#redwinterwrites
Text
It's not like it's hard to get Tango taking about Decked Out, but buy him a couple of potions in the museum speakeasy and he gets downright confessional.
Grian leans across the stat poker table, his wings rustling eagerly. "Truth or dare, Tango," he says. "Is Decked Out... alive?"
“Aren’t I supposed to pick truth or dare before you ask the question?” Tango tosses back another potion and gives the group a half-smirk.
“We all know you’re going to pick truth because you’re too particled to get up.” Etho’s face is obscured, but they can hear the laugh in his voice and see his fox ears twitch with amusement. “So spill.”
Tango shrugs. "Well," he says, "It's not exactly not NOT alive, if you know what I mean."
Grian glances at Doc on his right and Etho on his left. They shrug at him.
"Yeah, no," he says, looking back at Tango. "I don't think we know what that means."
"Is it like that Grumbot robot that Mumbo and Grian built?" Doc asks, scratching thoughtfully at his chin, his blunt black claws scritching loudly against the stubble of his beard. Grian tries to catch a peek at his stat tokens and gives a sheepish grin when Doc notices and quickly angles them away.
"Hey, now," Doc starts to say, but Tango interrupts.
"Nah, no -- I mean, Grumbot was pretty... Simple. No offense."
"None taken." Grian pulls a token from his stack. "Number of villagers traded with," he offers. "And I'll up the ante to three diamond blocks, gentlemen."
Tango lays down his own token, and taps a finger on it in an aimless rhythm. “The dungeon is… aware,” he says. “Not alive, I guess, but it knows things. It recognizes people.”
“I’ve noticed,” Etho says dryly. “That place hates me.”
They all laugh, but Tango shakes his head. “Does it hate you?” he asks and waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Or does it want to impress you?”
“Oh, I’m impressed enough.” Etho drops his stat token on the table with a soft click. “So it can stop glitching and trying to kill me now.”
“Aww, you’re just playing hard to get.”
Doc lays his tokens down on the table and stands. “I will sit out this round, I think,” he says. “I have done almost nothing with villagers this season. Will anyone have more to drink?”
“I’m not playing hard to get!” Etho protested, ears lying flat. “If anything, I’m playing easy to get – I just walk right in there!”
“You heard it first here, folks,” Tango says. “Etho’s easy.”
He ducks, but not in time to dodge the rolled-up napkin Etho chucks at his face. It lands in his hair and goes up in a miniature whump of flame.
Grian snickers, waving away smoke.
“So if the dungeon’s not alive, but it’s not quite not alive,” he says. “How does one maybe go about… making friends with it?”
“That,” Doc says, thunking a fresh bottle of Cub’s custom-mixed potion onto the table. “Is cheating, you pesky bird. No flirting with the possibly-not-not-alive dungeon.”
“You’re telling me you’re above flirting for a few extra keys and crowns, Doc?” Tango asks with teasing skepticism.
Doc sniffs, flipping the cork from his bottle with his thumb. “I don’t need flirting,” he says dismissively. “I have skills. Game strategies, man.”
“He’s already planning how to get the dungeon’s attention.” Etho flips his token over, exposing the total. “Aren’t’cha, Doc.”
Doc tips back his drink and shrugged. “Eh… that is for me to know, and you to worry about.” He winks.
“Tango, what’s your total there?” Grian fiddles with his token.
“Well, I know it’s higher than old three-digit Minecraft master over here.” Tango holds up his token and pinches it between his fingers. “Under three hundred, Etho? What’ve you been doing all season?”
“Not hiding out in a hole for thirteen months,” Etho grumbles good-naturedly, pushing his diamonds into the center of the table.
“Yeah, well, that’s what I have been doing and look at that stat.” Tango displays the count. “Seven k, baby – read ‘em and weep.”
Grian makes an exaggerated sad face that immediately morphs into a triumphant grin. “Rookie numbers, fellas,” he crows. “Try over twelve thousand.”
Tango groans and rolls his diamonds toward Grian with a grimace. “Yeah,” he says. “Definitely not telling you how to flimflam my dungeon, you shyster.”
“Tango, I’m hurt.” Grian, entirely unbothered and very un-hurt looking, scoops the pile of diamonds into his pouch. “My stats are all ethically earned.”
“And that’s how your dungeon runs will be too.” Tango stashes his tokens and stands. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure. Mostly.”
“Back to your cave, Tango?” Etho doesn’t stand, but his bushy white tail wags a little in barely-contained excitement. “So, Decked Out will be open again… soon?”
“You bet your foxy good looks,” Tango says. “Or… maybe don’t. Not with those stats.”
This time he does duck the thrown napkin.
He exits through the museum, the laughter of his friends fading behind him as he steps out into the cool afternoon air. For a moment, he stretches, shaking out his elytra and clearing his head a bit of the potion particles.
Is Decked Out alive?
Tango grins, sharp teeth glinting. Of course the dungeon’s alive, who’s he kidding? And she’s hungry, too, he can feel it even from here. His friends should just be grateful he’s only ever built friendly monsters that want to devour them.
“On my way,” he mutters to himself. Or the dungeon. “And Etho’ll be coming over soon too.”
He feels the dungeon’s excitement.
“Oh…you’ve gotta be kidding me.” Tango launches himself in the air and spirals over the shopping district, angling toward Decked Out and laughing so loudly the sound bounces off the buildings below.
His dungeon totally has a crush on Etho.
#decked out#tangotek#hermitcraft#redwinterwrites#it's my birthday so maybe reblog this if you enjoyed? 👉👈#long post
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Chapter 20 is posted! I have nothing to say about this chapter today except that I can't wait to see the reactions to it. *grinning*
#everything turns to gold#empiresblr#empires smp#scott smajor#exor#xornoth#joey graceffa#jimmy solidarity#pixlriffs#geminitay#fwhip#ldshadowlady#darklewrites#redwinterwrites
65 notes
·
View notes
Text
There’s a cherry tree in the middle of the redwood forest.
False isn’t sure what to make of that. She shifts her grip on the staff in her hand, its pale glow reflecting faintly off the fresh snow. She’s come out here for resources—the vault altar is demanding logs, and these giant trees are an easy source—but the incongruous sight of an enormous, blossoming cherry tree sending pink petals wafting on the frozen wind…
She wonders if this is what fish feel like, when they see a lure.
“Hello?” she calls, her voice echoing off the trees. The world stands in permanent semi-twilight here, and the deeper shadows hide the mobs that will venture out come nightfall. A sneak of creepers is bedded down in a sweetberry bramble just on the other side of the clearing, and False tenses when the lead boar lifts his head, but he apparently doesn’t deem her worth stalking so early in the day.
There is no other reaction to her call.
False is of half a mind just to head back home and farm her own dang trees. It’s not like the vaultar is picky about the kinds of logs—she could just as easily grow up a bunch of birch and throw those in there. But that will take so much longer… not to mention she’s not sure if there are even enough saplings in her storage.
She unhooks her enchantment-glittered axe from her belt and pauses to mentally poke at her mana reserves. Plenty high. Whatever’s lingering near this tree, it can hardly be worse than what she deals with on the daily in the vaults. Overworld dangers are barely a challenge anymore.
The logic of that doesn’t change the uneasy feeling that buzzes over her skin though.
Venturing further into the clearing. False’s gaze traces up the trunk of the cherry tree, following its branches to where they terminate in lush bursts of pink and white blooms. A sweet smell drifts on the wind. She wrinkles her nose, reminded of compost piles and fermented spiders’ eyes.
The tree’s branches stretch long and low—a canopy of their own, heavy with flowers and dark, glossy leaves. The space underneath is filled with falling flowers and a fog of pollen, the air moisture-thick like a lush cave.
Lifting one hand, False catches a falling petal on her fingertip.
It sizzles as it touches her skin, stinging and buzzing like live redstone.
She hisses through her teeth, shaking her hand and letting the petal fall to the forest floor. “What the heck?”
Another petal tumbles past her face, and she watches it with narrowed eyes—right until it fizzles out of existence a few pixels above the forest floor.
“Glitch,” she mutters. “That’s… not good.”
Iskall needs to know about this—it could be a bug from one of the new updates, or it could be something deeper in the code, but either way: this glitched tree is a problem. She’s probably lucky it just stung her.
She reaches for her communicator, raising it to take a pic of the cherry tree.
“Oh, hi there, False!”
False yelps, spinning around with her axe ready to swing.
Gem is standing behind her, a wreath of cherry blossoms tangled in her hair and antlers, leaning casually on a tall staff of blooming cherry wood. Her smile is wide, and sap flows over her fingers, pale golden, dripping down her arms to leave dark spots on the faded denim of her overalls.
“Gem!” False lowers her axe. “Oh my gosh, you scared me. I didn’t know you were doing Vault Hunters.”
“Hm?” Gem raises one eyebrow, and for a moment her eyes flicker to red and then purple before settling back on green. “Oh—I’m not doing Vault Hunters, False.” Her voice is amused, almost chiding.
“Oh.” False feels unexpectedly small—which is impressive, considering she’s nearly half a block taller than Gem.
More of the glitched petals fall, resting on Gem’s hair and slowly melting into it like snowflakes. The brief moment of relief when False had seen Gem’s familiar grin is fading into something like the sensation of freefall.
“What’cha up to?” Gem asks, and her face blinks from one expression to the next like a bad video message. Her clothes are blue—no, green—no, bloodstained and grey—no, blue. They’ve always been blue.
False takes a step back.
“Uh, not much…” she glances up at the redwoods. “Just doing some… resource gathering. You know.”
“Cool!” Gem giggles, and stands up straight. False tenses, but Gem only spins around her staff and waves a hand at the glitched tree. “I didn’t realize this was an occupied server—are there many people here?”
There’s a buzzing in False’s skull, and she blinks rapidly. A muscle twitches under her eye.
“Um…”
“I guess it doesn’t really matter.” Gem lifts one hand and grabs one of the lowest branches of the cherry tree. She really should not have been able to reach that.
Swinging herself up with the lithe, effortless strength of a cat, she perches on the limb and stares down at False. The grin is gone from her face now, and she looks down at False with bright eyes.
“Etho’s not here, is he?”
False opens her mouth to answer, the words yes, of course he is, I can take you to him heavy on her lips… And with effort, she swallows them back.
They taste of sweet rot.
“Why... why doesn’t what matter?” she asks instead.
Gem stares at her for a long moment, expressionless. The flowers woven through her antlers are growing of their own accord, twining up to caress their brethren in the branches overhead.
Then she smiles broadly, flashing teeth that nearly glow white in the dappled shadows. “Oh!” she exclaims. “No reason! I’m only passing through, is all.”
“You’re not… you’re not sticking around?” False tries—and mostly fails—to sound disappointed.
“Naaaaah…” Gem stands and walks along the branch, as secure and balanced as if it were a stone floor. The flowers in her hair flow along behind her, sliding from the branches and falling like a cape down her back. “Worldhopping is easy. Staying in one spot is way harder.”
False watches the flowers move and swirl, their smooth, strange motion ensnaring her attention. The buzzing is back, too. Like bees, drunk on honey and sleepy in their hive.
“World hopping…?” she manages. “With admin commands?”
Gem’s laugh is as brilliant as a knife and as sharp as a spark. “False!” she crows. “You say the funniest things.”
False laughs. It seems appropriate. She isn’t sure why.
“Anyway,” Gem continues, fading into one patch of blossoms and reappearing on the other side of it. Her eyes are sprays of cherry flowers now. Her antlers are branches. “Anyway, cherry trees are all the same. They make it easy to get around.”
“That…” doesn’t make sense, False wants to say. But her lips are heavy, and coated in sticky sap. Maybe it doesn’t really matter.
“Oops! Behind you, False!”
Gem’s chirped warning is flaked in glee, and False turns around, as slow as if her feet are buried in soul sand.
The creepers she had seen—the entire sneak—are standing behind her, pink flowers blooming from their eyes.
“Oh no.”
The boar’s blinded head snaps toward her voice, hissing. He starts to aggro, bioluminescent streaks flashing from his snout to flanks in increasingly-swift pulses of light.
“See ya in season ten, False!” Gem cries out cheerfully.
The axe drops from False’s nerveless fingers, trailing strings of sap. She smells the inescapable stench of burning gunpowder, overlaid with rot.
“...Dangit.”
[FalseSymmetry was blown up by a creeper]
~*~
Jerking upright in her own bed, False swipes wildly at her face, trying to smear away tree sap that isn’t there.
“What the heck, Gem?” she exclaims at her empty base. Her voice falls flat, swallowed up by the sky that surrounds her builds. The clock above her head ticks impatiently, and she huffs in frustration, pushing up out of her bed. All her tools, gone—her levels, gone... and after all that she still needs those logs for the vault.
Grumbling, she starts pulling backup gear from various chests, trying to cobble together something that can get her back to the redwood grove before her items despawn—assuming they hadn’t all been obliterated by a second or third creeper explosion. She glances at the vaulter, and freezes.
It’s been completed. The crystal floats gently atop the stone pedestal, gleaming with an inner light.
And, tumbled at the base of the vaulter—abandoned, more than was needed to fill the crystal’s requirements:
Half a stack of cherry logs.
#falsesymmetry#geminitay#red said eldritch gem rights#let her be cheerful and scary too she deserves it#also there needs to be more Vault Hunter fic in the world. and more False content.#this was inspired by a post of some enormous redwood trees I saw the other day with teeny tiny people at the base of them#along with Gem's tree building -- the cherry trees in her hardcore and s9 builds#and the headcanon from hc8 and empires that she's a worldhopper#anyway this is the first thing I've really written in (over?) a year so... I'm quite happy about it.#might polish and put it on AO3 later but for now it's just for the hellsite <3#redwinterwrites#oh also excuse for creeper/minecraft worldbuilding yaaay XD
292 notes
·
View notes
Text
Boatem, on any given day, was probably gonna be two things:
Obviously, the first was “chaotic.” That surprises no one, yeah? Raise your hand if you’re surprised that Boatem was chaotic.
See? No hands. It's a thing that is known. You got your end crystals and tree wars and mountains going up over night and ravagers raining from the heavens… Boatem was the home-sweet-home of chaos. And it lived there very comfortably.
But the second trait that Boatem had, on every day that end in Y, wasn’t quite as obvious.
It was "secretive."
Hah. Yeah, I see your quirked eyebrow of skepticism. Look buddy, I had a bird’s eye view of the whole thing and I can tell you this for sure: the only reason none of those morons got caught out in their big secrets was that they were all too busy being cartoonishly self-conscious to notice literally everyone else doing the same thing.
That thing being, specifically: pretending to be human.
Yeah. You heard me. Human. Pretending. As in: none of that lot are human in any way, shape, and only occasionally in form.
Take Mumbo for example. Dear old Mumbo Jumbo, my personal nemesis—and also the member of Boatem I got to see up close and personal the most.
Lucky me.
He somehow managed to hide it right under everyone else’s nose, which I can only chalk up to years of trusting friendship mixed with a hilarious lack of awareness. His shapeshifting abilities have never been more unstable than they were in Boatem—maybe it was the chaos bleeding through, or the way that world was a bit unstable even from the very beginning… Either way, he turned into a living potato right in front of all of them and they barely blinked.
A potato.
Night after night I had to listen to him pacing around in his storage room, muttering to himself about how dangerous it was to be a shapeshifter living with a bunch of humans. How he was putting a lot at risk and what fibs he was going to tell to play it off as some sort of joke or prank. I started keeping a scratch tally of how many times he said “Oh dear. Oh dear."
I ran out of space about two weeks in.
But it’s not like any of his neighbors were going to notice anyway. “Living with a bunch of humans,” my big wishbone.
Human. Hah. Right, like “human” Pearl—the alien who ducked her feathery antennae in her hair any time someone came around, who floated around her base like gravity was frickin' optional? Pearl, who nearly got caught with her antennae out every time someone ran past and jumped like a skittish rabbit enough to raise anyone’s suspicions… Except her clueless Boatem pals.
Or “human” Scar, who never even hides his vexy teeth when he grins, but somehow everyone acts like they don’t notice. Maybe he uses some sort of glamor on them—not like I’d know. Magic is ticklish territory for my type. All I know is that for someone who loudly proclaims to be human—a thing no human has ever actually had to do—he didn’t go to much effort to act like one.
And then there’s that Impulse guy. I’m not sure what he is, but the one time he got close enough to peck he nearly roasted my tail feathers. Plus it seemed like all you had to do was say his name and he’d just… show up.
Downright creepy if you ask me. Not like no one ever does. Don't bother talkin' to the guy who has a view of everything for 18 chunks--no, just blame him for your dumb redstone door breaking.
Anyway. The one Mumbo seemed most desperate to hide his “secret” from was… that other one. I don’t even like to say his name, to be perfectly honest with you but I know you know who I’m talking about. The wing-appropriator. The merry prankster. The one who watches you with eyes so dark you never know where he’s looking.
And people say I have beady black eyes.
I don’t even know why Mumbo bothered trying to hide it from Gr… from him. Or why he was trying to hide what he was from the rest of them. Or how they never noticed the extra pairs of wings that would sometimes flutter about, or how he always saw when people were trying to prank him—even if it looked like he was asleep.
But I’ll admit it was hilarious watching them dance around each other like a couple of hens avoiding a creeper—except both of them were hens and they each thought the other was a creeper.
Somehow—somehow—none of them ever noticed the others. Who needs camouflage when you've got friends this oblivious? Anyway, come on—we all know none of them would actually care if they revealed their precious secrets.
I kinda hope they never do, though. Five best friends, none of whom are human, all convinced that they're the only alien-vex-demon-shapeshifter-thing-nonhuman in the bunch?
That's a joke even this bird-brain can appreciate.
#it's 2:30 why am I posting this at such an ungodly hour#hermitcraft#boatem#hermitcraft s8#redwinterwrites#the narrator is that chicken that plagued Mumbo's mountain#if you hadn't already realized lol#just feeling some boatem things tonight#and saw a story prompt that went#“Four roommates are extraterrestrials who... believes the other three are normal humans”#and I got inspired XD#also I just watched like 3 hours of RatsSMP and Oli's voice is in my head#so this chicken has the voice of Oli Oriansound and if you read it with his garbage rat voice it's even funnier lol#boatem village my beloved
568 notes
·
View notes
Text
Rendog dreams.
"So you're trying the whole king thing again, huh boss?"
He's standing on the balcony of the Crastle and he whirls around, snatching the tiny crown off his head as if he's been caught doing something shameful. "Martyn?"
Martyn leans against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and one foot propped up on the doorframe. He's got a smirk on his face and an arrow in his throat.
"What?" he asks, raising one eyebrow the sardonic way he always does, apparently unbothered by the fatal wound. "Surprised to see me?"
"To be frank," Ren says, disbelieving, "Yeah?"
"I heard my old boss was setting up as head honcho again." Martyn shrugs. "Couldn't miss out on that."
There's crimson staining the grey edges of the Hand's smile, and his once-emerald eyes are flat and glassy. Ren swallows down a feeling that's somewhere between guilt and horror and guilt over feeling horror.
"It's... good to see you," he manages, turning the tiny crown in sweaty circles. His thumb catches on the prongs holding the emerald in place. "It's been a long time, bro."
A shadow darkens Martyn's grey face and he looks past Ren, into the cloudy sky beyond. There's a storm building on the horizon. "Yeah," he says, and some note in his voice makes Ren's fur stand on end. "I don't... get out much, these days."
A moment of awkward silence hovers over them, and Ren finds himself itchy with restless frustration. They never used to have awkward silence. Whether it was him mumbling enchantments or Martyn going over lists of assets, whether it was Ren trying to explain the oddities of Hermitcraft or Martyn telling hilarious stories that got progressively more unbelievable but he swore were true... Silence had never been the sound of Dogwarts.
"Why?"
Ren jumps when Martyn's voice breaks the silence like a hammer to glass. "What?"
Martyn pushes himself upright and takes a step closer, letting his arms fall to his sides. It's not threatening, but Ren finds his feet shuffling backwards anyway. He clutches the crown tighter.
"Why again with the king shtick?" Martyn's dead eyes drill into Ren's soul. "One fallen kingdom isn't enough for you?"
Ren swallows, reaching one hand behind him to feel for the edge of the balustrade. "I... I dunno, man. I guess—I guess I thought maybe I could... do better this time."
Martyn huffs an unamused half-laugh. "I mean, you could hardly do worse."
That stings, and Ren can't stop himself from wincing. "I'm sorry, Martyn, I didn't mean to—'
"No no—sorry." Martyn holds up one placating hand and Ren sees the dirt and blood caked under his nails. "My bad. That sounded a bit harsh, didn’t it.”
“You’re not wrong, though.” Ren’s shoulders sag and he looks down at the crown. “We never stood a chance back… back there.”
“We could have won,” Martyn says, and Ren looks up to find him tensing his jaw. “You could have tried.” The arrow in his neck trembles.
There's blood staining the front of his shirt, Ren notices distantly. It's still wet.
"To what ending, dude? The two of us go head-to-head on Black Heart Altar?" Ren gives a nervous laugh. "Nah, man: that game only had one winner. And it was never going to be us."
They stand in silence for a moment, the mountain wind blowing between them.
"I fought for you." The words are out before Ren consciously thinks them, and he flinches at the way they fall from his mouth like stones.
Martyn tilts his head. "You did," he agrees, but it sounds like an accusation. "And I fought for you."
"I would have given you that victory." The confession is heavy, weighted with truth and resentment.
Martyn doesn’t look surprised. “Yeah. I know you would have.” I wouldn’t have done the same. He doesn’t speak the words, but Ren hears them anyway. Martyn’s a pragmatist—he’d have fought for everything he was worth. Like he had a world to gain or lose—though Ren shudders to think what living alone in that blood-soaked world would have been like.
He thinks he knows why Grian jumped.
The stone railing under his hand is cold and pitted, the marble worn by wind and time, and he can feel the wind curling up from the valley below, ruffling the fur on the back of his neck.
“Do you think you can do it this time?” Martyn asks. He takes another step forward, and it takes everything in Ren not to move away. His Hand is within arm’s reach, his grey skin papery and dry, and his cracked lips forming the question with what sounds like idle curiosity but feels like a threat.
Ren deliberately relaxes his fists. Martyn is not a threat. Not his Hand.
“Do—do what?” he manages, throat dry.
“Keep your crown.” Martyn raises one hand and reaches to touch the tiny crown with the tip of one finger—delicate, as if he might break it. “Think you can do that, in a world with less to lose?”
In a world without your Red Army? Can you at least manage that much?
Ren no longer knows what words are Martyn’s and what are his own mind’s. “I—” he stammers, leaning back against the railing. Martyn’s eyes don’t blink, and this close he can see where the skin of his gums is pulling away from the teeth—teeth that look longer and sharper than they should.
“I think you’re trying to prove a point.” Now Martyn lifts that lifeless hand to rest it on Ren’s shoulder, a dark mockery of the casual and friendly way he always had. Camaraderie decays into menace, heavier than a dozen crowns.
“I… I am?” Words stick in Ren’s throat, dry and choking. Martyn would never hurt me. Not willingly. Not Martyn.
“Yup.” Martyn pops the ‘p’, and a wafting breath of rot reaches Ren’s nostrils. “You’re trying to prove that no matter what world you’re in, you can never win.”
Bristling, Ren straightens. “That’s utterly ridiculous—”
“You want to prove that it’s not your fault,” Martyn continues, talking over Ren like he can’t even hear him. “That if you can’t hold onto a crown here—” he almost spits the word, a spasm of distaste contorting his features. “—in a world with nothing to lose, then of course you couldn’t have done it there.”
His fingers—bony and cold—dig into Ren’s shoulder, sharp and clawlike. Ren winces, but he can’t pull free. Martyn leans close, his dead face inches from Ren’s own. The arrow in his throat presses into Ren’s chest, and his voice is hard:
“You want to prove you didn’t get us all killed.”
“Not true!” Ren’s knees buckle under the weight of Martyn’s hand, and he sags back against the balustrade. “I did everything I could to—”
“No.” Martyn shakes his head, and the hand on Ren’s shoulder moves to grip his throat. He forces Ren’s head up and back, to look up at the towers of the Crastle rising over their heads. “You didn’t then, and you’re not now. You could be a king, Ren—but you give up too soon. And who pays the price?”
Skizz. Etho. BigB.
Ren swallows, gulping for precious air.
Bdubs.
Cleo—Iskall—Joe—Scar—
He drops the crown, the heavy gold clattering to the stone floor with an ear-piercing ring. He reaches up to grip Martyn’s wrist with both hands, trying not to flinch at the cold, unyielding, dead flesh.
“Martyn—please. I’ll try—I’ll really try, I swear—”
“No.”
Martyn’s voice is as hard as his hand, but there’s something like pity mixed with the disgust and disappointment in his face.
“No, mate, you’re going to fall this time too. You already set your own trap.” He shakes his head and lifts Ren off the ground, holding him by the neck as if he weighs nothing. Ren chokes, feet scrabbling for purchase, the stone railing knocking into the backs of his knees.
“Martyn—”
“Long live the king, Ren. Better luck next time.”
And Martyn drops him over the edge.
Ren falls, reaching for his Hand, a scream stillborn in his throat.
He wakes before he hits the ground.
Rendog snaps upright in bed with a choked cry, hand flying to his chest to clutch at his heart through the thin fabric of his sleeping shirt. His pulse pounds in his ears and he can feel the telltale chill of tears in the damp fur on his cheeks and neck. In the dim moonlight, his eyes find a golden gleam across the room.
The tiny crown sits on his dresser, its emerald eye winking at him. Mocking him.
Long live the king.
He shivers. There was no mistaking the threat, spoken through Martyn’s voice.
Better luck next time.
...Next time.
#never going to be normal about dogwarts so. here. have some spooky ominous creepy halloween fare#set sometime like. two weeks ago just before the King's Labyrinth#inthelittlewood#rendog#itlw#tw zombies#<-not really? but for filtering#tw blood#tw falling#redwinterwrites
401 notes
·
View notes
Text
Rendog tucks his hands behind his head and stares up at the stars, exhausted and content. The soft crackle of torches keeping the night at bay mingles with lapping water and the sounds of crickets. Overhead, unfamiliar constellations wheel in dizzying dances across a midnight sky.
There's no crastle to block his view here. No robot muttering snarky comments in his ear. No bogeyman curse or soul-bond or red life bloodlust hanging over him. Not even a huge plan for a megabuild or a shop or a partnership.
Just... him.
Just Ren.
He takes a deep breath of the fresh, unclaimed air. It fills his chest to bursting and he's so happy he could sing but instead all that joy tangles up in his chest and just snuggles cozily around his heart.
He's happy, in a way he hasn't been in months. No pressures. No goals or checklists or milestones or invisible benchmarks to measure against.
Maybe you've been given a second chance, Pix had said. But a second chance at what?
There's something... something about this place. It's got a solidity to it. Unclaimed territory for sure, but it doesn't have the rawness he's used to in new worlds. This place has age, an ancientness that intrigues him... And, oddly: a faint familiarity. As if he might cross the next mountain range and find a desert town with a saloon, or a city built like a circuit board, or a black tower rising from a plain of lava.
Second chances, he thinks, closing his eyes and savoring the warm weight of the woolen blanket on his chest and the soft river breeze on his skin. Don't get those super often.
Can't wait to see where this one goes.
#i dunno what this is but it's midnight so. writing ren hours i guess#rendog#hermitcraft transcendent#redwinterwrites#red writes fluff sometimes
236 notes
·
View notes
Text
follow me home
a third life fic by redwinterroses
"A green-lifer killing someone wasn’t supposed to happen and the game code doesn’t know what to do with it, so when Martyn helps Ren become the Red King… things go wrong. With Ren not respawning and Grian unsure why, Martyn has to venture into the Nether in hopes of saving the Red King from falling…forever."
[AO3 link]
13 notes
·
View notes
Text
It was... really cold without the walls of the ranch to hold back the night.
Jimmy curled up tighter in the still-half-standing corner of the main building, the comforting shuffle of the cows on the other side of the gate keeping him from feeling quite so miserable. He was shivering from the tips of his floppy ears to the tuft of his tail, and was strongly considering moving into the stall with the cows... but the faint smell of manure wrinkled his nose and he just tugged his jacket up around his ears, wrapping his arms around his torso. The cows were warm, sure, but he had no desire to sleep in a cow patty.
Man, he was cold though.
This was probably definitely entirely his fault. He wasn't sorry about stealing Scar's horse -- that had been hilarious and well deserved. But... he really did feel bad about the ranch. He hadn't realized until Tango ran headlong into the flames how much the blazeborn actually like... cared about the place. It wasn't a gorgeous build or anything, after all. Tango himself had mocked how "amazing" it was. But... I mean, it was ours, ya know? There weren't many things one could lay a claim to in these death worlds, as transient as they were.
Jimmy's mind flickered back to a flower valley and an angered king... He had a habit of bringing disaster to the homes others built.
He shivered again, a draft needling in through a gap in the planks and cutting across his back.
"Jimmy."
He quickly closed his eyes and tried to relax. He didn't... he didn't want Tango to talk to him. Scold him, comfort him, tease him or act like it didn't matter -- he just wanted to sleep.
"Jimmy, I know you're awake. What are you, four years old?"
Reluctantly, Jimmy opened his eyes and looked across the room -- what was left of it -- at Tango. The blazeborn was leaning back against the opposite wall, a pillager banner draped over his knees and his arms crossed over his chest.
"Sorry," he said, the word coming automatically to his lips.
"Sorry for what?" Tango's voice pitched high, incredulous. "For being awake?"
"For, ya know..." Jimmy untucked one arm to gesture at the roofless structure around them. "This."
Tango waved dismissively. "We'll fix it," he said. "Make it better. And then we'll go burn Scar to the ground -- it's all good." Most of the anger was gone from his face, but at the name "Scar," Jimmy saw a flicker of red pass over Tango's eyes. It was gone in an instant, though, and Tango tilted his head questioningly.
"You're cold," he said. It wasn't a question, but Jimmy hesitated before answering anyway.
"...Yeah, a bit," he admitted. "It's fine, though."
"Nah, nah, nah -- you're keeping me awake, cowboy." Tango lifted the banner and made a little hey get over here motion with his hand. "C'mere before you shiver hard enough to call up the warden."
Jimmy blinked at him for a moment. "What?"
"Look, I'm basically a walking space heater." Tango's impatient voice was offset by the little grin that quirked the corner of his mouth. "Anyway if you catch a cold I get a sore throat too and that I will make you sorry for."
Jimmy hesitated a moment longer... then pushed himself up from the corner and crossed the room, sliding down the wall to sit at Tango's side. Even from half a block away, he could feel the warmth radiating off his partner.
"Thanks," he started to say -- and then tensed when Tango scooted closer and threw one arm around his shoulders.
"Don't make it weird," Tango said with a grin, giving Jimmy's hair a rough tousle. "But also, you're welcome."
He flopped his head back against the wooden walls of the house and closed his eyes, heaving a long sigh. "Sleep tight, Jimmy."
For a long moment, Jimmy could only sit, tense, under the weight of Tango's arm. But the long day was catching up with him, and as Tango's fiery warmth sank into his bones, he found his eyes drifting shut.
Just a nap, he told himself. Just to warm up. Then I'll go back to my spot...
And if morning found them both passed out, half slumped against a charred wall, with Jimmy's head drooping against Tango's shoulder... well. At least it wasn't a cow patty.
#team rancher#tangotek#jimmy solidarity#dlsmp#dls2#dlsmp fic#redwinterwrites#don't tag as ship#long post
409 notes
·
View notes
Text
Am I rereading my own fic?
...maybe.
But maybe you, too, are in the mood for an epic battle between primeval good and evil, featuring Empires s1 characters in a spinoff fantasy from the Xornoth arc? Maybe you have a hankering for some elf!Scott whump, some banter between Count fWhip and the Codfather? Some prophet!Pix Copper King plagued by visions? Some dark!Sausage and wizard Gem and giant battles of gods?
Maybe not. Might just be me. Anyway here's a link if that tickles your fancy. :)
#redwinterwrites#not a tag I've used recently#i love this fic and I'm only slightly embarrassed to admit it#also. copper king beloved
38 notes
·
View notes
Text
Cold Comfort
a third life dogwarts fic by redwinterroses
"In the aftermath of the Red King's rise, Martyn has a dark night of the soul. But Ren trusts him -- foolishly, dangerously -- and dares him to trust himself."
[AO3 link]
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Last Night
a third life fic by redwinterroses
"The three people who experienced Scott's final death in 3rd Life… and the one who was waiting for him after."
[AO3 link]
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Wild Hunt
a third life smallishbeans fic by redwinterroses
"He were born out of flames and fire and smoke, y’see. Born when he died, t’be fair, but born in fire all the same. ‘Twas the Grave Maiden what set his roof aflame, she an’ her undead hoard, and of course the Trickster was there as well—fat lot o’ good that did the Wolf King. But he chose his bed, and he laid in it, and we all reap his dreams thereafter."
[AO3 link]
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
another hero, another mindless crime
a third life grian fic by redwinterroses
"Control of Grian's brainchild - the 3rd Life SMP - has been stolen from him by the faceless Execs. What should have been lighthearted fun has turned into an unending nightmare as each time players lose their red life, their third chance… they get dropped right back into the beginning of the game. They have to escape the server - but how?"
[AO3 link]
5 notes
·
View notes
Note
Ok, so I just saw your post about the Desert Duo inadvertently setting up in Pixandria and then my brain decided to make it sad with the fact that means Jimmy dies in a land that was friendly to him in another life.
Jimmy always feels... strange in Pixandria. There's something about the horizon line that always feels so weirdly familiar, but just off... Like seeing someone in a crowd that you think you recognize, but then getting a better look and realizing they look nothing like the person you thought they were, and you're not really sure why you thought that in the first place.
He's safe here, he knows. Pixlriffs is a fierce and loyal ally, and the sands of Pixandria welcome him always. And yet... and yet there's a feeling of dread in spite of the friendliness. Something he can't quite place.
He asks Pix about it once. Well, not really asks.
"This desert is weird," he says, as they lean on a low sandstone wall and sip honey-sweetened water from leather flasks. The slime delivery has been fully unloaded, and they stand in the setting sun, letting the warm desert breeze dry the sweat from their cheeks.
"How so?" Pix asks, curious.
"I'm... I dunno, really." Jimmy tilts his head and squints at the horizon. "I just feel like I'm forgetting something every time I'm here. You know that nagging feeling that you left the smelter running or something? It's like that. But the whole place."
Pix squints at him, then his eyes go unfocussed and he does that spooky, far-away thing he does sometimes. Jimmy looks to the side, uncomfortable, but it doesn't last long—Pix can be "away" (what they collectively termed it, without really discussing) for hours some days, leaving whoever he's with to gently lead him into some mob-proof shelter. But this was only a few seconds before the haze faded and Pix took a deep breath.
"Ah," he said. "Yeah, I know the feeling you mean."
And that was that. Jimmy had a nagging suspicion that Pix knew exactly why the desert set his hindbrain to itching, but the copper king didn't offer and Jimmy found he couldn't ask. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know.
Maybe it was just that every time his feet sank into the sand, he thought of red eyes and dynamite hiding in the dunes and a bunker waiting to doom those it meant to protect.
Maybe it was just that the heat radiating off the sand felt more suffocating than warming. That he could remember what it felt like for those hot grains to grind into his knees as he knelt, peering through a narrow gap toward an oncoming army.
Maybe it was only that the heat that made his throat ache with phantom pains every time he landed on the sandstone roof of Pix's manor, causing him to rub at his neck and the small, star-shaped scar that sat in the hollow of his throat.
Or maybe, he thinks, as he trudges up the final dunes of a ruined and abandoned Pixandria, the desolate Codlands dead at his back, it's something even worse than that.
To the south, a flower forest beckons—familiar in the worst way. He sets his steps toward it, with the vague notion of "home" niggling at his mind. Sand was already drifting up the unfinished walls of Pix's great Anthill, filling its hollow center and slowly being buried—a strange and unnatural mountain in the middle of a dead desert.
A shiver runs down his spine, and he wonders if it's possible that the old superstition about chills from someone walking over your grave were true.
And he wonders if it's possible to walk over your own grave, a thousand years before it was dug.
#this has sat in my drafts for like three weeks BUT I finally have the writing brain back so—#jimmy solidarity#empires smp#3rd life#the timey-wimey-ness of this hurts my brain but basically empires and 3rd life happen in the same world#just that 3rd life was the future and empires was the past—which makes it really weird#imagine remembering your own death in your own past but it takes place in the far future of the land you're walking through#redwinterwrites#redwinteranswers
242 notes
·
View notes
Text
And today! The chapter that inspired @kiwinatorwaffles' amazing art.
#i'm sorry please look at this it's the most amazing and ominous thing#also i want mumbo's coat#it's so freaking cool and makes the whole chapter feel more epic i can't get enough of it#mcyt mdbb#redwinterwrites
103 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Widow's Revenge
a third life smajor fic by redwinterroses
"Jimmy's third death leaves Scott untethered, ashen before his time, his grief simmering into a murderous darkness. The Red Army never stood a chance against the cinder-touched survivor of the Flower Kingdom."
[AO3 link]
5 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
downtheschizoaffectiveroad
This Sadness Is Everlasting ...
picrewyuurei
A Picrew-Obsessed Ghost
lizbotw
washed up in austin
thanalisk
yes