Unity - a Jagan Story By Eldenblade
Disclaimer- I do not own Magic the Gathering, Ravnica City of Guilds, Ravnica Guildpact, Ravnica Dissension or any of the Guilds. Too bad.
I, however, do own Jagan. If you want to use any characters that I've previously used and I own, please contact me beforehand.
(A/N: Three reviews! Great! But come on, I know that more than 3 people read this story. Anonymous reviewers are welcome too. Zuka Sala asked me how I know all of the Dissension stuff. Well, I happen to be working for Wizards of the Coast, you know...no, I am a writer, and writers have, well, lots of fantasy.)
Chapter 5 Morals and Loyalties
And if the dam breaks open many years too soon
And if there is no room upon the hill
And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.
Brain Damage by Pink Floyd
For a moment, all struggle on the battlefield ended. Selesnyan, Golgari and Wojek, friend and foe alike, looked up unto the sky, wondering if they would ever get to see the sun again. For the army that approached was so large, that no mortal could bear the hope to last for a single moment.
In a few seconds, the first horde of Thrulls landed on top of the Selesnyan Sagittars. The archers tried to resist at first, but their long-range bows proved useless in close combat. Curious how long they would last, Jagan approached the skirmish, not fearing for his life since he was already dead. He heard the Sagittars scream, saw the talons of the Thrulls shred through flesh, their teeth feasting on raw meat, felt the pain and agony of the victims and the frenzy and sheer bloodlust of the victors. The Selesnyan Blademeisters that were skirmishing with the Golgari ground forces tried to reach the battle as fast as possible to protect the powerless Sagittars, but it was in vain. Within moments every Sagittar found a painful and horrible death, either sliced in two, three or even four, or shred open and eaten alive by the horrors. By the time the creatures flew up again, no Sagittar was alive and no Blademeister to be seen.
For the Blademeisters found themselves facing an even more horrible danger. Floating towards them, Jagan thought he was darn lucky he was dead. The horrors that approached the cowering 'Meisters were the most terrifying thing he had ever seen. Rotten and diseased walking carcasses strode alongside more recognisable human shapes that were nevertheless unmistakably dead. Their skinless arms stretched forwards, showing dry finger bones and dehydrated hand palms, the walking dead were a shock to any mortal. The fact that they were walking dead didn't frighten Jagan. As a Necromancer, he was used to the look of a rotten carcass, and the disturbing smell of flesh half consumed by bacteria's. No, it was the look on their faces that chilled Jagan to the bone.
Every single zombie wore the same facial expression. Not one of pain, like their Golgari brethren, or the glare of pure evil, like the Rakdos zombies. These zombies' glare was one of innocence. Of hope. Of benevolence. Of peace. Children and women walked along the lines of the dead, alongside old men and retired veterans. Jagan caught himself staring deep into their honest eyes and holding his breath. Looking around, he saw that he was not the only one. Every single Blademeister was caught by the moment, dropping their bloodstained blades and lowering their shields.
It was just the meaning.
Within seconds, the look of innocence and honesty was replaced by one of rage and fury. The undead broke out of their lines, wildly charging at the Blademeisters, who were paralyzed of shock. The beasts trampled over and through the poor blokes who stood in their way, staring into infinity, realising how futile and useless their jobs and lives were, cutting down every single soul in their way. Jagan saw a small group of undead, from who one was only a small child, rip the skin of the flesh of a stunned Blademaster, then rip the flesh of his bones and scrape his bones dry. Jagan felt sick, not because of the horrible events he just witnessed but because of the lowliness of the tactics of the Orzhov.
Jagan turned his back on the battlefield and floated away, trying not to understand the horrible things the Orzhov Priests were willing to do to have their victory. True, they fought for their morals, and everything they believed in. But first of all, they didn't fight themselves. Using creatures from the Aether that they enslaved and trained in combat, and secretly raiding graveyards to make their unholy soldiers, the Orzhov broke rules that every mortal understood. It was not like Jagan was such a saint, raising creatures from death and making them his little puppets on a weekly basis wasn't really a nice thing to do either.
Which brought Jagan back to the initial question. Why was he still here? How was it possible that his spirit kept on lingering on the battlefield that wore stains of his own blood?
….Perhaps because he had sinned. Jagan never had been very religious, and it was quite a while back since he last went to Orzhova. Pissing of the gods was never a good idea. Maybe this was his punishment? Remaining in the place where he knew more misery than ever before? Eternal exile because of a few petty sins?
For the first time in his life, Jagan realised how lonely he was.
(A/N: Awww...Poor Jagan. Perhaps I should give him a little happiness in his miserable life? Hmm...perhaps later. Just to remind you all, there is a little blue review button to the left of your screen. Go ahead. Press it. I know you can do it.)