out of business,” he grumbled to himself, while giving the young woman a gracious smile and motioning a waiter to refill her. A young gargoyle wafted over and poured the woman a generous shot of liquor from a bottle that was obviously extremely old. Pivlic could barely keep from wincing as he noticed the bottle was already a third empty—it was from his personal collection and extremely rare. Thirty-year-old whisky from a small-run distillery located on the site of Zomaj Hauc’s former dragon egg debacle. The liquor supposedly contained traces of dragon essence and had been aged in runed barrels rumored to be from another plane. Pivlic had definitely noticed strange properties in the whisky, notably that he craved cigars when drinking it and also that the woodsy notes were distinctly alpine. A bottle, if you could still find one, would set you back about fifty thousand zinos.

The young woman slurped down half of the glass, and Pivlic had to turn away.

Where was Dao? The youthful Rakdos Guildmaster was usually very timely. Pivlic sighed—what a time to be tardy. The restaurant was bustling, as usual, and a number of matters required the imp’s attention. But worst of all, Dao and Pivlic had a lot riding on this young woman’s investment in their latest venture, and she was getting more impatient by the second. Pivlic dabbed his face with the hankie again. His guest was now tapping her foot and actively glaring at him.

“He should be here any minute,” Pivlic said to her. “He’s really a very nice young man, well-mannered and usually very prompt—”

“I have other places to be, imp,” the woman said. “He’s got thirty seconds. And I’ll take more of this.” She tapped her glass.

Pivlic ground his teeth and nodded to the waiter. Where in Orzhova’s name was Dao? Pivlic’s dear friend and boss Lord Teysa Karlov, Grand Envoy of the Orzhov Syndicate, had assured him this young woman was a fine individual and worth getting in on this deal. Pivlic, holding his mistress Teysa in the highest regard, was resolved to treat their mutual acquaintance with the utmost respect… but so far, he didn’t much like her. At all.

“Darlings! I’m so, so, so so so so sorry I’m late.” A silky tenor voice cut through the noise of the restaurant and Pivlic moved his mouth in a silent prayer of thanks. The imp turned in midair to see his friend bustle into the patio, followed by a hulking ogre carrying a giant crate. Pivlic motioned Lucent to hurry over, communicating with a tweaked eyebrow that their potential investor was not happy at the moment. Pivlic pulled out a chair for the Rakdos Guildmaster and Lucent rushed over to glide gracefully into it, throwing a wide, charming smile at the young woman. She raised both eyebrows.

“We’re sorry you’re late, too.” The woman’s huge hat nearly knocked Pivlic from the air as she turned, looking around for something. “Just give me the bottle,” she yelled at the waiter when she spied the young gargoyle cowering over by the service station, pretending to fold napkins. The gargoyle complied after throwing a desperate glance at Pivlic, who floated down to seat himself at the head of the table. The woman dumped more of the Schism Reserve whisky into her glass, and Pivlic quaffed his own glass of white wine to cope.

“I’ve brought a gift!” Lucent said, wisely skipping introductions and cutting to the chase. Pivlic nodded supportively, glad that the young Guildmaster’s instincts were once again proving spot-on. The Orzhov woman’s face remained skeptical, but her irritation seemed to soften just a bit.

“Let’s see it, Dao,” Pivlic chimed in. “The lady has been kept waiting, through our shortcomings, far too long already.” Lucent bowed his head contritely and beckoned the ogre forward, instructing him to open the crate. Pivlic glanced out of the corner of his eye at the young woman, and was relieved to see she looked fairly assuaged for the moment.

The side of the crate popped open, pried free by the ogre’s strong hands and an awl he carried on his belt.

“Am I supposed to know what that is?” the young woman said,squinting her jade-green eyes.

“Yes… what is it?” Pivlic flapped over and peered into the crate for a closer look. “You didn’t tell me about this, Dao.”

"I wanted it to be a surprise! For both of you.” Lucent stood up and waved Pivlic away from the create. “Let me explain, you silly imp. With your permission, my lady,” he added, with an expert bow. The young woman inclined her head a fraction of an inch, her expression amused. Pivlic swallowed with anxiety, prayed that Lucent knew what he was doing, and flapped back to his seat.

Dao launched into his pitch with full stage energy. “May I present… the next level in agricultural technology. Conceived in the depths of Rix Maadi, vetted by top Izzet think-tanks, tested rigorously in numerous Golgari fields—on an extensive variety of crops, I might add—this machine is ready to take food production of all kinds into a new era.” Lucent paused for drama, then flung a handful of black sand at the crate. The top and remaining sides evaporated with an impressive, sparkly poof. “May I present… the key to maximizing Ravnica’s existing food sources, the key to efficiently unlocking access to new agricultural opportunities… durability and flexibility incarnate, the Lyzolda X-69000 Harvester!”

A many-edged and many-orificed artifact shone smugly in the mauve light thrown from the patio lanterns.

“We affectionately call it the Deep Throat for short.” Lucent beamed at the contraption.

Pivlic winced and slapped a palm to his forehead. With racing heart, he peered with one eye through his short and clawed fingers at the young lady to gauge her reaction. She had one hand over her mouth and a frosty look in her eyes.

Then she laughed. She threw back her head and laughed until she snorted, then reached for her glass and downed more whisky. Pivlic looked askance at Lucent, who raised his hands at Pivlic placatingly. Be patient, I know what I’m doing the Guildmaster’s expression seemed to say. Lucent maintained a confident, but humble, smile as the young lady grew quiet once again. Then she looked up sharply at both of them.

“I happen to have an artificer in my employ who can make a better piece of snapjaw skrat than this in his sleep. Why in the Obzedat’s ass should I cut you two in on this deal—because let’s be honest, that’s what’s happening… you need my cash more than I need your… whatever it is you’re bringing to the table—why shouldn’t I just buy the land myself, develop it, and use my own machinery to reap the fruits of my own labor?”

Pivlic was speechless with dismay. He looked to Lucent. The young Rakdos was glowering, his calm veneer finally cracking with the stress of the situation. Pivlic opened his mouth to interject, hopefully save the negotiations—but Lucent beat him to it.

“Because our machine is called the LYZOLDA X-69000 DEEP THROAT, you hideous, frigid bitch!” the Rakdos guildmaster said, putting his hands on his hips and raising his chin defiantly.

Pivlic sank face-first onto the table. His hand twitched, reflexly grasping for his glass of wine. Deal’s off. She’s going to badmouth Pivlic’s Grill to all her rich friends. We’ve no hope of acquiring that Utvara parcel… I’ll be a working stiff till the end of my impish days.

“Good answer,” the young woman said. “Did you name it after your great-aunt?” Pivlic looked up. The Orzhov debutante was grinning at Lucent—and he was nodding at her, dumbfounded—as she refilled her glass with the last of Pivlic’s precious dragon-whisky. The imp thought he must be hallucinating. Then the woman turned her vulpine smile towards him, and he knew it was for real. “I’m known for my sick sense of humor in other circles,” she said to Pivlic.

“This is how it goes down,” she continued, motioning for Lucent to take a seat. He did, with a petulant but not displeased expression on his face. “I’m going to buy the Utvara land from our mutual friend, the lovely Ms. Karlov. You two will manage it for me. I don’t care how you divide the labor, just get it done. I’ll give you each ten percent ownership in the business in exchange for your sweat equity. If you want to buy more shares you can put up the cash like any other silent investor. I’m going to entrust you both with agricultural tech I’ve brought with me from… elsewhere. We’re not planting rice on this land. We’re planting grapes. I’ll pay you for the use of your machinery. If your Deep Throat fails, at any time, in any capacity, I have the right to sue for damages and will cut you out of the deal immediately. If you two violate my trust and privacy or give me any trouble whatsoever I reserve the right to kill either, or both, of you.”

Lucent and Pivlic stared at the young woman.

“We good?” she said.

The imp and the Guildmaster nodded.

“Good,” the woman said. “I’m going to buy out all other wine producers on Ravnica. A very old friend has taught me that monopolies are never a bad thing for the monopolizers. You boys ready to make a lot of money, indefinitely? I am.”

The Orzhov debutante stood up, drained her glass, and vanished in a flicker of shadow.

“What did you say her name was?” Lucent Dao whispered to Pivlic.

“Treakoff,” Pivlic said weakly. “Opal Treakoff.”

“Bitch… I like her!” Lucent sighed, then turned to the ogre. “Thanks. You can carry this back to Rix Maadi for me. This charm will keep you out of harm’s way.” The Guildmaster stretched two slender fingers towards Jov and pressed them into his neck. The ogre growled with pain as a glowing brand appeared in his skin. He nodded to Dao, lifted the Deep Throat, and departed out the patio gate.

“Lord Teysa certainly keeps some odd friends.” Pivlic murmured. “You hungry, Dao?”

“Famished! Please say you have that screecher pate on the menu tonight.”

“It’s not on the menu, but I’m pretty sure we have some in the back. I think I’m in the mood to trouble the kitchen for it. Shall we?”

“Oh yes, let’s, honey.”

The night darkened, the lanterns brightened, and the live music at Pivlic’s Grill started up as imp and Guildmaster happily dunked rye crackers into rich, smoothly whipped bat livers.
_________________

...to be continued in Chapter 4: Take Me Out

Retribution in Ravnica

an original Magic: The Gathering fan fiction

#RIRfic

Chapter 2: Night in My Veins

Chapter 1: All My Life

Prologue

Retribution in Ravnica 2: Night in My Veins

Venser. Wake up.

The words echoed around the vastness of the plain. A low, swirling mist hung over the fields. Venser reached down and plucked a strand of grain, held it in his palm, up to the light of a dimming sun. The stalk was gray and diseased. He rolled the plant between his thumb and forefinger. Gray mold chalked off onto his skin and the plant disintegrated and blew away in a chill gust that came from behind him.

Venser.

A glint of silver caught his eye. Again, he reached down into the field of grain and this time, his hand retrieved a talisman. Its pure surface reflected what little light there was and it hovered above his palm unscratched, undimmed. He looked up. Who was calling his name? A figure stood on the horizon, framed by a sky ripe with darkening clouds. The figure was hooded and cloaked in white, she held a staff high. It was tipped in blood.

Suddenly Venser’s head exploded with frigid pain. The fields were flooded. Clutching his dripping face, Venser shook his head, trying to clear his vision, trying to wade towards the white warrior. A roaring wave crashed over him. He looked up through the dark tide, and saw through stinging eyes a storm that turned everything black...

Venser squinted upwards into damnable consciousness. The light was so bright it felt like someone was stabbing away the remainder of his intelligence. 

“Finally! I th—”

Venser groaned and threw up his hands to block the… the sky? what happened to the ceiling? What in the Tangle was going on? A figure loomed down over him, partially blocking the light. Startled, Venser reached up and grabbed the shadow’s arm. Assassin? Demon? Zombie?

“Ugh, let go.” Strong fingers curled around his wrist, and Venser felt something akin to a snakebite sting his arm. He yelped and let go in a hurry, and in his slumber-blurred sight he saw a hideous sight materialize: that hat-crown-veil thing Liliana had been wearing lately.

Venser sighed and collapsed back down in bed, closing his eyes to block out the aesthetic affront to his senses.

“Sleepyhead, I brought you a present! Are you ill?” Liliana had leaned closer to inspect him. Venser could smell her perfume. And the liquor on her breath.

“Can’t you take that damn thing off,” he mumbled, rolling over.

“What thing?”

“The Horzo… Orohff… guild headdress thing or whatever you said it was.” Venser yawned and tried to put himself back to sleep, hopefully to dream about something other than the black and white monstrosity that was intruding on his personal right to sleep until he felt like waking up.

“You don’t like it?” Liliana said, and even in his daze Venser heard the edge in her voice that meant trouble. He sighed and rolled over.

“It’s just… really big. It’s not my style.”

“Because, you know, I put it on to please your comatose ass—not, of course, to provide a believable disguise and keep both our identities safe!”

“Lil, I said—”

“I told you not to call me that. Ever.”

“I’m barely awake. What—”

“Move, or you’re going to be crushed by your new bed.” Liliana’s footsteps retreated, and Venser sat up quickly and rubbed his eyes, blinking. He looked up. He hadn’t been mistaken earlier. The roof of their apartment was gone.

“Bring ‘er in, brother!” a harsh, authoritative voice crashed into the airspace above the studio. A crane swung into view, also harsh against the wispy hints of Agyrem and creamy clouds of a Ravnica dawn. On the end of the crane’s chain swung something big. Something big, black, and heavy from the way the crane was squealing in protest. It stopped directly above Venser and started lowering. Rapidly.

Venser, perhaps the most brilliant artificer in the multiverse, leapt from his bed in his underwear. The crane creaked and shuddered. A cathedral bell started going off and a murder of crows flew over the flat, adding their caws of indignation to the ludicrous scene. He shivered in the early morning air and tugged up his shorts when he realized they were nearly falling off. He scratched his bare chest absently, remembering vaguely he’d had some kind of nightmare… and had thrown off his shirt at some point during the night. He ran his hand through his hair and cocked an eyebrow. What a spectacle… his gaze settled on Liliana. She was smirking at him from across the room, giving him the once-over.

Venser crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look disinterested by running his finger along the window frame and studiously examining the manner in which it was attached to the wall. Not only did he dislike her scrutinizing him like he was one of her necro-lab-rats, he hated looking at that fake face. Just the thought of “Opal” and the narrow, ghastly features and bleached hair gave him a migraine.

“You look… good,” Liliana said lamely. It was a lie, of course. Venser knew he’d lost weight, to the point that his normally lean frame was getting bony around the ribs and hips. There was food all over the apartment—good food—but he just never had an appetite these days. He was tired, and he wanted to sleep. Venser felt her still looking at him and swiveled his head to return her gaze coolly.

“You going to move that?” he said, nodding to the old bed. The new one was just crossing the tops of the walls down into the room. Liliana shrugged. Venser gave the bed a look. It vanished. Several blocks away, in a poorer neighborhood, a family of turnip-merchants looked agape at the fine wrought-iron bed and firm mattress that appeared in their hut. In seconds there was a passel of half-goblin kids jumping on the new furniture.

“Not even going to ask where that went,” Liliana said, sashaying delicately toward the liquor cabinet. The monolithic new bed was inches from the floor. Venser winced, bracing himself for a damaging thud, but the crane miraculously set the piece down with such gentle accuracy there was barely a sound.

“Nice,” Venser admitted, impressed. The bed was positioned exactly where the old one had been, directly across the room from Liliana’s canopied extravaganza that nearly touched the ceiling. She never slept in it. Over the last two weeks Venser had awakened many times in the middle of the night to find Liliana had come home at some point and crashed on the couch.

“You should know by now I only hire the best.” Liliana had found whatever it was she was looking for and kept herself occupied for a few moments with unceremoniously dumping expensive-looking amber liquid into a tin beer mug. Satisfied when the bottle was half empty and her mug was full, she re-corked the bottle and shoved it in the cabinet with a crash.

A goblin wearing pink overalls and diamond-studded goggles slid down the chain of the crane with ease. In less than a minute she had undone the elaborate harness from the bed. She tugged on the chain twice to indicate it was free, then hopped up on the hook as the chain ascended its way out of the room, flowing smoothly backwards over the crane’s pulley. The goblin gave Liliana a salute on her way up, which Liliana acknowledged with a blown kiss. Venser watched as Liliana took a five-second swig from the tin mug. Then, terrifyingly, she turned to him with a sugary smile.

“I have another surprise!” she said. Venser raised both his eyebrows. He had a smart remark ready to fly from his lips… when he noticed the dress she was wearing wasn’t the one she’d gone out in last night. He distinctly remembered her leaving in something white. This one was black. Venser was, admittedly, no expert on female clothing (of any species), and generally had no opinion on attire (unless it was something mechanically unsound, like that foul Offrov hat), but he was sure that was not the same dress and it bothered him.

He forcibly twisted his face into an expression slightly less than dire, but “Oh yeah?” was all the verbal enthusiasm he could manage in response to the threat of a “surprise.” Liliana was nodding, her eyes sparkling violet with mischief and her mouth curved like a cat that had just swallowed all the rats. For a moment she held her breath, shoulders bunched up like a schoolgirl keeping a secret. Venser felt a real smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Liliana extended her arms in glee. “This building is ours. The entire thing. I bought it!” she exclaimed, spinning around and miraculously not spilling any of the contents of her mug.

Venser’s near-smile was wiped off his face by genuine shock. “You bought... the building? But I thought we moved into this studio because it was all you could afford.” He frowned. Seeing his look of consternation, Liliana stopped mid-twirl and threw up her hands. This time a plump slosh of whiskey or whatever it was escaped and splattered on the floor. At least she’s human Venser thought with satisfaction. Well, technically. Aside from the demons and the killing and the being older than my grandmother stuff.

Liliana ignored the spill, jamming the tin mug menacingly at her offending roommate.

“Ox balls, can’t you ever just be excited—maybe slightly less than mummified? If I were you I’d depress myself to death.” The awful hat made Liliana’s glower extremely amusing. Venser kept his face carefully stoic and suspicious.

Liliana swore with exasperation. “Look—I had some luck last night. Came on—came upon—ran into something unexpected. This is what I could afford when we got here. Now I can afford the building. What about you? What can you afford, Venser? O great-and-mighty master artificer? Care to chip in for groceries this week? Or even better, booze.” Liliana put the mug to her mouth.

The room was silent a moment except for the metallic rasping of the crane above and the rattling and shouting of vendors setting up down on the street.  Venser let the sting of her words pass before he replied, keeping his tone as measured as if he were weighing grams of precious ore.

“I’m not from here. You knew I had nothing when you brought me.” He watched as Liliana put her hand to her head. She set the empty mug on the cabinet. “You’ve been drinking all night,” he added. The necromancer bit her lip.

“You didn’t have to come. I gave you the choice,” Liliana said, staring at the bottles. Venser rolled his eyes. And if I had chosen differently, I wonder what then Venser thought, figuring he’d never ask her. He didn’t want to know the answer.

He changed the subject by walking over to the new bed.

It was twice the size of the old one, with a solid rectangular base that would easily accommodate his height. It was satiny black, and looked to be carved from one huge piece of ebony. It was obviously expensive. “Thanks,” he felt compelled to say as he touched the beautiful headboard.  It was smooth and unadorned, curved in a crescent.

“I didn’t get any linens yet,” Liliana said. “They have to be custom made since it’s an irregular size.” The sun was starting to peek through the clouds, touching everything with gold. Liliana finally took off the hat. She threw it on her bed unceremoniously, before coming over to stand at the foot of his. Looking up into Venser’s wincing expression at her Opal Treakoff face, Liliana dropped the glamour.

“Better?” she asked, as her amethyst-colored eyes and dark tresses phased back into being.

“Thanks,” Venser said again, not sure what to do. He rubbed his unshaven chin.

Liliana absently reached out to stroke the footboard. “I figured we could build a kitchen on the first floor, put in a wine cellar.” Venser rolled his eyes again. Liliana caught him this time and giggled. “Don’t worry, nothing of Jor’s Mirrodin vintage.” She winked at him.

“Isn’t this going to attract a lot of attention?” Venser asked. “I was under the impression you had a lot of secret low-profile things to—”

Liliana sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Look. It would be abnormal for an Orzhov, no matter how modest the caste of her family name, to not be obsessed with improving her holdings.” She leaned forward on the footboard, as if exhausted, and for some reason Venser felt intensely guilty. “This plane is constantly under construction. And I thought it might be good to have a workshop for you, and a library. I don’t know how long my business here is going to take.”

At “workshop” everything else fled from Venser’s mind. He suddenly remembered things he’d jotted down in his temporary journal, things he wanted to try, questions he wanted to investigate with regards to this plane. He grinned down at Liliana. She turned and walked back to the liquor cabinet.

This time she chose a bottle of port. Venser recognized that one, because he’d snuck some himself the previous night. The necromancer exactingly poured a conservative amount into a delicate, thin-stemmed coup. Rubbing goosebumps on his bare arm, Venser was suddenly struck with an idea. He’d felt so cramped and claustrophobic lately, and his worst habits were always on display sharing a space...

“Does this mean I can have my own room?” he asked.

Liliana’s hand paused over the glass of port. Then she grabbed the bottle and the glass and walked over to stand in front of him, smiling up sweetly. She handed the coup to him.

“Of course you can have your own room,” she purred, raising her hand in a toast.

Venser was relieved, and excited. He’d have space to stretch out, and wouldn’t be cramping Lil’s style anymore. She could have some privacy, if she wanted, and wouldn’t have to deal with his many idiosyncrasies.

Venser took a sip from the fine glass, let the smooth libation roll around on his tongue. It was delicious, laden with berry flavors and spicy caramel. Maybe this plane won’t be so bad. Urza’s ass, it could hardly get any worse than Mirrodin, after all… Venser closed his eyes to savor the moment, and the port.

He didn’t see Liliana take her own toast straight from the bottle.

______________________

Nicol Bolas was in a rage.

A puff of steam slightly larger usual emanated from his left nostril. He squinted his great emerald-colored eyes and sank a bit lower into the Pools of Becoming.

Vess’s intelligence from her “reconnaissance” with Crosis was enlightening. How fortunate we are that the necromancer is so afflicted with these human impulses. The Elder Dragon had been following rumors of The Circle of the Artificial Spark (TCAS, as it was being called) for months, and yet it was Vess, with her endearing horniness, who had uncovered concrete evidence during a fortuitous tryst.

Crosis would. Bolas mused in wonder at the willingness of some beings to throw everything out the door to satisfy their physical desire. Bolas wasn’t too surprised—Crosis had always been a loose canon. And, in fact, he was grateful to the primeval dragon’s proclivities. If he hadn’t been so anxious to bed Vess while in demon form, the Artificial Spark would still be just gossip.

Bolas’s rage stemmed from the fact that, knowing TCAS was real, he could guess who was the mastermind behind the brotherhood. And he knew what her motivation was, and what she would do or had already done after accessing its power. Nicol Bolas was in a rage because this was quickly becoming a personal problem.

One of our great successes has been avoiding such. A puff of steam rose from the right nostril.

The first order of business was to find out where she was hiding. He would set one of his other agents on that task—Tezzie, perhaps—Vess already had her hands full (literally) with work. The other thing that must be done was to see that Sparky had not been contacted (and therefore corrupted) by her yet. Bolas would increase security in the area, and instruct Vess to relay any rumors of strange happenings to him with utmost immediacy.

His rage somewhat diminished, Bolas tried to relax. The battalion of Kird apes he’d eaten for lunch was giving him indigestion, unfortunately. The Elder Dragon closed his eyes completely, sinking deeper and deeper into the pools until he was completely submerged.

A few minutes later a huge bubble the size of a mastodon burst through the still, pristine reflections on the surface of the Pools of Becoming. A bomb of dragon gas reverberated through the atmosphere.

Luckily, nothing lived at the pools except for Bolas. The most dominant planeswalker in the multiverse—the great dragon whose influence and machinations spanned planes, centuries, and threads of existence—dozed beneath the water, his stomach feeling much better.

_________________

Mirko Vosk hated going up to Agyrem. The journey didn’t seem to bother his boss Lazav, the Guildmaster of House Dimir, but even though Mirko could fly and had never felt queasy of heights before, something about the ghost quarter made him feel ill.

“Hurry up, Vosk!” Lazav had turned back to glare his vampire bodyguard. Mirko thought he saw the flicker of a slimy forked tongue dart out of Lazav’s deep hood. That was the tongue—or whatever—that Lazav had used to eat Kavin’s brain and take over his identity. Mirko swallowed, feeling sicker, but quickly stepped through the secret door in the wall of New Prahv and into the spectral flue that mysteriously connected Agyrem to Ravnica. Down below, Mirko could see the queue of permit-toting travelers headed to the ghost quarter waiting patiently in line for the Boros officer in charge to check their paperwork.

Mirko and Lazav, of course, were traveling strictly off-record. House Dimir never did anything by the book.

A rush of cold air engulfed the vampire and his shapeshifter master. Mirko felt as if he was turning slowly, weightlessly, in a colorless void… and when the movement stopped, he was standing right-side up in the courtyard of Agyrem’s New Prahv—which everyone had started calling Ghoul Prahv.

Being a vampire, Mirko usually felt detached, cool, and invulnerable amongst humans. But here, amongst ghosts, Mirko felt hot-blooded, sweaty, and boorishly slow and soft. And fat.

Lazav motioned at a shadow behind a pillar and the shadow moved to meet them. It was the contact from Szadek. The specter looked like a “she” though Mirko never took anything for granted these days, especially up in Agyrem. The specter circled them in her long dress of shadow, hissed something unintelligible, traced a rune in the air, and they were whisked into the audience hall of the true master of the Dimir.

“My Lord,” Lazav said immediately, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. Being of lower rank, Mirko was on two knees and had his head pressed to the floor.

“Up, dogs,” a voice thick with chill and disdain rippled from the dais in the center of the room. Lazav rose, Mirko doing the same only after the shapeshifter was completely standing.

On a throne of bones and writhing geists sat Szadek—well, the essence of Szadek—the Lord of Secrets and real power behind House Dimir. The ghastly throne wavered and shuddered with the souls trapped and bound to the bones that constructed it, and Mirko caught himself wondering how Szadek could sit on such a wriggly chair and be comfortable.

Quickly Mirko pushed the thought from his mind, as he tried not to think of anything when in Szadek’s presence. The parun had a reputation well-earned as a “psychic vampire” that used minds like his personal playgrounds. Mirko glanced at Szadek as the parun mind-melded with Lazav, imparting some information Mirko was not allowed to hear. Szadek’s “eyes” were black holes, his face and body shifting vapors of fog. Mirko always felt like something moved within Szadek’s eyes, like tentacles in a sea of ink. It was the creepiest thing Mirko, a vampire, had seen in his lifetime, and so he tried to avoid looking at Szadek, too.

The problem was that there was nothing in Szadek’s hall of audience that was less than disturbing to rest one’s eyes upon. Fanned out around and behind the writhing throne were the ghosts of angels, each stripped to the waist and bound to the floor by a chain around the midsection. The angels flapped their spectral wings listlessly, trying, by instinct, to flee the hall. The geist-chains, varying in length from about ten feet to forty, kept the ghastly host bound to Szadek’s throne like so many animated, but lifeless, hood ornaments.

Mirko had no love lost on angels, but something about the conceit seemed wrong—as if it were against nature, and gratuitous. The angels’ vacuous stares searched the heavens hopelessly, their vacant faces anchored by slack jaws and open mouths that never changed expression. Mirko had fought a good number of angels in his lifetime, and he purposefully looked on the bound host only as a group—quickly and uncarefully—for fear he’d recognize a former foe amongst their pitiful midst.

And why a man made of fog and tar-pit eyes would need to keep the imprisoned angels half-naked was beyond Mirko’s simple, linear thinking. Certainly if a vampire lord had a harem from which he (or she) regularly chose partners and victims, having the group in a state of undress made sense, from an efficiency standpoint. As far as Mirko knew, Szadek couldn’t do anything but occupy brains, so the angels’ bared breasts served no practical purpose. On top of that, Mirko had heard an intriguing rumor from a very reliable source that Szadek had, in fact, never bedded anyone even while alive, and was only interested in the most obscure, arcane, ancient types of self—

“Vosk!” Lazav’s whip-like reprimand raked across Mirko’s consciousness. The sensation was like barbed wire being wrapped around, and then ripped from, one’s tongue.

“Y-yes, master,” Mirko said, falling to a knee and bowing, trying to collect himself.

“Go pick up the parun’s gift.” Lazav kicked Mirko in the shoulder, urging him toward the throne. Mirko blanched.

“Of course, master.” Standing, Mirko headed across the hall of audience. He kept his gaze studiously fixed on the base of the throne so he wouldn’t see any writhing eyes nor any debased angels. A softly glowing object sat on the floor right in front of Szadek.

As Mirko bent to pick up the artifact, he felt the caress of Szadek’s attention along the back of his neck. The sensation ran up over his head and down his face, dancing around his throat. Mirko swallowed nervously. He kept his mind humble and clutched the object to his chest, marching like a good soldier back to his shapeshifting master. Lazav was glaring at him and Mirko figured he was probably in for a beating later.

As Lazav and Mirko exited the hall of audience at Agyrem’s Dinrova, the entrance rippled and reformed into shadow, as if it had never been. The same specter greeted them and began to perform the transportation rite.

Mirko thought of something as the shade whisked them away.

I’m topless, too. Just like those angels. I should ask Lazav what that’s all about—

But then they were in the cold vortex of the Ravnica-Agyrem flue, and Mirko became distracted. When his feet touched down in New Prahv, Mirko knew he’d had an interesting idea, but couldn’t recall it.

Well, I’ve never been a thinking vamp he consoled himself, as he followed Lazav through secret routes, back toward the guildgate of House Dimir.

____________________

...to be continued next week in Chapter 3: The Hotstepper

Retribution in Ravnica
an original Magic: the Gathering fan fiction
#RIRfic

Prologue

Chapter 1: All My Life