#ondoro

Ondoro felt a parasite boring through his chest. It was not an actual parasite, but rather something whose true nature was yet obscured to him. He idly fiddled with the bone shard he'd kept with him since his youth on Mirrodin while he listened to the whisperings of the cabal acolytes around him, mulling over this unpleasant sensation. The sensation had perturbed him since Saria had left their effort, gradually growing with time until it had become the knot in his chest he felt now. He had considered allowing Anwyn to investigate his potential disease, but their relationship had been strained by the same conflict that caused Saria's departure, and Ondoro no longer felt comfortable relying on Anwyn's magic so heavilly. The Moriok took a deep breath, as if trying to wrest open his chest with the air and slowly shambled his way to the fallen machine before him. His clawed fingertips traced over the artifact's frame as his senses fleshed out its design in his mind. Humanoid...with a hunched frame, powered by chemical reactions, the construct reminded the Moriok of a similar golem of Mirran origin. Indeed, though their design differed greatly, their function was nearly identical: the spontaneous transferal of energy to inert artifice. Ondoro took mental note of the damaged construct's design before begining his work repairing it for the Cabal. Ondoro felt no strong loyalty or obligation to the cabal he now worked for. Instead, this was merely a means to an end. He knew what role this Stronghold had played in Phyrexia's past, and now this Belzenlok claimed the title of Evincar...among an inordinate list of other likely empty claims. Still, if Phyrexia still lived on this plane, it was important to understand its strength and role in the modern Dominaria. Ondoro hadn't realized he'd stopped working. For a few minutes at least, his hand hovered over the construct motionlessly, his body halted by the tension in his chest. He cursed under his breath and rose from the broken servant and moved to leave the room. "I need a moment." he assured the other artificers. Compared to many of the artificers of the Cabal, Ondoro's work was concluded much more swiftly and efficiently-and rightly so; no artificer born of Mirrodin could ever be outclassed by the aspiring novices of other worlds. Other artificers believed they had mastered artifice, while Mirrans ate, breathed, slept, and lived artifice. The other craftsmen in the hall did not regard Ondoro's self-dismissal and he was allowed to slip through the halls of the stronghold and outside undisturbed. He tried several times more to wrench his chest free of the tension with deep breaths, but no luck. He could not dispel this unpleasant sensation. His mind wandered while he waited for the tight knot in his chest to pass. He reflected back to when Saria had left. Was there truly no faith to be had in Ondoro's plan? Even then, others began to ask pointed questions of the Moriok: What would he do if Mirrodin could not be saved? It was a question he had once directed at Arkatis without thought, but once faced with it himself he found himself as equally disturbed with the uncertainty of failure as the small Myr had been. Ondoro really, really didn't want to fail. Mirrodin could not stay as it was now, there was no justice in such an end. The Mirran necromancer chuckled nervously, his feet carrying him away from the stronghold. It was never about justice, though, was it? Ondoro began to question his motives for reclaiming Mirrodin. After all, they seemed to change to whatever was convenient, whenever he was asked. Justice? Protecting the survivors? Preventing New Phyrexias spread to other planes? While all those reasons were certainly true and perfectly valid reasons to do what he and his allies wished to do, they weren't what fueled Ondoro. Mirrodin was his home. Doma was his lover. It was Ondoro's life and world and comfort that were taken, and how dare they take them from him. Ondoro was forced to wander these cold, wet worlds of wood and dirt, for if he stepped foot on the world he belonged to, the New Phyrexians would take something even dearer from Ondoro...his self. It was obvious that New Phyrexia needed to be defeated...so then why now did that objective suddenly seem ambiguously significant? Was it because the odds were stacked so drastically out of their favor, and that their efforts and potentially their lives would all be wasted? Ondoro couldn't accept that fate. Was it because Mirrodin was already gone, and that they fought to reclaim nothing? As a scavenger and necromancer, Ondoro could not accept that notion either. This feeling...this cage around Ondoro's heart, it was fear, wasn't it? Ondoro had, in spite of everything, gained something in the wake of Mirrodin's fall. Ondoro had something to lose, and he was desperately afraid to lose anything else to New Phyrexia. This cage was lined with guilt as well. Ayani, Finn, Telchar, Arkatis, even Saria had at one point placed her faith in Ondoro...and now that faith weighed on him. He chuckled nervously again. Thaclel would likely be fine, should Ondoro fail, but she clearly had some investment in the Mirran's success herself, or she would not have cooperated with him nearly as much as she had. Ondoro frowned. He began to fear what could happen to the (relatively) reformed Phyrexian in absence of his direction. Ondoro wanted to see her realize herself fully as an individual, even if that didn't mean anything for the compleated Mirrans. Ondoro could feel something buried, or perhaps hidden in the re-purposed negator that begged and pleaded to be free, but did not know how. Ondoro didn't want to fail, but now he realized that more than Mirrodin was at stake. Ondoro realized what was at risk if he failed, even a little, and the terror began to grip at him and crush his soul like the weight of the Black Sun's grave light. But he couldn't just surrender. He had come so far already, and he was not the only one invested in their goal. He would risk alienating those among his allies that still had faith in his success. For the first time in a very long time, Ondoro felt truly conflicted. A melodic tune swam up under his cranial plating and into his head, snapping him out of his own thought. Was that a flute? it was definitely deliberate, like an instrument.