#minecraft memories

[shady0220uwu]

Minecraft nostalgia

It's more than a story, more than a game, it's our memories, our childhood.

Remember that game we all used to play?

Those soft songs, iconic sounds, and awesome gameplay..

I'm sure we all had a moment in our lives where we wanted to try it, or where we played it.

We would all hop onto the computer or console, boot up the game and start a world. Some of us would play with our headphones, listening to some viby music or lofi, others would listen to podcasts, or some would simply enjoy the game's ambiance.

Building worlds in creative, making amazing structures, wonderful landscapes, lively cities or villages. Building a zoo or an aquarium, or for the oldest of us, a simple house.

Living in survival, mining, digging, hunting. Rapidly building a 3x3x2 dirt or wood house, or simply digging a hole to hide in for the first night. Raising animals to eat, building farms to grow crops, fishing for fishes, and maybe even treasures if you were lucky.

All of those, in a world of endless possibilities. The limit was our imagination, or the farlands. We could do whatever we wanted, however we pleased.

For those on bedrock, we would enjoy the free maps in the store, playing the mini games we could find or even building our own

For those on java, we would build, create and play with different mods and add ons, playing with world settings until it was to our liking.

For those on pocket edition, we would play with the best of our ability, on our tablets or phones.

There were also those who couldn't get the game, so they played other similar games. Those were fun, and hold as much memories, but they just aren't the same.

I'm truly hoping this small text brought you some good memories, as it did for me.

I hope we can all keep a good memory of the old minecraft we used to love as children..

"The final boss isn't the ender dragon, it's growing up..." ~unknown

[artisplatters]

yay sad thoughtssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

growing up on minecraft is so weird because 'Far' just popped up in my playlist and I was suddenly transported back to a late night in like 2014 where I built a small swamp-shore house each for me and my cousins (3 houses total) in a single-player world and decorated accordingly and then cried afterwards because we'd never get to play together in them because it was a single-player world

I haven't thought about that memory in literally ten years and yet I remember every damn detail of all three houses and the surrounding swamp

and I am crying over those three little swamp houses again because yeah they never did get to see them but also idk if we're ever gonna play minecraft together again because one of them has a family and the other is in the fucking military

fuckin uh moral of the story is to avoid listening to old minecraft music at night because you will cry over what will never happen again and contemplate your life choices

[edwardos]

[kellofbones]

Quietly remembering the time I had made a cute little minecraft house and a computer out of stairs and a painting on a wood block and thinking "i need jammies!" So I found a cute pajama skin and the world was so peaceful

[hootylover2000]

It was my first Minecraft world I was using one of my brothers accounts because I was only five at the time so I didn't have my own account yet and I was in a flat world and I found a village and I took one of the houses for my own there. There was a pig with a baby pig outside, so I brought them into the house and name them mommy pig and babbie pig (I miss spelled baby). And I remembered seeing a DanTDM video where he put a saddle on a pig, so l put a saddle on mommy pig and tried to ride the pig, but I forgot about the carrot on a stick and eventually I had to find one of my brothers to help me get off the pig and he couldn't remember how to so he told me to dig to the ground to get to the void to kill the pig and myself to get off of it. I remember drawing a picture of the two pigs. I found it like a year ago and I gave the pigs red eyes. It looks really creepy lol. Any way here’s the photo •v•

(I scans the picture on my printer and the colors are way more dark in person) (I also used voice text so some things might be incorrect because the technology misheard me)

[notquitehuman-creations]

a painting of my home in the warped forest

og screenshot:

[voidwithtoomanygooglyeyes]

Minecraft Squids

I swear that squids from Minecraft used to drop raw mutton. I don't know if this is a strange mandela effect thing, but I swear they used to drop mutton when killed by a player but it was removed for some reason. Was this a thing or is it just my brain playing tricks on me, please I can't be the only one 😭

[yibennianyaji]

me and Jess looking cute in minecraft n_n do not perceive our unfinished house lmao

[heartaspects]

you're stuck to the ground you have to stay 💭

[mychemicalbrromance]

Minecraft yaoi posting in 2024

[lucindasthighs]

Oh my god. I just realized why forever potion!Zane had that weird flirty moment with Lucinda out of nowhere.

It was a fucking MCD reference.

In MCD, Lucinda and Zane were (at some point) being arranged to be married, but then Zane fucked it up (unspecified) and it was called off.

I cant believe this

[moldinfez]

thank you carpenter brut track in the team bolas playlist i finally finished this piece

[stellisketches]

if any character in Diaries deserved to have a gun it was Hayden motherfucking Zvahl. That man was from medieval-fantasy florida in the middle of the bumfuck swamp with gators and hellrats and a psychotic perpetually-hammered chicken man and had to put up with more bullshit in however-many-months than a majority of the characters did throughout the entire series, including but not limited to his husband getting shot, a punk ass twink trying to take control of the town, his daughter disappearing, Castor in general, his son dying in the nether, his son getting revived in the nether as a fucked-up hell knight, his daughter moving away five minutes after she randomly showed up again, being betrayed by his guard who is also a shadow knight, getting kidnapped and beat within an inch of his life, finding out his daughter had magicks and was attempted-sacrificed to open a nether portal like 200 feet away from his village, having said village later literally razed to the ground, fighting in a war, and having your son disappear off the face of the earth never to be seen again. All I'm saying is that he deserved to have a gun to shoot any and all things that slightly inconvenienced him after chugging whiskey and smoking 5 packs of cigarettes a day to keep himself from finally snapping and stabbing someone to death with a table leg. Plus it just fits his aesthetic.

[medlarmeadows]

i like to imagine that the original team bolas still met once in a while after purgatory. they'd been through much, how could they possibly let go of the bonds that literally and metaphorically held them together through hell?

but as time passed, their meetings grow less frequent. routine takes over as they welcome new guests, take care of the eggs, and learn new mechanics.

slowly, purgatory just feels like a nightmare that passed months ago. was it even real?

but it feels real when baghera wakes up in the middle of the night, squawking for someone she called dad.

it feels real when cellbit waits, not knowing he's waiting for a funny quip from charlie or carre. he doesn't remember when was the last time he saw either of them.

it feels real when foolish turns to make a funny remark at jaiden, but she's not there anymore. at least this time it wasn't with a pile of her own bodies left in her wake.

it feels real when phil is struggling to maintain control over his own mind, grasping on to his children to remind himself of what kept him going through literal hell.

it was hell.

and it was real.

[kurithedweeb]

I know we always talk about Garroth ending up looking exactly like his father, but what about Dante growing up to look eerily like Gene.

When he joins up with Phoenix Drop, he's still young. He's a little on the short side, still a bit too thin from life in the wild and imprisonment, and he's a little anxious and shaky around so many people after having grown unused to living in a village. The smiling faces of the citizens remind you of your old home, of clamoring crowds and standing frozen in the plaza as your brother . . .

Anyway, it's good here. It's easy to fit in. The guards joke around with you and make sure you're healthy. They don't know a thing about dual wielding, but you get plenty of sparring partners out of helping the local baker practice her magick, and you maybe make a friend too. You're not too sure how you feel about the Lord, but she's a kind soul and does her best to make sure you're comfortable here in town, and her kids are great. Babysitting the boys is easily your favorite duty. Yeah, it's good here. For the first time in a long while, you feel like you're doing good.

Then the war comes. The children and non-combatants are sent away. The jovial atmosphere of the guard tower has soured into solemn silence as you make your final preparations. In the morning, you step into the battlefield and you go to war for the first time in your life. You have a horrible feeling in your gut that it won’t be the last.

You, Sir Laurance and Sir Garroth make a good team. It makes you sick. The three of you cross the battlefield at a slow and inevitable pace, cutting down any soldier that dares stray too close, and together you cleave the enemy forces in half, scattering them. The killing comes easy to you. You had hoped that in this peaceful new village, with time, you would become unfamiliar to how easily you were once able to take a life, but right then you’re glad your body never forgot the motions of death. Glad for the blood that stains your hands—how can you be glad?

You can’t remember how long you fought for. Days, weeks? Surely not months, or so you think. Yours is a small force, and though Miss Lucinda is a good healer, she grows tired while the other army’s numbers are replenished time and again. You remember the bags under her eyes as she tipped a potion sip by sip into your mouth the time you were shot through the face.

You remember sneaking into the enemy camp in the dead of night, skirting around the edges of it to the back line where the archers rested. You quietly slit five of their throats before you were noticed, and managed to slash another across the belly before the arrow caught you in the side of the face, in one cheek and out the other. The wood of the shaft cracked when you bit down. It was everything you could do not to scream as you fled. Dale thought you were a fiend when you first stepped out of the shadows, face obscured in blood and cradling your jaw as you cupped a hand beneath your mouth in an effort to catch more blood before it left a trail. Laurance held you while Garroth split the arrowhead from the rest of it with a knife and pulled the shaft out the other side of your face, your jaw gripped tight in one hand to keep you from struggling. It took hours to pull the splinters from your cheeks and tongue before they sent you to wake the healer. The whole ordeal had been excruciating. You might have cried. You remember that a lot more clearly than most other times at war. After a while, it’s hard to tell which side spills more blood when so much is shed that red squishes out of the earth wherever you step.

Every day, you fought dawn to dusk. And then one day you won. By Nicole literally knocking some sense into her father, of all things! You find a quiet corner to throw up in and for a beautiful moment, you think life in this little town you’ve started thinking of as home will go back to being good. Until your Lord tells you to guard the village as she races past the gates, and she doesn’t come back. None who followed her do either.

For days, you stand waiting at the gates. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep. O’khasis is gone, Scaleswind has made a refuge of the plaza, and still there is no sign of your Lord or your brothers-in-arms. You won’t even leave to have your wounds seen to. Nicole has to drag a doctor to the gates to treat you, and the entire time you watch the forest hoping that any moment they will reappear. You only step away when someone brings you news that the ship that took the children away has returned. You should be the one to tell them.

Zoey knows something is wrong the moment she sees you. Levin and Malachi smile and ask where their mother is—they call you ‘uncle’ while they do. You get down on your knees before them, and you gather them close in your arms, and you cry as you tell them their mother has been missing since the day the war ended. You’re still holding them when the exhaustion catches up with you.

Zoey is with you when you wake. She tells you you’ve been out nearly two days. She fusses over you, and you know you’ve worried her because that’s what she does when she’s worried. You’re a mess anyway, so you let her fuss. You drink the broth she makes you, you change into the clothes she provides, you sit still while she cuts the unruly mats of your hair and shaves your face. You used to cut yourself shaving all the time, no one ever taught you how and you were only six or so when Gene was learning to; you don’t remember now how he showed you each step or the laugh in his voice at the face of disgust you made when you slapped a little hand into the lather on his face and left behind a tiny palmprint. Zoey doesn’t cut you once. When she’s done with you, she takes you by the arm and guides you back into civilization, where everyone who remained has decided already on search parties to go out looking for your missing friends.

You head each expedition. Dale brings himself out of retirement to watch over the town while you’re gone, and asks only that you also look for his son. Does he know you used to be a tracker, used to spend days in the woods trailing coyotes and runaways for enough coin to carry you through the cold months? You try for him, but the ground is soft still and every step anyone takes leaves a print, all overlapping and muddled. You keep an eye out as you circle the same stretches of woods for days, but you find nothing. Your group goes further and faster than any other, the first to find and dismantle bandit camps and dens of fiends, but no matter how far you go you find not a sign of anyone who has disappeared that day. It’s as though they vanished into thin air. Every time you return home, Dale looks at you with hopeful eyes, and every time you must take him aside and break his heart a little more. Eventually, he stops asking.

For a year, you search. The area has never been safer. You have never felt so alone as when people start to suggest that a funeral may be in order.

You feel like a monster for the rage in your voice when you denounce these people. You know they aren’t dead—you would have felt such a thing, you know, you would have felt pieces of yourself snapping like wire pulled too taut, you would have felt the sharp edges tangling inside you—it would have felt like it did when the brother you killed rose from the grave to slit your throat and cut your very existence from the memory of Boboros. You hear white noise rumbling in your ears when the first brave soul says Sir Dante, there’s been no sign for a year now, and your blood is boiling when you slap their comforting hand off your shoulder. You spit that you’re not giving up just because everyone else has taken no evidence of life to mean the surety of death, and with their pitying looks burning into your back to return to the woods. You scream into the trees until you can’t anymore. When it doesn’t help, you use your considerable tracking skills to hunt something, anything, until you feel human again.

You crawl back home the day before the funeral with your cape stained with blood; they held it back so you could attend. You polish your armor and swords until they shine, and the warped reflection of your own face makes you feel sick the way waging war did. You stand at attention the entire ceremony without moving a muscle. When Dale reads the names of the deceased at the end, offering their souls into the embrace of the Matron, you salute, and the clatter of your armor silences the crowd.

Everyone who fought in the war salutes with you. So do your Lord’s sons. You’re too tired to cry. You hold your salute long after everyone else has left.

The remaining forces of Scaleswind return home. One by one, family by family, the streets of your home empty. Without your Lord, without your guard, the citizens trickle out the front gates and never turn back. Some apologize to you as they say their goodbyes, and some of them you actually believe. You close the gate behind each of them until all that remains is you, Zoey, and your Lord’s sons. Then Zoey tells you she’s taking the boys to the Yggdrasil Forest. She holds you tight for too long and kisses your brow when you show them to the gate for the last time.

You can’t believe you ever thought you knew what loneliness was before this.

For five years, you are completely and utterly alone. You search and you patrol and you do your best to maintain the village. You don’t believe in Irene, but every day before dawn you stand before her statue and look down down down over the cliff’s edge and pray that this won’t be the rest of your life. That you haven’t deluded yourself into believing a fantasy, that you haven’t made such an incredible fool of yourself that people can’t bear to be around you, that you haven’t been forgotten. For five years, you pray that someone, somewhere, remembers that you exist. You look down down down over the cliff’s edge and have the terrible thought that you don’t know what you’d do if you were forgotten again.

The gate is falling apart. You don’t know how to repair the damage the weather’s done to it, you tried to patch the cracks but it never holds. With each year, you’ve been pushed further and further outtowards the coast. The only places you have the energy to maintain anymore are the guard tower and your Lord’s home. You blockaded the gates when the mechanism broke, you check it on occasion to be sure no bandits get in, and one day you hear voices from the other side. Familiar voices. You scramble up the wall and look over the other side at a boy you don’t recognize looking back up at you. He says, Is that Uncle Dante? and you climb down as fast as you can to embrace Malachi.

He’s nearly the age you were when you first met his mother. He’s grown tall, and strong enough to carry his brother on his back. Levin is fevered when you first see him, flush and hurting even as he dozes, and Malachi tells you he can’t walk from how bad he hurts. You remember how Zoey fretted over him when he was young, how sometimes he’d scream for seemingly no reason, and once you show them to their mother’s home Malachi refuses to leave his bedside.

You sit with them and ask where Zoey is. Malachi tells you of her obsession, and the relief that you are not alone in the belief that those who disappeared are alive feels like a hint of betrayal. You’re relieved that she’s driving herself into a downward spiral because of what? Because it makes you feel like you were reasonable to fight not to let their souls be put to rest?

You wait for her at the gates deep into the night and take her to her boys when she bursts from the woods, frantic that she’d lost them, and safe if your Lord’s home she holds you so tight your ribs hurt from the force of her grip. After so long, you’re not alone anymore.

You wake before dawn and strap your swords to your back. For the first time in a long time, you feel safe enough to go without your armor. You hike up the steep cliff to the Irene statue. You kneel before her to offer your thanks. You look into the pool at her feet and fear grips you by the throat.

Your brother’s face looks back at you.

You wear your swords the way he did. Your hair falls like his, dark in the shadow of Irene. Your face is gaunt and pale from old habits, eating only enough to sustain yourself so rations will stretch long enough for you to find more—do you remember how they starved Gene before they killed him? How they weakened him so he wouldn’t have the energy to fight? How pale and gaunt he was, dirt streaking over the side of his face, blood and grime drying in his hair, shaking and sweaty with how hard he fought back? Do you remember the scar that twisted around his throat when he returned from the dead to get his vengeance? Your collar is open over the scar he left twisting across your own, and it matches his own so very well. In the shadows of your eyes, you see his own staring back.

You think of the war. You think of how easy the killing was. You think of how easily Gene cut through the guards, the Lord, the memories of Boboros. The rage in his voice when he denounced you as his brother, the twist of his smile when he told you he would leave you to rot, Dante. No one will ever remember you. You can see that twist in the corners of your own smile, pushed into shape by the deep scars on your cheeks. You and your brother are the same.

You’re shaking too much to stand. You never go without your armor again.

[clownscasino]

actually, how many times has branzy been held hostage to make clown do something at this point? at least 3 that i know of (ls's obsidian box "betrayal" / held by spiderwebs in u.u. / kaboodlesmp's whole situation). am i forgetting any more??