Disclaimer: I do not own Magic the Gathering.

Sacrificial rites take place before an audience of cheering cultists, each begging to be the next on stage.

Magic the Gathering, Dissension, Flavor Text from Lyzolda, the Blood Witch

Blood and fire mingled as the gutted ogre thrashed on the stone slab, still laughing as he bled. Lyzolda grinned and reached out to flame with her scared and scorched hand. Grasping a blazing ember she lifted it and dropped it sharply into the ogre's open belly. He howled in agony, but his laughter soon returned, his back arching in pain. All around them the cheering became louder.

Lyzolda laughed with her sacrifice, raising her knife for another cut, this one cleaving open his ribs from his throat to join with the wound in his gut. His laughter stopped as his chest was split, his ability to breathe gone. His diaphragm, or what was left of it, convulsed futilely, and he thrashed all the harder with the last of his strength. The onlookers stomped a rhythm with their cheering, and a few of them scrambled towards the stage. Only to be held back by Lyzolda's undead guards, who growled at them to wait their turn.

At long last the ogre fell still and silent, that demented grin still plastered on his face. Lyzolda lowered her knife and stepped to his side, reaching into his cleft chest. With a grunt and a sharp tug she wrenched the still quivering heart out of the bloody cavity. Amidst the rising cheers of the cultists surrounding her she proudly held up the heart for all to see. And then harshly cast it into the fire, where the sizzling remains of other recently hewn hearts still burned. She waved her hand dismissively and a pair of burly zombies dragged the dead ogre off the stage.

Once more alone on the platform before the cultists, Lyzolda turned to the crowd and beckoned to them with a crooked finger. The cheering turned into a harsh roar as every single one of them scrambled to be the first to reach her, the zombies allowing them passage this time. They fought and clawed their way forwards, each of them begging to be picked. But Lyzolda made no choice and picked no favorite, waiting silently until one, a goblin, managed to make it onto the stage. He knelt before her, grinning expectantly, his eyes fixed on her bloody knife. And Lyzolda grinned back, waving back the other cultists as she raised her blade for the first cut.