mtg.wtf

"If you see a light moving toward you in the darkness, don't assume it's coming to help."
—Winter

In a moment of bloodthirsty whimsy, a razorkin once picked up a ventriloquist's puppet and used it to terrorize a survivor. Now it hunts on its own, with no one pulling its strings.

They say every inhabitant vanished in a single night, leaving their belongings untouched but curiously covered in moths.

Here, the Balemurk spits and boils, the oppressive darkness pierced by scorching spears of fire.

They say if someone lies down to sleep beneath the trees, in the morning nothing will remain but a few scattered bones and a bed of blood-red lilies.

They say those who lose their way in the fields gradually wither and grow brittle, until at last they put down roots and anchor into the soil as a whispering stalk.

Here, the Mistmoors slump like a grieving parent, the once-thriving fields drowned by the relentless deluge.

Here, the Floodpits languish like a corpse, the clear waters choked by the filthy hands of the bog.

Here, the Hauntwoods churn like a viper's nest, as monstrous creatures prowl hungrily toward the ghostly light.

They say that if you stay in the cabin until the mists reach it, something will slither from the water and knock at the door.

They say dripping, hungry things writhe beyond the edge of the light, waiting to drag the unwary into the darkness.

They say every family who resided there met a grisly end, and once in a while you'll hear their screams echoing through the moldering halls.

They say its beckoning beacon leads not to safe harbor but into the arms of the drowned.

They say that those who enter the amusement park never come back, and their disembodied laughter joins the others on the wind.

They say the blades wait to bite through your skin until you've climbed too far to turn back, leaving you to cling with blood-slick hands until gravity takes you.

They say that with each new moon, the buried dead rise and dance from dusk to dawn, and witnesses to the revelry must join them for eternity.

The House's geography constantly warps and twists, fields melting into floorboards and walls opening into hungry maws.

Here, the Boilerbilges twitch like a trapped animal, peaks straining against the grasping roots and vines.

It is the one chamber whose location never changes, the rotten, rancorous heart of Duskmourn itself.