No Use Crying Over Spilled Milk
Author's Note: Enjoy the story and R&R.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of Magic: The Gathering.
Summary:
Syr Ginger's long-sought payback.
The cookie-cutter men made of metal had stopped moving.
Ayara, Furnace Queen…W(r)en(c)h of Urabrask…cherished her new machine servitors not at all no more.
The wicked slumber hadn't lifted.
Nightmares were fresh pies filled with cherry jam, taken out and placed on the sill. A banquet for a wicked manipulator so disposed, to sup at the table of deep dreams, chillingly hoarse and howling without voice, but containing gluten.
What wasn't fresh was her hunger for revenge. It was left to boil.
They say there's no use crying over spilled milk.
People who say that obviously have no experience outrunning falling dishware, a broken jug of dairy, and keening icing sugar from their non-chocolate eyes. Embittered syrup hardened over spicy cheeks, while the cause of her misery and celibacy roamed the Wilds free, also free of the veil's curse which once ailed him.
In the aftermath of this war, she was only one widow among countless wives whose husbands and wives died in the march. And although she did not mean to undercut the tragedies of those lost during the siege and be a gingerbrute about it, she'd been without her butter half longer.
Like the invaders, the monster she rode toward on this storybook ride arrived from outside Eldraine. He spoke for the wild, but not the Wilds.
When he ate her hubby, he extracted all the vanilla extract from her.
There was no sweetness. She'd held her husband's hand. She was still holding his hand, after Garruk chopped it off with his axe.
Was he desparked? Had his soul ruptured too? It didn't matter. All that mattered was Garruk was here now, on Eldraine. Whether he'd ended up trapped on the plane, planeswalked back, or stumbled drunkenly through an Omenpath, he was here.
Wouldn't that be a happy twist ending to the fairy tale? Him, one of his kind – the boorish dine-and-dashers lumbering around the Multiverse and whimsically breaking everything – his goose cooked by the Mother of Cookies, Sole Survivor of the Boiling Cauldron, Last of Her Batch!
The courts had gone the way of the Kenriths, yet Garruk listened for hooves. For the horse Cinnamon, out to step on pomegranates, the mount of a knight with sour grapes.
The adventures, the sagas, and the lore that could be written!
On Crumbelina.
Fiona.
Brienne of Starch, Lady Lucifer Angelfire, the Gwendoline who wasn't Gwendlyn Di Corci.
It's Syr Ginger! Syr, sir!
Garruk's just desserts at the tine tip of the Meal Ender. That's how the cookie crumbles.
The triumph of Ginger's ferocity. Garruk's turn to choke, considering he couldn't be rid of the bad PR of choking two women!
The death of the Wildspeaker by gingerbread woman: canon, or a "what if" treatment on a borderless card?