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sirwow · 2 months ago

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I need to get out my bleeding heart for minecraft because man this game basically created the foundation and growth of my brain however rocky and I need to tell the world because I said so.

This game is a canvas. Not a empty one mind you but a canvas nonetheless. The one presented to all to begin being a world in which they’re left to learn and discover and build or destroy all on their own. Or maybe with a friend, or many. Someone’s first experience with Minecraft likely isn’t picking it up randomly but rather being told tales by others of what they weaved with the canvas they were given.

Weather that person was as quaint to just add a few additions to the canvas; a small wooden house situated inside a cool looking cave with some silly story about a creeper and a fire. Or if this person was someone you don’t really know but they put themselves out there to show their work to the world. A completely blank canvas with only one block? Why not? A downright ridiculous looking building with the sole goal of getting melons? Sure.

These stories and art is what makes this game so special. Something so stupid and mundane like a bunch of 1 block jumps with a goofy voice over and sound effects can still be such a great and beautiful thing with heart and care. We can’t understand every work but damnit I have respect for every last aspect and one. The depths of this game truly allowing everyone have some place, from leisure to mastery. I can not mention everyone but I will cover the broad strokes and their wonders.

Firstly to the builders of Minecraft. You are the forefront and most clear of your art. It is art within the most literal sense of the word, weather it is a building with intricate detail in every crevice and corner thought out meticulously. Or those of the larger then ourselves works. Organic mythical works of dragons, people, animals and more. Builds only made to be viewed once at one angle akin to a real painting. The recreations or creations of yours dreams and hopes. Or even just the humble home and village to create a story of as you survive. Creative, builders tools, survival, challenge play throughs. You’re all artists.

Redstoners. Though siblings of builders, your work lays in numbers, timing, mechanical works. Fixing issues you created for yourself when trying to achieve a goal. It may just be making the fastest door, or the largest and you’d still manage to break so many boundaries with time. Or it is those beyond my personal comprehension. You make machines capable of manipulating the behavior of the game itself by going through the cracks found over the decade of redstone. As much as it is wizardry to myself I wish someday to learn this as well if I ever choose to go down such a path. However as of now my eyes are set on another unexpected and undermined path that is next.

PVP. One much loathed by those outside it and I am guilty of such for almost a decade but as now Iv become knee deep in the waters of it myself I also see how it’s an art. Maybe more in the martial sense as obvious but it’s still very impressive what I see and understand in it now. The functions beyond “swing sword good”; a much deeper phycological game aspect to it then seen outside and understanding the intricacies of mechanics you generally give little thought to playing normally. Just how much health does each weapon do- crit or not. How fast can a crossbow reload, watch your sprint or you might just lose. On and on. Iv gained a lot of respect for it.

Parkour. Get your parkour civilization jokes out of the way- this is probably the MOST fundamental part of the game and I find it downright magical what can be done with it. I realize I’m saying that a lot but it’s 1 am shh. Anywho it’s got all its ins and outs. The ice parkour, neos, fences, drip leaf, combined redstone and timing, trapdoors and more. I’m missing about 50 here but that just goes to show how deep it is.

Off of parkour comes our good friend Speedrunning!!! Dedication and time in its most raw. Triangulation for college? Wrong! Block game. It’s a mental load to take on and the aspect of random chance and taking everything on your shoulders is persistence and patience.

And the best part of all of this? They all come together in their own ways for hundreds nay thousands of ways to play. All without touching on the deep deep well that is servers. Skyblock players, pvpers, ice boaters, niche specialists games (Cops v Crims, Bedwars, party games, tower defense, MMORPGs, one in the quiver for my old chums out there, ect) you all have my undying interest and respect in the details and depths of what you love.

So now you have the little canvas before you. Make what you wish no matter how bad. No one will create something identical to what you choose and it’s your story to paint- no matter how lame, small, boring, bad, or ugly you might claim it to be. I want it to still be made and for you to explore whatever depths you choose. Weather that be the simple literal ones, finding a neat cave or what have you, or finding a passion buried under the rubble.

And me? I guess I’ll keep doing my thing of watching and learning about all the silly little corners this game has and mastering what I can even if that takes another decade to do. The universe loves me and it loves you too, go and create.

#sirwow ramble #Minecraft #it’s now 2 am can you tell I love this game with my full heart #ok nighttime I have a test in the morning lmao #minecraft appreciation post

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insects1 · 1 day ago

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horrible hyperfixation on block tales but its such a cool game and the lore is so good :D

i made a player guy, uh, i don't know, I tried to make it close to how i would imagine player to look like (same with builder man), but uh ya! That's all. Maybe I'll mess around with them or draw other block tales characters at some point!

#block tales #roblox #block tales fanart

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onenightbreak · 4 years ago

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characters and skins from today’s tales from the smp stream! under the cut because Long:

tubbo: robin, orphan child. was the doctor in the first round, jester in the second. lore is that his mother died when he was young then his father went to fight in the red eyed village wars, so robin learnt first aid to help. (my sweet boy please-)

george: miles memeington. didn’t have lore i think? [edit: apparently was a steak connoisseur? what,] died in the first round immediately, possibly a villager in the second round?

bbh: jimmy the (self declared) mayor. murderer in the first round, got caught immediately, uncertain the second round. two skins because his first character went to the chopping block for murder, was still the mayor both times.

quackity: helga. fuckin iconic is what she is. the wife of jimmy supposedly, but this is disputed by him. goes around the village giving “dunderhead” to all the village men, to the distaste of most. villager both times i think?

ponk: jack the potato farmer. villager first round, murderer second round. just farms potatoes man, he doesn’t know how to murder !

corpse: unnamed catboy. was the investigator first round, probably a villager the second. blind, father figure to robin. [edit: @/the-scuttled-jamboree added that he referred to cornelius as his partner the night he died, and lived together both rounds] excuted at the start of the second round, sending robin into mute grief. (MY FUCKIN BOY-)

lazar: a builder named bob. bob the builder, if you will. jester the first round, murderer the second. don’t think he had lore. [edit: @/the-scuttled-jamboree added that he ‘spent a night’ with helga both rounds and was haunted by her voice after her death. helga also called bob ‘shrimpy’ a lot, so they weren’t on the best terms?]

dream: cornelius. murderer the first round, died first the second. was excuted at the end of the first round, then was killed by the murderers. also didn’t change his skin, apparently it’s just a green body suit.

extra lore!

-this story takes place 100s of years in the past, according to karl’s exposition -the world of the smp has always been shit for orphans :pensive: -also furries have always existed in the smp, as shown by catboy corpse -“the red eyed village wars” are a thing that exist apparently. this is Not elaborated on at all but lore pog?

#i feel very cringe leaving this up but i hate when people delete posts that were under a read more #so it's staying up you're welcome #.5k #1k #2k #why did this one blow up and not any of the others

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zero-cycle · 3 years ago

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Legacies

The Players have never had a particularly good memory.

Oh, they remember the Builders just fine.Their gigantic castles and worlds are right there, after all, unable to be overlooked. Who hasn’t heard of Grian’s mansion, forever doomed to be unfinished? Or Etho’s cave, the oldest building in all of MInecraft who’s owner still lives? Who hasn’t been told of the beauty of Rivendell, Mezelea or the Ocean Empire and their rulers?

Hermitcraft’s worlds are tourist attractions, spaces for hundreds of people to live later. The Empires have their own population, their citizens telling the tales of their kind rulers and architects. Even the people from the Esempee talk about their benevolent king Eret and how much they built for them.

Similar to them are the Redstoners, their contributions consisting of new machines and farms or entertainment. Their names are whispered among the knowledgeable when they build doors or iron farms or have to time one of their contraptions.

Fighters do not have the benefit of giant monuments to their names but neither do they have trouble being remembered. The marks they leave aren’t a new creative use of blocks or a roof for Players to stay under. Instead, their legacies are the smell of explosions and blood in the air. They were the first to discover how to make end crystals and they started to warp the code around them, all just to give them a small advantage.

Their stories are about the bloody paths they carved through peaceful and war-torn servers. They win tournaments and are crowned with bloody laurels. Everybody in all of MInecraft fears Technoblade. Most Players will never willingly step foot on the battleground called “2b2t” and that for good reasons. The deadly trio of George, Sapnap and Dream is a legend among all fighter communities.

The Parkourers are similar to them. Only their laurels are less blood-soaked because the void kills cleanly and quickly. They tell stories about gods instead. Even though they never mention names, green is their color of luck and prosperity.

The Players don’t remember the people in the shadows.

The Runners are notorious for…well, mostly for being non-notorious. They keep to the shadows, always there but never in the spotlight. They win tourneys and take the crowns home with no fanfare. They fight but they’re not cruel or gloating, instead preferring to leave as fast as they came. Their buildings are often small, practical and they’re fast but not particularly creative with them. They hit jumps only the best parkourers can but never join competitions, they can do advanced redstone yet understand none of it and they’re good at everything but rarely shine with excellence.

The Players don’t remember them.

But the worlds do.

The Players in the big servers like Hypixel might have never heard of Feinberg but the non-player habitants of the wider worlds know different. There’s thousands of blocks he’s placed, hundreds of villagers he’s traded with but that doesn’t matter to a tiny plains biome on an even smaller world. The only thing that matters to the beehive that lives there is the flowers Feinberg carefully cultivated for them. the roof cover he built for them that keeps them safe from every thunder and wind.

Neither have they heard of Silverr, tirelessly working day to day to get better with no thoughts about recognition. Twitch Rivals might have brought him notoriety, might have made some Players aware of him but the villagers on a far away world don’t even know tournaments like that exist. They only know about the polite young man who must have spent days cutting down wood for them. It supplies the village with enough firewood to survive the winter for several years.

Most people don’t know about K4yfour. They are strange, quite unlike normal Players. Nobody would think of them as particularly influential either. They’re wrong, of course. Their tactics have saved a hundred runners and a thousand worlds and even more lives. It’s not an accomplishment they can display on the wall like trophies but it’s visible in every Runner that still runs, in every world they save.

Others might look at Couriway like a hero for his PvP skills but the worlds know better. There are a thousand of them out there that nobody else would have rescued. Nobody else would have even attempted. But Couriway has not earned his crown with blood on his hands and so he goes, steadily, and saves the world, over and over and over.

And the Universe smiles down on a tiny server, tucked at the edges of MInecraft, where mismatched buildings stand next to each other, where scattered blocks ruin the landscape of the nether, where laughter fills the air and plans to do the impossible are made.

They will not be remembered, but they don’t care. They are happy, here at the edge of the universe, far away from any competition or recognition.

They are home.

#hbg #nare writes #worldbuilding #i'm having wayy too much fun with the fact that mcsr is so small #and unknown #and how you can transfer that into worldbuilding #also i've been losing my mind over this for a solid week or something #i hate myself so much sometimes /lh

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leam1983 · 3 years ago

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Placing D&D's Failures In-Context

TL;DR: it isn't because Tolkien and Lewis followed in the footsteps of Chaucer and Snorri Sturlesson that you also need to play out stories involving clean-cut Good and Evil forces.

Y'ain't writing a Narnia redux, so go nuts and do workshop that trusting, gentlemanly and wise Beholder with a wee little top hat. It's your game, and yours alone.

I might be a Marketing-related writer by trade, I still primarily identify as a world-builder. As such, I have to credit Dungeons & Dragons, Pathfinder and other similar roleplaying avenues for helping me come up with my interest in specificity.

I've noticed a few people making note of the inconstant delivery of lore in D&D as of the 5th Edition, and especially of certain bad stereotypes that are being bandied about. I'm not looking to excuse them, so much as to make sure any other theory or lore-crafters understand why some concepts are so deliberately slapdash or offensive.

As with a lot of other things, it all goes back to Tolkien and Lewis, and to the myths and legends they themselves drew from.

You have to remember that The Lord of the Rings and Narnia are both serving as in-fiction national epics of a sort, the storied tale of the Good Guys thwarting the Bad Guys in your usual bout of identity-forging on a national level. You're effectively looking at Middle-Earth justifying its own existence, and at Narnia effectively setting up its main antagonist as someone who's not so much as deserving of nuance.

Nuance isn't foundational, after all. It isn't Biblical. It doesn't inform an etiological project for a greater Society. For the same reason, reading old Natural Science encyclopedias dating back to the late seventeen-hundreds would show us an outdated view of what constitutes an optimal ecosystem. Poke around for old news briefs dating back to the werewolf panic in France (yes, this is a thing) and you'll find no mention whatsoever of what primarily caused said panic, which was a combination of superstition, ergotism and excessive hunting of the local deer population. Wolves won't naturally attack humans, but a starving wolf who's had nothing to eat for days on end might be desperate enough to think otherwise.

Once Gygax realized there'd be more potential in his pen-and-paper jousting model if he freed it from the constraints of History, he felt the need to evoke that specific feel of classic Fantasy. The need to classify distaff character classes as protagonists likely initially edged them towards the Good side of the prototypical Alignment system, while fishing for antagonists obviously called for the opposite approach.

The rest sort of followed. If you're going after a Tolkien-esque propagandistic take on heroic deeds, then you don't need to give much nuance to orc, gnolls, trolls, goblins or what have you; you're entirely free to go as cartoonishly evil as you want. The apex of that approach was probably reached once the concept for Mind Flayers was pitched in 1977: when you're walking in H.P. Lovecraft's footsteps - as the man made it easy to misconstrue unknowable as being a synonym for evil - it's not exactly hard to start pitching the concept that some races are always Evil-aligned, no holds barred. That sort of talk unsurprisingly gives rise to purists.

Enter our contemporary era, wherein what isn't dissected or cancelled is revised for the good of Progressive gamers everywhere. You're a DM, you know the later editions pack resources for players wanting to play monsters, but D&D is so rigid in its presentation it might seem difficult to reason out of certain established canons.

What I do for my own campaigns is as follows.

I start by acting as if the Alignment system didn't exist. Githzerai, Aboleth, Bugbear, Illithid, whatever it is you're looking to play, it's just a stat block and a pretty picture. Then, I revisit the background info for your selected species and voluntarily ignore everything that involves agency-stripping "evil forces" shaping your character's native culture. Instead, you're born of a culture that is, as any decent Sociology teacher would tell you, the product of its environment.

Let's pick the Illithids. Canon-wise, they're extra-planar invaders long-since established in your setting of choice, to the point of usually forming a good chunk of your Underdark-esque setting's sociopolitical tensions. Having supposedly escaped annihilation, they're looking to rebuild at any cost and see all outsiders as tools to be put to use. This utilitarian concept goes so far as to inform how they reproduce, and also exposes a society where terminal sociopathy is the norm.

Okay. Let's break that down and keep only what I need to build upon or what I find interesting:

Extra-planar invaders? That's on-the-nose to the point of parody. Seeing as there's an element of survival involved, extra-planar refugees seems like a more cogent starting point. That angle gives me interesting societal hooks to play with, starting with various forms of PTSD, trauma, survivor's guilt, isolationism - or even more positive aspects, like the survivors seeing themselves as messengers warning the natives of a greater incoming threat, and deciding to arm both themselves and their new neighbours - at any cost. That gives the culture a large enough moral range to allow for both Good and Evil-aligned characters.

It doesn't make sense for shell-shocked survivors to effectively take over their new home. You're not looking at a civilization's worth of warriors, especially not with the Illithid - they're effectively betentacled bookworms that might be lucky if they had a few hardened soldiers left. Considering, they could either survive by ingratiating themselves with the local Drow or Dark Dwarf populations - as advisors, strategists, court scientists or sponsored researchers. Warriors in their ranks could make for an interesting spin on the concept of the wandering mercenary...

Ceremorphosis as a concept inspires no possibility for mutual exchange. Purists could argue that Flayers don't need to exchange what they can assimilate, but we're trying to avoid pejorative notions, here. Let's imagine, instead, that ceremorphosis is something they reserve for mutants derived out of the animal kingdom as a point of absolute bare necessity, and that they generally copulate in ways that are either closer to an actual cephalopod's or that follow the usual bipedal body plan. That implies some degree of sexual dimorphism that might go against the visual canons for Flayers, but the Internet's more than amply proved how much the community doesn't really mind that concept. If ceremorphosis has to be used, an easy workaround is to accept that the victim's original consciousness remains, but finds itself altered at the identitarian level. You'd die Bert the Barbarian and wake up still as Bert the Barbarian, except you'd feel a sense of distance from your former comrades and countrymen and would find it difficult not to imprint with your new "parents" or keepers.

Eating brains is an obvious issue. Let's stick with the Mother Nature-approved status of opportunistic carnivores, and leave the usefulness of learning through osmosis as a concept to the DM. If you really need to play up their intellectual capabilities, you can infer that Flayers have species-based total recall, which should make them fearsome or versatile enough in any context.

The end-result is a basic framework that's compatible with the notion of a "good" Illithid, without the need for some hackneyed messianic framework like the Adversary being involved - and that allows the idea of Mind Flayers being individuals in their own right to take shape. If the Elder Brain matters that much, you can retool it to be less a gestalt than a pool of shared knowledge, accessible depending on the subject's proximity to it - sort of like your Illithid colony's own flesh-based Intranet.

Remember that D&D is only a massive collection of suggestions. You're the creator of your own stories, so if you're looking to follow the trials and tribulations of a Gnoll Bard from a setting where the hyenafolk coexist with your distaff Rangers across forests and fields, go for it!

More importantly, if purists tell you the Monster Manual says X or that Mordenkainen's says Y, tell them you're running your own campaign.

It's all that matters.

#d&d #revising monster classes #a playable bestiary #inspired by other posts

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acenancy · 3 years ago

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Bruh id definitely want to hear some of your ghost stories

WOW. Okay, I did not expect people to actually want to hear these, but I’ve gotten a few asks requesting I share! Lol. So I guess for each ask I receive, I’ll tell a “real” Goodperson Family ghost story. I promise I have enough to tide you all over for...forever. These things are kind of a regular occurrence for us.

*For the sake of privacy, I’ll always change or shorten the names of people and places. None of my stories will be exaggerated though, except in the style of my writing (lol).*

I’ll start with the earliest story I can remember. Possibly even the wackiest: The Boulder Poltergeist.

In the 1950’s, my grandpa G and grandma V moved their family of 6 to Long Island. We’ll call the neighborhood they lived in (and continue to live in) Scaretown. Scaretown was still mostly woods and strawberry fields back then, but there was a little police station and an even smaller fire department too. Grandpa G was the Scaretown fire chief.

As the years went by, little developments began to spring up along the island. Families moved in, families settled. Scaretown remained small, though, so Grandpa G never saw anything but the occasional stove fire or cigarette mishap. Nothing crazy.

One development, however, was carved out of a section of the Scaretown Woods. Almost as soon as families began moving into it, the police station began receiving complaints about rocks being thrown at their houses. Rocks that were being thrown every day, at the same time of day. And the rocks being thrown weren’t small either. Not like pebbles. Not even cobble rocks.

BOULDERS were being thrown. Straight from the woods to the houses which were built along the wood’s edge. Crashing through windows, falling through roofs, causing serious property damage all around. SUPPOSEDLY.

Naturally, all sorts of tales of ghosts and curses began to fly around lil ol’ Scartown, and the people were getting concerned.

But Grandpa G wasn’t buying it.

As most of my family members are (odd, all things considered), Grandpa G was a practical man. Very much a no-bullshit sort. He thought the boulder stories were exaggerated, if not totally made up. Being the father of 4 genuinely god awful children himself, he assumed, if the rumors were true, that teenage vandals were the ones terrorizing the new people in town. Possibly even his own teenage vandals. So, to control his blood pressure, he didn’t pay the stories any mind.

The police, though, had been investigating the woods surrounding the new development, inspecting the damage done to the houses, etc. The wreckage to the homes was significant. It truly did look like flying boulders were crashing into them.

And, when the police arrived at the time the new homeowners said the boulders were being thrown, they claimed they saw them soaring through the air themselves.

Logic told the police this was not happening by one man’s strong arm and his pure force of will. The only possible way they could figure these builders were flying was by a catapult.

Which sounds insane.

But possibly not as insane as what happened whenever the police tried entering the woods and locating the source of the flying boulders themselves.

The deeper the police traveled into the woods and the closer they reached what they assumed was the point of launch, dirt would begin blowing violently at them, pebbles and twigs rising from the ground with a vicious wind and pelting them. Each time, their vision became obstructed so badly that they could not venture into the woods any farther. They would retreat, battered and bruised and confused.

They realized they needed backup if they wanted to get closer to this catapult. Preferably backup with gear and equipment meant to withstand harsh conditions.

So Scaretown’s small police force hit up the fire department.

Chief Grandpa G had to laugh. Again, he was not convinced by the tales that were being spun to him. Flying boulders? Walls of dirt and sticks running police out of the woods? To him, it sounded like the cops were simply failing to do their jobs and making up excuses. He gladly agreed to help them out, if only to prove how incompetent they were. So he rounded up his department and scrounged up fire gear for the entire police force too.

When the two departments arrived at the development, they stood at the edge of the woods, waiting for the exact time the boulders were supposed to start flying. There, Grandpa G got to see for himself that the rumors were true - but nothing like he was being told.

The boulders were gliding through the air. Slowly, in perfect arches, landing so softly that sometimes they would hit the side of a house and fall to the ground with only a thump. Most of the time, the boulders were not even causing any damage at all.

It was odd, Grandpa G had to admit. But he wasn’t a genius and he still wasn’t convinced it was the work of anything other than a crazy person and their catapult.

So, before the boulders could stop flying, he and the dual departments entered the woods together.

Things remained calm at first. They ventured into the woods, the only strange occurrence the one Grandpa G was now familiar with. Boulders soared above them like birds, silent and without any fanfare.

They walked deeper.

Eventually, just like the sheriff had told Grandpa G, dirt began to pick up from the ground, blowing straight into their faces and blocking their view of anything before them. Pebbles, too, were being thrown all around them, and twigs were whacking at their arms and legs, almost as though beating them away. Though this time, thanks to the fire department, their faces were shielded and bodies protected. They were able to continue onward.

But conditions worsened.

It reached a point where they were being blown backwards, falling to the ground, afraid that they would lose each other amongst the trees and the growing night.

They needed to stay together.

It didn’t take much convincing for both the police and fire departments to abandon their mission of finding the catapult. Cops and firemen joined hands, together forming a wide, though tenuous circle.

And things began to calm.

To their amazement, their circle appeared to push the flying debris into their center, containing it until there was a mini tornado swirling in the middle of them. Braving the forces of nature, they all began to move forward, still holding hands, until they were all one huddled mass.

The storm between them grew smaller and smaller as they moved, until it died right there at their feet.

But they were too scared to continue their search now. Like the brave, grown men they were, they all ran the fuck out of there instead.

The next day, at the time the boulders were usually scheduled to fly, the skies remained clear. No complaints were made by homeowners. No boulders came soaring from the woods.

And they never did after.

Grandpa G and a few other guys did search the woods again, but never found the catapult or the boulders they assumed were there. All they found was a clearing amongst the trees where they all held hands, and a pile of dirt, twigs, and tiny rocks piled in the middle.

Until the day he died, No Bull Grandpa G swore they encountered a poltergeist in those woods. Sometimes, though, I’m not so sure.

Can a poltergeist attach itself to you? Does one follow you and your entire family for the rest of your lives? Can one even curse you?

Or could it be something else?

Like I said, my whole family has enough ghost stories to rival R.L. Stine.

And they all started in the woods of Scaretown.

#goodperson family ghost stories #this reads a lil dramatically but it's just to hold your attention #out of respect for my family I'd love to share these stories with you but I'll never ever exaggerate one #this is just the craziest one I've heard #so far bahaha #mine

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alexsorsis · 7 days ago

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Builber bam

#all hail jop #digital art #art #drawing #roblox game #roblox art #roblox #block tales builder man #block tales roblox #blocktales roblox #block tales #animation meme #animation

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horror-beeings-artandwriting · 1 month ago

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Blocktales doodles

#blocktales cruel king #block tales griefer #griefer blocktales #cruel king #roblox builderman #block tales builder man #blocktales #blocktales roblox #bee does art

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an-unlikely-poet · 4 years ago

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The quiet gave way to piercing voices, non stop, one sided and the mind drifts. It’s no wonder he thought, all these years later. Recessed in words of limited vocabulary. Like a carpenter who lent his tools never to be seen again. Made up on the spot, he threw squares where the circle should go. Turned screw drivers when the hatchet was to blunted on the skull. Measured with fingers and arms like the boat builders in the pacific before the flood. Ever so skewed he adjusts to the growing tide, adrift and the birds became slow moving dots against the blue and white backdrop. Calm again and the mind settles into another production. No directors here, a child like mind spins endless tales in grand resolutions. Be careful what you wish for lad, one take to say it all into the nothing. Into the void. Was that so bad? Was it better than the alternative? He didn’t know. He cared less. Another lie. Another diversion. Tactics of the wandering central figure. A made up protagonist in someone else’s great story. Who’s he did not know. Maybe a better story teller than he. In the darker parts of the mind, he was convinced of the antagonist. A road block to worthiness. He’ll get out of the way again and again. Recalibrate, reorganize. No charts. Just man made tools, sweat and blood. The sun rises here, sets over there. In between the head rests. But not the mind. Sometimes friend, sometimes foe. And so it goes. Until the words come again

#landscape #short story #story teller #photographers on tumblr #nature

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mythical-song-wolf · 4 years ago

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MCSM: My Warrior’s Tale 1

Note: Basically this is my personal canon of Minecraft: Story Mode with my own variation of Jesse which is just my main OC edited into the context of MCSM because I’m uncreative

I made all the parts for episode 1 at night when I was Tired and Fixating Part 2

Nothing built can last forever, Jesse knows this intimately. And every legend, no matter how great, fades with time, whittled down by years and years till nothing is left but half-truths and myths. In essence, lies. And yet, in all known universes between here to the Far Lands, the legend of the Order of the Stone persists on unchanged.

The Order of the Stone themselves are quite young, barely in their forties by now. But the legends of amazing heroes, all types of builders and people, coming together to slay a mighty beast known as the Ender Dragon has always had its hold on the worlds.

The Order of the Stone was the name of a far off legend and fairy tale, now it's the name of a group of heroes who turned fiction into reality.

Only truly troubled lands have a need for heroes, and it seems that this one was of them. Lucky are they to have four heroes to have made their lies and myths into truths.

Gabriel the Warrior, Ellegaard the Redstone Engineer, Magnus the Rogue, and Soren the Architect.

They defeated the dragon and finally gave everyone a solid name and face to the legends of old, cementing their names in history.

“Would you rather fight a hundred chicken-sized zombies or ten zombie-sized chickens?” Olivia curiously asks.

“Hm, I guess the zombie-sized chickens? Because seeing one that big would be pretty interesting. Fighting wise? I’d say fifty-fifty on that. The chickens won’t try to hurt me but the zombies would, but a startled chicken is a pecky chicken. Really depends on the mood, really,” Jesse replies as she flips to the next page of her book, while Olivia sets up a nightlight for Reuben, “He’s coming with us.”

“Really?”

She puts down her book to look at Olivia, “Of course he is, why wouldn’t he?”

“Okay, okay, I’m not saying that he shouldn’t come but don’t you think it’s a little weird that you take him with you everywhere you go?”

“Reuben’s my best friend along with you and Axel. I’m not leaving him behind.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it—”

“I know, I know, you don’t want to give everyone another reason to call us losers. But when we win this year’s building competition, they’ll have less reason to do that!”

“Okay, that’s fair.”

Axel pops out from the ladder and startles the three of them, earning a reflexive punch from Jesse.

“Ow,” Axel groans, taking off the mask and rubbing his nose.

“Not funny Axel!” Olivia chides, while Reuben tries to tackle him.

“I could tell,” He grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose, “That was some punch Jesse, where’d you learn to hit so hard?”

Lie.

“Thanks, I’ve been working on my combat skill lately,” She brushes off with a smile, “Did you bring the fireworks?”

“Of course I did, I also brought something for the little guy.” He brings out an Ender Dragon costume and puts in on Reuben, who happily parades around the room in it.

A few moments later Olivia and Axel head down while Jesse grabs a few more things. Shears, Flint & Steel, and double checks the durability on her stone sword.

Really should upgrade this to an iron one, I have a feeling I’ll need it for some reason... Huh... Warrior’s intuition?... I’ll bring some iron just in case.

~~~~~

They decide on building an Enderman along with their firework show.

(“Get it? Enderman at Endercon with an Ender Dragon pig.”

“I regret suggesting an Enderman.”

“A Creeper would’ve been cooler.”)

Their team name is the Order of the Pigs, and they get onto prepping... Until Axel and Olivia get side-tracked by what the Ocelots are doing.

“C’mon guys don’t get distracted by what the other teams are doing and focus on our own build.”

“They have a freakin’ beacon!” Axel repeats, more exasperated than the last time.

“They’re not just making a beacon. They’re making a rainbow beacon!” Olivia adds, panic lacing her tone at its edge.

“Relax, we’ve got this,” Jesse tries to assure.

“Who are we kidding?” Olivia retorts anxiously, “We’ve got nothing.”

“We have a plan, each other, annnd a cute mascot. Now let’s stop ogling the competition and get to work!” She announces with a clap as she turns to her friends.

Gill laughs at them as him and Maya approach Aiden, “Look, it’s the Order of the Losers. Again.”

“Don’t mind us,” Jesse tries but her voice is drowned out by Olivia’s.

“We were just looking.”

Aiden, that snarky bastard, replies with an arrogant surety of the Ocelots’ victory that she brushes off, but then he has the gall to call Reuben food.

“Shut up asshole.”

“What was that?” Aiden says, cold and serious in an attempt to be threatening. If he was a bit more unhinged it would maybe scare her, but that he is not.

“She—”

“I said, ‘shut up asshole’ or is your hearing as defective as your brain?”

“Why you—”

“Stop wasting time you three,” Lukas orders, “We’ve got work to do.”

“Hey guys,” Petra greets the two groups, “How’s the build going?”

“Only time will tell, but we’re optimistic,” Axel replies, with Olivia and Jesse nodding along.

Lukas smiles and approaches Petra (and in turn the Order of the Pigs), “Hey Petra, I forgot to thank you for that Nether Star.”

“Hey, no problem Lukas.”

Jesse and her team, with a lot of prodding from their leader, continue getting ready as Lukas and Petra banter for a bit before she leaves.

“Hey,” Lukas calls out, causing them to turn to him, “No hard feelings guys. If you’re cool with Petra, you’re cool with us.”

Jesse smiles, “Of course, let’s focus on making this about how awesome our builds will be, yeah?”

“Yeah, and may the best team win.”

Lukas and his team turn and walk away before Jesse replies with, “Be careful what you wish for.” The Ocelots pause for a moment, before Lukas smirks and chuckles but continues on.

~~~~~

They spend the whole afternoon making the Enderman alongside the rest of the builders with their own structures. Aiden tries to get a rise out of them again but Jesse pays him no mind so the others don’t either.

When they finish their build and the fireworks go off, all eyes are on them in awe. For once, everyone’s looking at her and her friends like they’re actually capable of something.

Aiden, in his fit of petty jealousy, breaks a block that was blocking off some lava which sets Reuben’s costume on fire and risking their build.

A switch flicks and Jesse’s off the Enderman and running after him while shouting some orders to her team.

“You two block off the lava while I get Reuben!”

“You got it Jesse! We’ll meet up with you at Endercon!”

If Aiden is suddenly knocked down and has a broken nose after she passes by, she won’t say it wasn’t her.

#mcsm #fanfic #fanfiction #minecraft story mode #my flavour of jesse #canon divergence where it matters #and canon compliant where it also matters #my canon

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monstersandmaw · 5 years ago

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Twelve Days of Exomas - 70+k words of exclusive exophilia stories!

So, they’re all up now.

*wheezes and passes out*

For a long excerpt from Day Six (male were-yeti x reader) see below!

Twelve Days of Exomas (Christmas Special stories) 2019

Day One (male mummy x female reader - v. light nsfw)

Day Two (male djinn x male reader - NSFW)

Day Three (female were-hyena x female reader - NSFW)

Day Four (male sharkmer x reader - v. light NSFW/kiss)

Day Five (female orc x male reader - NSFW)

Day Six (male were-yeti x reader, Part One - SFW)

Day Seven (male were-yeti x reader, Part Two - v. light NSFW/kiss)

Day Eight (non-binary demon x reader - light NSFW)

Day Nine (male werewolf x male vampire x female character, Part One - NSFW)

Day Ten (male werewolf x male vampire x female character, Part Two - NSFW)

Day Eleven (female naga x reader - NSFW)

Day Twelve (male haunted mirror/Fae (x reader - NSFW)

Day Six - Male were-yeti x reader long excerpt (sfw)

“Come to Snowy Starfall Springs, they said. Live out the fairytale Winter Wonderland dream, they said,” you spat as you waded through knee-deep snow, way off the trail, lost, freezing your backside off, and with the daylight hours slowly burning out. “Fuck.”

The eerie stillness of the woods didn’t help either.

Short, stocky, slow-growing pines, their branches laden with snow, stood sentry against the approaching night, and the old, softened tracks of either a cervitaur or an actual deer were the only sign that anything else aside from you was even alive out here. You might not be for much longer unless you found that trail and headed back, but you couldn’t be that far from where you’d gone wrong. You had driven three hours out of Starfall Springs into the Starfall Mountains, parked up at the trail head, donned your awkward snow-shoes, and plunged eagerly into the wilderness that morning. You’d only intended for this to be a four hour hike, but instead you’d missed a turning somewhere, and had ended up somewhere off the usual trails, in the arse end of Winter Wonderland. “Happy Solstice, eh?” you chided yourself.

You’d just stopped and resigned yourself to digging around in your pack for your phone and compass - having been assured that the trail would be easy enough to follow in a nice loop from the car park - when up ahead, the stillness broke as something shifted between the trees, and you froze. These parts weren’t known for harbouring particularly dangerous wildlife, but there were packs of wolves, and even feral werewolves if the stories were true, and you were easy picking like this. Tiredness seeped into your muscles along with the cold, and you flexed your fingers, frozen on the point of sloughing off your backpack.

To your utter astonishment, a young child appeared between the snowy pines. Unlike you, he was not really dressed for the cold, wearing only a sweater and scruffy jeans. He stopped, stared straight at you, and then laughed. It wasn’t a particularly kind laugh either.

“Shit,” you hissed, watching your breath fog across your vision for a moment. Your eyelashes were frozen, creating a thick border of white around your vision because you’d neglected to bring your goggles too.

The child bent and swept their hand through the snow in a rapid arc, sending a wide spray of powder glittering through the air, and amid the flurry, they turned and ran.

“Wait!” you yelled after them. “Wait! Is there a shelter around here?” As if you had no more sense than a jackrabbit, you plunged through the trees after him, immediately tripping on the toe of your snow shoe and pitching into a deep bank of snow, face first.

His hair had been a white blond, and his skin a warm, rosy brown, and somehow he looked like he belonged here among the sleeping pines and wild, endless skies. You, meanwhile, were making more noise than a bear in a city trashcan.

Around your fresh mouthful of snow, you cursed and rolled upright. It wasn’t easy to do, but you’d fallen over enough times on your way out from the trail head to learn how to pick yourself up. Faceplant, roll onto your front, rock up onto your knees, windmill your arms a bit, stand up. Rinse and repeat.

As you straightened again, you heard the boy’s laughter and froze. “Hello?”

It seemed to come from one direction and then, a moment later, from another.

“Fuck’s sake,” you muttered bitterly to yourself. “Listen, I got turned around and I could use your help. I’m going to freeze my butt off if I stay out here tonight. Can you help me or not?”

Empty childish laughter was your only response.

Sucking in a deeper breath - cautiously because if you breathed too deeply and too quickly you’d start coughing with the cold - you headed in the direction you’d last seen the boy prancing through the snow like a Solstice reindeer. How did he move like that? Could he be a fae? At that point you were almost ready to sell your left kidney for a safe place to spend the night, but as the thought crossed your mind you realised that maybe you were more desperate than you should be. You still had perhaps an hour left of daylight, and you had a compass and a detailed map in your bag.

Out of nowhere, a deep, bellowing roar split the silence, crystalline fragments of winter peace shattering as your ears rang and you stumbled, catching the front of your snow-shoe again. You went down hard with a grunted ‘oof’ and felt your ankle go. It didn’t snap, thank all the gods, but you’d sprained it before and remembered the shock and the sudden rush of heat. You couldn’t have helped the yell that left your lips as you went down even if your soul (or your left kidney) had depended on it.

Defeated, frustrated, and in a fair bit of pain, you just lay there, face down in the snow for a minute. Perhaps the bear - if it had indeed been a bear - wouldn’t notice you if you just lay there.

Heavy footfalls reached you not long after, the snow squeaking slightly as it was compressed beneath large feet.

Shit.

Summoning the strength to turn your head, you looked and found two enormous, fluffy white hind paws, tipped with thick, four-inch long, jet black claws standing right beside you. You didn’t think that polar bears lived in these parts, but by this point, your exhaustion ran bone-deep, your muscles were shaky and cramping with the creeping cold, and your reserves of courage had just run completely dry. And with that, you went limp.

The creature knelt beside you and turned you over, chuffing softly like a tiger and gripping your backpack as if it were the scruff of your neck. Your stomach swooped, and when you opened your eyes, you saw that you were five feet off the ground, in the claws of a creature you’d thought only existed in ancient fairy tales.

A yeti had you in its claws.

Stars danced in your vision and you went limp before you could process much more than the dull, deep growl that reverberated around pronounced canines and black lips.

Warmth washed through you and you wriggled gently before a flash of sharp pain shot up your leg and you stopped moving immediately. At the sound of your shuffling, something sat up straight beside you and you blinked again, trying to clear your vision a bit.

Covered by a soft, woollen rug, you were lying on a sofa in a wooden cabin, with an iron, wood-burning stove blazing away at one end of the modest space, and with vibrantly coloured rugs and throws decorating the floor and couch. Everything had a handmade look to it, including the house itself right down to the cement used to seal the gaps between the rounded logs of the cabin walls and the rustic wooden handles on the doors.

In a chair near you sat possibly the most handsome man you had ever seen in your whole life, and the first words out of your mouth when you spotted him were, embarrassingly, “Am I dead?”

He laughed joyously, his ice-blue eyes crinkling at the corners. His skin was a warm, rich tanned brown, his eyebrows steel grey, and his long, thick, wiry white hair tied back off his ruggedly chiselled face in a half-ponytail. He looked to be at some intangible age between thirty and forty, with laughter lines around his eyes and one or two between his brows. His lips were full and looked infinitely kissable, slightly chapped, and he had a thick, pale scar on his chin that stretched up his neck, over his jawline to his lower lip that just invited you to press your fingers to it and draw him closer for a kiss. Naturally, you did none of that, and just stared at him like a thunderstruck imbecile.

“You’re not dead,” he chuckled, and you immediately felt hot all over, under your skin. He had a beautiful, rich, deep, lyrical voice with a lilting, thick accent. “But you did twist your ankle pretty good. How do you feel?”

As you blinked again, you realised that it was dark outside and that the curtains had been drawn against the night. You shifted again, trying to sit upright, and you realised that your foot was cold. Staring down at it, you discovered that he’d strapped a plastic ice block to it, wrapped in a tea-towel. “Where am I?” you asked groggily. “What happened?” and then you added, “That kid… there was a boy out there…?”

“You mean that one?” the man asked gruffly, scowling and jutting his chin over his shoulder at a wild-looking boy standing at the other end of the cabin. He was resting his lean, wiry frame against the doorway to what looked like a kitchen area, though it was hard to see in the low lamplight. The kid, perhaps nine or ten, flashed you a wickedly sharp smile and disappeared into the other room.

“Yeah,” you said lamely. “He’s yours?”

“Yup,” he said, standing up and looming over you for a moment before backing off, mostly so you didn't have to crick your neck to look at him.

He was wearing a creamy, cable-knit jumper with an intricate pattern on, and pale scruffy jeans with a rip in the knee. Where he was tall he was also broad-shouldered, though there was a softness to his torso that spoke of a different kind of strength from movie stars and body builders. He was the kind of man who could lift a tree trunk without much difficulty, but probably couldn’t sprint for long without getting winded.

“Who are you?” you asked as he turned away and reached for a mug on a nearby table. It looked unusual and you realised a second later that it was carved from wood. Something in the back of your head said, with the voice of your late grandmother, that it was called a ‘kuksa’ by folks in these parts.

“Oh,” he said, pausing and glancing back at you over his shoulder. His hair was thick and coarse looking, hanging just down to his shoulder blades but you still felt the inexplicable urge to run your fingers through it. You frowned, wondering whether he’d slipped you something while you’d been unconscious. “I’m Arttu,” he said, drawing out the consonants in a way that made your mouth go a bit dry. His eyes were so blue that they were almost beyond comprehension. You’d never seen anyone with eyes that colour. “Here,” he added, moving back to you and holding out the kuksa.

You made no move to take it from him, no matter how rough and big and inviting his hands looked. “What is it?” you asked.

“Water,” he grinned. “You’re safe here, I promise.”

“You can’t blame me for being wary,” you grumbled, sitting up awkwardly and reaching for the cup. “Passing out in the claws of a yeti and waking up in the cabin of some supernaturally handsome guy…”

Arttu nearly dropped the kuksa as he handed it to you, but he laughed almost shyly at your words. “Well,” he said, oddly flustered and with his cheeks slightly flushed. From the other room, the boy yelled something in a language you didn’t speak or recognise, and Arttu replied more softly in the same.

You tried not to make an indecent noise at the sound of his voice, and looked away. You took in the way your foot was propped up on a cushion and, for the first time, noticed that your very unflattering snow-suit was nowhere to be seen.

When you looked back up at him, Arttu was licking his lips nervously and had stepped back even further. You drank and then set the kuksa on a nearby hand-made, pine coffee table. “I mean it,” he said in a soft, earnest voice. “You’re safe here. Are you hungry?”

For you? “Uh, yeah?” you said, suddenly realising how long it had been since breakfast as your stomach clenched almost painfully.

His lips twitched and he nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

___

Read the whole thing, and gain exclusive access to monthly stories, WIP snippets, polls, character bios, and our private Discord server right now!

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___________________________

#exophilia #exophilia masterlist #monster boyfriend #monster lover #monster girlfriend #monster x reader #exomas #monstermas #long post

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evelyndaugherty06-blog · 4 years ago

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