core of the plane?”
Memnarch moved on, shaking his head. “No, I suspected you would not. You were not here for that. Or for the next one.” The Guardian scowled. “Or for the next one. Or for the next one after that. Come to think of it, Mirrodin was always dark when you were here. Oh, how things have changed.”
Memnarch could see the tall chrome spires of mycosynth up ahead, touched at their bases with tarnish. They reached high into the sky, climbing from the ground up toward the mana core. Forests of these pointy towers dotted the interior of Mirrodinfrom one side to the other. From Panopticon, Memnarch could actually see how they curved with the slope of the round plane.
The Guardian wasn’t interested in these structures. They represented all that was wrong with Mirrodin now.
“True,” he said as he approached the nearest of the columns, “they are not the problem, but they are a symptom. Memnarch does not like the symptoms.”
Inside the forest of mycosynth, Memnarch stopped and knelt. Below him, dozens of little furry creatures scurried around, stopping when they encountered the large, diamond-shaped boxes, covered in mossy verdigris, spaced several meters apart.
“You would be proud of these, Master Karn,” he said, reaching down to examine one of the boxes. “These devices are Memnarch’s own creation. His own creation. We call them soul traps, and they keep Mirrodin populated.” Gently brushing aside several of the furry little creatures, the Guardian probed the sides of the diamond. It was soft, fleshy to his touch.
“This too,” he said poking the soft sides of the contraption. “This is a symptom. If only Memnarch knew what caused the symptoms, we could study it. Understand it. Cure it.”
Memnarch looked down at his own arm. The flesh there was soft and supple, just like the sides of the trap and the furry beasts running around on the floor of Mirrodin.
“It infects us all. It corrupts perfection.” Memnarch gritted his teeth, squeezing his fists together until this arms turned bright red. “It makes a mockery of all that the Creator built.”
Memnarch’s body began to shake. “This is not how Memnarch is supposed to be. You created Memnarch in your image, and now Memnarch is … is.” He held his arms up, opening his whole body to the rays of the mana core.
“This!”
The bright blue-white light seared into Memnarch’s eyes,and tears ran down his face. Except for the electrical hiss the mana core gave off, the rest of the interior of Mirrodin was silent.
Finally the Guardian let his hands fall to his sides. A floating patch of orange filled his vision. For a moment Memnarch lost his connection to the solid world. Vertigo filled his head, and the Guardian lost his balance. He stepped back to catch himself, and his foot landed on something soft. He heard a popping noise and slipped.
Memnarch fell. All four of his legs folded underneath him, and his serum tank made a tremendous clang as it hit the ground.
“Why is Memnarch being punished so?” he moaned.
The Guardian rested on his side, not moving. The burning orange sphere obscuring his sight slowly drifted away, and Memnarch looked out at a puddle of red fluid covering the ground around him.
“Blood? Do we see blood?”
Lifting himself to his feet, he examined his body. His entire side was slick with blood, but he felt no pain. Poking and prodding his partially fleshy limbs, Memnarch searched for wounds, but found none.
On the ground, near his feet, the furry little creatures scuttled around, avoiding the bloody mess as best they could.
“Our grendles? Have our grendles turned completely to flesh?”
Memnarch bent down and picked up one of the crushed, furry creatures. A feeling of overwhelming sadness crept over him, and he shook his head as he looked down at the dead creature in his hands.
“Is this what will happen to Memnarch?”
* * * * *
Drooge held up a finger. “By itself, the helm
Memnarch moved on, shaking his head. “No, I suspected you would not. You were not here for that. Or for the next one.” The Guardian scowled. “Or for the next one. Or for the next one after that. Come to think of it, Mirrodin was always dark when you were here. Oh, how things have changed.”
Memnarch could see the tall chrome spires of mycosynth up ahead, touched at their bases with tarnish. They reached high into the sky, climbing from the ground up toward the mana core. Forests of these pointy towers dotted the interior of Mirrodinfrom one side to the other. From Panopticon, Memnarch could actually see how they curved with the slope of the round plane.
The Guardian wasn’t interested in these structures. They represented all that was wrong with Mirrodin now.
“True,” he said as he approached the nearest of the columns, “they are not the problem, but they are a symptom. Memnarch does not like the symptoms.”
Inside the forest of mycosynth, Memnarch stopped and knelt. Below him, dozens of little furry creatures scurried around, stopping when they encountered the large, diamond-shaped boxes, covered in mossy verdigris, spaced several meters apart.
“You would be proud of these, Master Karn,” he said, reaching down to examine one of the boxes. “These devices are Memnarch’s own creation. His own creation. We call them soul traps, and they keep Mirrodin populated.” Gently brushing aside several of the furry little creatures, the Guardian probed the sides of the diamond. It was soft, fleshy to his touch.
“This too,” he said poking the soft sides of the contraption. “This is a symptom. If only Memnarch knew what caused the symptoms, we could study it. Understand it. Cure it.”
Memnarch looked down at his own arm. The flesh there was soft and supple, just like the sides of the trap and the furry beasts running around on the floor of Mirrodin.
“It infects us all. It corrupts perfection.” Memnarch gritted his teeth, squeezing his fists together until this arms turned bright red. “It makes a mockery of all that the Creator built.”
Memnarch’s body began to shake. “This is not how Memnarch is supposed to be. You created Memnarch in your image, and now Memnarch is … is.” He held his arms up, opening his whole body to the rays of the mana core.
“This!”
The bright blue-white light seared into Memnarch’s eyes,and tears ran down his face. Except for the electrical hiss the mana core gave off, the rest of the interior of Mirrodin was silent.
Finally the Guardian let his hands fall to his sides. A floating patch of orange filled his vision. For a moment Memnarch lost his connection to the solid world. Vertigo filled his head, and the Guardian lost his balance. He stepped back to catch himself, and his foot landed on something soft. He heard a popping noise and slipped.
Memnarch fell. All four of his legs folded underneath him, and his serum tank made a tremendous clang as it hit the ground.
“Why is Memnarch being punished so?” he moaned.
The Guardian rested on his side, not moving. The burning orange sphere obscuring his sight slowly drifted away, and Memnarch looked out at a puddle of red fluid covering the ground around him.
“Blood? Do we see blood?”
Lifting himself to his feet, he examined his body. His entire side was slick with blood, but he felt no pain. Poking and prodding his partially fleshy limbs, Memnarch searched for wounds, but found none.
On the ground, near his feet, the furry little creatures scuttled around, avoiding the bloody mess as best they could.
“Our grendles? Have our grendles turned completely to flesh?”
Memnarch bent down and picked up one of the crushed, furry creatures. A feeling of overwhelming sadness crept over him, and he shook his head as he looked down at the dead creature in his hands.
“Is this what will happen to Memnarch?”
* * * * *
Drooge held up a finger. “By itself, the helm
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