Scene #3285: The Crimson Cult

Owner	Pose
Steve	For once, it isn't night fall in the Flat Earth, by the time scheduled guests and varied co-conspirators arrive. It is hard to gather reconnaissance against something you can barely see, and at least, at first, that is what Steve is doing. Set into the rolling hills and plains far distant of his territory, as the curiously precise coordinates would have been related in relation to the warp gate, the hiding place he had established would not be immediately obvious. Had he perhaps gotten the integers mixed up, or swapped a sign somewhere? At least the terrain makes for relatively easy walking, or whatever mode of transportation one might prefer. An artifact, conspicuous in the rest of the natural if cubist scenery, would soon dispel such notions: A curious, thaumaturgical device, appearing to be a runed post with several gold-rimmed 'megaphones' ringed around it, is set into the otherwise pristine grass. At any obvious approach or foot traffic, it emits a faint hum of its own, in resonance. Hopefully before anyone can mistake it for the arming device of a trap, a cubic meter of the nearby hillside slides inward and retracts, with a series of pneumatic hisses. Peering out is none other than Steve, the one that had summoned the help in the first place. "Thank gourd," he groans out, annoyed yet somehow still sounding grateful. "I've been watching these guys from this bunker for hours, and they never seem to even take a break." Another series of sounds, pistons, reveal an opening into the fortified area, should any visitors want to take a break before the operation truly begins. Along one wall of the slightly cramped room is three cubic meters missing, and open to the air outside. The reason for this construction is obvious: It offers an excellent vantage point of the object of interest Steve mentioned in the briefing, as well as over the radio frequencies. Some chests containing food stuffs are also in here. Even Steve's gotta eat. The structure is obvious enough. Polished obsidian tile is set into the turf in a circular formation, roughly 200 yards distant. Above a central dias, a prism-shaped obelisk hovers ominously in mid-air. Should one look closely enough, especially if they had the foresight to bring binoculars, it could be seen that the broad surfaces of this device do not appear solid, in the conventional sense. Rather, they are like windows into another space altogether. And then, there are the crimson jerks, divided neatly into two groups. One, wielding swords and clad head to toe in knightly, crimson armor, appear to be patroling the perimeter, every so often sparing a glance at a native animal making a sound, and at times even towards the bunker itself. They never stray far, however, and if they do notice the bunker, they seem to pay it surprisingly little mind. There is a dozen of them. Dressed similarly, except for their being heads enclosed in all-obscuring hoods, and a more robe-like construction to their armor, four of their counterparts surround the central structure. It is uncertain if they are praying to it, precisely, but every so often a chorus of chants, indecipherable even to the translation effect, ring out in unison among them. Again, a closer look would reveal there appears to be some kind of magical tether between them and...something else, quite invisible from this distance, that is between the dias and obelisk. "Ugh, that chanting," Steve grimaces, covering his ears reflexively. "I can just feel it draining from my sanity. Much longer and I'd almost feel like marching around out there, too." He doesn't realize how close that is to the truth.
Lezard Valeth	Lezard arrives in the small bunker, looking out over the eldritch assembly. The Necromancer frowns to himself as he observes the ritual, and he looks back to the native magic-user. "You need to steel your will. If you cannot withstand the pressures of magical mastery, you will be a master of nothing at all." He does, however, give Steve a supporting clap on the shoulder. "So, do we have an intended course of action for this situation? Negotiations? Wipe them out? Any of the above seems well enough to me. It would be quite unfitting for them to continue to be a drain upon you."
Tommy Wahagi	Tommy Wahagi has never been to, seen pictures of, or had anything but passing familiarity with Flat Earth. So he's committing everything to memory. Every piece of it, every little bit of the image. Nightfall is a particularly wonderful thing when it hits; Tommy can almost feel the connection to the dead, the monsters, the magic. It's intoxicating. Tommy likes this feeling - the undead, based on his deck and his alliance with Phyrexia, is a topic he's very good at. The pale half-Hawaiian Deckmonster is not, however, very good at walking. By the time they stop at the bunker, Tommy's breathing is ragged. The young man looks ready to pass out right then and there. His long black hair is dripping with sweat as he leans, ragged, against the bunker wall, hand clutching his chest. The thin young man just sits there, breathing in and out, smothering his coughs with a thick cloth handkerchief so the little party isn't detected. Eventually, when Tommy feels that he's able to catch his breath and his body isn't being wracked with coughs, Tommy puts the handkerchief back in his breast pocket and moves over. "So," he stammers, "These are the g-guys?" Tommy gives them a long look, uncertain. They're...well, they're heavily-armed. And he didn't bring Xanya with him. And...and...well, then again, Lezard and Steve were here, so that kind of mitigated it a little, right? "What are they saying, anyway? Is it something b-bad? Or is it j-just r-really annoying?"
Steve	Lezard's mix of encouragement, and a stern reminder that the pursuit of wizardry isn't for the weak of mind or heart, is just the kind of pep talk Steve can relate to. After taking a deep breath of the fresh air that streams in from the openings, though tinged with just a touch of earthen notes, he seems to recover. Taking a moment to adjust the purple silk robes he currently wears over his 'normal' clothes, he gives a firm nod of his head, and a friendly chuckle, "Ah, Lezard. You're right, of course! I guess being cooped up in here just amplified the effect. Sorry to bellyache 'bout it." Perhaps in other ways, as well. That chanting, reverbed and accented as though the speakers were eternally expelling all of the air from their lungs with every syllable, does resound supernaturally around the environs, including the bunker. Picking up a pork chop, Steve takes a moment to regard the other respondent. Unlike Lezard, it's someone he hasn't met in person before, though the hesitant stutter and tone jogs his memory immediately. This was the other guy that Lezard suggested might get some experience out of this! "Tommy, right," he calls, extending one hand while withdrawing a pork chop from a nearby table with another, and taking a big bite out of it. Not much in the way of social graces, he continues talking, mostly understandable, around the bite of meat. "Yeah, that'sh them. I wash thinkin' of bein' mershiful, jusht getting them to leave." Pointedly, he swallows the bite that had slurred his speech around the lump in his mouth, and gives a broad grin, "'course, that was before I had to listen to them on loop. Now I'm thinking we just storm their camp." He pauses for a moment, moving over to try and give Tommy a few sturdy pats on the back, belatedly. "You alright, man? You should get that cough checked out. The Confederacy has some of the finest apothecaries!" After that, though, he gives a grin more generally between them, "I guess it doesn't really matter, as long as the actual obelisk remains intact. The way they're guarding it, figure they'd rather die than damage it, themselves. Suits our purposes just fine." To Tommy's specific question on their chanting, he gives a shrug, "No clue. I do have a theory, but I can't test it right away." He'll need...samples. That symbol he had seen on some of their armor was familiar. With that, he retrieves his staff, that he had in a nearby chest, and affixes a blue glassy bauble to the top end of it, moving once again for the exit: How he works it is obvious, now, via a lever inside. The other supplies are left, for the time being. "This should help me clear my head a bit. We'll hear if their screams are more entertaining than their chanting." Here is where one might expect an evil laugh from him, but instead they get a somewhat corny chuckle, as he steps out and makes his way down to the obelisk.
Tommy Wahagi	Tommy just scowls at the mention of doctors. He's spent most of his life in the hospital. He's not eager to spend more laying down, especially not with the bizarre powers of a Planeswalker under his command. He dismisses the question with a shrug, instead focusing in on the main topic. So they were going to just storm the camp, huh? Just...roll in and kill everything. Tommy's hands shake as he goes for his deckpouch. He plucks EVOLVE OR DIE from its holster, shuffling it slowly as he follows Steve. His fingers are trembling with every motion. He was going to kill somebody tonight. A lot of somebodys. Sure, part of his mind said, they were weird dudes in red hoods chanting. They were probably awful people. Normal, sane people don't spend time chanting around obelisks in creepy red hoods. But who cares? What mattered was that they were in the way of something someone strong wanted. Shuffle, shuffle. The sleeves were easy to shuffle. Tommy wonders, as he ducks out of the bunker, if lives were this easy to shuffle. If Lezard and Steve had killed lots of people. If killing people made you stronger. He sets the deck into the active holster on his belt and starts drawing. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. The area wasn't great for Black, but the Forest nearby was perfect for Green, so EVOLVE OR DIE was probably his best bet. Something on his back, probably previously thought to be a backpack, unfolds. A four-legged walker-thing ambles in front of him, its top flat like some sort of horrific mechanical table-spider. Parts of it appear to be pulsing. Tommy reaches outwards, hooking his thoughts around the forests nearby. Mana fills him, swelling him up with the sweet force of Life Itself. Tommy drags that power through him and into the first card. "Elvish Mystic." The.../thing/...that lurches forth looks like no elf that's ever existed. It's a hideous Phyrexian nightmare, wired and mutated, with long claws and sharp horns that if you glanced at them just right might look like ears. The wires along its arms go from its claws to its back, where sits some sort of horrible, sparking thing. "That's t-turn one," Tommy murmurs. Power! Power! Unmitigated, unbelievable power, roaring through his veins! It was gone in an instant, but whatever, who cares?! It was there! This was what being a Planeswalker really was! Oh, God, how good that felt! Tommy's thin, pale lips split into a terrible grin.
Lezard Valeth	Lezard seems to not really notice the physical weakness of Tommy. Perhaps he is content to allow Tommy the dignity of being miserable without giving him additional attention over it... Or maybe he just doesn't care. Could be anything. "Come along. Perhaps we can acquire some reasonable information." Lezard says as the others make ready, and he strides out into the area. His own body is perfect, but then he crafted it to be as perfect as he could make it. Benefits of being able to use your own homunculi. Lezard seems to simply step forward and call out, "Greetings there, how are you all doing this fine evening?" He asks with a pleasant smile... Though with a gesture he draws a black, twisted staff from somewhere else. The heavy material seems to seethe on contact with the air, as if it was passively eating at this bright, pleasant land simply by being there. It just might be. While Tommy begins his preparation, Lezard's smile grows a little wider. He can't afford to take his attention off of the Cultists, but he has a feeling he'll like what he sees.
Steve	As all three allies approach the obelisk, there are several things of note. One is that the grass under their feet itself begins visibly changing its tone, which was not immediately obvious from the vantage point of the bunker, thanks to the flat and rolling geography. While seemingly still healthy, the closer it gets to the central 'core' area, it takes on an ever darker, blackish-purple hue. Steve strides confidently amidst his companions for the evening, but takes immediate notice. There is one thing he recognizes that can cause this, and he says as though it might have some meaning to anyone other than himself, "A sinister node. Did they build this around it? Or was this always here?" For someone whose world this is, he sounds uncertain. As Tommy begins drawing on the ambient mana of the world, further evidence of this fact makes itself obvious. The mana seems to not only flow from the forest itself. Rather, he would be able to sense several nearby, almost point-like sources seeming to herald his call. Careful to avoid mana burn! One such mysterious source is perhaps that dark node Steve mentioned. The point in space that the robed figures are tethered to seems to pulsate and distort, like the refraction off of a hot surface in summer. By pure chance, it contained the 'arbor' aspect, and had given that little bit of itself up to Tommy's works. This doesn't seem to escape the notice of the chanting figures, either, that for the first time hesitate mid-syllable, their concentration broken, and they finally seem to bother to pay notice to others in the vicinity. "Haha, looks like you snapped them out of it," Steve laughs, readying his staff with one hand, though not nearly as flashy as Lezard's own brandish. He'll have to ask him for tips on that, later. From his inventory, not to be outdone in the minions department, he withdraws what looks to be two inert, iron dolls, a meter in height. A quick slam of his fist places a clay, inscribed discs Lezard would be familiar with, from his golem-delivered invitation nights ago, into each of them, causing their heads to raise with installed cognition and servitude. Golem Animation Core: Guard. "Let's get this over with quickly, then!" For their part, the Crimson Cult seems to agree. No nicities are exchanged with Lezard; instead, only a pointed silence. As the allies ready their attack, they aren't being still, however. The knights have already responded to a perhaps telepathic order from the robed ones, and begin charging with furious speed, their heavy armor a-clatter, somehow not seeming to slow them down in the slightest. The golems begin to open fire with darts as a form of suppressive fire, but it seems to do little against the armored foes. In fact, the observant might notice, the dents that result on their armor flows back together after a moment. Steve also opens fire, firing a series of what appear to be snow balls at a glance, but as one strikes a knight squarely in the chest, his body visibly chills, slowing his movement and making him a sitting duck, falling behind the ranks. That accomplished, the robe figures seem intent on resuming their work. In fact, their renewed chanting grows ever louder and more purposed, as the tethers connecting them to that distortion in space practically scream of effort.
Tommy Wahagi	Well that was...interesting. There's something else there, something under or beyond the land and the mana it's giving up to Tommy's Planeswalker abilities. The refraction draws Tommy's interest. Besides, the Knights are entering combat anyway. That's clearly summoning sickness, taking time to get here! Tommy'll have a whole other turn to poke at the nodes. And he does. He reaches out, gathering power into himself from the nodes again - the dark one, too, if he has to. The Forest gives up more power to him as he draws from the holster. "Gyre Sage." Tommy lays the card down atop the Phyrexian Walker as he forces power into the little square of cardboard. Again, Life and Energy surge through him like drugs through an addict, rushing into the only avenue he can give it - the spell. Magic gathers (hah) in the card. Alongside the horrific elf-battery monster emerges a mutant. Parts of it bulge and pulse like the Phyrexian Walker, as if it was possessed of some terrible internal /beat/, or a gigantic heart. Its eyes, wired to its own skull, glow green as it lumbers forward next to the battery nightmare. The 'sage' hunches down next to the 'elf', bracing itself for the incoming assault. It looks like it's ready to swell up and burst at any moment.
Lezard Valeth	Lezard begins to laugh as the enemies begin to charge. "This is hardly worth the effort. My sorcery is /Invincible/!" Arrogant much? Oh well, Lezard gonna Lezard. With a cry of laughter, the Necromancer of Midgard sweeps the Manus Catalyst forward. "DARK SAVIOR!" He calls, and shadowy blades of darkess rip out of the air, manifesting and raining down upon the oncoming foes. "I will simply gain research material from your foolish corpses!"
Steve	Foolish? Perhaps, but completely given over to their goals is more apt. The full helmets they wear give no hint of what expression might be on their faces, but if one were to imagine it, it is probably frozen like stone. Their movements are efficient, almost as if their bodies' control is not completely their own, but part of someone else's machinations. Accordingly, it does not take long for them (minus one) to close the gap and threaten with their steel broad swords, which from this distance, have an obvious extra dose of pulsating glimmer. As essentially everyone here is magically attuned to some degree, it's no big secret -- they're packing enchanted, supernaturally sharp weapons. Unfortunately for them, despite the charms placed upon the blades, their reach is still only an arm's length. The bulk of them respond quickly to Lezard's shadowy projectiles, but three are caught in the middle of their formation with little room to maneuver. The trio of knights are scissored, figuratively and literally, thanks to their strategic inflexibility. Their armor appears to absorb a good deal of the punishment, at first take, before it begins to distort and warp with inherent magic of its own. Its price? The wearers' own temporary insanity, as the victims collapse into two shuddering piles. Their helmets don't betray their wordless screams, but hands extended and the veins of their arms bulging, their body language says plenty, as they try to fend off imaginary assailants, atop their already punished, assaulted bodies. It's all too familiar to Steve, whom drops his usual jovial, devil-may-care air for a moment, watching. "Warp, huh? It's a real pain in the ass." He frowns, thoughtfully, "Who the hell are these people?" He doesn't have that much time to think about it, though. Several of the knights are still on foot, actively trying to flank the three heroes(*). Closing in on Tommy, two of them lunge from separate angles, appearing to be initially more interested in getting to him than to his conjured beasts. That is likely a tactical mistake, on their part. They still don't actually say anything, but their breathing is now audible, heavy and labored, but unnervingly steady and methodical. The eye slits, it is almost like there's nothing behind them, but they still seem to be beings of mortal flesh. Steve is having problems of his own, meanwhile. The golems continue to back up and close ranks to try and maintain distance, but ultimately their legs can only move so fast. One gets sliced by a sword, and rather than die, its head dips forward as the animation core in its chest loses its glowing rune. The other golem loses whatever equates to its nerve, and scrambles behind Steve for cover. "...what the! You little coward!" This accordingly leaves him seemingly wide open, for a moment, to a knight that is barrelling straight for him. At the last moment, however, he takes the sword to his robed arm, and responds with a point blank shot of his staff's core to the knight's abdomen. It does more than slow this one, instead seeming to freeze him solid. After a moment, he separates himself from the attackers, which crumples half-solid to the ground. He appears to suffer the same agonies as the three Lezard caught. Elsewhere, the native nodes continue to respond to Tommy's calls for mana. Steve might need some of that himself, if this keeps up, sparing a glance at his arm, where the sleeve of his robe served as armor, of a sort, and is currently mending itself. To do so, it drains from his staff. "Two or three more times, and it might actually be my arm," he utters, some blood still drawn. Something comes to him, though, "Tommy! This might be a really bad idea, or it might turn out really good. Do you think you can drain that node dry?" As long as the Planeswalker isn't too busy, he withdraws something from his inventory, and tosses it over. It's a thaumometer! A lens-like device, ringed with colored gems and framed in gold. Using it would allow him to see the kinds of
Steve	Elsewhere, the native nodes continue to respond to Tommy's calls for mana. Steve might need some of that himself, if this keeps up, sparing a glance at his arm, where the sleeve of his robe served as armor, of a sort, and is currently mending itself. To do so, it drains from his staff. "Two or three more times, and it might actually be my arm," he utters, some blood still drawn. Something comes to him, though, "Tommy! This might be a really bad idea, or it might turn out really good. Do you think you can drain that node dry?" As long as the Planeswalker isn't too busy, he withdraws something from his inventory, and tosses it over. It's a thaumometer! A lens-like device, ringed with colored gems and framed in gold. Using it would allow him to see the kinds of aspects that are in things, especially nodes.
Tommy Wahagi	Two monsters lunge at Tommy. The young man is physically much, much weaker than an ordinary person. He has a split second decision to make, and he makes it - allowing them to strike him right in the face. A sword jams into his shoulder, spraying blood, and Tommy screams and nearly collapses. The pain is immense. He's been stabbed. He's been stabbed! Stabbed! But he's also a Planeswalker, and an Elite. Just being stabbed isn't enough to put him down for long. Besides, his sleeves are liquid-proofed once they're sealed. ...the card sleeves. Not his actual sleeves. Despite the fact that his arms are soaked in blood, his cards will have no trouble. He could play card games in the rain. These are nice sleeves. Tommy rolls to the side, sort of. That is, he kind of throws himself sideways with the grace and ease of someone who has never done any physical activity in his life. This goes exactly as you'd expect - he fumbles and hits the ground. He catches, sort of, the thaumometer, clutching it to his chest. "I'll t-try!" Tommy manages. He looks through the Thaumometer for a moment, seeing what he already knew, mostly, when it comes to the nodes. He could feel them. But everything else has an aspect, too, and that's weird. Tommy reels for a moment, trying to scramble to his feet to play his next cards. "Harmonize!" Tommy drags power out of the land, yet more power, and drags power out of the battery-freak elf. There's a visible moment as the elf sags and falls back next to Tommy, and Tommy...draws three more cards. The second knight catches up to him and drives another sword into Tommy's stomach. He gasps. It reminds him of being in the hospital. It hurts. It hurts so bad. He can feel the point inside him, the sharp thing dug in, the weapon, the cold metal through his skin. He coughs up blood, falling over backwards onto his ass. Some dramatic first encounter! Way to show the older mage and the other guy what the new kid can do! Anger fills Tommy's heart. How dare they make him look so pitiful! How dare they! Power swells inside him again. The nodes are drunk in. They're probably running low, but as Tommy's already learned, they're not the only source of power in this world. "Gyre Sage!" Another of those horrible lumbering monsters pulls itself free of space. Then, with whats left, he pours it all into... ...a floating, formless nothing. A blank white slate of a creature. Like a doppelganger? "Morph creature!" The interesting thing isn't the morphed creature. No, that's boring. The interesting thing is that the 'grye sages', the distended mutants, pulse. And they get bigger. Muscles bulge, magic wiring glows a brilliant green, and their wired-open eyes get brighter as they swell and mutate. "Attack with the Gyre Sage!" It is at this point that the first mutant freak turns around and starts hammering one of the Knights threatening Tommy. Its fists are huge, nearly the size of its own head. Its arms are like jackhammer pistons - and indeed there might actually be pistons attached to their insides.
Lezard Valeth	The knights fall to the collective weight of their insanities. Lezard looks upon them with a frown. "Is that your best?" Lezard calls, appparently not really registering that his sorcerous allies are getting stabbed. He's in his element at the moment as he strides forth to the pile of gibbering Knight. There is a flare of purple flame from his hand as he snaps it open, the unearthly fire casting his features in a sinister glow. "Open the Gates of Niflheim. More souls await!" He declares as he brings up the Manus Catalyst, and slams it down into the midst of the pile. There is no mercy from Lezard as the staff impacts with crushing force, a wash of dark, consuming power washing out from the point of striking. May as well finish the job.
Steve	For the first time, as the daylight begins to fade over the plain, you can actually hear one of the knights say something. Well, sort of. As the second assailant drives his blade into Tommy, his voice is low but audible, perfectly mirroring the chanting of the robed figures. There was no emotion behind the droning, but in a sense, perhaps it could almost seem to be mocking him. "Damn it," Steve grunts, lifting the now-inert golem up to use its metallic body as an impromptu shield, against yet another sword swing, "Tommy! You okay?" Provided that he's had similar injuries, himself, and recovered. Yet, the kid seemed kind of frail to begin with, and he doesn't know how he'd explain it to some of the other Feds, if he broke their new ally fresh out of the booster pack. To Tommy's credit, though, and proving that he's an Elite worthy of standing on the battlefield with these relative vets, he remains somehow focused. Nay, even more driven than before! That momentary trace of concern leaves Steve's tone, as he forgets the stinging in his own arm, "Heh, tougher than you look. Good, if my theory is right...just keep it up!" The crimson knight that had skewered Tommy has since withdrawn his sword, but he and the other assailant remain close, trying to make any sense of what this alien threat is doing. It's not easy for them, since they retain only a rudimentary capacity for logic, beyond whatever foul deeds they are sent to do. Eventually they settle on 'nothing good for them', and the second knight once again stabs at Tommy, this time intent on a potential killing strike. He never makes it, intercepted with a hammering strike that sends him flying, and the sharp sound of bone splintering with an accompaniment of metallic crumpling. The knight, so struck, convulses for a few seconds on the ground, the breathing holes of his helmet instead serving to separate a spray of blood from his mouth into a refreshing shower. In that last moment, enough clarity returns to realize he's dying, but also adequate to be assaulted by the dark enchantments weaved on his armor. He dies laughing, or at least, it might be laughter; it's more of a rhythmic rattle and gurgle, before he stops moving completely. The other knight finally registers the Gyre Sage as the momentarily greater threat, raising his sword, double-clutched in two gauntleted hands, and attempting to leap at its back. Or whatever looks closest to a back.
Steve	As Steve is fending off yet another knight, and their numbers begin to thin as attrition takes hold, the miner-turned-wizard has some precious time to analyze the situation again. Lezard's flashy magic had got him thinking, too, and it looked like it has a bit more range than his own. Well, when he isn't taking a more direct approach as he is now: The knights, in their blissful agony, take a few moments to truly seem to register their impending demise. Like the other, they too die with their voices finally theirs again, but there is no laughter, only the screams of the damned. Steve whistles appreciatively. He has a LOT to learn from this guy. That's for later, though. For the time being, he gives a light scratch of his beard, in a moment's reprieve, "Lezard. You think you can target the robed jerks from here, without damaging the obelisk? Tommy and I can handle what's left of these guys." With Tommy's continued drain on the node's and land's resources, aspects laid bare with a glance through the thaumometer, the bonds connecting said robed figures to that wrinkle in space appear to be weakening, as there is ever less to work with. One by one, they begin faltering in their chanting, and eventually sever the tethers altogether, turning toward the combat and levitating a few inches. Whether that's a good or bad thing: Well, Steve did leave that up in the air!
Tommy Wahagi	Tommy can scarce believe it himself. Maybe all those years in the hospital made him strong. Maybe they made him mighty. Maybe being poked, prodded, pinched, and probed had given him some resilience to the pain, to the- SPLORK. Tommy's face is covered in blood as the Gyre Sage just shatters the Knight in front of him. The splatter gets in his mouth, a sickly copper tang that fills his tongue and makes him instantly regret everything. Oh, god, how he regretted everything. Tommy swallows, and shudders, and draws a card. He had a solution to one of their problems. Maybe two. If he could keep his stomach from exploding. But could he really? There were so many philosophical weirdnesses about it. So many.../things/ that might go...wrong. The card in his hand stared back at him nonetheless. It was proof that somewhere, somehow... "V-Vorinclex, Voice of Hunger!" He'd owned the card for longer than he'd been aware of the Multiverse, longer than he'd been aware of Phyrexia. When he first saw Phyrexia, he'd known it was the old one, the original one, the Black-aligned nightmare monsters. And he hadn't yet been able to reach into his soul and pull forth this one. But here and now, he drinks in the Forest, he drinks in the power of the mutant elf-battery and the sages, he drinks in all of it, and he drags it into the card as his good hand slaps it down on the table. It rises. VORINCLEX, VOICE OF HUNGER. The Phyrexian praetor is massive. White exoskeleton juts along its head, some strange and shiny metal. Claws spread from its bone-like red arms as it lumbers onto the field. Its jaws are like the jaws of a tyrannosaurus. The Praetor bellows, a deep and thunderous roar as it stomps into existence from out of time and space. Tommy has just enough time to feel its effect kick in before he turns around and throws up square chunks on the ground. Vorinclex doubles mana produced by lands for its controller. Vorinclex halves mana available from lands for opponents. The Gyre Sages bolster and mutate again, growing larger in the wake of the Green Praetor's arrival. Little claws emerge from their chests as their jaws split, in homage of Vorinclex's might. Just in time, too - the first Gyre Sage takes the Knight's sword through the eye. It stumbles backwards and vanishes, back to the Blind Eternities from whence it came. Vorinclex looms. Tommy's connection to the land is awash in power. A mere tap gives him way more than he needs. A mere touch swells him to bursting. He reaches in, hungrily, and, like Phyrexia, he just starts taking. He takes, and he takes, and he takes, drawing mana through Vorinclex, from the living mutant sage, from the Elvish Mystic. He draws in everything he can, and then... "GENESIS HYDRA!" "INTO DOUBLING SEASON!" Green mana erupts outwards from Tommy, visibly. The area's lushness explodes. Plants grow upwards at a remarkable rate, square trees bursting into bloom. Flowers sprout all over the place. Curling metals form in hanging vinges, pulsating with green light. On closer inspection, all the plants that are growing don't only look square...they look semi-mechanical, much like the monsters Tommy's been conjuring. And then...
Tommy Wahagi	...then the Genesis Hydra rises. GENESIS HYDRA X/X (20/20) It's...massive. It's stupid massive. On two great trunk-like legs it emerges. Its muscles are visible, wire-frame nightmares. Its jaws are vices. The growing square metallic vines plug into the Hydra and it seems to swell even further, stomping forward like a nightmare force. If only it didn't have summoning sickness...! "Vorinclex attacks!" The Phyrexian Praetor laughs, a deep, booming laugh, and stomps forward. Its claws sweep outwards to smash the knight to pieces. It's much like, again, watching a Tyrannosaurus move - Vorinclex's body is enough to simply bowl into something smaller than it is. Tommy puts his hand on his head, splattering blood and square-shaped vomit on his face, and starts laughing. It's a wild laugh, the laugh of someone just discovering for the first time the shape of true power, as the vast Genesis Hydra's heads curl and snap around his fallen form. "H-hah, hahaha, hahahahahahahahaha!"
Lezard Valeth	Lezard looks up as the knights perish under his strikes, and he nods to Steve in acknowldgement, asjusting his glasses like a true douchebag sorceror. He has a quota he has to meet, after all. "Child's play." He replies. However, when Tommy unleashes his absurd combination, even the arrogant Necromancer of Midgard has to stand up and gaze with a measure of respect. The ecstatic thrill in Tommy's face is echoed in Lezard's face as he, too laughs, the Power rushing around him as he draws the energy into his next spell... He applauds. "YES, TOMMY! THAT IS POWER! GLORY IN IT!" He cackles some more, and turns, thrusting his Catalyst towards the remaining robed cultists... "PRISMATIC MISSILE!" He cries out.... And a starfield blossoms across the battlefield, thousands of beams treaking outwards, curling around and shearing through targets in a seemingly endless barrage. As Vorinclex rampages, the beams streak around him, lending a light show to his rampage that murders things as well. "MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! BOW DOWN BEFORE ME!" He cries out, getting really into the groove.
Steve	There comes a time in everyone's life in the multiverse, often several times in fact, where they encounter a rocks fall, everyone dies sort of moment. The calamitous outcome noone saw coming that, like the death it so often brings, comes swiftly and unwelcomed, but just as certainly. You only hope that the rocks aren't falling on you, at the time. This is one such moment for Steve, as he, and in fact the crimson knights that were still engaged with him and his golem, hesitate and just look up. Steve lowers the hood on his robes to get a better look. "That's as big as..." He hesitates, his eyebrows furrowing. There is a vague glimpse at something in his haziest of memories, the kind that so often went missing, during that terrible age when he lacked the control he has now. Great black wings, and purple glowing eyes. He eventually snaps out of it, to just remark, "Damn that's huge." The knight that dares stand in the way is all but vaporized. If it wasn't for the armor barely holding him together, with its eldritch sorceries, the purplish-black grass here would be stained even more red. The other knights manage to experience something that, for once, overwhelms their directives of slavish obedience to their works. They feel FEAR, which is toyed with even moreso by the armor they wear, fingers of doubt twisting through their minds. So paralyzed, especially with the powers of the obelisk growing weaker to feed these monstrous works, they prove to be even easier prey. If not for the helmets, perhaps they might manage a 'deer in the headlights' look. It's Steve's turn to get splattered, now. As crazed as it might sound, Tommy's laughter heralds an awakening, and it is rather infectious. Wiping blood off his own cheek, Steve joins in, drawing his old friend - his iron pickaxe - into action in his merriment, and sending it with a resounding 'thunk' into the back of one of the last remaining knights' helmet. "Now this is how you clear a place out!" The robed figures have finally been forced to act, but it seems by now it's too late. Their work is in ruins, and there is no more power to work with here. While they have the power they had already absorbed from the node, they hover in silent confusion, as they feel their access to it throttled. Then their chanting begins anew, forceful, angry. Spreading their billowing sleeves, they move to stand back to back, forming shadowy orbs in their hands, which expand into a spherical shell. To their credit, it does hold for a few moments, even against Lezard's beams, each impact resounding with a metallic, yet magical, clank. Eventually, though, the shield grows more patch work, as the robed men become visibly fatigued, their levitation sagging ever lower. When the first beam finally gets through, the rest collapses rapidly. The last of them still moving crawls along the obsidian tiles, trying to reach what seems to be a grimoire that must have fallen from one of them. His hand scrapes with the last of his strength to try and reach it, but a final bolt blasts through his body, and at last bringing stillness to him, and victory for the heroes(**).
Tommy Wahagi	And then, as it always must, the power that sustains the "game" vanishes. Tommy is left sitting there, his face covered in blood and square vomit, his hair a mess, his clothes soaked in blood, in front of his Phyrexian Walker. He's still laughing, as Vorinclex and the Genesis Hydra and the magitech plants fade and vanish into nothingness. And then the conversation on X-Confederate happens, and Tommy realizes that he's about to meet a girl with his face covered in vomit. Oh God His Nightmares Are Coming True. Tommy's face turns red as blood goes upwards into it. He starts muttering furiously. Then, because he's really badly injured and really weak and overcome with terror, his eyes roll back into his head and he falls back onto the grass.