mtg.wtf

Travelers bathe in the falls to wash away curses from the pucas who lurk nearby.

"The power that flows here cannot be denied. But where is the source?"
—Nissa Revane

"How tragic that greed eclipses beauty."
—Seton, centaur druid

Murky Otarian tides hide the forgotten treacheries of the Phyrexian war.

Silence, the poetry of a whispering wind, the centurial fall of tar on pale sand.

Stability and volatility churn together, creating beauty and danger both.

"Do not linger in such places, child. There the gwyllions dance. If they find you, you will join in their revels for eternity."
—Talara, elvish safewright

Occupancy of the den changes from night to night as boggart gangs fight for control of a place they aren't willing to simply eat.

At full moon, the river seeps over its banks and crawls through the woods like a blanket of serpents.

"Here did the Extinguisher steal the light from the world. Here will we sacrifice her to bring the Great Rekindling to our people."
—Illulia of Nighthearth

"I come from a place far to the northwest. It's called The Pitt. It's ... well ... let's be honest ... a nightmare."
—Wernher

The gate of every kithkin doun is a cunning trap, intended to spill visitors into an oubliette from which there is no escape.

Still to the ignorant eye, yet bursting with life. A million actions and reactions, unstoppable as the dawn.

Hobs bury their kin far from home. They believe the dry, open ground keeps hags from stealing the bones and gwyllions from stealing the spirits.

Gnolls make offerings to sinister forces in the shadow-drenched chasms.

The Brotherhood of Steel turned the airport into a mighty stronghold that staged both the Prydwen and Liberty Prime.

Sometimes, just for a moment, the wind is moving gently through the trees, the brahmin are grazing beneath a blue sky, and everything is at peace.

Without the care of the tideshapers, the Lanes lie neglected. Some have flooded entire towns; others dried to cracked mud.

Majesty rising above the arid sweep of land, a bulwark horizon against the mundane, a divide cleaving inspiration from stagnation.

As their roots soaked in a weak tea of bogwater and decay, the trees absorbed the essence of death into their living tissue.

Life and death mixing together, both ends of the same cycle giving rise to something else.

The elves of Wilt-Leaf Wood continually expand the palisade surrounding the sanctuary. They hope to one day enclose the entire forest within its walls.