It burns.
Oh, how it burns.
Agony, agony, agony, agony.
It is unlike anything you have ever felt before. Your mind grapples for something, anything to which to begin to compare, anything that can even begin to let you understand the sensation.
Every inch of your body sizzles and sparks as it is set alight. The Blind Eternities' fury courses through your flesh, scouring every corner of you for even the slightest trace of organic matter. A purge, a flame, it carves you, erases you, ravages you.
You cannot scream, for there is no air to carry your words.
The pain continues. Your power offers you no protection against the all-consuming agony. And so you cling to yourself, to your identity, to your dream, to your vision.
To your vision of Phyrexia.
It takes root in your mind, shielding you from the pain- or at least, making it more bearable. You push yourself forward as it grows even stronger, the universe's wrath maddening in its intensity.
You curse Elesh Norn's name, here where nobody will proclaim you a heretic.
You struggle against the void. The last remnants of the world you left fade, even the air burned away by the pressure, and nothing takes their place. The absence of everything is creeping and spreads like a creeping fog into the edges of your perception. It is incomprehensible, this emptiness, this eternity. There is no stimuli, no sight, sound, taste, smell, or feel. There is only the void that stretches on forever and more, until the end of space and time.
You think of–
[ ] Progress.
You are Jin-Gitaxias. Core Augur, master of artifice, lord of blue mana, eternal seeker of knowledge and the foremost mind in all of Phyrexia, your brilliance leads the Progress Engine. You understand what the other Praetors don't, what they refuse to understand- that perfection is a process. To move toward it is the most noble of Phyrexia's goals- a glorious, asymptotic march towards eternal improvement.
This void is everything you have ever loathed. It is the end of growth, of progress, of life. It is the cessation of all, the sudden halt of thought itself.
These thoughts comfort you, even amidst the pain. That, and the understanding that such a feeling is but a temporary obstacle. And that the state of hyperawareness induced by pain has been a highly fruitful source of intelligence for your surgeons- it would be unbecoming of a higher mind such as yours to begrudge it. Yes. Yes, you will use this time to think. Move closer towards perfection.
[ ] Strength.
You are Vorinclex. You are the Voice of Hunger. You see through the lie of civilization and so-called intelligence. Your Vicious Swarm is driven by instinct, by the raw hunger of predation- your Grand Evolution. One day, the rest of Phyrexia will be so as well, whether they like it or not. One day they will no longer shroud themselves in artifice and lies. But until then, you toil.
You struggle. This void is an enemy to be endured, as is all else. Your flesh crumbles into ash before its fury, but you will not bow down. You will not give up even as it strips you down to your skeleton.
This pain enrages you, and this wrath gives you power. You are not as weak as to bow down before this pain. You will resist and grow stronger. That is the way of Evolution- that is progress. Fight and survive, endure and adapt. That is progress, that is growth. That, and only that, is perfection.
[ ] Ambition.
You are Sheoldred. Amongst the Seven Steel Thanes, you are the greatest. You know that perfection is in power, power through any means necessary as the Father of Machines proclaimed. Those higher, those mightier, will rise, will rule. The believers will serve. Unbelievers will be made to serve. And all will bow to Phyrexia.
You focus your hatred. You will not be cowed, and you will survive, no matter the cost. You will continue, persevere, for you are great- you are worthy. The glorious legacy of Yawgmoth has stretched on for thousands upon thousands of years and you will not be where it ends.
You cling on as your flesh burns, because you know it will only make you far greater. Pain, death, misery and agony- they're tools, all of them, if one knows how to wield them. And oh, you do. You do know death. You do know pain. So did Gix know it, and so did Yawgmoth know it, and so do you know it. Pain is a tool to subjugate. To bring the cosmos under Phyrexia's thumb, and prove your place as the ultimate and true power, the only thing in the universe that could be called perfection.
The thoughts recede as you finish burning- it is over.
It takes you one moment to even realize that the pain is no more, and another to understand that you are not simply dead.
The power of the Planar Bridge dies down, faint blue sparks still floating around your form, and you hear Tezzeret's hurried breaths as he closes the gate, leaving you behind. Barely even confirmed you were alive.
"Wretch." you spit out- and then crumple to the ground in a smoking heap.
The scouring you received was so complete you cannot even comprehend it fully. The parts of your body that would allow you to perceive the full extent of the damage have been burned off. You will have to lay down on the ground for a while, and try to order your thoughts.
You think of… yourself. You need to put yourself back together- you cannot even move in this state. Your flesh is beginning to regrow, but only beginning.
Not even a cell of organic matter remained, and so your metallic parts have to consume the oil that flows through your veins, cannibalizing your own divine ichor to fuel their replication and differentiation. Metal sizzles and shifts, forms microscopic growths of flesh on its surface.
You try to open your hand, but it doesn't move. All the tendons have been destroyed. All the nerves have been destroyed as well- it might as well be an immobile prosthetic, no more useful than a hook some uncompleat Mirran might use to replace a limb.
Ugh.
Your metallic body clicks and whirrs as you struggle to get up. You can't get up, in fact. Your body is barely reconstituted, weak, fragile. You will need to replace the biomass you lost, and then find somewhere to hibernate for a while.
You need to see. You redirect the flow of oil, redirect the growth and break down a few spots that you won't make immediate use of. Then, you slowly, painstakingly reform your eyes- wholly metallic for now, it seems.
Then, you open your eyes. Your vision is spotty, your senses are damaged, and your movements could very generously be called sluggish.
What do you see-
[ ] Fields of plants.
You believe that it is called "wheat." Even if it looks unimpressive, it's still biomass, readily available. You will need protein, though- this won't be enough. In the distance, you can see pulsing lights? Some large object, a blinking glow. Your ready ears catch a sound.
(Kazimierz, by the time of Maria Nearl's Major.)
[ ] A bloodsoaked battlefield.
Corpses everywhere you can see. A forest in the distance, and still burning reeds. The craters of bombardments. An army passed by here, and recently. You will help yourself to their scraps.
(Tara, by the time Rhodes Island would become involved in the conflict.)
[ ] A cityscape?
Vast, for sure. Technologically advanced. The lack of available biomass complicates matters- but for now, you are in the dark. Nobody observes you. You will slink to a corner, and feed.
(Trimounts, shortly before the Diabolic Incident.)
[ ] Snow. Snow everywhere.
Did Tezzeret simply leave you for dead? You will have to find a way to survive regardless.
(Ursus, when the Reunion began.)
You blink.
This isn't where you're supposed to be.
It's- it's not even close. You've veered miles off-course. Your destination is nowhere near this place. You had a mission. This is not the place you were supposed to be to accomplish it. Your mind whirls as you recall the maps and charts- this is far away, absurdly far away from the place you were supposed to be.
Tezzeret, you piece of-
Welcome to Dreams of Crystal and Oil! This is my third quest after It's Turbin Time and Traces of Veils, and I intend to continue it further then I did Traces of Veils (which is confirmed to be in hiatus now. It's just... difficult to write Veils, man. It's a complicated beast, and I feel like I wrote myself into a corner in that quest. I might continue it eventually, but, well, not now.)
What actually really motivated me to do this quest was. Uh. March of the Machine's story. It was just so bafflingly terrible, and right after the extremely cohesive set All Will Be One, that I have been stewing on resentment about it for a while now. So yeah. Have this story, my love letter to Phyrexian Praetors before WotC's wretched hands crushed them like flies.
