#Hermitcraft Home of the Gods

[mcytshipsandmore]

Hello Tis I, the skizzpulseza person, here to terrorize this blog >:)

I shall spread my propaganda everywhere :)

I will beat you. I will beat you with my bat.

I know you irl fr 🫵

[scopop08]

So sick thinking about the hermits getting ready to leave Empires. I know they've been there a while and have to go home but. Man.

Jimmy's rancher never came home.

Even when he built their house back for him with his bare hands, saying I want you to be here. I want you to be mine like you were. I love you like I did the day I lost you. I want to share my empire, something that means everything to me, with you.

Tango is never coming back.

[raisans-art]

More dancing hermits?

I will fucking lose it if anyone brings up HermitCraft to me ever again.

[pixiemage]

(You know, I imagine this will be corrected in a later episode, but...)

In all our heartbroken daydreaming about the inevitable HCxEmpires crossover conclusion where Jimmy would wake up in Tumble Town one day and remember that Tango left for Hermitcraft and they had to say goodbye, I don't think any of us imagined that Jimmy would be the one dropping into Hermitcraft while Tango was left behind. Who had that on their bingo card??

[fluid-person231]

Another art dump becuz I keep forgetting that I put art on here 💀

also I wanted to show off some of the things I did on google slides that I did for an assignment I had to do

and some of this stuff is from some art tober prompts that I did. I’m doing cringetober, goretober, inktober, and tmnt-tober!

[grimm-the-tiger]

Misadventures with Google Translate

I put Life Series quotes through Google Translate too many times. Please help me, I can't stop.

The Names

Bdubs -> Bduby

BigB -> Capital B

Cleo -> Language

Etho -> line

Gem -> Decoration

Grian -> Shooter

Impulse -> Road

Jimmy -> Jimmy

Joel -> Hurrah

Lizzie -> Lizzie

Martyn -> Martyne

Mumbo -> Explosives

Pearl -> Beer

Ren -> Ren

Scar -> Right

Scott -> Scott

Skizz -> Writing

Tango -> Background

The Watcher -> Inspector

Some highlights

Scott: this house Jimmy: And street. [Original line: "It's home?" "Home."]

Language: Be good to me: die for me. [Original line: "Do me a favor: Die for me."]

Lizzie: And I left this world the same way I entered it: troubled. [Original line: "And so I left this world just as I had entered it: confused."]

Shooter: Scar, I think we are spirit descendants and you are too busy catching fairies!! [Original line: "Scar, I think we're soulmates and you're too busy chasing fairies!"]

Scott: They tear up carpets and kill farm animals. It immediately burst into lava. [Original line: "They break carpet and kill cows. And they mine straight down into lava."]

Language: Look, if you have a lost father, you might lose it? [Original line: "Look, if you're gonna be an absent father, could you be at least absent?"]

Scott: Our theme is ABBA's summer house, is it there now? Dead metal?! [Original line: "Our theming was once Cottagecore ABBA, now it's what? Death metal?!"]

Martyne : Tell me something before you go. Why are you attached to the sun? Inspector: Hmmm... HE. It was never meant to be. He just wanted to look. [Original line: "Just... tell me one thing before I go. Why were you so set on Grian?" "Hmph... HIM. He was never meant to be there. He was only ever meant to watch."]

line: I'm a good person to have someone light my tree. [Original line: "I was a good person till somebody burned down my tree."]

Decoration: God, that seems like a recipe for anxiety. Yes I am. [Original line: "God, that sounds like a recipe for angst. Yeah, I'm in."]

Lizzie: Follow it! No friends! [Original line: "Ha! You've got no friends!"]

Beer: Something bad is happening here. [Original line: "Something wicked this way comes."]

Shooter: Here we show our true truth? For yourself or for someone else? Are we all excited? [Original line: "Is this where we show our true allegiance? To each other, and no one else? We turn on everyone?"]

Background: It's not fair, it's not fair, I'll come back to it. [Original line: "This is unjust, it's excessive, and I will return."]

Capital B: No holes! [Original line: "There is no hole!"]

Some notes

I thought it'd be funny if the translations I used were all into languages I either knew off the top of my head that the creators speak or are official languages where they live. This got really convoluted really fast, because Ren was the only person I could think of who speaks a language other than English and I completely ran out after French and Scottish Gaelic, so I added languages spoken by Hermitcraft members instead, then threw Maori on for good measure because New Zealand's close enough to Australia (sorry, New Zealand) and I couldn't find any aboriginal Australian languages on Google Translate. So the translation order roughly went Afrikaans -> French -> Scottish Gaelic -> German -> Swedish -> Polish -> Maori -> English.

Ren's line "Red Winter is coming, me laddie" line got translated as "The red winter is coming, my lady." Honestly, it still kind of works?

"Watcher" got translated as "Inspector", which gives me the mental image of Inspector Gadget in a Watcher costume.

I don't know where the extra e at the end of Martyn's name came from.

I don't know why Etho's name is the only name that got translated into lowercase.

The fact that Mumbo's name somehow got translated as "Explosives" made me start cackling as soon as I saw it.

There were several points where Grian's name got translated as "The Sun" instead, probably because "Grian" is the word for "Sun" in Irish and Scottish Gaelic is from the same language family, so they probably share the same or a similar word.

"Soulmate" somehow got translated as "Spirit descendants". I'm pretty sure it's because it got split up into its component words; "Soul" corrupted into "Spirit", and "Mate"...I honestly don't know.

I translated a grand total of one line from Bdubs, and for some reason when I translated the document back to English, that one line stayed stuck on what I'm pretty sure is Maori except the word "Boogey", which stayed exactly the same.

I'm genuinely surprised by how many lines stuck remarkably close to the originals. Aside from his name, one of Joel's lines ("Where's the fun in that?") somehow survived perfectly intact, and one of BigB's lines ("There is no hole!") got pretty close ("No holes!").

I think the best part about this is that you can tell how and why Google translated some things the way it did, and then others you're just left completely stumped about how the hell it happened.

[hermitcraftheadcanons]

Bdubs is a sun god in another world. Grian is a sun god in another world as well. Neither of them are the official sun god of Hermitcraft, which of course means they both have their powers. It is not an odd occurence to see the sun hanging in the sky in the same place for hours, or bouncing across the sky in some cosmic game of ping pong.

The official sun god is Mumbo. No one knows how this happened, including Mumbo. He doesn't even have any powers from it!

Grian is a sun god. Mumbo ate his soul. therefore, Mumbo also became a sun god. without a world already bound as his domain, he latched onto the one he called home.

-Mod Mleem

[silverskye13]

Mind control tanguish?? (i was gunna offer time loop for the hell-raisers as another one, but ut canon is Basically a time loop aint it SO!! Make tanguish do something wild)

Helsknight hummed tunelessly under his breath as he cooked dinner, piling some chicken and mushrooms into a pan to fry. He didn't know when Tanguish would be home [every trip to Hermitcraft was a gamble, when it came to time] but he figured whenever the little pest came home, he would be hungry. Besides that, Helsknight was hungry, so he might as well do something about it. Worst case scenario, he would just reheat a plate for Tanguish on the furnace when he got here. Or threw away wasted food. The point was he was hungry, so it wasn't wasted time at least. He pulled some flour out from a cabinet, frowning down at it and wondering what his chances of making a decent gravy were.

[Gravy was the bane of cooking. It either turned out like wallpaper paste, or it turned out like soup. Rarely, when every god and saint turned their greatest blessings on Helsknight for a moment, and every star in every heaven aligned, and every angel and allay and fairy-dust creature held its breath and crossed it's fingers, he would make a passable gravy.]

Helsknight sighed, tossed a few spoonfuls of flour into a pan, and resigned to try his luck. He didn't feel very lucky today, but then again, any day he made gravy, he didn't feel lucky, even if it did taste good in the end.

"I should learn how to bake," he grumbled to himself, eyeing the little bag of flour dispassionately. Tanguish would certainly appreciate it, and it would be cheaper to make a batch of muffins from scratch, instead of buying them from a cart four times a week. Helsknight stirred his fledgling gravy absentmindedly, waiting for the flour to brown, and considering his chances of finding a half-decent cookbook the next time he went to the market. Behind him he heard a clatter of claws, the unmistakable noise of Tanguish stepping into hels. A soft breath of chill dampened the room like a breeze. Helsknight threw a glance over his shoulder.

"Hey, what's your opinion on homemade--?"

Instinct made Helsknight slam to the side as Tanguish propelled himself over the kitchen island, Helsknight's rondel dagger in his hand. The point dug itself into the wall over the stove at about chest-height, a very intentional, very lethal lunge. It missed him by a decent margin; Helsknight was quick, even when he was caught off-guard. That one look over his shoulder, and years of Colosseum training and instincts, had saved his life.

Anger, hot and baffled and electric, raced through Helsknight's chest. He backpedaled towards their little dining table as Tanguish yanked the dagger out of the wall. He needed distance, he needed room to move. [He needed a house that wasn't so saints-damned small.]

"Tanguish, what in hels--?!" Helsknight managed before Tanguish was lurching for him again, a sharp, quick, dagger-pointed shadow dappled in flickering stars. Helsknight snapped a hand out, trying to bat him aside, only for Tanguish to duck nimbly beneath his outstretched arm. The dagger stabbed in towards him again, and Helsknight barely twisted away in time.

"Tanguish! Stop!" Helsknight shouted, confusion and adrenaline crashing together in his chest, muddling up his instincts. His training, his impulse, his experience in the Colosseum, demanded he fight back. He was unarmed [why would he stay armed and armored in the safety of his own home, when he planned to stay in the rest of the day?] but that didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. He knew a few ways of disarming someone with his bare hands, and he knew how to punch, and kick, and break bones. But his louder, conscious mind screamed at him this is Tanguish! He can't break Tanguish.

Tanguish didn't give him long to be horrified by the thought. He was lunging again, arrow-quick, and this time when Helsknight jolted backwards the blade nicked his out-flung arm. He didn't know if he was proud, or if he regretted how sharp the blade was -- his training had come in handy.

[It was marvelous really, how deadly his little pest could be when he put his mind to it. Helsknight had always thought Tanguish learned more than he let on. He was simply too scared of causing harm to use it. But he wasn't scared of causing harm now. No, he seemed hels-bent on shredding Helsknight where he stood, and he didn't know why.]

"Could you at least tell me what the hels I did to bring this on?" Helsknight demanded, a grin writhing across his teeth. It was something he knew intimidated people, intimidated Tanguish. There was something about baring teeth while fighting that seemed dangerous. If Tanguish cared, it didn't show, and he didn't respond. He just crouched low and gazed back at him, eyes half-shut in something like concentration. It gave him the look of a sleepwalker, and Helsknight didn't like it. He was used to the wide, curious, cat-like gaze, glittering in dandelion yellow.

"Tanguish?" Helsknight breathed, taking advantage of the pause. "Look, I don't want to hurt you--"

Tanguish lunged again when he was mid-sentence, something that might have killed him, if he hadn't seen Martyn do it a thousand times. Even with that knowledge, he almost reacted too late, side-stepping and slamming a heavy palm into Tanguish's shoulder, tossing him off-balance. Helsknight let out a short breath through his nose when Tanguish regained his feet, undaunted.

"I'm not running away," Helsknight said witheringly, dashing for the door. He could feel Tanguish following like a wasp over his shoulder, more the impression of danger than a true knowledge of what he was doing. Helsknight ducked out the door and managed to yank it shut behind him before Tanguish could follow, and was treated to a heavy slam as Tanguish tried to follow. Helsknight held it shut for a second, trying to figure out -- trying to figure out anything.

[Would Tanguish try to break down the door? Surely he couldn't. Even as... weirdly determined as he was to harm Helsknight, that wasn't something he was strong enough to do, especially with Helsknight bracing the other side. But the house had windows. Would Tanguish care about glass? It would cut him to ribbons. He could seriously hurt himself if he -- why was he worried about Tanguish jumping through a window? If the little idiot wanted to deal with a face full of glass--]

Helsknight released the doorknob and stepped aside. He needed to get that knife away, pin him still, preferably without hurting him too badly. His guts gave an uncomfortable squirm.

[How bad is too bad? And why? Why was this happening? It wasn't just strange, it just wasn't Tanguish. He didn't have a dangerous bone in his body.]

The doorknob clicked. Helsknight pressed himself against the wall, hiding behind the door as it swung open. He just needed a few seconds. He was stronger -- that's all he needed. Tanguish stepped onto the street, and before he had the chance to look around, Helsknight lunged forward and wrapped his arms around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He lifted Tanguish off his feet, trying to keep the thrashing feet from kicking anything.

"Tanguish, I need you to--"

Tanguish's head snapped back suddenly, slamming into Helsknight's mouth and nose. He swore, and his grip loosened, and Tanguish's sharp elbow dug itself into his side hard enough wince away some of his breath. A clawed foot came down on his ankle, and then Tanguish was twisting, and Helsknight, whose only objective narrowed into [don't get stabbed you fucking idiot] drove a punch into Tanguish's sternum. Tanguish's breath left him in a whoosh, and he curled in on himself a little, some sense of self-preservation kicking in. But he didn't cry out in pain, and he didn't drop the knife.

A lancing, twisting feeling darted through Helsknight's guts. It was a feeling so unfamiliar it was nearly foreign, hard to place, and hesitant to name. Dread. Dread as Tanguish turned that sleepwalker's gaze on him again, re-positioned his dagger to continue fighting. His tail gave a contemplative lash, a cat figuring its best approach on a bird, and it had been a long, long time since Helsknight felt like prey. Dread made his mouth dry, closed his throat, blanked his already reeling thoughts.

[What should he do? What could he do?]

Helsknight took a hesitant step back. Tanguish's eyes narrowed, and glittered blue.

[Blue? Blue. A little ring of blue, like a clear, winter's morning, ringed his yellow iris. That hadn't always been there. He knew the color of Tanguish's eyes.]

"Tanguish, talk to me," Helsknight said, taking another hesitant step back. "What happened? Whatever it is, we can fix this. I promise."

Tanguish let out a slow breath, and the blue ring around his iris seemed to flicker, then flashed brighter. Helsknight swore again as Tanguish pounced. He caught Tanguish's wrist, and might have even considered breaking it, had Tanguish not twisted out of his grip in the second of hesitation he gave in to. Helsknight's perception narrowed to the point of the knife as he dodged it, sidestepped it, and then spun on his heel and ran.

Helsknight needed time to think, needed time to figure out what was, whatever was happening. And he was faster than Tanguish. Even if he couldn't fathom harming him, he would always be faster. And armor-less as he was, he felt unnaturally fleet, near to flying. He was down three blocks, into an alley, over a wall and two more blocks over before he stopped, panting, to check for pursuit.

"I'm not running away," he breathed again, to himself, to his Saint, to Tanguish. He wasn't. He just needed time. He just needed to pull himself together, to figure shit out, to stop shaking. To stop shaking? Helsknight looked down at his hands, at the tremor starting. He swallowed hard.

[Okay, he was a little freaked out. He was allowed to be a little freaked out. His best friend was trying to kill him, and he didn't know why, and apparently the veil between "Nice Normal Tanguish" and "Silent Death-Machine Tanguish" was unnervingly thin. And Helsknight wasn't used to someone trying to kill him assassination-style, through dogged pursuit and bloodless silence. He was used to arena fights, and occasional back-alley brawls, where things were loud and obvious and made fucking sense.]

"I'm going to kill him," Helsknight hissed, stealing down the alley as fast as he dared. He didn't know who he was going to kill. Whoever had done this, maybe. Certainly not Tanguish. He hadn't really tried, physically he thought he could, if he'd just commit. But he had no weapon, and his options for killing his best friend [one of a slim handful of people he would gladly die for] were all slow and grim and painful, and not something he would inflict on anyone willingly.

[He would just have to evade, and try to knock some sense into him? But head wounds were difficult. The margin between unconsciousness and death was illusive, and he was a knight for helssakes he didn't bludgeon people. He was so ill-equipped for something like this, it was staggering. But why would he be equipped for his best friend randomly trying to kill him?]

There was a sound. There must have been. The whisper of breathing. The slide of claws. The crackle of gathering frost. Something set Helsknight's hair prickling, the gooseflesh on his arms raised.

[The rooftops.]

Helsknight didn't have time to look up. Suddenly a weight fell on his shoulders, and he was slamming to the ground. Tanguish's hand dug claws into the back of his neck, his knees dug into his shoulders. Helsknight twisted his whole body as hard as he could, wrenching his elbow back to slam into Tanguish's side. He flipped over, throwing Tanguish off him for just a moment. He got an arm underneath himself, tried to scrabble backwards, boots digging into tiles. Tanguish lunged on top of him again, and Helsknight threw a hand between them. A noise escaped his throat as the knife slashed through the webbing between his thumb and his forefinger, but he managed to wrap his fist around the hilt.

Tanguish was on top of him, bearing his full weight down on the dagger, trying to drive it into his throat. Helsknight clenched his bleeding hand around it, while is other arm scrabbled at the cobblestones, and through the haze of half-panic finally found its way around one of Tanguish's wrists. They were too close. He couldn't make full use of his longer arms, his strength, his leverage, and while his feet scrabbled, Tanguish's long tail twisted out for balance, and he held firm.

There was a buzzing starting in the back of Helsknight's mind, a panic he wasn't used to. His hands shook. His hand was bleeding, and it had to be his hand, didn't it?

[Note to self, Tanguish had laughed once, Helsknight is weak to hand wounds.]

He couldn't pass out. Little sparks and stars crowded his peripheral vision, his awareness narrowed itself to the space between his hands, and the slickness of the dagger, and the tear in the webbing between his fingers, and how stupid that was. A Colosseum gladiator, a knight of Blood and Steel, laid low by a flesh wound.

"Tanguish, you don't want to do this," Helsknight grunted, his voice buried beneath the buzzing of panic and his heartbeat in his ears. "You don't want to hurt me."

Tanguish threw his shoulder forward, and the twist sent tearing pain through his hand, and his grip slipped dangerously. Every muscle in his body tightened in dread and desperation, and he screwed his eyes shut as he clenched his bloody fist tighter. An undignified wince of a noise squeezed its way out of his throat, but it was better than screaming.

"Okay! Maybe you want to hurt me. Fine." Helsknight grimaced. He could feel the blood from his hand dripping onto his neck. A dangerous foreshadowing of just where the blade was aimed. "Tell me why. Tell me anything."

He managed to crack an eye open, to blink away the blooming stars. He gripped the knife and a spinning world in his bloody hands, and clung to consciousness and life with equal fervor. And Tanguish watched him, impassive and cold, that little blue ring a persistent chain around his iris. It reminded Helsknight of something, something that made his stomach twist. It took a moment to place a coherent thought to the feelings, a long moment where he breathed and shook and bled, and Tanguish watched.

[Wels. The open sky blue of Wels's eyes. Ice dagger blue. He clawed at his memory for any way that made sense, and in his flailing finally remembered what Tanguish had said about those golden, inescapable commands. How far could they compel? Surely not this far. Surely--]

Helsknight swallowed hard.

[Right. He just needed to break the command. That was all. That was all.]

Helsknight reached into himself for any lie of calm, any ghost of reassurance. He tried to steady his voice. Tried to force command, and calm, and certainty into his words. Stilted and shaky, and hoarsely whispered, he half commanded, half pleaded.

"Tanguish, let go of the knife."

Above him, Tanguish blinked. The pressure on the knife didn't relent, nor did the blue ring around his iris.

"Please let go of the knife."

Tanguish's fist balled tighter, and as it did the knife twisted just barely. He felt the burning in his hand, and Helsknight lost his words behind pain that should have been insignificant, and stars and noise in his head.

"You're scaring me," Helsknight whimpered, and then managed more firmly. "You don't scare people. This isn't you. You don't want to do this to me."

He searched Tanguish's eyes again. Was that a flicker in the blue? He couldn't tell. He couldn't tell.

"Helssakes," he swore. His hand grasping Tanguish's wrist reached up to grab the back of Tanguish's head, fingers tangling in his hair. He wished he could force Tanguish to focus, to center that sleepwalker's stare on something other than his general direction. "If you're going to kill me, look at me."

Tanguish blinked again. There was a shimmer in his eyes, and Helsknight winced as a tear dropped onto his face. A grim smile worked its way onto his teeth. No, that blue ring hadn't flickered. Tanguish had simply started crying.

"You're not going to kill me." Helsknight whispered. He closed his eyes, and his voice was a prayer, and it was a command. "You're not going to kill me."

He couldn't tell how much of the shaking in his arm was from him, or from Tanguish. He couldn't tell if the pain in his hand was from pressure, or from the wound. But he knew this was hurting them both, and he needed it over with, one way or another.

"You're not going to kill me."

Helsknight had been killed by wounds to his neck before. The Colosseum was a terrible place to die sometimes. He told himself he could bear it. Told himself if the pain came, he would try to hide the terribleness of it. He wouldn't gasp, or scream, or any of the other horrible, dramatic thrashings a person could do when they bled. He would make himself small and silent. He would respawn, if he could, and he would find his way back here, and he would find a way to fix this. Helsknight released Tanguish, and, eyes closed, braced himself for whatever happened next.

He couldn't stop himself from flinching when a few more teardrops fell on his face. But the blade didn't come. Helsknight dared to crack an eye open.

"Tanguish?"

Tanguish moved, and Helsknight stiffened, only to relax again when the blade clattered to the ground beside them. Helsknight let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and before Tanguish could scramble away from him, or devolve into a blubbering mess, or shake apart or fall under some new spell, or any of a thousand other things Tanguish could probably do, Helsknight wrapped his arms around Tanguish's neck and dragged him into a hug.

"Helsknight--"

"You idiot," Helsknight snapped, crushing Tanguish against his chest. He had the grace to drag them over to the side, so he couldn't bleed quite so much on both of them, but when Tanguish squirmed he held him tighter and refused to let him go. "Don't scare me like that again."

"H-helsknight I'm s-"

"You're sorry," Helsknight interrupted him, screwing his eyes shut, suddenly scared he was going to start crying too. From relief. From the ridiculousness of whatever had happened. From the closeness to disaster. From how angry he was that Tanguish felt the need to apologize. "Gods. I thought I'd lost you."

Tanguish had the audacity to laugh, a miserable hiccup of a noise that tangled itself in growing sobs, and muffled itself against Helsknight's chest. "You thought you lost me?"

"You were so quiet," Helsknight said, feeling dread lance through his stomach like a knife wound. "It's like you weren't even there."

"I was there," Tanguish whispered, his fists balled into Helsknight's shirt, like he could somehow cling closer. "I was there."

"Of course you were," Helsknight murmured back. "Of course you were."

[dmwrites]

Cecil: Birds of a feather stick together. But if that bird loses its way, it will be lost forever. Welcome… to NightVale.

[intro song plays]

Cecil: Listeners, today I have a guest with me here in the studio! Intern Vincent found our guest wandering in the desert as he was driving to the station this morning, and I jumped at the idea of having this guest on our show! So, why don’t you introduce yourself, mystery guest!

???: I’m… Grian. My name’s Grian.

Cecil: Well, welcome to our small community radio show, Grian! Listeners, Grian is-

Grian: Did you say listeners?

Cecil: Why yes! All of our wonderful citizens of NightVale, even the secret police, are listeners of my show!

Grian: Oh… never mind.

Cecil: As I was saying, listeners, our wonderful, if a tad interrupting-y, guest Grian is wearing a torn red sweater, black pants, and closed-toed shoes. I must say, that’s quite a fashion statement, Grian! Not too many people would wear a sweater in the desert. You must not be from around here!

Grian: I… no, I’m not. I’m not quite sure how I got here… I just… I thought I could escape the desert if I walked far enough.

Cecil: Well, as long as you’re not from Desert Bluffs, I’ll call you a friend! Eugh, Desert Bluffs, am I right? But speaking of Desert Bluffs, let me remind all of you that our half-a-millennia traditional triathlon against Desert Bluffs is almost upon us! Volunteers, taken from their homes at four in the morning with bags over their heads, will be competing in three sports events against our bitter rivals, Desert Bluffs. The three sports events, as is tradition, will be: bloodstone dodgeball, confronting the in-laws over broken boundaries, and pickleball. Good luck, NightVale athletes!

Grian: Did you just say, like, words? Like, genuinely, it feels like I just had a stroke. What on earth is a bloodstone?

Cecil: You know, I should have known you weren’t from around here, what with your funny accent. Where are you from, silly little man?

Grian: I… well, that’s a tough one, really. Hermitcraft? Third Life SMP? The Desert? All of them, I suppose. I really don’t know how I got here… I’m not sure this isn’t all a mirage.

Cecil: And you say I say strange things! Well, Grian, I was about to remark on how other cultures may not have bloodstones, but I just noticed all of the blood on your knuckles, and under your fingernails, and on the cuffs of your sweater, which I still do not think is seasonally appropriate.

Grian: Oh god. I thought I scrubbed it off with the sand. Scar…

Cecil: While we figure out the mysteries of the blood here in the studio, and Grian stares down at his hands in horror, let’s take a look at traffic. There is a man with a clock. He stands. He smiles. He will never stop smiling. They will call him a traitor someday, but for now, the traitor lies dead, the present he gave in the hands of that smiling man. They do not know that the clock, golden in its edges, will bind them together in ways they can’t even understand yet.

Grian: Scar is- Scar was my friend. I promised my life to him.

Cecil: I’ve promised my life to someone too! But it was marriage, to my beautiful Carlos. I love Carlos so much.

Grian: Scar… god, he was such a blundering fool, but with a heart and voice of gold. I didn’t think he’d get as far as he did, but we just kept getting away with it. We didn’t think about the end.

Cecil: What did this Scar wear? This is a audio medium, after all, Grian, and I must describe everything to the listeners.

Grian: He didn’t wear much, like, ever. Super annoying, too many abs.

Cecil: There is no such thing as too many abs, Grian.

Grian: I- sure, okay. Can I get back to my story now?

Cecil: Yes, please do! I am sure everyone, especially the secret police, are very interested.

Grian: I killed him with a creeper first. It was a prank, a mistake, but it really cemented the idea that this wasn’t all fun and games. It felt like fun and games for a long time, even after he died for the first time. It wasn’t until-

Cecil: And now, a word from our sponsor. Listeners, are you tired of having a perfect dog? Does your dog-food photo perfect dog leave you the laughing stock of the town? Do you ever wish you could put an imperfection on your dog so you could just fit in? Now you can, with warts! Just put warts on your precious pooch, and slide blissfully back into the dreary backdrop of life while walking them on their leashes. Dog Warts: because nothing can stay perfect forever.

Grian: I… I had to kill him. They- the ghosts of all of my friends, they told me there could only be one victor, and I… god… we stood in a circle of cactus, so we couldn’t leave, and we fought with our fists. I kept hitting him and hitting him and, god, Scar was never the best at fighting… and we were both laughing and I was crying and there was so much blood… it took so long for him to die, Cecil, and all I could do was keep hurting him, so he wouldn’t suffer. And then I was… alone. I said I was sorry, but he couldn’t hear me. No one could hear me anymore. I had won, but at what cost?

Cecil: That’s very dark! Uh, listeners, our guest Grian has a tear running down his cheek, and I am afraid he may burst into outright sobbing! To save you from that audio nightmare, I take you now to the weather!

[Howling by Lupus Nocte plays]

Cecil: Listeners, Grian is gone. He has left the station. He ran out, muttering something about “never being able to escape the desert”… whatever that means. Maybe we should stop inviting random people we find on the side of the deserted road with blood on their knuckles into the studio… but I am afraid that’s all the time we have for today, listeners. Stay tuned next for a canary, stuck in a cage made of bones, singing sadly for none to hear. NightVale, hug your loved ones close tonight. You never know what may happen next. And good night, NightVale, good night.

[space-apples]

i buried my teeth in everything good

hi chatters sorry for dying. thanking @dakedo0o @loveroped @angeart and @sunieraes for beta-ing i appreciate you <3

here it is on AO3 x

and if you want to read it here you can do that !!

He’s succeeded his task, and the wind was faintly blowing in his ear, almost sounding like laughter.

He’s succeeded his task, and the sun was just peeking over the mountains. He didn’t even realize he’d gone the whole night without a blink. 

He’s succeeded his task, and the cold air was gnawing against his skin. He could hardly care anymore. 

Win Secret Life. Win Secret Life. Win Secret Life.

He was drowning now, and felt the familiar sense of life being drained from him before arriving back at the Secret Keeper. He stared at it coldly (everything was cold.)

A skeleton was somewhere in the distance. It was shooting at him, but Scar couldn’t be bothered to care. The arrows buried themselves into his skin, but as he bled and whatever remaining life source once again drained out of him, Scar didn’t recognize the pain as much as he should have. All he really felt was numbness, a fucked up sense of relief. He closed his eyes, exhaling softly, wishing, hoping, praying for release.

If he died now, he would be gone. He would be free. 

Of course the Gods above cared too much about their entertainment to let him go. So when he opened his eyes, the arrows were gone. The only mark left that showed they were ever there were the scars. More to add to the collection, he supposed, bitterly staring up at the Secret Keeper statue. 

Scar wanted to scream at it, to get TNT and blow the stupid thing to dust and rubble. 

He pressed the button once more, wildly, angrily, and cursing so much that a sailor would cringe away. 

Win Secret Life, it said. As always. He did win. As always. 

Pressing the button over and over again wouldn’t do anything, but he did anyway, something in him snapping. Only getting more desperate and upset with each hit as it gave him more and more books. He didn’t care that his hand was getting splintered, that a nasty bruise was starting to form, that he felt it breaking. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care about anything anymore, he couldn’t focus on caring. Scar just wanted to go home. 

He didn’t even realize when he started rapidly hitting the stone instead, putting so much weight and force into his attacks that the button had broken. When he paused long enough to realize, he swore he couldn’t feel himself breathing anymore. The books were splattered around, his hand was bloodied, and his legs crumbled from underneath him. 

Scar prided himself on being resilient, only crying once or twice after a Life Game. But seeing his own blood on a half beaten rock where the button should have been, feeling the cold air biting at his skin, the awareness that he was irrefutably alone, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to do anything in order to go home, shattered any resolve he so wished to keep. 

His hands didn’t seem like his as he laid them, shakily, gently, carefully, on pedestal once more. His whole body shook, wracked with impending doom. He was sobbing, he realized, though the tears never seemed real. None of this seemed real. He couldn’t breathe through it, and some sick part of him hoped that it would continue, that his body would finally collapse and allow him to be detached from this world. 

But maybe he deserved this. 

Maybe with how many people he killed, how many people he made suffer, this was his punishment. A permanent loop, a permanent limbo, forever cursed to be alone. 

Maybe that was the reason for his time here; showing that his destiny, his purpose, his fate, was to be on his own. Where he grew up, it wasn’t exactly an option to talk with other people, and perhaps he got too comfortable in Hermitcraft. Last Life should have been his reminder, his push in the right direction, but he wanted the interaction. The comfort of being near someone was too tempting to turn down. Yet the bite of cold he felt constantly growing up in the apocalypse, it was the same he felt on that horrible mountain in Last Life. It was the same he felt now. He couldn’t escape it, no matter how many blankets or campfires he had, just like how he wouldn’t ever be able to be relieved of the crippling isolation that threatened to overflow and drown him. 

He didn’t know when time started to blur even more, he didn’t know when he started to feel so numb that it felt like he couldn’t move his legs. He couldn’t care for it. He wasn’t sure if he was capable of doing just that. The sun was blaring, it might have stung to look at, yet he just kept staring upward, blankly. There wasn’t much else he could do, anyways. He broke the button. He probably broke his hand too, but he was floating too much to really register it.

He didn’t notice when his legs became anchored to the ground. The hope that the possibility of his opponents (they were friends, they were friends, they were friends) cared enough to come back, to check in on him, was of course foolish. They wouldn’t. It should have bothered him more, and maybe some part of him was uneasy. But a bigger part of him was tired. 

Now, his legs didn’t just feel heavy, they felt like stone. 

And that’s when he noticed he couldn’t sit up. That everything was so much colder. That he was so much more aware of the world. He could make out every grass blade being eaten by grazing animals, the fish wading through the waters, and he didn't even flinch at the desperate snarling of the Undead– the zombies. They were hungry, ravenous, and all he could really do was shift his energy away from it. 

He still felt like he was being stared at, yet he couldn’t detect the stare of the Secret Keeper anymore. It bothered him in the back of his mind. In the dark corners, it felt more than simply wrong. His eyes felt sluggish, but somehow he knew he wouldn’t be able to close them. Now he had to watch, to feel more than the ground below him, the suffocating air around him. It was dark. It was bright. It was hot, but so so so cold. 

All he could do was stare into the sky, watching the sun reach into his peripherals and watch it fade away into a cold night, stars tracing each speck of his vision. It should have been the only thing he saw. He didn’t know how he saw everything. But the statue wasn’t there anymore, it wasn’t watching along beside him. 

He tried to regard it as a good thing. That he didn’t have to feel that prying stare bear into him. But all he could think was that he was now those intrusive, intense, invading eyes. It wasn’t that it was gone, it was that he took its place. He didn’t know if shattering that stupid button was the cause, but he didn’t even mean to break it. He had just wanted to go home.

He can’t even think of how he’d do that now. He barely remembers the faces of his opponents. No, no, they were his friends. Yes, his friends. He couldn’t remember the faces of his friends. They were all muddled and blurry, just like the memories of their time together, hardly resurfacing when he tried to remember. He remembers a boat pole? Bluebells— no, that wasn’t right. He couldn’t frame it correctly, but akin to. A flower of sorts, poisonous to something. He remembers vague things about vexes, though they were just a– a mob with no real significance. He can’t quite... God, why can’t he remember. They were his friends, he said it himself, they were kind and funny and. He wished he could remember more about them other than their bloodshed, than their violence. There were pieces he was missing.

(He misses them. He needs them. He doesn’t know why he’s here, why he’s had to isolate and disconnect from everyone he knew for the sake of Watching. But it isn’t his job to question it, if he could even do such a thing. At least not anymore.)

Time passed on, he knows it’s passed on. There’s little, in this world at least, he doesn’t know at this point. But as far as the people who are gone, the people he killed, he doesn’t know where they are now. How long it’s been for them. He knows there’s not much he can do about it. There’s not much they can do to save him. He thought, he hoped, the numbness was back.

He didn’t know how much he even felt anymore, he wasn’t sure he was capable of feeling. So why, why, is there so much dread in the pits of his stomach. Why is there nausea building in his body, his head throbbing with a migraine. Why did his fear come back all at once, his disquiet of being so utterly alone solitary abandoned abandoned abandoned being seemingly worse than before. It’s not like it ever left, but if it did, it came back stronger than it ever was prior. He didn’t mind being numb, really. He half-heartedly wished for it back. He vaguely realized in his mind he won’t be going home anymore. And this wasn’t at all what he wanted. To be trapped in a never ending loop of pain and pressing buttons was hardly on anyone’s bucket list. He didn't even know what he wanted now, other than to simply rest. 

Though now he figured this was why he was here. Why wouldn’t they want someone already contiguous to not one soul— someone so bloodthirsty— in their grasp. Playing their sick games until he could only regurgitate futile means of escaping. Watching for them. Commanding for them. Succeeding for them. Maybe he should have felt horrified at the prospect, and maybe he did, but if it wasn’t at the forefront, he could hardly be expected to feel anything other than that flooding sense of numbness. Maybe he didn’t want to be here. Maybe he did. It didn’t matter now. He had a job to do. 

He succeeded his task, and it was then he noticed the button on the stone pedestal was back. It was nicer than the old one. Engraved in markings he recognized. It was the traditional Elven designs that coiled around harsh stone, though he could already feel the connection to his identity fading away.

He succeeded his task, and yet when he tried to reach out for it, he couldn’t move his hand anymore.

He succeeded his task, and now he’d be making sure when others came along, they’d succeed too. 

He could vaguely remember that he was Scar, but even that was fading from his mind. Now he was the keeper, the beholder, the Successor of the thing that was here before.

.

. 

. 

.

.

They had no idea how long they were trapped in there. They tried to glance around, and though they could technically see, they couldn’t See, not how they were used to. They didn’t wish for it back. Or perhaps they did. But the harsh transition made it difficult to look around at all.

They knew they were not envious of their replacement— though it was still hard to grasp that they could feel, really feel again. The sensations latched onto them like they'd always been there; like it was coming home— but they couldn’t remember anything to match it, or anything at all. It had been too overwhelming to have so many of them, to notice and detect sensations other than stone and that icy cold that swallowed them whole.

 It had been far too long to even remember their name. They were trying awfully hard as well, to remember the identity they had left behind. Before all the buttons, before all the colored names and hopeless faces showed, before all the cravings of violence just to get a sick taste of what being angry meant. They had a life, surely. 

They looked down at their new body. This one couldn’t have been their old one– Staring into the reflection they remembered the face of their Successor, eyes still red and running rampant on Red Life urges. They weren’t in that world, and yet. They wondered if the bloodshed would ever stop.

 It was rather warm here, they noticed, but for some reason they could still sense that bite of cold they felt as the Keeper. 

They didn’t quite know where they were, but they could hear someone approaching. They almost expected a button to be pressed, for them to make a request. Of course that didn’t happen here, and instead a voice called out. 

Excited, concerned, afraid, afraid, afraid—

“Scar, oh my god.” The person, upon seeing them, ran over much faster than they had expected. And to their own surprise, they recognized their– her– voice. She was hard to forget, really, because admittedly, she was one of their favorites. The Newbie, the first to truly find the End in their domain. (Their old domain. It wasn’t theirs anymore.) One with such promise, such potential. Of course now they’re rather glad she didn’t win. “Scar, where have you been?”

They forgot they were in place of the Successor, they forgot that was even his name. They tried to open their mouth to respond, but it turns out after spending what felt like centuries with their mouth made of literal stone, it was a bit harder to get words out. They were sure it’d be raspy anyway, from the misuse.

They remembered her name now, and vague recollections of Scar’s memories came back from when they Saw him. Her name was Gem. 

Gem frowned at his silence, and Scar– not Scar, they’re not Scar– tensed, worried that they’d already be found out within five seconds. 

“I won’t– I won’t push you into talking, Scar,” she said, to their surprise. She surveyed them with such concern that it made them discern… something. Guilt? Embarrassment? She continued, spurred on by them remaining silent. “It’s just– you’ve been gone for almost, uh, two months now. I think.”

They didn’t have to pretend to shudder at the time frame. 

It had been way longer than just two months.

Honestly, they really did try getting their mouth open to speak, to demand, but all they could manage were raspy grunts. Gem winced, yet kept her relatively calm demeanor. 

“It’s okay, I don’t want to force you.” She reaches over slowly, maybe so that if they wanted to back away, they would. They didn’t. It could have been because moving was so unknown, unfamiliar. Or because they regarded Gem as more than just trustworthy; as safe.

The touch burned before it felt like a regular mortal being was actually holding them. She gently encouraged them to move forward, for them to follow her, a smile now plastered on her face. 

 “Come on, Scar, let’s get you home, yea?” 

Home. 

In their last moments before the Successor took over, they remembered his last thoughts were wistfully praying that he’d be let go. Back to wherever here was, where they could pretend his past was long gone and have fun and play— not dangerous— games. Where they could have just a little company. 

The memory made them feel like something was twisting in their gut, their throat closing up with such a tightness it felt like they were forgetting how to breathe. They didn’t remember what that feeling was. But they needed to get rid of it, and Gem’s words were so warm, such a drastic change from the icy wind clawing at each part of them, threatening to freeze them over. 

Gem’s offer didn’t seem to hold the same malice, but when they tried to see into it, see her intentions, they were swiftly reminded their abilities were no longer with them. The similar sensation in their gut came back, and it screamed and yelled at them to run, to get far away. Logically, though, if they were to run, Gem would most likely catch them a lot easier than they’d like to admit. They were not used to having legs that— more or less— work. And if she wanted to kill them she would have already done so. 

So they nod, following her carefully after she takes her hand off their shoulder. She let go, and it still felt like it was there, still felt like it was burning, still felt like it was there to keep it burning. Gem’s touch wasn’t bad, at least they didn’t think so. They hadn’t had any contact with anyone or anything for so long, and perhaps that was why it felt so sudden. So much. They tried to trail behind her as best they could, only becoming more overwhelmed with each step. 

They’re not familiar with so much of this, so many textures, so many potential people around, so many so many so many—

It wasn’t her fault, really. 

She just kept leading on, adding little comments here and there. It was hard to keep paying attention to her when she wasn’t the only one making noise. Grass crunched from underneath them, water was crashing a little while away, Gem’s armor was rattling against itself with every step, there were probably people in the distance, not bothering to keep their voices down. 

Their vision got blurry after a while, their legs felt like mush. They didn’t think it had been that long, though that didn’t make them feel better. They could barely make out Gem’s face, her antlers being the only thing that they could really see. 

Everything was spinning around them, going too fast. Or it could have been that they were going too slow. It hurt to keep their eyes open, but the worry that if they closed them now, the worry it’ll be like before made them try so very hard to not blink.

And despite their best efforts, they felt the impact of hitting the ground before anything else.

And despite themself, they knew their eyes were rolling back into their head. 

At least it wasn’t everything all at once, but now it was— once again— nothing. 

.

.

.

.

They woke up, not expecting to be able to feel the softness of whatever they were laying on. They were laying down as well, a position they hadn’t been able to be in before. Though they half expected to be frozen like that, it was certainly a lot more comfortable now than it used to be. They didn’t try to move, at least not for a while, unsure they even could. 

They were talking about them. Not them. Well, maybe it was them technically, but it was still about Scar. The Scar they knew.

“—Just overwhelmed, maybe,” a voice— they could recognize once more as Gem— said, most likely contributing to a conversation that had already started. “I don’t know. He’s been gone for months.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m aware, Gem.” 

Grian. That voice belonged to Grian. They didn’t have the same excitement towards the man as maybe some of the Others did. They didn’t want to like Grian, and as much as They tried to make them favor him, they had leaned towards Gem. 

They thought she’d be smart enough to figure it out. Clearly, they had thought wrong.

They still weren’t moving, afraid to even try, and instead waded through the waters of their mind, through every crevice of newfound sensations, newfound thoughts. It still felt they weren’t their own, as if they were still rifling through someone else’s head. 

They couldn’t tell if they still felt like it was burning, and they were once again worried they were back there again because even with however many sensations their body may have been experiencing, it still felt so far away. 

They realized they were shaking. 

Which was good, they thought. Good that they could move, at least. They couldn’t think much of anything else when trying to refocus on Gem and Grian, whose voices had become slightly raised. 

“That’s not what I meant,” she huffed, inhaling sharply. “I am glad he’s back, I was just— concerned.”

“We all had this after the first Death Game, Gem. Scar shouldn’t feel more violent than, you know, he usually is.”

“But his eyes— even if they weren’t red— they were so empty.”

“Winning a game can be a lot. And Scar was by himself that whole time, even before his, uh, extended hiatus. I think we both know that Scar being alone isn't his favorite thing in the world.” 

“You— Okay, I can see that. I mean I think the Death Games can be a lot for anyone, just on its own. But sure.” She let out a long sigh, as if she hadn’t taken a breath throughout that entire conversation. “I care about him too, Grian. It’s not just you.”

They were both silent for a moment, and for a small second, they thought they had walked away. That was until Grian spoke.

“I know.” His voice was so soft, almost a whisper. “I know. I just— Let’s just make sure to make something fun for when he wakes up. Or at least a cup of water.”

Gem lets out a hum of agreement, and they can’t help but feel that pain in their chest. One that seems bad at first, yet seems to feel more comforting. Even as they hear the door being opened and closed, it remains.

It’s a feeling that, although they barely remembered anything, they know they craved and strived to have it. The feeling of being cared for, of knowing that you’re cared for. 

It was ridiculous, especially as they weren’t even Scar. It was only a matter of time before they found out, before they kicked them right back out for very justifiable reasons. And yet it was hard to deny the temptation of staying, just to feel wanted for even a little while. To have a connection with a real person, a real being. They know it won’t last, as things usually do, but they didn’t see why they couldn't savor this. 

It’s not theirs to savor, they know this. But there’s no one else to provide that connection to them anymore. Even if there was, they don’t remember. It’s frustrating how much they don’t remember, how much they remember about Scar more than they remember about themself. 

They knew they should say something, but the thought of being cast aside was enough to replace the feeling in their chest with a much heavier weight. 

They knew they weren’t Scar, but for now, they could pretend. 

They knew they would be forced to leave eventually, but for now, just for now, they could stay.

[secretsandwriting]

HELLO!!!, can I request a etho fanfic

So this is not hermitcraft but the life series, so I would like the secret life one. like etho got a task but it involves reader, they have to like they both have to kill 2 or 3 warden together, but unfortunately the reader died, but the reader will respawn tho. if you dont want to make it secret life you can do it in hermitcraft, but it will change a few, BUT ITS FINE, That it! I dont know if you get it or not😭😭 but I hope you do get it🥲🥲, THANK YOU💜 LOVE YOUR WORKSS🫶🏻🫶🏻

I got this in April, i'm sorry it took so long!! I hope you see this anon!

Anyways, this has a hint of the hermits being borderline god mentioned bc I love that so much. So many emotions too...

Death Games and Wardens

Etho wasn’t sure how to go on about this, He had to keep his task a secret but it involved you. He stared at the book in his hands.

Kill two wardens with Y/n. Neither of you can die.

The thought of you dying sent a pang of fear through him. Logically he knew that if you died, you would respawn and if you lost your last live you would go back to your home server. Which was hermitcraft, the exact Server he would return to. 

Respawning was bad on a good day, but on a Server with rules that didn't follow Players normal code and instead added some, made respawning even worse. He didn’t want you to go through that. 

“Etho!” His focus was torn away by you. He couldn’t help but relax around you, even when playing against you in death games. Somehow, you brought comfort to him no matter the circumstances. The book burned in his hand as he remembered what your task was. He saw your book in your hands and a nervous grin on your face. “You got a good one?”

“Let's go somewhere private.” You nodded and followed him to the border. Etho glanced at the two sentences in his book and signed. The fear of you getting hurt was back and growing stronger. You broke the silence, apparently he waited too long to start.

“Does your task involve both of us?” He nodded, the sick feeling in his stomach growing. “Good my task does too… Now.. Is yours something we have to do?” Another nod and more stomach pains. “Ok, this is my task.” You handed him your book and he opened it.

Etho’s secret involves you. Do it with him and guess what it is to finish.

Etho may read this book.

He somehow hated this more. You didn’t even know what you were getting into. That meant more room for mistakes and mistakes would lead to a very fast death. You were oblivious to his dilemma and just waited for him to figure it out, assuming he was just trying to figure out how to go about this. The expression on his face was very abnormal but these were death games, they put everyone on edge and filled them with stress.

“Are you ready?” Etho’s head jerked up to look at you. “We only have so much time after all.” He sighed and nodded. He really wanted to come up with a fake task but he knew you wouldn’t like that.

“We need to gear up.”

Fully geared,you followed Etho do into a cave, when the shrieker went off, you hesitated. This wasn’t looking good. This had to be a hard task and probably involved wardens. Something you avoided no matter what. The sound of the Shrieker going off a second time had adrenaline pumping through your veins and terror settling in your bones.

“Etho,” You whispered. “Is the task to summon a warden?” 

“No, but that's your closest guess so far.” You were starting to understand Etho’s hesitation and strange looks. The shrieker went off a third time, darkness filling your vision and the sound of a warden spawning filled your ears.

“It’s over here,” Etho whispered. You weren’t sure what to do until you saw Etho launch himself at it and attack it with his sword. Pulling out your bow, you shot it with arrows both to lower its health and to help Etho out of any sticky situations by drawing its attention away.

To focused on the fight, you didn’t notice the second warden spawn or it approaching from behind until it was too late

Y/n was slain by Warden

Etho’s attention on the warden shattered when he saw the death message and another warden standing in the middle of all your items. His hesitation cost him some hearts but he managed to get away and took the surface without them following. Rushing to spawn he looked around, desperately trying to find you and make sure you were ok. He found you not too far away, sitting on the ground looking a bit dazed.

“Y/n!” Etho grabbed you and held you close. “I’m sorry! I should have noticed! I shouldn’t have let it happen!” You sat in his arms, letting him ramble at you while you readjusted  after a hard respawn. When you finally got yourself together, you listened to Etho’s rambles, pulled yourself out of his grip, and slapped him hard. Etho immediately stopped and jerked back to look at you.

“Pull yourself together!” Etho immediately took a deep breath and squeezed your hand. Once he was calm, you continued. “Etho, I'd respawn no matter what. You know that. If I didn't respawn here, I’d be back on hermitcraft. If I wasn’t there we have enough people that are almost gods on the server I'd be found and brought back.”

Etho shuffled forward and dropped his head on your shoulder, he wrapped his arms around your waist and his shoulders shook with sobs. You ran your fingers through his hair while your other one rested on his back, you slowly rocked side to side. From your spot you could see a few of the red names started to surround you.

Your communicators buzzed with the 5 minute warning but you knew you wouldn’t make it until then. Not with the intent in Gem’s face as she came closer. She paused and pulled out her communicator and typed for a second before flipping it so you could see the message to Xisuma letting him know to expect you. Something only done when one of the players was having a rough time. She smiled when you mouthed a thank you and slipped it back into her pocket before lifting her sword.

Etho was slain by Geminitay

Y/n was slain by Geminitay

Waking up on hermitcraft was disorientating. It always was when you respawn from another server due to death. Your communicator buzzed with a message from Xisuma.

Xisuma: Did you respawn ok? Gem messaged ahead, she didn’t specify who

Y/n: Yeah

Y/n: Etho was having some trouble at the end. Did he respond?

Xisuma: No, I was just about to go check on him.

Y/n: I’ll do it. I’ll let you know if anything went wrong with his respawn.

Xisuma: Ok

You got up from your temporary bed at your mega base and made sure your elytra was equipped before shooting off to Etho’s base. You searched the entire place, the only sign of Etho was the messy bed and his communicator on the floor. So you took a gamble, instead of flying you ran down the path leading to your starter base. Looking for a mop of white hair along the way. With no sign of him along the way, you looked through your house. Stopping in the doorway of your room to see Etho sitting on the floor next to your bed.

“Etho.” He didn’t seem to hear you. “Etho!” You tried again, nothing. Carefully, you moved towards him, making sure to go slow. When you were close enough, you gently rested a hand on his shoulder. He jerked out of your grip and looked up at you.

“Y/n!” He launched himself at you, pulling you close and holding you tight, relief crawled up his spine as he clung to you. “I thought you were gone.”

“I just respawned at my mega base. I told you I would respawn… Come on, let's lay down for a bit.” You managed to get Etho into your bed and when he relaxed you sent a message to Xisuma.

Y/n: Etho’s ok, just the death part of the death games messing with his head.

Xisuma: Ok, take care of him. Let us know if you need anything.

With that out of the way, you put your communicator away and decided to get some rest. Maybe when you woke up, the two of you could figure out what you were. But for now, you were tired.

Etho x Y/n shippers

Geminitay: I kinda felt bad, Etho was clinging to Y/n when I killed them. I mean CLINGING

Xisuma: Y/n went to help Etho right after his respawn when he wouldn’t respond and then let me know he was ok.

Xisuma: What happened?

Grian: So I might have purposely messed with their secrets so they had to work together. I forgot it might have been a bit traumatic.

ImpulseSV: What were their secrets?

Grian: Ethos was to kill two wardens with Y/n and not die and Y/n’s was to help and guess what it was.

Xisuma: Etho is literally laying on top of Y/n in their sleep

Geminitay: THEY'RE SLEEPING TOGETHER

Grian: THEY’RE CUDDLING???

Xisuma: [Image]

Tangotek: You think they’ll actually talk this through after this or not?

You two did not in fact talk about it afterwards. Both of you just acted like it didn't happen and the group chat with every hermit except the two of you were outraged

[cheapposts]

Scar wakes up and gets to live another day.

It feels so weird. So wrong. Wasn’t he supposed to die in the end? Scar is pretty sure he was. He saw it with his own eyes: every winner before him died in the end. But for some reason, Scar didn’t.

At first he was confused. Maybe there’s been some kind of mistake. Maybe he’ll drop dead any minute now. But then a day came by. Two days. A week. And no god struck him down with a lightning. Scar was becoming more and more weirded out by that. He tried taking matters in his own hands, but no amount of jumping from a cliff to his death led him to freedom. He respawned again and again, wearing the same clothes with poppies and lilacs, having the same red eyes looking back at him from the river, staring at the same shade of red his name had every time he took his communicator in his hand and typed, "Hey?", "Anybody alive?", "Hello?", because what if the reason why he’s still alive is that he’s not actually a winner yet? What if there’s another player, and all he has to do to end this is to find and kill them, or let them kill him? But he never found anyone, and two weeks after the day he won, he stopped searching.

Three weeks after the day Scar won, he already had a new house going on. He settled at the edge of the map near mesa. "Screw this," he figured, "I’m not going to just wander around the land for months if the gods forgot to kill me. I’ll do things!" And things he did. After he was done with his new house, he fixed his old base, and tore down Mumbo's tower, and built a couple of things here and there. It was nice.

The next week was spent relaxing. He tended to his crops and fed cows he’d stolen from someone (not that the person would mind; they were dead). He died once that week and woke up in his bed again, but at that point it was starting to feel normal.

Five weeks after the day Scar won, he finally had to admit that the gods were not going to kill him. That for some reason, they decided to trap him there. Or maybe that’s what their idea of a happy ending was, maybe Scar happened to become the winner of the final game, the final round, and this was his reward. Maybe all the other players have gone home. Maybe Scar’s the only one left behind, and they live on without him.

There was no use in thinking about possibilities. It was only upsetting him. No - terrifying him. Instead, he took the matters in his own hands once again, and paid a visit to The Secret Keeper.

"I don’t want that," he said to it. "If this is my reward, I don’t want it. I want to go home. To Hermitcraft. Back to my friends. Back to where they’re alive."

The Secret Keeper didn’t seem to react. Scar felt his chest heat up with rage.

"Get me out of here!" he yelled, voice wavering. "You psychos! I- I miss my cat!"

The Secret Keeper didn’t answer.

Scar went home, laid down on his bed, and spent the evening thinking about Jellie's warm fur and his friends' smiles.

Scar wakes up and gets to live another day.

[insomnya777]

From: Etho [Hermitcraft]

To: Joel [Empires]

It's been two days, thirteen hours, and forty seven minutes since I got back home. I haven't really done anything since. I've just been thinking about you. And me. Us.

Sorry. That's probably weird to read. I don't even know if you remember me.

Anyways. Hi.

I miss you.

I never realized how lonely I was before I met you.

I don't know what I'll do if you don't remember me.

God, I sound pathetic.

Read on AO3

[astrowarr]

always so bittersweet to see the end of a hermitcraft season, but god is it exciting to think about the sheer amount of creativity that'll be IMMEDIATELY reinvigorated for these people. my GOD do they always deliver every season

just saying, if anyone is new enough to hermitcraft that they weren't present for the start of the season, the energy in the creators and the fandom at the start of the new seasons is SPECTACULAR!! get excited, get hyped!! think about all the crazy and impressive things these people are gonna build. who's going to build close to who? will they have a spawn with all their starter homes? what will they build? what new mini games and shops and redstone attractions will there be

WAHH ITS SO EXCITING I CAN'T WAIT

[babygirlbdubs]

Hello Technoblade voters!

So, your guy lost to the GoodTimes. Maybe you don’t know who to vote for now. I mean, if Technoblade isn’t immune to the good times… who is?

I propose to you: Ethoslab.

Now, if you don’t know who Etho is, lemme give you a rundown.

he’s one of THE og minecraft letsplayers. your favorite minecraft youtuber? yeah, etho is probably one of the reasons they got into mcyt. etho is your favorite mcyt’s favorite mcyt

he’s faceless, and has been for his entire 12+ year youtube career

he has only changed his skin once or twice in those 12 years, and the most recent one was to remove the extra face on his torso because he didn’t know how previously

that skin is literally just kakashi naruto

etho is a god at redstone. he basically invented half the redstone that’s used today. hopper clock? that’s etho’s. i mean… he’s invented a storage system that lets you search for a specific item. it’s called the googler because it’s basically a search engine.

he is an absolute NERD (/aff) and insanely smart

he is genuinely kind to his friends, and has a very sweet yet mischievous demeanor. though, even his friends will call him mysterious

he’s canadian so like… arctic/antarctic solidarity… right?

he has spent many many MANY years perfecting a PVP arena game called Battle Bane. look it up. it’s insane.

actually, all the minigames he’s made are pretty insane. and most of them involve death. i mean. he had one called Hurtin’ Hermits where the whole goal was to kill the other hermits as much as possible and enact chaos

I could go on and on about Etho and what he’s like. HOWEVER. I think it’s more interesting to tell you how he’s portrayed by the fandom.

etho tends to be portrayed as a quiet, broody, mysterious guy despite actually being a bit of a goofball

he’s drawn not as kakashi naruto, but more often, a hot twink that can range from sad puppy to sexy dude covered in blood in the span of a single post

some people headcanon him to be as old as the universe, and tied to the void

he has multiple popular animal traits, from catboy to bunny to most commonly arctic fox

there’s etho titty tuesday. there’s. i mean. there’s etho titty tuesday.

i mean really, just… go into the ethoslab tag and you can see all the ways he’s portrayed.

And if that’s not convincing enough, here are some things he’s done in canon to hopefully sway you.

in season 7 of hermitcraft, he had a shop called Shade-E-E’s, where people could sign other people up to basically get harassed (/lh) by Etho’s shenanigans. “Free Glass” meant panes of light grey glass hidden in all your chests so you couldn’t put things into the chest. “Gardening” meant beehives hidden throughout your base so you would hear buzzing at random. “Pest Relocation” meant spawning endermites in your home.

also in season 7, he had the shop Sneak-E-E’s, which was a secret popup shop where he undercut prices or sold rare item overstock. you could only buy while it existed, and only when you could find it. the first time it was built was up in the sky, all out of shulker boxes so it wouldn’t render in until you got close. the second time was in the unused floor of Mayor GoodTimesWithScar’s shop. scar had no idea for. a while.

in last life, he scammed scar out of a life to give to bdubs, and then promptly killed scar and stole the enchanter. oh yeah, he did it with a fishing rod, too.

in season 9, he moved into bdubs’ basement without telling bdubs

in season 9, he also started late. so, in order to catch up, he exiled himself to a place untouched by the other hermits and wouldn’t let himself come back until he was able to defeat a full raid on his own. it didn’t take him long.

in double life, he and joel were paired, and were the most chaotic duo on the server. they hunted people for sport (notably, grian and scar) and burned things down for fun. “the ship burns everything burns” chanted as they set the entire map on fire

in last life, he went around trying to intimidate people into giving him gifts and he would spare their life. pretty much everyone was instantly afraid of him.

actually, most of the hermits are pretty intimidated by etho. including goodtimeswithscar.

also, most of the hermits are ethogirls.

etho and scar end up on opposing sides in pretty much everything, especially the life series (which is a funky lil hardcore battle royale). they are traditionally enemies. they pick fights with each other for fun.

If you want vengeance for Technoblade— blood for the blood god— vote Ethoslab.

Sincerely, Ethogirls

[birrdies]

grian doesn’t want to remember. so when the sand settles, before the blood on his hands has a chance to dry, with the spectator’s words in his ears, he jumps. quick. painless. he can leave this world— and the twisted game it turned into— behind and go back home. he can forget. he can be normal again— he doesn’t have to think about the fact that scar betrayed him, that scar died, that he killed him.

only he doesn’t forget. he wakes up. he’s home. it’s the same house, same bed, same world. hermitcraft is as safe and steady as it’s always been. only grian’s the one changed. he doesn’t forget. the desert follows him. his eyes are gritty with sand, its caked under his fingernails. he tastes copper of blood in the air. and when he looks at scar— god how impossible it is to look at him— he swears scar’s skin is gray form the corner of his eye. and scar smiles at grian like he always does. but it feels emptier now. grian knows too much, and scar not enough. a wound not even scar’s smile can bandage.

he throws himself off that cliff so he doesn’t have to remember. and suddenly, he’s the only one who can.