Mask of Gold

Bomilkar wrapped his dark cloak around himself in a futile attempt to protect himself from the sharp and strong winds of this strange land. He held his head level, looking only at the narrow pathway that clung to the cliff that was his road, not daring to look down for the sheer height of it all. If one had asked Bomilkar for a word to describe this windy world he would have quite simply said: "vertical", which is probably the best word in this language to describe it, seeing as for the last week that Bomilkar had been there he had basically only traveled vertically, an endless path clinging to cliffs and canyons, linked together by useful and well spun ropes. However despite its apparent danger and verticality this world held a strange beauty that enthralled Bomilkar, and Ancient, rune-carved monoliths were strewn across this strange world, up to ten miles long, some of these stones drift in the sky; others are buried in the ground, some whole, some broken.

Luckily his golden mask, a perfect mould of his face and indeed magically enhanced so that it moved when his face moved (even opening and closing his mouth), protected it from the relentless gale, however the rest of his body was not so fortunate: he wore light clothes that barely protected him, clothes that one would wear in a baking hot sun, not on a stormy night.

At long last he reached a small hole in the cliff face and thankfully climbed inside, desperate to hide from the storm that the strong winds were surely bringing. In the last week no less that five storms had assailed him, some of the worst he had ever seen in his life, one of them had been so terrible it had brought down a cliff, so he knew that if he didn't find some cover soon he might die on this wild, vertical and complete inhospitable world.

He crawled into the hole praying to whatever gods ruled this land that it might actually lead somewhere for him to hide, and not be simply a hole. The unknown gods were kind on him, soon the hole widened out and he found he could stand up, although he still couldn't see anything.

Bomilkar closed his eyes, reaching out to the land around him, like all worlds he had visited before this new one had mana, the magical energy of the land that lets one cast spells of great power, however this worlds mana felt wild, uncontrollable and extremely powerful. Even the white mana, normally so precise, organised and proper, had a wild feel to it. The young human drew from the endless plains at the foot of the cliffs just the little amount of mana required to cast a spell that he had learnt, a spell designed to give a brief, but vivid flash designed to temporarily blind enemies and give the caster a glimpse of ones surroundings. He cast the spell without difficulty, but instead of getting a brief flash, he got a large and luminous ball of pure light, suspended above his head, lighting up the whole room.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the contents of the cave, it was clearly manmade (or at least made by some intelligent species) as it had clearly been carved into the cliff and was therefore wide and spacious. It contained a neatly stacked pile of wood and a chest, along with a small pool of clear, limpid water in the far corner. Bomilkar took in the scene with the kind of pure happiness that a man has when he is flung from the back of a dragon to an almost certain doom, only to land in a pool full of beautiful sirens.

The sound of thunder interrupted him from his daydreaming and reminded him why he had crawled in there. He opened the chest slowly, hoping to find some sort of sustenance but fearing he wouldn't. Once again the gods smiled upon him: inside the chest he found, alongside an armoury of weapons, plenty of what he could only guess was some sort of mountain root which was clearly edible.

He grinned an took out a root to try it out, nibbling cautiously at its edges. It wasn't good, however his stomach wouldn't take no for an answer and he was soon eating roots by the dozen. After satisfying his hunger Bomilkar decided to deal with his thirst and knelt down next to the clear pool, and drinking the deliciously fresh water with cupped hands he finally quenched the great thirst that had plagued him for days.

Having dealt with his needs he turned to the pile of wood, heat being next on his list. Once again he closed his eyes, this time drawing on the red mana, which, even on the most controlled of worlds, was still untameable, and here was wilder then goblin in a war frenzy. Once again he cast his spell and once again the effects were much greater then he had expected, the wood pile burst into a metre high flames bright flames, that was quickly burning away most of the wood.

Content the mage lay down next to the fire, covering himself with his cloak.

Bomilkar found himself at home once more, wondering through the great rooms of his old palace. However he didn't feel content, he felt threatened, vulnerable, helpless even. Something was wrong, he knew this much, and yet he had no idea what was out of place. After an undeterminable time he began to feel like he was being followed, and yet whenever he turned around nobody was behind him.

Suddenly he was in the portrait room, the room was of his father's creation. When their small kingdom had expanded into a real empire his father, Hanno, had decided that his family should be immortalised throughout history. Hanno was at the very top of the tapestry, along with his wife Actaee, both of them looking stern and powerful, as any pharaoh should, however both their portraits were tinged with grey, an invention of Bomilkar's brother Hasdrubal to signify they were deceased. Hasdrubal, first son of Hanno, was also tinged with grey along with his wife: he had been older then Bomilkar by about thirty years, however his line lived on. Next to Hasdrubal was Burrhus, a bit of a family joke to be honest, also deceased. Last and closest of Bomilkar's brothers was Theophanes, a great governor but a bachelor to his last breath and the only one of the four sons to not take a wife. Last was Bomilkar, wearing the same golden mask he had worn since the age of ten, worn for so long he had almost forgotten his own face. Next to him was Pervinca, his lovely wife. Bellow was Protogonia, his only child and only joy, and next to her was… Thero, her husband, and Bomilkar's son in law.

Bomilkar clenched his teeth at the sight of his son in law, there was no lost love between them. Thero looked like none of his family, with unusually pale skin and a devious, sharp look, he looked like evil incarnate. It was only then that Bomilkar realised what was wrong with the tapestry: his own portrait was tinged with the same gray of his father and brothers.

"Looking at something, conqueror?" Came an arrogant and mocking voice from behind him.

Bomilkar turned slowly to see his son in law standing behind him, a dagger in his hand.

"You!" Was all the pharaoh managed to say. Thero grinned a decidedly evil grin.

"Yes my lord, me." Answered the young upstart stepping forwards and stabbing Bomilkar in the chest.

Bomilkar woke up screaming, gripping his chest where Thero had stabbed him.

"Your sleep is plagued with memories stranger." Said a light, musical, but definitely male voice. It's accent was strange and the solemn and yet playful way he talked extremely strange.

"Who's isn't?" Countered Bomilkar, opening his eyes and looking around for the owner of that voice. He found it in the figure sitting over the embers of the fire.

"Fair point." Chuckled the stranger. He turned to meet Bomilkar's gaze and the ex-pharaoh barely managed to hide his surprise upon seeing the stranger. His face was sharp and almost quick. The stranger wore light and yet protective clothes that seemed to be held together by a intricate web of strings and hooks, on his back were several hooks and ropes. But it wasn't his dress that surprised Bomilkar, rather his physical appearance. His skin was pure white, as was his long straight hair that came down to his shoulders and what at first glance seemed to be a beard but revealed itself to be some sort of strange protuberances.

"Who... what are you?" Inquired Bomilkar, trying to sound interested and not horrified.

The humanoid frowned at his words. "You must be from far off indeed, Masked One, to not know of the Kor, for I thought the Kor were to be found all across Zendikar."

Bomilkar, realising that Zendikar was the name of this strange world, memorised the name, along with the name of the species: Kor, it was always best to come off as just another inhabitant of the plane. He noticed a smashed glider at the entrance of the cave and realised that this Kor must have been caught in the storm of the night before and was surprised that he was still alive.

"I come from far north of here my good… Kor, and try to stay away from all peoples as much as possible." Answered Bomilkar, hoping that this simple lie would spare him any more uncomfortable questions.

Clearly his answer had impressed the Kor. "So you come from Sejiri? Well that certainly explains your strange dress stranger, one hears of all sorts coming from up there."

Bomilkar was unsure whether to take it as a compliment or an insult, however he decided that the Kor clearly didn't mean any offence and so the he decided to dismiss it.

"What is your name?" He asked, deciding that this Kor would surely be useful in getting across the difficult terrain.

" I am Marak, a follower of Kamsa." He paused, and seeing Bomilkar's confusion explained. "She is the goddess of the wind, the breath of the world, and protects us Kor better then any other. And what is your name?"

"Bomilkar the Conqueror." Answered Bomilkar, saying his whole title without thinking.

"That is great name, especially for one that stays away from all peoples as much as possible." Said Marak, clearly amused at Bomilkar's slip. 'The Conqueror' cursed his own stupidity.

"And how did a human of Sejiri wind up in a Kor refuge of Ondu?" Asked Marak, grinning once again.

"Weather forced me to move." Answered Bomilkar, another simple lie, and from what he had seen of the weather of this plane a well founded one. He paused, realising that Marak had given a name to this cave. "Kor refuge?"

"Yes, we kor know how dangerous the journey across the Makindi Trenches can be, so we created these caves for any weary travellers seeking refuge from the Roil. The roil has been getting more and more dangerous of late, I'm afraid it is no better here."

Marak said, all his humour and grins gone in a heartbeat.

"You have lost someone to the roll?" Pressed Bomilkar, deciding it was his turn to ask the uncomfortable questions.

Marak shook his head. "Let us not talk of this any more stranger." He said shortly and the look on his face made Bomilkar repent what he had been trying to do. He bowed his head to the Kor's request and the two of them drifted into silence, both sinking into the memories of the past.

After several minutes of silence, in which Bomilkar watched Thero stab him repeatedly in his mind's eye, he could bare it no longer.

He went to the chest, took out a root and began nibbling contentedly. It was only half way through the root that he noticed Marak's bemused look.

"What?"

"It's supposed to be cooked." Answered Marak, grinning again.

"If you know a way to cook it without a fire please enlighten me."

He said testily, trying to sound like this was old news. Marak frowned.

"I'm sorry Bomilkar, I did not mean to belittle you. In truth I am indebted to you, if it wasn't for your great fire that showed me this refuge I'd probably be drake breakfast be now. Bloody Roil."

He sounded extremely angry at this 'Roil' all of a sudden and Bomilkar's curiosity was aroused.

"I ask you again Marak, who did you loose to the Roil?"

Marak's face sagged. "Most of my clan, we must of displeasured Kamsa as she unleashed a terrible wind on us while we were skyfishing, a couple of years ago. Many of us were hurled against the cliffs and died on impact. The rest of us were not so fortunate, we tried to ride the wind like a true Kor should, but Kamsa's ire was great and we were carried wherever she willed us. One by one they perished, some tried to hook onto to the cliffs, others to grab hold of one of the numerous ropes that span this region. However they all failed, most thrown against the rocks and those that didn't try to escape were caught by the many deadly tornadoes of the Roil. In the end it was only me, riding the winds like I had never done before. When I had given up all hope of surviving, Kamsa granted me mercy she carried me gently to the ground. For years now I have lived alone, me and my glider fly through Ondu every day, often straight through the Roil, but always does Kamsa protect me from death."

He sounded bitter, as though he actually wanted to die. Bomilkar didn't know what to say: what could one say to one who had seen his entire life, all one loved smashed to pieces by a treacherous wind?

"Enough about me Bomilkar, we need to set out while the sky is clear-" He paused and looked at the human. "Where are you headed?"

"Nearest place remotely resembling a city." Answered Bomilkar.

"Greypelt sounds like our best bet them, five days as the drake flies. We've best arm ourselves." Said Marak, returning to his former joviality. He stood up and walked over to the chest. "You've got to love Kor refuges, they keep everything a traveller needs: food, weapons, water and even torches, and they are replenished at least once every moon cycle."

He opened the chest and grinned, he pulled out a hook and rope and a short and heavy sword. He tossed the sword over to Bomilkar and put the hook on his back.

"Any human in Zendikar needs a machete: that blade will be your guardian, your liberator and your best friend all rolled into one." He said in answer to Bomilkar's inquisitive glance. "And I noticed you aren't armed."

Bomilkar nodded his thanks and put the machete into his belt. "I lost my sword when I left my home, I had completely forgotten about it, thanks." He was actually telling the truth: upon his first planeswalk he didn't have his sword on him and he had never replaced it.

"A machete is truly the most trustworthy weapon one can have around here: it cuts as easily through the brambles of Turntimber as the zombies of Agadeem. Come stranger, Zendikar awaits."