Hello readers! Today, I wanted to do something a little out of the ordinary. No decks, no strategies, no cards...just flavor.
The air is crisp and cool in the morning with the slightest pinch of dew; it smells of freshly pressed paper, ink and stone. Griffins soar overhead noiselessly, trained to keep their squawking at bay. Even a knight, proud and unerring, clad in glittering armor trailed by a flowing azure cape, controls his steed masterfully, whose hooves seem to hover above the ground.
An ornately and fantastically dressed human from the crowd saw something lying in the street and dashed out from the group to recover it. He extended a mechanical grabbing tool to pick it up and he brought it back to show those with whom he was standing. He conjured a ball of light in his hand and held up the object with his grabber. It was a small, green hand clutching a smoking, spherical vial. One of his neighbors touched the severed hand, and it twitched, causing him to exclaim and recoil.
There is one thing you feel: discomfort.
The spade he’s handed you is probably sufficient to turn a pailful of dirt per stroke, and he assumes you can move entire loamy mounds at once. He stands by as you wade into the rot farm, where other poor souls like you have bent their backs for years more. Around the outside of this heterogenous pile of rot, elves much like the one directing you stand in silence, overseeing the farm’s tilling.