Written for MMOGames, partially recreated with permission.
My first hand leaves me awash among a handful of islands, but I find the unrelenting water to be ill-suited for the tools I have on-hand. I discard the sea of unhelpful symbols and draw a smaller hand. I find it gives me exactly the same as the last, but with fewer tools. I swallow the concern, accept the hand, and hope the fates deal me new opportunities as my deck grows thinner, one card at a time. Sat opposite the face of a planeswalker, I place an island on the stone table in front of me, and pass my turn.
There is something kind of hauntingly familiar about this place. As if one is playing cards on a carved table deeply buried in an ancient temple, helmed by gods whose names time has forgotten and modern tongues likely couldn’t pronounce. It feels like a dramatic scene in an old movie, even though the only conflict in these walls are what happens on the cards, it feels as though something big is around the next drawn card, or the next desperate combat phase.
I find myself sitting here, praying for the card that will save my life, or the near certainty of the several others that will inadvertently end it.
Thoughts?