Chapter Text
A god stares boredly across the landscape covered in red, loving how the blood would dry into a crusty brown chip over time. Hunger games has just occurred and it was a total bloodbath. The god loved it.
Yet there was a frown on its face.
The hole where once the excitement for bloodshed was held is now gone, leaving behind an empty wasteland of promised emotion that would never be fulfilled. What’s the point of bloodshed if there were no consequences? Sure there was the unbearable pain, but all of that goes away once they respawn.
It’s eyes began to wander
The calm ocean breeze blew over Phil as the man casted his fishing hook out into the depths below. The bob plops into the waters with a bare ripple eroding from disruption, catching the attention of the Fishes down below without scaring them off to hide in between the rocks.
It’s not usually his favorite pastime, but a much needed one. The man could only stand the unbearable heat and the echoing screams of ghasts for so long before he started pulling hairs. The combination of chilly wind blowing against his wings, the singing birds, and the boring, repetitive, motions of fishing relaxed him. Between all of his projects, there’s barely any time to just relax in the sunlight. He could only smile and thank his past self for begrudgingly scheduling the off time on his calendar.
With nothing particularly to think about, the world record holder eyes began to wander.
He wasn’t in complete isolation but his base is a long ways away from civilization. He just didn’t particularly want to be around unpredictable people when he first began his five year long journey of not perishing. It worked out for the most part, he never once had to deal with any mischievous people that were trying to end his journey early. But Phil chalked that up to that fact that he was mostly unheard of until it was too late and an unlikely pair of baby zombie and spider sunk their fangs into his neck.
He was distraught for a short while, the run was over, no more new entries in his journal. He remembered feeling a sense of peace wash over him as strange as that was; he didn’t have to be overly cautious of every little thing anymore. Then shock and joy overwhelmed him when his face was printed on newspapers all throughout the land as the new world record holder. After his time in the spotlight and the whole world knew him for his achievement, all he was left with is loneliness. Phil has all the power to move closer to where his friends live, to once again laugh with them into the skies no thought in mind every morning, but the man didn’t have it in his heart to leave his secluded home. There are way too many memories here to be neglected and left for the moss to grow on.
Something heavy pulled at the line. Snapping out of his thoughts, Phil reeled it in. The purple shimmers emitted from the covers glowed in the sunlight as the drenched book flew up in the air towards the man, losing only a few pages in the process. He caught the book in his hand, quickly sat down on the shore, and began flipping through the soaked pages, searching for a clue on what magical enchantment was bestowed within.
Blue eyes sparkled with glee as he released a whoop of happiness into the air; it was a mending book.
At the moment, he has not found a villager that is nearly as intelligent enough to comprehend the words in a mending book let alone mass produce it. The blond man giddily placed down the book and looked at his tools with a quirked eyebrow, deciding which one of his assets are of top priority.
Something stroked his wings.
All sense of calmness the fishing session gave Phil was immediately thrown out of the window as he released a curse and jumped back away from the shore, into the shallow waters. His Nethrite boots violently splashing the waters in many directions. His deadly, glowing, sword went up to block whatever was there. The fire aspect already beginning to heat up the weapon, squirming with anticipation at the prospect of battle, and the sharpness V slicing the air between them, leaving nothing but the promise of death.
Why didn’t he hear footsteps? Why didn’t he hear any sort of noise at all? Even the most quiet and sneaky creatures gave him some sort of indication that they were nearby.
Tense, rushing, ocean blue pupils met confused, deep, rose red ones.
The piglin, from the looks of it roughly around eight years old, or as Phil liked to describe it, old enough to be hostile, tilted his head at the tense man. His outreached hand was frozen in the air where Phil’s dark purple wings once were and his other hand loosely clenched a shiny, golden, sword that looked way too big for his body yet, somehow, looked natural; like the little piglin could use it just as well as any professional. Phil was momentarily blinded from the reflected sunlight bouncing off the half broken yellow helmet he armored that definitely have seen better days, but that was nothing compared to the surprisingly large amount of intelligence he saw behind those eyes. Piercing red; like the first droplet of blood or the fires on top of the deepest layer of the Nether. Both of which is something the five year hardcore player did not want to interact with.
Phil frowned at the little piglin, previously relaxed fingers grasp at the handle of his sword as he blocked his stomacal area. He knows how they work. He shouldn’t be surprised to see that the creature has a brain. Piglins are smarter than the average mob, they gather valuables, protect their fellow species, and travel in dangerously large groups. They are their own worst enemy. Blinded by greed, one pair of gold boots on your body and they would immediately become too distracted by it to impale you. No gold on your body and they will attack in hoards, uncoordinated, ruthless, hoards. The baby ones, around three to five years old, are usually fairly passive; nevermind the occasional bites they attempt to commit with their underdeveloped tusks. Six to ten is when they begin to become aggressive as well as become a nightmare with their constant violent hyperactivity and the blood eyed piglin in front of him should be no different.
The child didn’t do anything. He just stared back at Phil’s unwavering eyes before he averted his gaze onto something behind the Blond with a look that many would describe as fascination.
His wings.
Phil could feel himself lowering his defenses even though the man knew better. Sometimes the little ones take some time to plan out their attacks before they start sprinting at someone in an irregular pattern. He continued to use his sword to block off his body.
A confused expression took over his face when the little piglin, instead rushing forward to recklessly stab him, trotted around him. His little hooves hit the waters and the Blond immediately knew how he was jumpscared; there was no sound. The little piglin somehow learned how to travel through water as if he himself was a part of it and not a disruption to the natural flow and Phil wouldn’t doubt for a second that he knew how to do the same on land.
Small, four, hoof-like, fingers began softly playing with the dark purple feathers. Both hands, one player and one piglin, which held the sword loosened to nothing more than just a forgotten memory as one become more mesmerized at the glimmering, violet, shine that preened under all of the careful strokes and the other become more intrigued at the abnormal behaviors of what he once deem as a mindless mob he did not hesitate in killing.
Phil lowered his sword and switched it out for a shield instead before he lowered himself down into a crouching position, getting eye to eye with the child. His dark green robe dipped into the cold waters and his shield halfheartedly blocking his body.
“You’re a strange one aren’t you, mate?”
The piglin gave him a huff that sounded way too deep to be a child’s and an indifferent expression, his previously petting hands retreated back to his side and he stared the elder down with no hints of aggression or fear, as if he was the one dawning Netherite gear and not the other way around.