MtG: Untouchable

Title: Untouchable
Universe: Magic the Gathering
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mild Language, Some Violence, Mild Gore
Author's Note: This is for the flash fan fiction prompt, “Struggle.” There's more than one type of struggle portrayed, just because I like to add layers to my stuff. This is also my first MtG fan fiction. I hope it still make sense to my regular readers. It's about a character card (two, technically) from an older edition of the game. Word count: 470

She strode forward, ignoring the screams and moans. Her fine silk garments – the only material her flesh could touch – swirled about her. A villager shrieked, stumbling away from three ghouls that pursued him. Tears tracking down his dust-covered face, he turned and saw her; he took in her white skin, black lips and markings across her face. She extended a hand forward, her claw-like nails reaching out to him. He spun around and fled back to the ghouls.

Hand dropping, she allowed him to scurry off. Let the ghouls have their petty fun. There would be others skulking about for her. She glanced over the ramshackle village. Mud huts squatted about, intermingled with an occasional stonewall. Grass and weeds grew wild along the road. Just another barbarian town, like so many others. Yet, something here was … familiar.

Jeska walked amongst the wild grass. The tall stalks tickled her calves. Seeing her brother napping, she grabbed a handful of grass, intent on introducing the feathery plant to the inside of her slumbering sibling's ear.

She strode on. The tall grass brushed against the bare flesh of her legs. It withered, shriveling into burnt, twisted shapes.

In the center of town, a large – by the standards of this village – structure rose over the pathetic homes: the town's gathering spot, the longhouse. She paused, struck again by an odd sense of familiarity.

Her brother ran ahead. The whole village was gathering in the longhouse in celebration. They'd dance and drink and game all night.

Flames licked the longhouse's roof, black smoke rolled out through ever-widening cracks. The far corner groaned and collapsed.

“Damn you, cabal bitch!” a hoarse voice rang out.

She turned. A man, his own blood mingling with splotches of undead gore, confronted her. He raised his ax.

“To the hells with y–” His voice cut off. Lowering his ax partially, he whispered, “Jeska? Gods, girl, what have they done to you?”

She searched his features. A distance part of her, like the tickling of long-dead wild grass, recognized that flattened nose, that wild beard.

“Listen to me, girl. I don't care how much time you spent away,” Estan said. “This is your home. You're always welcome here.”

“Jeska?” Estan said, concern lacing through his voice. He held his hand out to her. “Let's go. We'll find your brother. We'll fix whatever the cabal's done to you. Come on.”

She reached out and took the offered hand. His brief look of relief transformed to disbelief, then horror. He shrieked. Where her flesh touched his, his skin shriveled and blackened. The consuming death traveled up his arm, leaving nothing but a withered husk. He collapsed, howling in agony. Still holding his hand, she knelt over him.

“Jeska is gone. I am Phage.”