For those who don't care much about flavor, please forgive this intrusion. As always, thanks for the inspiration, Noel!
Dream Is Collapsing
Oneiromancy, the evocation and manipulation of dreams, is one of the most fiendishly difficult and personally dangerous magical disciplines anywhere in the multiverse. The ability to interpret, let alone influence, the wild, mercurial, symbolic subconscious of another being demands an understanding of the mind and mental magic that only the greatest, most deeply experienced masters can ever begin to approach. Add to that the substantial risks involved in maintaining the integrity of one's own consciousness as a discrete entity while penetrating deeply into the alternate reality of another's dreaming mind, and the works of dream magic become an art practiced by a vanishingly small number and mastered by even fewer.
This planeswalker, however, is among that exceptional few, although the use to which he puts his gifts might strike some as curiously banal. A dreamthief of the highest order, he specializes in extracting thoughts from or inspiring ideas in the minds of high profile targets. Once he and the subject of his work have been put to sleep, he operates entirely through oneiric avatars, delving into layer after layer of the shifting, unpredictable, internal surrealities of others' dreamscapes or even, occasionally, simply resculpting those unrealities to better serve his own purposes.
Unlike many other oneiromancers, this planeswalker has learned a complicated, but effective means of prolonging the sleep of his targets effectively indefinitely. He can weave a lie of the waking world inside their minds while the unstable hulk of his own intrusive personality wanders through the corridors of their unconscious thoughts until he is able to divine all that he needs from them.
However, even for this master of the art, danger is always lurking in the depths of dreams. The dreamborn muse who whispers to us all in the dead of the night sings a siren's song of dissociation even more seductively for those who move in the minds of others. When he hears her begin to cant her subtle verses, like a cool seabreeze on a warm night in the mind of the dreamer, he knows that he must settle his work before the dream fractures for both souls and his self is lost forever in the dissolution of the other.
Meek Making
Most in the multiverse see a clear distinction drawn between the wild and the settled. There are those who choose to live their lives roaming the deepest dells of the forest or the highest vales of the mountains and those who choose to make their home in a village or city and never wander far beyond their community's walls.
Then there are those who choose both. This planeswalker has dedicated several centuries to a long and complicated breeding program of many interwoven branches, aided with quite a bit of magical manipulation, to give birth to the perfect seed. This seed will take root and grow for millennia more but, within just a few short decades, it shall already be a sapling of immense proportions. When the time is right, the planeswalker shall begin to lovingly carve his new home into its living wood. More importantly, he shall whisper to his tree, in its youth, words of wilding, imparting to it the spirit of nature that shall bring it consciousness and mobility, give it the impulse to strength and the instinct for the hunt. But so, too, shall he teach it the withstraint of the meek and the disposition to balance, the strength that builds a community without tearing it apart. He shall make of it a vast city-tree, a place where those who wish to live a life of the wild hunt can do so while still in the arms of civilization, where the wanderer can be at home and yet never languish.
Together, they shall walk the face of their plane, living by the instinct for order; and the likeminded shall join them as the tree grows ever greater and ever wiser in the ways of the wild with each passing season. And, in the end, when the tree is a vast, thriving metropolis, a roving garden temple to the profound simplicity of nature's path, and so wise that it seems to carry shrouds of omens strewn upon its countless boughs, then the planeswalker will know that his work is done, that his child is grown. He shall take a single seed from his child and his home and he will 'walk to a new world to begin the cycle anew.
Red-Green 117
Many planeswalkers get themselves embroiled in vast political plots that stretch across worlds and involved transplanar emergencies which threaten to topple over the edge of control with billions of lives in the balance.
This one may have experienced such things in his youth but, these days, he's mostly just looking for a little entertainment. Most of his time he spends animating portions of the wide forest he's grown around his home and making them fight against one another in the great arena he's plowed under at the heart of the wood.
When the day's fights are over, he chars the losers to ash, uses the remains as enchanted fertilizer for the next day's gladiators and simply waits for the genesis that the morning will bring.
This has gone on for many years now and the planeswalker has gotten careless and inattentive around what he believes to be his private land. But there are others in the forest who watch from the eaves, aghast at his filthy splintersport. And they plot in the shadows. Chief among these is one he believes a loyal liege, long-pacified and resigned to the planeswalker's domination of the forest. But the trees have other plans. With every night that passes, the reckoning moons grow a little fuller and when the three full moons align, the trees shall reassert their claim to their own destiny.
When the soil writhes with unsettled roots and gloom walks between the boles and fire rains like a storm of comets from the scarred hands of the enraged wizard, woe betide every denizen of this dark wood.
Black-Red 117
This planeswalker also deals in bloodsport but in a very different setting. He serves as ringmaster to a great draconic demon who likes to play with his food in the arenas of the rocky bogs and broken fens of his black domain.
Surrounded by scheming vampire nobles and a simpering, sycophantic preisthood that fight endless, petty, bureaucratic squabbles over the rights to their human chattel, the planeswalker is sick of and sickened by his surroundings but is bound by a contract signed in blood with the demon for service in exchange for infernal knowledge. His contract, however, is drawing to a close and, soon, he'll be free to 'walk away, wherever he might choose and, with him, he'll take demonic secrets about the planes and what lies beyond that others would kill for.
Or, that others would die for.
The demon, too, knows full well the terms and limits of their contract and he hasn't been playing his blood games all this time just for the pleasure of breaking all his toys. He is well aware of what a spark is and what it allows its bearer to do and he also knows how difficult it is to overcome that bearer. But he has studied his course of action long and his plans are now all in place. Just when the planeswalker thinks he is free to leave, his master will show him exactly why he's been training his slaves so hard in the arena. And once the spark is his, then everything will be different.
