mtg.wtf

The bat has such clarity of hearing that simple sounds become symphonies.

Its screeching is the sound of you losing your mind.

Words to bless the eye that reads them, telling of a future beyond the reach of fear.

Words no eyes should see, telling of things no sane mind could fathom.

It rises with the fall of darkness, seeking souls to extinguish.

"I see where you're going with that. I don't like it."
—Dierk, geistmage

"The veil between the living and the dead is so very thin that the whispers of the ancients can finally be heard."
—Amalric of Midvast Hall

"If I fail to offer myself, we will surely be overrun. My fate would be the same."

"The mist whispers to those who know it to be more than a mundane fog."

They call it "stitcher's anesthesia," a spell to deaden the senses while the mad doctors begin their grisly work.

She parts the clouds so sunlight can reach even the darkest lairs and duskiest tombs.

Not everyone can have a sword of blessed silver. Not everyone needs one, either.

"You must shatter the fetters of the past. Only then can you truly act."
—Rem Karolus, Blade of the Inquisitors

"This is the price of being last in the food chain. We must keep our places of beauty hidden away instead of displayed for all to see."
—Hildin, priest of Avacyn

Wounds of the flesh are easy to heal. Wounds of the mind may never be undone.

Great devotion yields great reward.

It blindly marches on Thraben's gates, guided by its master's direful will.

The same magic that lets geists pass through our realm can force them out of it.

Magical etchings turned a whittler's tool into a wolfhunter's weapon.

"Be careful in your hunt. The clever little creature can steal your wards and lead you right into the werewolf's den."
—Britta, midwife of Gatstaf

It patrols the grafs for miles around Thraben, ensuring that the unhallowed do not wake for long.