There and Back Again: Adventures in the Pit

Assemble the Coven Part One

hymn

The darkest hour of night is often poisoned by moonlight.

But as the wan radiance threatens to reveal my secrets, the fog drapes about me like a cloak. It wraps itself around my activity the way the forest wraps around the hill upon which I dig. The leering moon above is no adversary for the clandestine work of the Librarian. As it watches on, it does so alone. It cannot whisper to the aeons. It cannot reveal in the absence of Eyes to See.

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The Last Bike from Gothenburg

Welcome back to the MTG Underground.

Today we bring you a guest post from Magnus De Laval, the face and voice of Oldschool MTG. Though it has been too long since I brought you words from my fingers, a crime I will remedy soon, it is a pleasure to bring you something equally brilliant, if not superior on every level. I promise you will not be disappointed.

If you wandered in too early, you may have seen an alternate cut of this piece. I spent a little too much time with this piece in my possession before posting it, and became a little too enamored. As such, I began dressing it up in my clothes and shifting its pieces around, unintentionally sculpting it into my likeness. And while my face may be a beautiful sight for your heathen eyes, it should not deny you the true form of this masterpiece.

So I have set things right.

I give you the Last Bike from Gothenburg in its raw, unadulterated glory:

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Argothian Daydreams: Hailing the Leaf in the Oldschool Underground

Part One: The Primeval Forest

sylvan_library

“Things do not change. We change.” –Henry David Thoreau, Walden

My first encounter with green mana was an offering from a Verduran Enchantress. This taste of paradise was contrary to my nature, to my obsession with dark magic and rusted metal relics, but her emerald eyes captivated me. The temptation was too great not to succumb, and the floral sapidity was as sweet as salvation on my trembling lips.

As it filled my lungs, she filled my dreams. As it swam through my blood, she danced with my desires. I lost all correspondence with my gritty, jagged world of metal and violence, and let myself listen to the nuances of its song. She was teaching me of the serenity of nature. I was learning the savagery of the cosmos.

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Vintage Magic Made Me Do It

Part One: Vulgar Display of Power

vdop

“When you walk around wearing a crown you are likely rouse the ire of peasants.”

-King Suleiman

Welcome back to the MTG Underground.

In the beginning there was no magic. When Alpha and Beta came and went, few were fortunate to discover its beauty. Unlimited opened the door to more players, but the enchanting rarity of the early game lingered in relative obscurity. But the game continued to blossom. Arabian Nights explored a whole new world. Antiquities courted me into the multiverse. It mesmerized me, and my eternal obsession with artifacts came to life. Legends, in all of its overpriced and underprinted wonder, gave us new cards and card types.

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Lemarchand’s Box: Playing the Cannon in Columbus

hands

“What’s your Pleasure, Sir?”

Merchant in the Bazaar of Baghdad

 

Welcome.

This Vulgar Display of Power is not for the faint of heart. If you like to play it safe, this is not for you. Return to your life of coloring inside the lines, and let the fear in your veins keep you from leaving the yard. What lurks beyond the threshold is not to be controlled, and once you have seen it you can never erase it from your mind. If you cling to your artificial importance, defined by your significance in a small, sterile cell, run now while your sacred tenets are still intact. What you will find here will threaten everything that gives you your identity.

Not all words can be safely written. Continue reading

Down the Rabbit Hole: Underworld Dreams

rabindranath tagore

‘In the drowsy dark cave of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day’s caravan”

-Rabindranath Tagore

 

Friday Night in Los Angeles. I am in the back seat of someone’s car. Misfits on the radio. Now David Bowie. Too drunk to know where we are going and too stoned to care. Another night, indistinguishable from the week before or the week to come. I sip from my flask and look out at the lights of the 405, thinking about nothing in particular.

The song changes again. Murder City Devils and we are somewhere on or near Laurel Canyon. My flask is empty when we pull up to some place I cannot make out in the darkness. There are cars parked all along the way up to the house and there are small groups of people collected about the front yard. We park on a narrow patch of yard and someone turns up the radio. Is it Mojo Nixon? This night is fucking weird.

Every night is fucking weird. Continue reading