Posted by Seanan McGuire
https://seananmcguire.com/blog/2025/12/15/full-of-hateful-fantasies-the-dvd-extras/
https://seananmcguire.com/blog/?p=695
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:
And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes,
And make her full of hateful fantasies.
Only one episode left after this. Like most of us, my only real recurring complaint about Magic Story is that there isn’t enough of it: I could happily have done twice as many episodes, but at that point what we have is a short novel, and that’s another beast altogether. Hopefully Omens of Chaos will perform well enough for short novels to become a possibility. We shall see. Anyway…
The time is come for me to dissect Lorwyn Eclipsed for your amusement. Because this is time-consuming, I only know people are enjoying it if they comment, and that means I really am holding future DVD extras hostage against comments. Sorry about that.
Welcome to the “DVD extras” for the sixth main story installment for Lorwyn Eclipsed, “Full of Hateful Fantasies.” This story is copyright Wizards of the Coast, although it was written by me, and can be found in its entirety here: https://magic.wizards.com/en/news/magic-story/lorwyn-eclipsed-episode-6-full-of-hateful-fantasies
It feels important to call out that this is not the complete story; this is an unauthorized Pop-Up Video version. Go to the link above for the full story, please. Give them some clicks. Convince them that you love me and I should get to keep writing things. Seriously, though, please click the link, even if the story isn’t relevant to you. Click-throughs are how Wizards knows that Story matters.
So what is this? This is little excerpts of the story, with my thoughts on them, because, IDK, I thought it was funny. I’ve also tried to include context for people new to Magic Story, to help you understand what the hell is going on. If people continue to like it, I will probably continue. If you don’t care about Magic Story, skip on over, although I’d still like it if you clicked.
And here we go!
As always, from this point on, plain text is bits from the story, italic text is my commentary on the same.
Inevitable as the dawn,
I think the thing I will miss the most about leaving Lorwyn is all the time-based metaphorical language. Just like I still miss the architectural language from Duskmourn. I am always, always, ready to go home…
“See how they stand?” asked Ashling, voice low and aimed toward Tam. “On the lee side of the night, fear of the unusual serves them well. They move as one, because they treat the outside world as a single enemy. Kithkin are always community-oriented but never so well-united by day.”
I really appreciated getting the chance to articulate how the Lorwyn and Shadowmoor aspects of the Kithkin actively serve the same base goals.
Tam swallowed, eyes flicking to the line of torches coming ever closer. “Is this really the right time to lecture me about night and day?” she asked.
A fair question.
“Any time the world provides a clear example is the right time to point it out,” said Ashling. “The night falls, the kithkin unite. The day dawns, the elves believe only they can see clearly in the sunlight. Our changes reveal other parts of who we are, but those parts are merely different, not greater or lesser.”
Preachy? Yeah, a little. In-character for Ashling, and a way to introduce coherent philosophy to Tam, who clearly needs it? Also yeah. I like it when things serve multiple purposes.
Isilu stalked closer, the trailing tangle of its wings dragging on the ground and cutting a furrow in the soil, which filled at once with glowing moonflowers and sparkling starlight buttons in a rainbow array of colors. The faerie left off circling the beast’s head to flit down and fly a wide loop around Maralen’s. She laughed, a tight, half-choked sound, and held her hands out toward the tiny figure. Not even the approaching danger could dim her joy in the moment.
“Brother!” she cried. “You came home!”
Maralen is so incredibly happy to see her brother. Amusingly, this story dropped on the same day that Girl Genius, a long-running comic by two early Magic the Gathering artists, Phil and Kaja Foglio, finally reunited its own long-separated twins. It’s a family day, I guess.
Ashling blazed even brighter as Isilu raised his head and looked back at the advancing legion of elves, then began circling the small group formed by the kithkin, Maralen, and her allies. Fog rose up from the flower-filled furrows its tail was leaving in its wake, curling in the air, and he snarled, attention on the elves. Sanar squeaked, moving to stand behind Tam.
Isilu has chosen sides.
“It’s protecting us,” said Tam, awed and confused. “It wants to keep us safe. But we’re not from here. It shouldn’t care about us.”
Tam is not intentionally misgendering Isilu, whose pronouns have not been given by anyone speaking to her: the night elemental is a beast, and Magic traditionally gives beasts it/its pronouns.
“Night is flawed,” said Ashling, picking up a spear dropped by one of the circling kithkin. “So is day. Both can care for things outside their normal boundaries.”
Ashling is very chill after everything she went through in the original block. Walking can be a form of therapy, and she just never stops.
Maralen, meanwhile, seemed to have almost forgotten about the danger they were all in; she had eyes only for the little gold-flecked green faerie. “Brother!” she called. “Come down! Come back to me!”
She wants family so badly.
Sanar frowned. “How can your brother be the size of my hand?”
A valid question.
“My brother was made to be a shapeshifter like Oona herself. The blue faerie that accompanied us was his Lorwyn self, and unfamiliar to me. Now we stand within Shadowmoor, and I can see the truth of him through his skin. I know him. He must know me. I just don’t understand why he’s staying so far away.”
Maralen got to be an elf all the time instead of a shapeshifter. Maralen got lightly screwed.
“Maybe this isn’t the time?” said Sanar, voice tight. “They’re coming.”
Sanar is pro-family, but also pro-not being caught by the angry elves with sharp sticks. I appreciate you, Sanar.
“Sunlight elementals,” she said. “Chained and captive and carried into night. They’re meant to be free, not kept as trinkets to defend against the dark. This is … It’s indecent. How dare they?”
By carrying captive sunlight elementals, the elves of Lorwyn can cross into Shadowmoor without transforming. They’re already perfect. Why would they want to give that up for, ugh, Shadowmoor? Jerks.
“Have you ever known the elves of Lorwyn to be guided by the needs of anyone else?” asked Maralen. “Oona cast me as one of their number for a reason. Maralen of the Mornsong was as selfish and shortsighted as the rest of them. She would have been a perfect mask for her maker.”
Maralen is still Maralen–she kept the name for a reason, and has a lot of the personality. She’s just also more than Maralen, and has learned how to grow beyond what she was when she was made.
“Too bad for Oona that you learned to be your own person.”
And thus we summarize the whole original Lorwyn block into a sentence.
“That happens with goblin babies, too,” said Sanar. “I mean, we don’t normally turn into elves or anything, but we get bigger as we age.”
Thank you, Sanar.
“Can we argue about this later?” she asked. “Try not to get stabbed.”
Tam squeaked.
Ashling is the only one really focused on the part where they’re all about to die. Her life is a trial sometimes.
The elves seemed to draw back for a long moment like a held breath, their spears and swords bristling. Then, with a peal of silvered bells, they surged forward and joined the battle.
ASSHOLE AVENGERS…ATTACK!
The elves struck as individuals, and the kithkin moved as one.
This is why going up against the kithkin is never a good idea, night or day. Their loose hivemind lets them coordinate too well.
Those who carried bows pulled back their bowstrings, drawing them tight, and loosed arrows on the arms and shoulders of the elves who carried the captive-sunlight reliquaries. Not every missile struck home, but enough did, causing their targets to flinch, recoil, and drop what they were holding. The falling reliquaries didn’t ignite the grass around them: Instead, the captive figures in their flames uncurled and sprang into the air, laughing. They bowed to Isilu in obvious deference, then shot off toward the demarcation between day and night, returning themselves to the sunlit lands.
When your ability to retain your sense of self is externalized, your enemies know what they can shoot for. The kithkin are showing good tactical sense releasing the sunlight elementals, and while Shadowmoor elves aren’t their friends or anything, every Lorwyn elf who switches over is an enemy removed from the field without the need to clean up a corpse later.
The elves who had been separated from their reliquaries gasped and changed, flesh and bone melting smoothly into their Shadowmoor selves. They straightened, horns grown longer and covered in tiny thorns, looking in horror at the battle around them. Some turned to flee, only to find their former allies turning against them.
The Shadowmoor elves did not agree to do any of this bullshit, and they would like to remove themselves from the narrative now, k thx bye.
The faerie that Maralen claimed was her brother flew abruptly down and yanked her hair, hard enough that she yelped and tried to pull her head away. The motion caused her to turn enough to see the small detachment of elves that had circled around the field and now approached them from behind. She shrieked a warning as the faerie darted away again, releasing her hair.
It’s the “I am in the right putting hands on you without permission if I’m doing it to push you out of the way of a bus, or remove a bee from your person” theory of pulling your sister’s hair.
One of the elves drew back his bowstring, arrow already notched and ready to fly. Before he could release, a fist-sized rock smacked into his temple, and the arrow flew skyward, hitting no one. The other elves turned, eyes narrowed as they searched for the source of the stone. What they found was Sanar, standing in front of Maralen and Tam, hands balled into fists by his sides, shoulders hunched, breathing hard as he glared at them.
Sanar is good at throwing rocks.
“Back off,” he snarled. “I don’t understand what’s going on here, or why it’s happening, and maybe you’re the good guys, but you’re pointing arrows at me and at my friends and so I don’t really care who the good guys are, because we’re not the bad guys. Leave us alone. We’re not a part of all this. We just want to go home.”
Thank you, sweetie.
He picked up another rock, slinging it hard at the elf next to the one with the bow. His aim was remarkably good. This rock slammed into the elf’s wrist, causing her hand to spasm open. The reliquary she’d been holding fell to the ground.
Sanar would do great at a sport that involved a lot of throwing things. Sadly, he isn’t really looking at a career in Mage Tower any time soon, but he’s got an uncanny eye for hitting his targets.
Sanar kept throwing rocks while Ashling flung balls of blue-rimed flame, hands smoking with the heat of her assault. Tam whipped around, eyes flashing yellow as she stunned an archer.
Look, Sanar, you have something in common with the pretty fire lady! And Tam reminds us all that she’s a gorgon, even if she mostly prefers to use her probability manipulation.
Tam shrieked and fell silent. Sanar slung two more stones, throwing them with all the force he had to spare, before glancing over his shoulder to find her crumpled and unmoving on the ground, an arrow protruding from her abdomen. Even her tendrilled hair was motionless, hanging limp around her head. He wailed and ran for her, tripping over a fallen elf in the process. He grabbed the elf’s sword, swinging it wildly as he spun back toward his fallen classmate.
They hurt Tam, and now Sanar is going to stab them all.
There was no way Maralen could have heard him coming, his footfalls swallowed by the battle. The faerie stopped circling overhead, turning to watch as Rhys approached her. The elven hunter had a wickedly curved dagger in one hand, the silvery metal gleaming a sickly green with the poison he had spread across it.
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeere’s Rhys!
When he was too close for her to run, he raised his voice. “Oona,” he said. “I made your heir a promise. I made my friend a promise. This ends now. The cycle is more important than my care for Maralen.”
In Rhys’s eyes, Maralen is already gone. He’s keeping his final promise to her and freeing her from the burden of being trapped inside Oona as her mother-maker destroys their world.
It wasn’t until he was close enough to strike that she spoke, whispering, “Rhys, please. It isn’t what you think.”
In his ears, this is just another lie from the woman who told so many lies she built a world on them.
He didn’t cut deeply—just a narrow slice across her arm—but that was enough. She sighed, a sound like all the winds of the world running out, and sagged as the wound bled petals in place of blood, her knees going weak and dropping her to the bloodied ground. Rhys stepped back as she fell, blinking rapidly, like a veil had been removed from his eyes.
Maralen isn’t an elf, for all that she looks like one, and the substance of her body is petals and dreams more than flesh and blood. She’s not going to bleed normally.
“You didn’t fight,” he whispered. “You didn’t fight, or try to control me, or promise me riches beyond counting. You didn’t—you weren’t—”
Yeah, she tried to tell you, bud.
“Oona is dead. Maralen was my sister,” snarled the faerie that had hovered above, dropping out of the air fast and hard and landing between Rhys and the fallen Maralen. He changed as he descended, growing larger, taller than any elf of Lorwyn or Shadowmoor, taller than the still-flickering Ashling. His wings vanished as he landed, leaving him grounded and glaring at Rhys, fury coming off him in waves.
And now our missing prince makes his appearance. Buddy, if you’d dropped in when she was calling you to do so, you might have prevented this. You might have stopped it.
His height would have made him imposing even without his broad shoulders and sharp features. His ears were pointed, and at first he seemed to be an elf, though the horns atop his head were in fact some sort of twisted antler-crown. Perhaps most striking of all, his forearms were the blue of a frozen winter lake, as was the top half of his face.
Yeah, we know this guy.
“Do you know me?” he demanded, and his voice was judgment.
Okay, that’s terrifying.
“Maralen has no brother,” said Rhys coolly, falling into a defensive stance. He was clearly ready to fight and die if that was what came next.
“Except she does, and I know him,” said Sanar.
Sanar to the rescue.
Both men turned. Sanar was crouching next to Tam, one arm suddenly bare. He had ripped the sleeve off his jumpsuit and packed it around her wound, careful not to jostle the arrow too much. He hadn’t removed it. Keeping it in place meant it could serve as a cork, keeping most of her blood safely trapped inside her body. The kithkin and elves were still fighting around him, but he seemed to have shut them out in his rush to save his friend. Only the small pile of rocks in front of him betrayed how worried he still was.
Sanar is ready to keep fighting for Tam, but he knows that right now she needs medical care substantially more.
“How?” asked the man.
“I don’t know your name, I mean, but I know who you are, because nothing else makes any sense,” said Sanar. “You’re Maralen’s brother, the one who left before she was Maralen. The one the bad queen made and threw away. Now can we stop talking and do something? Tam’s hurt, real bad. I’m not in Witherbloom. I don’t know how to fix her …”
Witherbloom is the green/black college of essence arts at Strixhaven. They heal and harm in roughly equal measure. We don’t have a Witherbloom representative in this group.
The man smiled a thin, terrible smile, attention returning to Rhys. “Yes, I am that wretched wanderer of the night.
Shakespeare reference woo!
“Um, Tam—” began Sanar.
“Quiet, student,” snapped the returned prince, eyes still on Rhys. “I, who had never known my sister, saw through her masks and realized she was not Oona returned. You, who claimed to be her friend, couldn’t see half as much. You creatures of Lorwyn are so prone to being blinded by the light.”
Oh he is pissed.
“Tam is dying,” said Sanar loudly.
Sanar is also pissed.
“My sister—my family—dies more swiftly.” This time the word “family” was gentler, more puzzled. “If I talk to ease her passing, I will be forgiven. Your friend has venom in her veins and hours yet before her own aurora comes. He,” and he gestured sharply to Rhys, “needs to listen. He owes me this. He owes us both.”
Oko is monologing to comfort Maralen, at least a little, as she dies.
“So save Maralen!”
“I can’t,” said the prince wearily. “His knife was coated in moonglow. The deadliest poison known to the daylight paths of Lorwyn. He’s sealed her fate.”
The opposite of the dawnglove that Kirol was sent to collect by the Lorwyn elves. Everything in Lorwyn-Shadowmoor has an opposite.
“We were both mistaken,” said the prince. “I thought she was Oona, so I taunted and tormented her, and when that didn’t work, I brought outsiders to sow chaos. And you know what she did? She ran. She fled for her world’s sake, for the cycle’s sake, and she proved herself to have never been our mother at all.”
Okay, so that’s why he went and got the students. Nice job breaking it, asshole.
As he did, the light of his sunlight-fueled reliquary fell across the prince, who rippled and changed once more, cold blue face and hands turning the bright blue of a summer sky. His face grew more pointed and his lips thinner, the weight of old sorrows falling across his shoulders.
Ordinary Oko.
When he spoke, his voice was higher in timbre and richer in cruelty. “You have no part in this anymore,” he informed the elf and reached out to take the reliquary with one hand while he flicked the fingers of the other. The elf was gone. The elk that stood in his place looked bewildered—or as bewildered as a prey animal can look—then turned and ran away, hooves churning at the night-soaked ground.
Ordinary Oko is more of a dick than Shadowmoor Oko, although neither of them is particularly nice.
“There’s not much difference between an elf of this land and an elk,” said the black-haired man who was not a prince at all, turning his attention back to Rhys.
Oko is prince of nothing, only Oko, entire in himself. He’s also not wrong.
On the ground, Maralen was still breathing, but only shallowly; the rootlike, bruise-purple marks of moonglow snaked out from her injury, marking the path of the poison through her veins. Sanar shrieked something unintelligible and chucked another rock at an encroaching elf, who responded by backing up and firing an arrow at him.
Sanar is still throwing rocks.
Abruptly, the Lorwyn-draped prince of Shadowmoor was there, standing between the goblin and the elves. “No,” he said sharply, voice less forgiving than it had been when he wore the night on his sleeve. The remaining elves of this detachment were gone, replaced by puzzled rabbits who twitched their ears and shook their heads before they turned and ran off into the meadows.
Oko can do more than just elk. See? He can do rabbits, too.
The man tossed the reliquary aside as he reached out to rest a hand against Isilu’s flank, sighing in evident relief as the darkness flowed over him. He was Shadowmoor’s prince, not Lorwyn’s exile, when he turned back toward Rhys. “Night and day are two halves of the same whole, as my sister and I are meant to be,” he said. “She serves Lorwyn, and I serve Shadowmoor. By raising arms against the day, you raise them against the night.”
Oko really is happier being Shadowmoor than Lorwyn, which explains part of why he’s usually so pissy.
Maralen and Tam continued to die.
A passive but essential action.
Then a loud roar split the night, echoing off the hills and trees alike. All of them who were capable of movement turned toward the sound, even Sanar and the night elemental. As they watched, a large white figure vaulted over the line of elves, a smaller, darker figure cradled close to it, and ran toward them across the field.
Ajani Goldmane has joined your party.
The vampire sat up as the leonin stopped running, a wide grin splitting their face and showing the tips of their pointed cuspid teeth. “Sanar!” they cried. “Oh, I never expected to be this glad to see you.”
Trauma bonding!
“Kirol?” Sanar stood. “Is that you?”
I mean, when your missing classmate comes back being toted by the biggest piece of felinoid beefcake you’ve ever seen, there may be some questions.
“It’s me,” said Kirol. “This is Ajani. He’s a friend of Professor Vess’s.” They patted the white leonin on the arm, not seeming to notice his wince at being called Professor Vess’s friend. “You can put me down now,” they added.
Ajani has been upgraded to Liliana’s “friend.” Oh, he is not thrilled by this news.
Ajani nodded and lowered them to their feet. Kirol stretched, then hurried over to Sanar, seeming to notice the fallen Tam for the first time.
“Seeming” is probably a wasted word here. They haven’t been around to see her.
“Tam?” they asked. “Sanar, what happened? And where’s Abigale?”
Oh, yeah, we had another student at one point, didn’t we?
“She-she fell in the river,” said Sanar. “She’s gone. And an elf shot Tam with an arrow. I remembered enough from my first aid classes not to take it out, but she needs medical care or she’s not going to be all right. Kirol, I’m afraid she might … I think she’s going to …” He stopped then, ear-tips quivering with the fear he was trying so hard to contain. Below him, Tam muttered incoherently. Kirol thought she might be counting. Were those—prime numbers?
Self-soothing with prime numbers. Tam is so relatable!
“Shadowmoor’s prince?” asked Ajani. He looked toward Rhys and the prince. Ajani squinted at him. “I don’t know you, but you look familiar.”
Ajani knows Oko by Lorwyn, and isn’t quite certain this is the same dude.
“The young vampire mentioned a ‘Professor Vess’?” said the prince. “Would that be Liliana, by any chance?”
“Yes,” said Ajani, sounding surprised. “How do you …?”
Not making things any better here, Oko.
“Moonglove,” said Kirol, voice going speculative. “Is that like dawnglove?”
“Yes,” said Rhys with surprise. “Moonglove grows only in Lorwyn. It makes the deadliest poison known. Dawnglove grows only in Shadowmoor. It can be used as a poison, but it has curative properties as well and can be used to mend what’s been broken. The elves of Shadowmoor guard it jealously. How do you know of it?”
I mean, fair confusion, since this kid clearly just got here.
“I was abducted by a hunter Lluwen who took me to see someone named Morcant who went by the title of ‘high perfect,’ despite being a massive jerk. They took me to pick dawnglove for them so they could use it to make a poison that would kill the big guy here.” They gestured toward Isilu, who snorted and pawed at the ground in evident disgust. “It’s supposed to destroy night stuff. Shadowmoor stuff, I guess? But during Introduction to Magibotanical Environments back at school, they taught that most magical poisons have equal and opposite counters that can be used to neutralize their effects. Non-magical poisons don’t always work that way, but I saw the dawnglove, and let me tell you, that plant is magical.”
Thank you, Kirol.
Oko’s head whipped around, eyes narrowing as he focused on Rhys. “Is the vampire right?” he asked.
Oko would really like to have not orchestrated the death of his sister if he can possibly fix the situation.
“My name is Kirol, and yes, I’m right,” said Kirol.
Kirol has pretty good self-esteem.
“In a grove the elves led me to,” they said. “I picked it and gave it to Perfect Morcant before Ajani got me out of there. I’m assuming she’s behind this fight. She’ll want to use it as cover for her attack on the night elemental.”
Kirol is not the Perfect’s biggest fan.
Ajani watched him go, then moved to kneel next to Tam, pressing a hand above the wound in her abdomen. His fingers glowed white as he eased the arrow out of her flesh, and the injury began to knit up under his touch.
Ajani is a healer, white-aligned, with none of the complexity of a Witherbloom mage. He’s also a planeswalker, which is a level of power that means he doesn’t need a lot of tools to do his thing.
Kirol caught Sanar’s eye and gestured for him to come closer. Sanar staggered to his feet and crept closer.
“What?” he asked, voice low.
“We need to find that dawnglove, or the lady’s going to die, and I think we’ll be in real trouble if that happens.”
Kirol is ready for a heist.
Sanar gave them a flat look. “What, we’re not in trouble now?”
Sanar is a realist.
“We’re in so much trouble. But if Maralen and Tam live, we might get out of it. Ajani’s got Tam; we need to help Maralen. Come on.” Kirol moved closer to Isilu. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
I wrote that line, and even I can’t believe they just said that.
It was no true surprise when they got there to find Perfect Morcant, sword in one hand and gleaming purple-gold vial in the other. The liquid inside glimmered like starlight wine, and Kirol hissed sharply through their teeth.
I wanna know more about this starlight wine stuff now.
“The dawnglow,” they said. “We have to get it away from her.”
“Okay,” Sanar said and threw a rock.
Sanar has a primary answer to many problems, and it is “rock.” If “rock” doesn’t work, go to “explosion.”
“Little runaway,” she snarled. “Found an eyeblight to do your fighting for you? I’ll have you both to feed my garden, and this beast will die before the morning comes.” She slashed at Kirol, who flinched away—only to freeze as a hand grabbed her wrist and stopped the swing. Morcant turned to blink at her assailant.
“Eyeblight” is Lorwyn-elf for “anything we don’t want to look at, anything we find unattractive or unwanted.” They consider Shadowmoor elves to be eyeblights. So she’s insulting Sanar, but not in a special kind of way, just general bigotry.
Lluwen, brow now crowned with thorn-peppered horns and asserting his Shadowmoor self, slammed his forehead into hers, hard enough that Kirol and Sanar heard bone crack. Morcant staggered back as far as she could while Lluwen held her wrist. He leaned over to pluck the vial from her hand.
Lulu is here! And while he doesn’t get full continuity of memory, he’s clearly held on to at least enough of himself to know that Kirol = friend and Morcant = not friend.
“Catch,” he said and threw the vial to Sanar.
Sanar is also good at catching. Really, he’s the whole package.
Still not releasing Morcant, Lluwen leaned down and snatched something from her belt. She gasped, clearly disoriented, and tried to grab what he’d taken back. Lluwen released her, holding up what looked like a gourd attached to a leather cord.
Morcant didn’t have a chained elemental, but a more powerful artifact to keep her moored to Lorwyn.
As he ran to Kirol and Sanar, his horns returned to their daylight form, while Morcant’s twisted and grew thorns. She dropped her sword, looking horrified, and turned to bow to Isilu, beginning to murmur apologies.
And now Lulu is in Lorwyn, and Morcant is having the night she deserves.
“I have no idea what just happened,” said Sanar.
“We’ll discuss it later,” Kirol said and grabbed Lluwen’s free hand in their own. “Come on, Lulu.”
Kirol actually followed that, and is happy to explain when they’re in a better position for staying alive.
“Where are we going? Wait, what did you just call me?” asked Lluwen.
Oh, Lulu, you just got a nickname, and it’s gonna stick like glue.
Kirol grinned, almost manic. “We’re going to see the queen,” they said and ran back the way they had come, pulling Lluwen along, Sanar following the pair of them, all moving deeper into the night.
And with that, we exit Lorwyn Eclipsed episode six and head toward the misty shores of episode seven, with which we will end our story. I’m not ready to let it go!
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