#abzahn

Whisper was an elf from Lorwyn - no one important, only of Faultless caste. But he was happy and had his friends, and that was enough.

Whisper wasn’t his given name, of course. He couldn’t remember his given name anymore. Not that he cared to. It no longer mattered.

See, Whisper and his friends spent years maintaining a beautiful garden together that sprawled carefully through the Gilt-Leaf Wood. Truly it was Whisper’s work that kept the garden flourishing - whether it was magic or natural talent that allowed him to tame even the most stubborn of plants was hard to tell - but they all owned it in some way or another.

As he was tending the garden one day, a pack of boggarts began to tear through the carefully manicured and stylized garden. Whisper watched in horror as the beautiful flowers and vines he and his friends had worked together to grow were tossed recklessly into air by the cackling creatures. Having no choice, he threw himself into their path, attempting to beat them back.

Having no combat skills to speak of, he was easily overwhelmed by the horde. He watched in horror as his slender, flawless arms were torn into with stone and wood, exposing bone and sinew in a horrific display. He felt tears sting his eyes as a particularly large boggart snapped off one his horns with glee. But he would not fall - and after a time, after countless wounds, the boggarts grew weary of this plaything, and Whisper was able to chase them off.

He was in poor shape. A glance at himself in a nearby puddle of water caused him to recoil - surely that unkempt, asymmetrical monstrosity wasn’t him? He couldn’t return home like this, so he waited in that precious garden, repairing the damage the boggarts had wrought, until his friends could come and help them.

The hours were long, but just as the sun began to set he heard footsteps and the beautiful flute-like timbre of his friend’s voices approaching. He could feel relief envelope him as he stood shakily, leaning onto a fallen branch for support, and went to meet him.

“Tyra, Kriss, Nyila - I’m so glad you’re here! These boggarts came and-” but Whisper lost his words as he saw the faces of his friends contort in disgust.

“… what have you done to yourself” Kriss spat, as though the act of speaking to Whisper filled his mouth with a foul taste. Whisper looked down at his dirt caked clothes, his arms that were already beginning to scar from the boggart’s attacks. He felt tears rising once more as he looked up.

“I… the boggarts, they tried to ruin the garden, but… but I stopped them! Look, our precious gard-” but he was cut off by a sharp slap, delivered by Tyra’s delicate hand. Hatred burned in her eyes.

“Do not call this your garden. Not anymore.” Whisper was stunned. These were his friends. How could they turn on him so quickly, after all he had done. “You were a friend once, so I give you this one mercy - leave the woods. Now. And never return”

He felt the blood in his veins turn to ice as Tyra’s words struck him deeper than any wound the boggarts had inflicted. He scanned the faces of those before him, desperate to find a sliver of compassion, of the friends he thought he knew. But all he found was contempt, pity. Disgust. Hatred. He stood tall - as tall as his injuries would allow - and set his jaw.

“No. I’m not leaving. This garden is my work. I won’t be chased out like some common eye-blight for defending it” Nyila stepped forward, her face cold with resolve.

“Then you leave us no choice. Kriss” with no more peompting than the sound of his name, Kriss quickly grabbed Whisper by the hands and flung him onto the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs and pinning him to the earthen floor. Tyra braced her hoof over his hips, keeping his weak body locked in place as Nyira plucked the pristine white flower of a Moonglove plant off of a nearby bush.

Panic began to rise in his chest, and before he knew it he was crying and gasping out “please, please, no, don’t do this. Please, we’re friends” as the words left his mouth, Nyira crouched over his torso, looking at him like one might look at a particularly disturbing bug in the rubbish, and held the oozing flower aloft.

“We’re not friends, little eye-blight. And I’ll make sure you don’t decide to say something so insulting ever again” she crushed the flower, and Whisper watched in horror as the silvery white fluid from the bulb of the Moonglove came pouring out, hissing as it sliced through the air.

He had seen artists use diluted Moonglove extract to trace delicate patterns on skin - it was a painful and risky process that resulted in stunning pure white works of art displayed on the body.

This was not art.

This was pain.

The extract splashed across his neck and began eating into his throat without pause. He felt cold fire rip a scream loose from deep within his chest, before the unbearable pain in his throat silenced it. And as quickly as they began, his screams became whispers.

But the pain was only beginning. A cruel smile played over Nyila’s delicate features as she watched the scar tissue blossom across his throat and eat through his flesh. Whisper writhed in panic, his instincts going wild as he grasped desperately for some escape.

The burning in his throat grew, and spread, until his entire body felt engulfed. He wept, he screamed, and he begged the earth to consume him.

And suddenly he was weightless. Numb. All he could see was white as he fell through nothingness.

“Am I dead?” He wondered. Unsure if that would be such a bad thing if he was. But soon the nothingness took shape, and before he knew it he found himself lying in a well manicured flower bed - white flowers with broad, soft petals seemed to cling to his every movement as he hesitantly sat up and looked around.

“Well you’re the strangest flower I’ve ever seen” a gentle voice spoke up from behind Whisper. He turned to see a tall woman, who reminded him of the elves from home in stature. But her ears were small and pointed, and she lacked horns and hoof. She was wearing strange layered robes of deep, mossy green and cream white, and seemed to be coming to tend the flowers Whisper had found himself.

Embarrassed, he crawled out and brushed the loose petals from his clothes. Not daring to meet the eyes of someone so beautiful, Whisper cast a shameful look towards the ground and attempted to apologize.

“I’m sor-” the words burned in his throat, and he gasped in pain, clutching at the burned and scarred flesh that now blossomed over his neck. The woman was quickly at his side, her hands guiding him gently to a bench just a few steps away.

“Don’t force yourself. Whisper if you must.” He took a seat, nodding as tears stung his eyes, threatening to spill down his raw cheeks. She was patient, and kept her hand resting on his back as she waited for him to find his voice. In the silence, Whisper became more aware of the ambient sound around him - unlike the quiet rustling of leaves found in the Gilt-Leaf Woods, this was a medley of voices and animal cries, of booming construction and travel, of energy. He finally forced himself to lift his eyes from the ground, and was struck by the wonder of what he saw.

Before him was a massive tree - larger than anything he had ever found on Lorwyn - that towered high into the sky and branched in every direction. Carefully designed trellises and gates created areas to lounge and live among its branches, and carefully cultivated gardens seemed to flourish across its bark. But what truly caught his eye, was the skyline beyond the tree.

In every direction as far as he could see, spires and towers stretched into the sky, circled by all manner of winged creature. Streets could be seen past the garden everywhere he turned, and were crowded with people of every race imaginable, as well as many he could never have even dreamed of. Whisper turned to the elf woman beside him, his eyes wide with wonder.

“Where…. where am I?” He forced the hoarse whisper from his throat. The woman smiled, and held aloft an ornate wooden pendant hanging from her neck.

“You are in the Selesnya Conclave gardens. Not from from Ravnica’s tenth district. Were you part of some Izzet experiment gone wrong? You seem awfully confused…” Whisper shook his head, trying to process what he was being told. He had never heard of Ravnica before. Admittedly he had never traveled too far beyond the woods he once called home, but surely he would have known about something like this.

“How far is it to the Gilt-Leaf Woods from here?” He asked, and the woman frowned, her head lilting to the side.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of that. Gilt-Leaf… sounds lovely though! I should visit some time!” The woman continued on pleasantly, as Whisper sunk in on himself. He wasn’t sure how, or why… but he was beginning to realize that Lorwyn was long gone.

It had been a year since Whisper had found Ravnica. Not knowing what else to do, he had joined the Selesnya Conclave, and had quickly become a beloved member for his skills with the plants. He had been hesitant at first, after his interaction with his friends. Well… not friends, not anymore. Not ever, he had realized. But he quickly came to find that those hear did not care about the appearances of their members. They believed that nature had a purpose for everything - it was your job to guide it to that purpose, and take even the most despicable looking plant, and cultivate it into something beautiful. And so he did just that.

He eventually came to understand that he was a planeswalker, and what that meant. He had traveled to other planes on occasion. Never for long, and he always returned to his new home on Ravnica. But on his travels, he collected plants for his personal garden. He carried with him a gnarled staff, lovingly crafted by a woodshaper who seemed to enjoy his company from a fallen tree. He took inspiration from the design of Vitu-Ghazi, and crafted small barriers into the wood, where he cultivated small samples of plants. Rare moss, potent fungus, striking flowers, and creeping vines all found a home on his staff. He took great care in creating a small garden that seemed wild to the untrained eye, but was expertly planned and maintained.

He did not maintain this project out of whimsy, however. Every plant here served a purpose. Every one of them could be crafted into a potent poison - many of them dangerous to even touch and grow. He had the scars on his fingers to prove it, in fact. The crowning example of this, and the reminder of why he did it all, was the crown of Moonglove that beautifully circled the top of the staff.

He had come to find peace with his appearance, and had accepted that the elves of Lorwyn were no friends of his. He no longer burned with anger or shook with fear. Instead, he did what he did best - he cultivated the dark seed of hatred that had taken root in his core. He waited, patiently, and plotted his revenge. And one day, he would take back his garden, and show those who had once deigned to call themselves his friends just how fragile their supposed perfection was.