The idea of the magic card “Swords to plowshares” is essentially that target creature rejects the way of the sword and becomes a farmer instead, hence you lose them as a combatant but gain the health from their farming.
This is really fuckin funny in conjunction with a lot of potential targets for that card. Can you just imagine you’re an average farmer in an MTG plane, have a normal-ass day, and all of a sudden you look to the east, and stretching up past the clouds you see Ulamog, the despoiler, one of the infamous eldrazi titans, a creature that corrupts all that is good by its mere presence. And all the enormous bastard is doing is using their massive fuckin tendrils to plow the land and plant potatos, and tend to their flocks of eldrazi spawn, and then it turns its eyeless head thats the size of several cities at you and tips its wide brimmed straw hat at you and continues going about its worm.
For the record, these are the cards in question
Spell: Swords To Plowshares; upon failing a Will save, the target permanently gives up any quest or bloodlust for the life of a simple farmer. The spell is surprisingly easy to cast and has no limit to the size or scope of the target.
There’s six guys who live in this flat and all they do all day is play WoW and watch movies. Waking up at 2pm every day and there’s always just someone asleep on the bed near all the multimonitor computer setups. There’s always music playing and it feels like a recovery day every day, padding around blearily in pyjamas or underwear. Old hoodies from defunct school teams. They’ve got this system where they’re selling their excess computing power to companies and hosting all this warez, and they’re stealing the internet from the business next door anyway and getting welfare on top of all that. They’re self sufficient and never go outdoors except to buy more fast food, and even then only in the dark. But then one of them wakes up dead some heavy afternoon. He’s just dead and they don’t know why but maybe the floor covered in fast food wrappings is a clue. They don’t want to tell the cops because of the purgatory den they live in and the illegality that supports it, and as far as they know he never had any actual parents. So it’s trouble. It’s taking a long trip out to the forest and thinking about how stars are so far away for the first time in a long time. It’s sweating in the cold air and digging a hole all night with your brand new shovels to leave him alone in. And it’s a long few days cracking all his passwords to keep his identity and associated payments persisting. Until the rhythm of waking up every day at 2pm to play WoW for nine hours and half watch a movie on your other monitor takes over again. It’s the same as it ever was except now there’s a room no one ever goes in.
