Wizards of the coast owns Magic The Gathering and all its characters and trademarks and stuff. I'll humbly own the characters of my own creation.
This story will be post Apocalypse, which means Yawgmoth got killed, but he brought most of Dominaria down with him anyways, so bummer.
Prelude : New Dawn
A bright morning greeted the little town of Braskaras. The sun bathed the earth with its radiance and might, sending warmth to even the darkest corner of Dominaria. Corner, though might be an understatement.
Yawgmoth, the dark lord of time, the greatest evil to have tainted this very lands, and many other realms, has been defeated. In his fall, what remains is calm and peace and silence, eerie silence. Dominaria's thriving population and colorful races have been reduced to small colonies and shattered families.
Braskaras was once a bustling port town. But Yawgmoth's descend from what would seem the dark heavens had taken away almost everything. The town was now a place for vizier folk and weeping children to reside. All the young and able, had lost their lives in battle.
It was a bright morning, but a morning of little promise.
Aron stretched his weary limbs, ignoring the pops of joints and slight crackle of brittle bones. He has aged much since the last trouble free dawn, and though he was grateful for the subtle peace the townspeople now enjoy, he knew this perfect façade was as temporary as youth.
Taking his walking stick, Aron slowly walked out of his tattered home. The kitchen had lost its ceiling, and Aron had yet to remove the Phyrexian soldier which had made a hole through the wall. A sword, glistening with oil, lay embedded into the machine's torso. Oil still trickled from the lifeless corpse, and a pool had took form.
"A good morning to you Aron!"
Aron turned his attention to Hunthor, dragging along his broken leg to greet the old man. Hunthor was a fine warrior, stationed in this town like many of his comrades during the war. Of all of them, only he survived long enough to witness Yawgmoth's demise.
Aron replied with a smile. Hunthor had finally don clothes and shoes, instead of armour and boots. A great burden must have been lifted off the warrior's shoulders.
Hunthor smiled at Aron, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Aron, we have a problem. Peace hasn't been achieved as of yet. Random Phyrexian forces, now aimless but still aggressive, wander in search of victims."
Hunthor paused to redirect his hearing to a rustling of leaves as a soft breeze blew. Aron could tell his suspicious mind was on the prowl again. Probably trying to identify intruders.
"Anyways, Aron, this town needs a leader. And unanimously, the town has agreed you lead the town back to its former glory." Hunthor finished with an encouraging pat on the back.
Aron's eyes widened. It was a sudden request.
"Le..leader? Me? Lead this town?" exclaimed Aron. He surveyed the surroundings. There was much to do if the town was to recover.
Aron pondered for awhile, and then, quite suddenly, he blurted out. "Well, they don't call me old for nothing. I'll do my best."
Hunthor merely smiled at the veteran scholar.
A bright morning greeted the city of New York. Already, traffic was building up on the streets. Most of the people were up and going, having the daily schedules and deadline to meet.
High up in one of the rooms of one of the many illustrious hotels, a teenager boy had yet to rise. The curtains were drawn tight, to whisk away any sunlight. Occasionally, blades of light would pierce the apathetic curtains, and pillows would rise in defense to their master's precious eyes.
That was when a loud ruckus erupted from underneath the sheets. Daniele rolled off the bed in surprise, and sat on the floor dazed, before glaring at his ringing, vibrating and flashing hand phone. Sluggishly, Daniele disabled the alarm before staring into his watch.
"10 am! Oh my god!"
In less than 10 minutes, Daniele was rushing out of the door with his backpack entailed. The Magic Tournament was about to start. He wasn't going to miss it for the world.
If Daniele had been anymore attentive, he'd have noticed a strange soft moaning of sorts and a trickle of bright light ebbing out of his backpack before residing away seconds later.
Daniele hastily hailed a taxi, and was soon on his way to the tournament center. Daniele checked his backpack, check listing the cards in his deck. "All intact." Daniele satisfyingly declared to himself.
The cab driver merely smiled at the aspiring teenager.