Pheldagriff of the Lotus

Before you jump into the story, I just want to say I'm not sure where to post this, and since I got the inspiration to write this story while I was playing a game of commander I figured this is was the best place for it. Enjoy the read! Love to hear your thoughts - all comments are welcome.

There is a curious entity that possesses a power bountiful in the absurd, surreal magic that perplexes the Fae and drove Zur to madness. A creature of purple hide and webbed hooves, grand tusks and green feathered wings that rise triumphant like Serra. The Pheldagriff of the Lotus ignited its spark when it nibbled the most powerful mana source in the known Multiverse, the Black Lotus, and with its great nostrils and bull-willed focus, it whiffs the pungent sweet-richness of the lotus across the planes. Truffling from world to world risking the Blind Eternities in pursuit of Pheldagriff’s one purpose, to satisfy its taste for the lotus.

Pheldagriff has grazed the Whispering Woods if it wasn’t so Towser would have found an entire bushel of the black flower. Curious, one wizard’s destiny can be so dramatically altered by a winged semiaquatic sentient being weighing a ton and one stone. Jared, the Shadow Mage, the last of the great lineage of Carthalion’s, traded the Pheldagriff a lotus for a Shivan Dragon, perhaps regrettably in retrospect. The purple being has grown so powerful over the eons that it can adapt the flow of time and in an eternal moment can be found in the hidden lotus veil of Tolaria wreaking havoc like a hippopotamus in a china shop. The Academics of the wizard academy fear interrupting the Pheldagriff in its feeding frenzy, to do so would be to subdue an Allosaurus in heat. As a footnote, the existence of the lotus veil of Tolaria can be confirmed if you could examine the Pheldagriff’s tooth pickings without drawing back a stump. After the majestic creature gets its fill, and with the agility of an orc in a tutu, The Great Griff is gone. Until hunger pangs, once again knocking on the door of the creature’s esophagus.

The darker the lotus the richer the flavour and one of the darkest lotuses ever found was on the blood-soaked planes of Tarkir, a world where the Khans war for supremacy. Perhaps it’s satin darkness glowed with a hue of crimson, perhaps it found life in the layers of death; a necessity for a plane of such brutality, the concentration of beauty to a single point. A dark crimson-black lotus echoing through the Blind Eternities. As the flower comes to maturity, swirls of mystic energy curl and undulate across the realms to the furled nostril of the Pheldagriff. Sniff-sniff. A shimmering glimmer is all The Great Griff leaves behind as it transports every morsel of the ton and one stone body at the speed of a whiff. Sniff-sniff.

The Mardu on a march of death through desolate crags and vulnerable canyons, a funeral procession destined for the jaws of the dragon lord Kolaghan, led by Alesha, and with every step closer to certain death her smile widens. At the end of our march all Mardu will have the opportunity to earn the glory of their war name, Alesha promises. Off in the distance, in a sky resting on the bloody edge of a purple twilight a star falls with a dim clap of light. One of Kolaghan’s minions, says Alesha, another chance at glory. Mardu! The horde asserts.

A grove nestled in the foothills just a day’s march or so, weather depending, from Alesha and the Mardu. Mardu! The dim clap of the falling star settles to a dull blue as a thrumming hue of energy fills the orchard. A pink bauble hiccups into existence and quickly pops into exile with a shimmering sparkle. Blades of grass washed in Azul are flattened beneath a grand purple hoof. A massive pair of leathery nostrils dig into the ground with a chortling fervour. The essence is strong, an ethereal voice hums, the dark satin is near. A growl churns in response. You’ll get your fill soon, Pheldgriff stands on its hind legs, spreading its glorious green wings as it rubs its tummy, the moon behind carving out the curvaceous silhouette. Very soon, The Griff leaps into a backflip. A bauble of pink, one of blue and green too, excitedly hiccup into awareness and just like that; pop!

Pastel colours reverberate through the microcosm, a wave rippling through the plane of Tarkir with a breaking crest weighing a ton and one stone. Trees bend and bow. Leaves curl and quiver. A squirrel scampering along from hollow to branch sprouts a third eye and is tranquilly at peace with it. Imagine the perspective on all those nuts the little critter has now. A gift of the absurd bestowed by the eons of possibilities present in the Multiverse.

With ‘Mar’ on the left foot and ‘Du’ on the right, the horde pivots towards the glow with a single coordinated step. Mar-du! Alesha points, death and glory await. For a day and one quarter, for it was a bit shrill, the horde marched the windswept moorland. The chittering mob of goblins and festering moggs, a company of bloodsoaked champions and orcish berserkers, the entire western flank of warrior shamans regaled in spear tip banners ride behind Alesha, behind the armour clad honour of the Mardu. A soft heel cavalryman finds himself next to the great leader, for why we ride into the foothills? A glance to her side, for honour, Alesha asserts. Mardu! The horde in reply. But, the soft heel, we do not know what lies beyond. It may be nothing more than a mirage. A trick to the eyes. In the field of battle, Alesha straightens her back, when the rain of blood fills your nose a warrior can only trust their intuition. Come soft heel of the cavalrymen, may it be a brood of Kolaghan that is beyond that hill, may it be your death. Whatever it may be it is destiny and you will meet it with a grin.

A horizon of blue crowns the hilltop, Alesha raises a fist. Du! The cladding of chainmail rains to a halt. Alesha sniffs the air. Her horse swishes. Flicks its ear. Something smells, smells sweet. Soft heel of the cavalrymen your hour of glory is here, says Alesha. His horse steps forward. Be swift and dash round the hill, be the eyes of Mardu and report what is nestled in that grove. The rider jabs his steed, being soft heeled the horse doesn’t move. Smile soft heel of the cavalrymen this is destiny, commands Alesha. A breath in, his face cracks into a toothy smile. For Mardu, Alesha whispers. Ya! Soft heel kicks the beast and cracks the reigns. The light behind the hill claps as the rider thunders closer.

Chortling and truffling are where The Griff is at peace, every ounce of the ton and one stone being merges with the ebb and flow of the eons torn and in that hidden orchard, the huffing and mulching were as bliss as it gets. At the exact moment that Pheldagriff catches the tendrils of the crimson-black aroma, for it is not an exact science the whiffing of the exotic lotus, it takes time and focus for the Purple Botanist to pinpoint the seductive scent, especially amongst the cacophony of sensations present in the material form, at that exact moment the soft heel of the cavalrymen breaches the powerful sphere of containment, which pangs The Griff’s awareness as if a howler monkey is pulling its tail.

The blue hue shimmers as the mortal enters the grove; rippling over the moorland. Lost, the rider stands before the poised Pheldagriff. Anticipating teeth and scales the soft heel is unnerved when he discovers a hippopotamus enjoying lunch. Sweat on the man’s brow lifts off his face in baubles of pink and purple as they float into the night, fear not, little one, says The Griff, you and steed will return. With a wrinkle of the snout, the multi-coloured baubles pop, startling the soft heel’s horse.

Alesha shifts as the horse round the hill. Her sadistic smile slowly fades as the soft heel rides closer. Jostling on the horses back, her cavalrymen is nothing more than a pygmy elephant wearing a helmet two sizes too big. Her grimace now disgust, What trickery has thieved your honour?

When the horde feels exposed, it responds the only way it can. Alesha draws a single arrow from her quiver and the entire army raises to foot. She pulls the bow back and lets fire to a whistling block-head and as it screams through the air the Mardu charges. In the grove, the semiaquatic mystic plucks a Faedandelion from a patch of grass and blows the pillowy tuft to the wind. The horde crashes into an invisible force, a stampede of goblins and blood pile high in a midden of flesh. The Mardu collectively restrained.

Up you moggs! Alesha’s frustration seeps through. Out of the pile of death, her army stands again. Mar-du… She steps forward and touches the barrier, a sharp light radiates out. She pulls back a seared fingertip. Alesha plunks down with crossed legs. She rests her helmet at her side and brings her palms to heart centre. She begins with a sound of resonance and turns her throat into a guttural ancestral hymn. As she focuses her spirit a blade of fire bores into the illusory wall. The incantation repeats and repeats with the breath of every lunged Mardu until an opening is burnt through. She sends in the Champion of Blood who only just breaches the great field before a giant bubble swiftly envelopes him. The sphere shrinks as if the air was sucked out of it instantly mummifying the warrior. Alesha rests her head on her fist and with a sigh, a siege it shall be.

Conversely, Pheldagriff takes a seat on its grand backside and folds its legs. It brings its forepaws together and strums its nails with excitement. There just before the gentle giant, who weighs in at a ton and one stone, sits a pedal of the lotus and it glows with a rich aura of crimson. A fanatical diner the hippo may be, there is greater work being done, The Griff delves deep into the genesis of the Multiverse. As it meditates on the divinity melting across its palate, imbuing every cell in its body with raw energy, The Griff taps into the mysteries of time. Ley Lines run through the Multiverse and are drawn together. The intersecting nodes create entire worlds like the synapses of a great mind that gather to create magic. The lotus is the key and The Griff is only the vessel, it just happens to be a very large one.

With such levity concerning mealtime, it is understandable that the Steward of the Flower has a ritual, even for the smallest pedal. There it sits, a ton and one stone, with crossed legs in front of a single crimson pedal. A knife, a fork, linen the size of a tablecloth tucked into one of Pheldagriff’s leathery rolls, the shimmering moonlight, next to the Griff appears a doll-sized Liliana with big eyes and an even bigger crown, then a Giddeon action figure with swollen muscles, followed soon after by a plush Bolas. Now, The Griff hums, my besties we will be nice today. What was that Lilly? Oh stop, Nicol won’t spike your tea again. Isn’t that right, Mr. Bolas?

The horde readies for the inevitable, which is the utmost horror of any Mardu, a siege, a stalemate, and Alesha feels the tension. The Mardu march on blood, death, and the promise of glory. It won't be long before the warriors grow restless and find those desires amongst themselves. Alesha orders the preparations. Yurts become barracks, a makeshift stable is topped with moss, weapon smiths set fire to a forge for blades and arrowheads. Finally, The moggs work tirelessly in building a trebuchet.

A shaman finds the great leader of the Mardu and brings her to an altar of bone. The master of the dark arts brings forward a beautiful maiden, a captive with supple fair skin and perfectly straight blonde hair. A virgin of the truest, says the warlock, an offering of blood. The young girl knows she is not long for The Horde and subserviently kneels at the altar. She puts forward her head exposing the back of her neck. Honour is earned in many ways young maiden, Alesha promises, in battle or in sacrifice you lend your breath to The Mardu and that is glory. The maiden closes her eyes and embraces her fate. Alesha draws her sword, raises it above her head and steps closer. Pop! At Alesha’s feet a pink bauble bursts. The general trips and finds the soil, her blade clangs as it falls to the ground. Alesha’s anger subdues into confusion as a baby hippo nuzzles up to her. The shaman’s face in shock, an omen.

The Griff giggles as it nibbles the pedal. It begins to dance and twirl as it is filled with raw energy. As Pheldagriff taps its hoofs and sways its gigantic hips like a pendulum, baubles of every colour of the spectrum hiccup and snap-in absurd excitement. With flushed cheeks of embarrassment, the worse possible emotion for any Mardu let alone the leader of them, Alesha marches through the ranks. Hippos, hippos, everywhere hippos. Baby hippos in the food stores. In the barracks. Hippos cuddling the orcs and bathing in the kitchen. A tusked pygmy in the stables spooking the horses. Even Alesha’s yurt becomes a hippo’s bathroom.

The moggs carry on. A single file row of dim-witted goblins wearing boulders around their neck wait for their turn to ride the trebuchet. With a slow creaking of wood, the mechanism flings boulder and mogg at the containment. Their green bodies slam into the invisible field liquifying their bones. Insanity is described as repeating the same action expecting different results like someone smashing their head against a wall, however, sanity for a goblin can only be defined as reckless abandon. Thud, a green corpse slides down the containment leaving a streak of blood and sinew.

A little griff stands at the base of the catapult, and every goblin gives the hippo a pat on the head before their flight. Thud! Alesha stares at the scenes. Pat-pat, flight, squish. Reload. Pat-pat. Before the lever is pulled, Alesha grabs the mogg sitting in the chamber of the siege engine. Alesha smacks him across the head. A look of fear and bewilderment, for what masteress mads with mes? Mardu fly, Mardu smash, Mardu die! Alesha bends down to the creature's level, Hippo fly. No! The goblin interjects, Pat-pat friend of Mardu. Alesha looks in his eye, what is name? He looks away, Grom. Grom, Alesha nods, Grom of Mardu. Grom of Mardu! Grom asserts. Grom more special than friend? Grom no die? No, Alesha shakes her head. Hippo fly.

Any leader of a marauding horde becomes very resourceful very quickly, being a nomad is hard, the weather is always depending. With the insight of her ancestors, like her grandmother from whom she bears the name, Alesha ruminates on their ancient wisdom. We have heard of stupid haste in war leading to clumsiness, but cleverness is not associated with long delays. The skillful soldier does not raise a second levy, neither are the supply-wagons loaded twice. Bring war material from home and then forage on the enemy. The army will have all the food for its needs.

The hippos are rounded up, but more appear, which gives Alesha cause to smile again. More meat for stew and pie, more hooves for glue and boots, more tusks for daggers and leather for armour, but most of all more projectiles for The Mardu war machine! War drums begin to beat. The moggs chant as they hoist Pat-pat the baby hippo in the air, hippo fly, hippo die, hippo fly, hippo die! Squish, squish, SQUISH!

Excuse me while I pause for a moment, I’d like to save the reader a gregarious description of the slaughter and rendering of hundreds maybe even thousands of baby hippos, but if the twisted reader needs an image, and I’m not going to be cheap by referencing Auschwitz, try to imagine Bosch’s depiction of hell, in your mind, now remove all the people and replace them with hippopotami. Don’t forget The Mardu are merciless. Pat-pat is loaded into the chamber of the trebuchet, his glassy eyes swell into tears as Grom adorns him with a boulder and one stone. Grom gives the cute critter one last pat-pat, poor little Pat-pat, and nods to the Commander of the Siege-Gang. The lever is pulled. As the creaking wood moans so does Grom’s heart, a pain he fears may never subside, until he hears the glorious sound of the thud. Squish, squish, SQUISH!

Nothing has ever managed to interrupt the Pheldagriff in one of its episodes of maddened mulching until Pat-pat collided with the containment. Thud. No flavour so rich, even as sweet as the darkest lotus, the crimson-black lotus of Tarkir, would take the disgust out of The Great Griff’s mouth as he watched his own kin slide down to the dirt like a boneless mass. Pat-pat the puddle. If the Griff cannot enjoy its meal then there is no point. Time is meaningless, the Multiverse sterile, form shapeless, the ebb and flow of Ley Lines recede to a numb sway, all is without purpose. The Griff plucks a feather from its grand wings. It licks the tip and begins to scribe in its palm. A sparkling ink of glitter is left in the pens track. Three letters one word: T-E-A. The Purple Botanist wraps the sparkling letters around the feather and like a javelin of glee throws it over the hill.

The message pierces the ground at Alesha’s feet. She bends over and unrolls the note, Tea? Bring me my horse. The stable master returns with his orcish tail between his legs, the horses are spread across the moorland, they were spooked. I shall march alone, says Alesha. A soft appendage grips Alesha’s hand. It is soft heel, the now pygmy elephant, offering a ride. Reluctantly, Alesha pulls herself onto his back, you need a name, how bout Trunk? Trunk waves his trunk in agreement. Very well then Trunk, take me to the grove.

Trunk and Alesha trot into the shimmering grove. Pheldagriff of the Lotus, the Steward of the Flower, the Great Griff, and sometimes even the Purple Botanist, whatever the name, greets Alesha with a wave. Hello friend, do you like elephants? Is that what you said when he was a man? It was a generous gift, I thought, replies the Griff. I’d prefer to awaken Trunk’s beast within. Trunk? So, you’ve named him then. You are capable of compassion. Come, let’s have tea.

Alesha and the Pheldagriff sit at a tea set, plush Bolas and mini-Lilly in silence. The Steward of the Flower pours the tea. Why are you here? Asks Alesha. Simply put, dinner. More in-depth, commune with divinity. Alesha blinks. You are a brood of Kolaghan? The winged hippo chuckles, There are greater powers in the Multiverse than a dragon who breathes lightning, some you can only taste. Alas, the murder and death on this plane are too much for me, what you have done to my kind does not anger me, it only hurts. I don’t think I’ll return to Tarkir, but before I leave drink tea with me. Alesha is accustomed to having blood-filled nostrils, so her judgement is skewed being surrounded by such an intoxicatingly sweet aroma, come drink with me. The Griff takes a sip. Alesha brings the cup to her lips and pulls in a velvety warm liquid the drapes her tongue like satin, a burst of gold radiates outward. The Griff’s chuckle slowly builds to chortle, baubles begin to pop and snap, pink and blue, the mass of one ton and one stone lifts off the ground in a glimmering shimmer. Alesha now chugging her cup of god and pleasure, power and joy. The Pheldagriff of the Lotus begins to fade as it ignites its spark to traverse across the Multiverse, as a parting gift The Great Griff leaves with these words, now, Alesha, you will never be satiated for you have the Taste of the Lotus.

Submitted November 21, 2019 at 08:06PM by 8lacklung https://ift.tt/2KHMLCi