Chapter: 1

Gods And Mortals

Ambroise lowered his sword and smiled. It had been a good day's worth of work, hauling all the stuff wouldn't be easy though. Even with the size reducing spell it weighed a lot, especially now that he had also taken the raw materials. The pigs wouldn't be able to haul it all back to his house, not even with the cart.

"Oh well, I guess I'll have to get rid of a couple cobblestone and leave some of the wooden planks behind... I can always get those on my own anyway." Smile still in place, Ambroise sheathed his weapon and loaded several chests with the goods he was carrying.

The warm sun heated the air to a point of being uncomfortable, and the sweat was beginning to fall from his brow. After all the excitement of that day's events, it was a surprise he wasn't completely exhausted.

It's not every day that you have to dismantle entire buildings after all.

Ambroise lifted the chests one by one, and placed them on a wooden cart pulled by two large boars. The beasts let out disgruntled squeals as the weight of an entire town was placed on their backs.

"Squeal and whine all you want, it's still four miles to the house." Ambroise frowned and looked back at the quiet village. It's empty streets and silent homes stood like sentinels, never moving, ever devoid of noise. The events of that morning were still fresh in his mind.

Ambroise scowled and spat on the green grass below his feet. He wasn't proud of his deeds but he was not ashamed either. It was the native's duty to serve him after all.

"Why did you bastards have to start building that golem?"

That morning had been like many others. A quiet trip from his home to the only nearby village. It had been a thing of several years now, riding in, giving the locals a scare and taking only what he needed.

Merely survival of the fittest, like any good minecraftian would say, it is the right of the strong to take that for which they fought. And Ambroise had fought plenty. No matter how many dangers lurked around in the night, no matter how dire the situation was, Ambroise had always fought his way out.

It was never an easy task, living in Minecraftia, but he had managed quite well. The tribute from the village was merely on occasions when harvests were not good for him, and sadly, that was quite often. Ambroise was one of the most skilled fighters of the Snowclan, but a poor excuse of a farmer.

He knew this, and like any intelligent being, he found a way to compensate for it. By building his home near the border with the plains biome, Ambroise was able to make use of the finer weather to grow enough wheat for himself and a small herd of cattle.

But he needed more. As of late, the other clansmen had reported an increasing number of undead attacking their homes. The night was becoming more dangerous with every passing day, and it reflected on the wildlife. It had been about a month since Ambroise last saw any deer on the forest by his home.

With the ever decreasing wildlife, Ambroise was forced to slaughter some of the heads in his personal herd. But that only meant he had to breed more cattle to satisfy all his needs, which meant more food for them.

Ambroise sighed and walked over to the abandoned village. Well, almost abandoned. A solitary pair of couples were huddled in fear inside the village library, hoping to remain unseen.

The warrior moved beside the dug out gravel road. He had spent half an hour digging out the flint from it, since he could use more arrows back at home.

His hand moved to the hilt of his sword instinctively, though he knew he had nothing to fear from the villagers, it was always good to be prepared. It was Minecraftia where he lived after all, and the land was not kind to the fools and weaklings.

That morning's events proved it quite well.

The villagers had not been expecting Ambroise to appear in mid spring, since harvest was usually good for him around that time of the year. So, when an armored figure rode into the village in his carriage pulled by boars, only to find the inhabitants in the middle of building an iron golem to defeat him. Well, let's say the population lowered drastically.

As Ambroise approached the library he covered his nose with his left arm. The stench of corpses was strong now that the sun was burning in all it's intensity. Flies and other insects were rushing to get their share of the dead.

The warrior pressed a hand against the wooden door and opened it, slowly allowing the sunlight to enter the building. Books lay neatly placed on shelves, all sorts of information about many different topics could be found there, but it didn't interest him, he couldn't read.

Ambroise unsheathed his sword and held it in front of his body, ready to impale anyone foolish enough to approach. He moved through the darkness of the building in perfect silence. The windows had been barricaded with furniture to prevent him from entering, but the door wasn't locked.

The library was small and there were no places to hide, so Ambroise was quick to find what he was looking for.

Backing away from him in a dark corner, were the last survivors of the morning's events. They shook with fear as he moved a couple of steps closer.

Ambroise took a good, long look at the natives. Their skin was a light brown tone, they had no hair on their bodies, their bald heads sported two large green eyes and a slightly bulky nose, they had no mouths.

"You have been granted mercy by I, Ambroise, lord of the Snow. If I am to let you live, then I will demand a monthly tribute from you. Forty sacks of wheat and two stacks of wood by the end of every month must be delivered to the edge of the biome, where the grass meets the snow. If it is not there by the end of the month,"

Ambroise brought the tip of his sword in front of one of the villager's face and made a small cut above her eye, drawing a small drop of blood that ran down her face and fell to the floor.

"I will burn down the place and leave you at the mercy of the night..."

The villager's eyes widened in fear and they all huddled closer together, terrified at Ambroise's threat. If there was one thing all natives of the land feared, it was the undead.

Ambroise lowered his sword and walked out of the building. His job was done, the remaining villagers still had the library to live in and they could still work and pay the tribute, in time the populace would grow again.

"And then they will revolt again and I'll have to start the cycle all over..." Ambroise sighed and climbed on his wagon. The boars squealed and groaned yet again before starting to move forward at a good pace, even if it was somewhat strained. "This sort of things didn't happen sixty years ago..."

Indeed they did not. Over the many decades the warrior had been alive, the natives had always been peaceful and submissive. He never would have thought it possible that they would raise against him.

He had outlived several generations of the dark skinned villagers, and he had struck fear into the hearts of every single adult and child. Legends were bound to exist about his person, he was sure of it.

Ambroise smiled as his carriage left the ruined village behind. Fame had always been something he wanted. Back in Charlemagne's Kingdom, when the mighty king controlled so much territory, Ambroise had always craved fame and power similar to his king's.

After death took him from his world and left him stranded in the middle of the snow biome, he finally found his chance.
The villagers were easy to dominate, and he was well certain that they knew his name, he shouted it as he strode through the village's during his raids after all.

Immortality had been quite the surprise for him as well. He had expected death to take him yet again about forty years in the past, but it never did. After having being alive in Minecraftia for seventy years, plus the thirty five of his past life, and not aging a single day, he was certain he was immortal.

And not only that, he was much stronger than ever. Having the muscle to carry half a village in your pocket was quite the deed, even if magic played a little part in it. He was not much of a connoisseur when it came to the arcane, but he was well able to pull off the basic tricks known to all minecraftians.

Although most of it was instinct, he took pride in knowing the odd spell or two. It just proved his position as a god further.

With the smile on his lips, the minecraftian warrior left the plains biome and headed for his home on the frontier.

Lost in the cold

The sun of Minecraftia was beginning to lower itself, getting closer and closer to the horizon with every passing minute. In the woods by the center of the snow biome, as a strong blizzard was beginning to fall.

A lone walker moved through the woods, slowly making his way to a friend's house, hurriedly jogging through the darkening forest. He had to be fast on his feet, the night was approaching.

His breaths came out of his mouth heavily, his muscles ached from exertion for he had traveled long, both by day and night to make fast progress.

But the exercise was taking it's toll on the body and mind of the man, for his eyes yearned for a moment of respite, his legs screamed for a place to lay down and sleep, his arms tormented and pleaded with him to let them rest, but he would not. He had a mission to complete, and he would only allow himself one stop.

His brother's house.

As the snow began falling with more frequency and the pines started to swerve from side to side, he noticed them whispering, talking. As if they were gently murmuring among each other about something of importance. The man stopped his race and looked sideways, making sure nothing was following him from the darkness.

The bushes to his left rustled and a current of wind blew from the south. He frowned and changed his course to the way the wind blew, trusting his knowledge of the land to guide him.

His pacing broke into a full speed run as the wind turned fiercer in the way it guided him towards whatever it was that had caused this spike of energy.

He ran through the foliage, snapping branches and twigs as he ran, urged forward by the warning of the forest, of the land, of the wind and call. The call of the wild.

The man entered a clearing in the middle of the woods. The pines loomed over the snow covered floor, casting their shadows like silent guardians waiting for their master to return.

At first the man frowned and looked around in confusion, unsure of what to expect. The place did not look special in any way. It was just an old glade.

A very old glade.

His eyes widened in recognition of the most sacred of lands. The beginning of their race, the origin so to speak. And he was standing in the middle of it all.

"For when we were nothing, we ascended unto the land, and it was bountiful, blessed be the great builder." The man fell to his knees and bent his head down in prayer, for he was in presence of the origin, one of the many. It was in places like this that the builders were released into the vast expanse of Minecraftia, to either die or rise above all in supremacy and freedom.

He himself had been reborn in a place like that one, but farther south, in the jungles of the southern reaches of Minecraftia, where the heat never falls and the trees are like mountains.

"Good lords of the land, help me and my kind reach the deepest reaches of your favor and rewards. Allow my humble person guidance in travelling through the expanse of your territories. Help us find riches untold and grant us power over valleys and mountains." His eyes shone as he prayed, for it was every Minecraftian's dream to hold as much territory as he could, to be free of the restraints of others and to own the world.

His prayers finished, the man rose to his feet and smiled proudly. He was a son of the land after all, and his prayers were usually well rewarded with fresh conquests.

There were always forests and jungles where he would construct a shrine to his preferred gods and deities, and after an amount of time had passed, he would go in a pilgrimage to the shrines he built and leave an offering in all those that still stood.

His third pilgrimage had been what brought him from the southern jungles and into the frozen lands of the Snowclan, he had been expecting to find a shrine further west, along the border between the snow and plains biome, but he had never seen a holy ring in the middle of the woods.

"It has always been best not to taunt the gods... In the morning I shall return and build a shrine to Tlaloc, for snow is but frozen water." He stood and made a mark in a nearby tree with a stone knife.

"Gods hear my oath! On this day forth, I, Chicahua Chimalli, swear to pilgrimage to this circle once every fifty years until my constructions on this holy ground crumble and fall! May they never do!" Chicahua sheathed his knife and took a good look around the circle.

Each one was unique. Some would make the builder appear high in a tree, or low on a desert, in the middle of a forest, or out in the plains. No two circles were similar, they all had their respective characteristics, and Chicahua was determined to root them all out and classify them. To learn more of the ways of the gods.

This particular one was rather flat, no foliage grew in the middle of it, and the borders were perfectly defined. The pines that seemed to stand guard around it were swaying with the wind, agitated and seemingly anxious. But why?

Chicahua then noticed something. In the middle of the clearing, covered by the snow and perfectly still, was a girl.

"I'll be damned..." His jaw dropped and he took a moment to react. It was not every day that a new builder was born into the land. As a matter of fact, it almost never happened.

On account of the oldest Minecraftian still alive, Akio Daichi, reborn into Minecraftia one thousand years after the death of the original Builder, Minecraftians were only reborn into the land once every hundred years, and most who appeared died almost immediately.

It had been three thousand years since the original Builder passed away, and there were only twelve Builders in the whole vastness of Minecraftia. This they knew, for it had been knowledge passed down by the great builder himself that all builders had to be reborn in the same continent. As such, if there ever was a new builder, Chicahua heard of it first, since he traveled the land more than any other.

Chicahua rushed to the side of the unconscious girl and inspected her, hoping he wasn't too late. It would be sinful for him to lose a sister so soon, especially when recent events called for more able bodied Builders to rise.

Speaking of which.

Growling and pained moaning erupted from all around the holy circle, snapping of branches and the sounds of foliage being clumsily trespassed were filling the air in heart wrenching volume. The undead were fast approaching and there were many of them.

They had begun to attack in groups merely two months back, organizing raids and attacks on certain Builder's homes. They devoured cattle and trampled crops, forcing the Builders to face them out in the open. Chicahua thanked almighty Huitzilopochtli that none had fallen as of yet.

But the beasts were gaining in on them. Several previously conquered caves and mines had been retaken by the forces of the night. Chicahua, Ambroise and some others had tried to liberate one of the first mines ever constructed by Minecraftians long dead, but the sheer amount of monsters that lurked in it's shadows never allowed them to go further than the first few levels.

But on the open ground it would be different. Chicahua was an expert fighter and no undead had ever proven more than entertainment for the experienced Nahuatl warrior.

Pulling out two stone daggers, he slowly stood back up, leaving the gal to fare for herself a little longer, at least until he was able to deal with the oncoming beasts.

With savage growls of hunger, two undead grunts threw themselves at him from the shadows of the trees, flailing their arms wildly and salivating from starvation. The beasts were fast on their feet and covered ground quickly, leaving little time to act.

But countless years of fighting in the land of Minecraftia had made a seasoned warrior out of every Builder, and Chicahua was no exception.

In one fluid motion, he drew back his arm and took aim, almost automatically, so used was he to the art of war. A knife was sent flying forward. Whistling in the air and moving at a frightening speed, the projectile flew through several meters like they were nothing, and in a matter of seconds, it found it's target.

The undead's head flung backwards as the stone knife made impact with his skull, tearing through bone and flesh, piercing his forehead and sending a cloud of blood out in the air. The beast brought both of his hands to his face and clawed at it, painfully trying to free himself from the knife, while howling and snarling.

The remaining one didn't stop his charge, he jumped forward, intent on tackling the warrior.

Chicahua failed to throw the second knife, it fell to the ground the moment the beast fell upon him. He was locked in literal hand to hand combat with the undead monster as he held the snapping jaws at bay with one arm.

The monster clawed at the warrior's face, snarling and growling, saliva falling from the rotten teeth in his mouth. Chicahua grimaced as the putrid liquid touched his cheek, but he had no way of removing it without letting his guard down.

"This things are always such a bother..." As he held the monster at bay with one arm, his free hand was searching for the knife he had dropped, but another threat slowly started to clutch at the side of his head.

The zombie's hand was beginning to apply pressure at Chicahua's face. Rotten fingernails digging into the soft flesh, drawing blood and pain.

The Nahuatl warrior glared at the beast, unable to do much else. The zombie's dead eyes were looking at him indifferently, as if he didn't see him at all, but was rather staring into the depth of space, pondering on the pleasures of an afterlife it would never see.

Chicahua's hand searched desperately for his knife, fingers fumbling around in the dirt, while the beast's nails were picking up speed as the monster stopped applying pressure and opted to savagely claw at the warrior's face. Chicahua screamed in rage and pain as he felt skin being ripped off and blood beginning to flow rapidly.

He kicked the zombie with his knee and pushed with his arm, the combined force sent the undead creature tumbling sideways, falling beside the Nahuatl Builder.

Knowing he would not have a second chance, Chicahua ignored the stinging pain on his face and rapidly ran for the knife still sticking out of the first undead's head.

The corpse of the undead was twitching and convulsing sickeningly as the last traces of dark magic left his body. Blood flowed from his mouth and a gurgling noise was heard coming from his throat, as Chicahua got closer, he could see maggots writhing inside the zombie's mouth, and all the way down to his open rib cage.

Without pausing to admire the disgusting spectacle, Chicahua pulled out the stone knife from the monster's head. It was covered in blood, dark and disgusting, smelling of decay and foul magic, for that was how the beasts came back to life every night.

The Nahuatl fighter started to grin but was stopped by a horrible pain, he brought his hand to the side of his face and tried to touch his cheek, only to find nothing but several long gashes. They hurt enough to let him know that the beast had reached the bone.

Eyes widening with horror and anger, the warrior let out a shout of rage that mixed with pain as his wounded face reminded him of it's poor state. But it did not matter, he was furious and the pain only added to his rage. Chicahua charged forward, screaming wildly, more like an animal than a man.

The undead beast was back on his feet before the Nahuatl had any time to strike. It gave a howl of blood lust and ran to meet the warrior in the middle.

Chicahua made a swift slash to the monster's stomach, cutting through the flesh and exposing intestines and bones. The monster growled and delivered a swipe of his claws to the Nahuatl's face, failing to connect as the agile fighter dodged and drove the stone knife into the zombie's mandible.

Chicahua grunted angrily as two hands dug into the sides of his stomach and tried to claw their way to his intestines. The brave warrior did not break the deadly embrace. One of them was going to die, and it would not be him.

Chicahua pulled out the knife and slammed it into the monster's right eye, forcing the beast to stop its attacks and fall backwards from the force of the blow.

The warrior slid the blade out of the zombie's eye socket and cleaned it with his clothes. He then watched the beast convulse and writhe in the same manner the first one had before dying.

After making sure that the perimeter was safe, Chicahua returned to the matter at hand. The girl was unconscious but still alive, if barely.

"The magic is strong within you friend, the gods have granted great power unto you." Chicahua smiled as he cleared the snow from Twilight's naked body. He placed her facing upwards and pressed his ear against her breast, trying to hear the faintest sign of a heartbeat.

It was there.

Chicahua smiled and took off his clothes. He dressed Twilight in them and placed her over his shoulders, making sure she wouldn't fall, he began to make his way to his brother's home.

"You will live my friend, and with my guidance, you shall leave your mark on the land, praised be Quetzalcoatl the great serpent, for a new Builder is not a daily occurrence."

Chicahua felt joy in his heart, for a new comrade had been reborn into the world, a woman no less! There were few females in the land, and they were mostly independent, perhaps the gods would show him kindness with this one?

Only time would show.

Chapter: 2

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The Heretic And His Loss

Tell me what a man is worth, and I will tell you what you are worth. Tell me how to differentiate a lord from a peasant, and I will tell which one of them you are.

To tell a lion from a sheep is no easy task, for they do not show their true nature to the naked eye. It is only when the man comes axe in hand that you can see who is whom.

For there are so many who would gladly march into their deaths with a smile on their lips, so long as they do not have to defend themselves. So many who enjoy a passive life without questioning their purpose in it.

Those who live happily as they ignore the evil being done to them. But for every thousand sheep there are, a lion has the chance to rise. That man who would not so easily surrender his soul to those who would consider themselves his masters.

For there is just so much a man is willing to take before snapping. Before he either accepts his fate and learns to live with the whip slashing at his back, or he stands up and grabs the arms of his attacker, screams his protests in his face and then takes the whip and breaks it in two.

All the pain and suffering, all the hate and greed that the land seemed to spread to its inhabitants, the natives had managed to ignore it and live on with their lives. They had accepted the whip and learned to forgive their torturer.

But there was no headsman like Minecraftia and even the most peaceful of creatures had to learn how to survive. Such was the way of the land, such was the way of Minecraftia.

You either died being nothing, or you rose up till your might touched the skies. But a great man cannot commence from nothing, since heroes and villains have to be made.

And made they would be. For it was when the sorrow and pain were at their highest, when the fires of the Nether rose and tried to burn the flesh off the bone, that a man would stare at his life and destiny in contemplation and decide whether he wished to be a sheep, or face the danger and sacrifice of becoming a lion.

Such a man was standing among the ruins of his home. As the ashes of his life flew with the wind in front of his face, as he gazed into his own heart and found anger despite his peaceful nature, the man reflected. He thought of the many mornings he had worked the land, of the many afternoons spent tending to cattle.

Had he not worshiped the gods enough? Where his actions somehow displeasing to them? If so then why take their revenge on his beloved home? Why take their revenge on her...

The native was on his knees, looking down at his crime and love, at his sin and salvation. It was wrong for him to love her, it had always been wrong for him to desire the touch of her hands and the love of her arms. By all accounts it had been a sin and heretical.

But they had loved each other since their youth, they had grown together, played together, and the time they mated was not out of simple reproduction. It had been a time for them when their love had finally reached its heights, when time had stopped and nothing else could have mattered but the gentle touch of each others flesh, the warm breath on their necks as their embrace proved society wrong on all accords.

But now she was ashes. A victim of the gods, a martyr of the land. One of the many that lay scattered throughout the village area. Or what was left of it at least.

The native held her in his arms, rocking back and forth as the tears flowed freely and desperately. His eyes reflected all the pain his body could not show. The gentle gems of green that were his eyes, so full of peace and calm, were but ghosts of the past, remnants of what they used to be not so long ago.

Red and weeping were his eyes, trembling with fear and rage was his body. How could a simple man contain so much anger, so much hurt inside himself? He felt like screaming his fury to the gods above. He wanted nothing but to have the love of his life back with him. But it would never happen, as she lay dead on his arms.

A long gash of sickening red running down her abdomen. Ants and insects had invaded the cavity and were feasting on the soft flesh inside it. Her eyes were dull and empty, missing the love and tenderness she had always shown, all the love and kindness he had always admired.

His breathing turned heavy as he wept beside her. Her sight was not one he would soon forget. The sickening wound was alive with the beasts as they crawled beneath the flesh and emerged out of it covered in her blood. Small moving mounds of flesh were travelling along her sides and stomach as some of the largest insects ventured in search of organs.

The sun was lowering itself on the Minecraftian horizon. Night would fall upon him soon should he not retreat inside the library with the few who had survived. As such was the rule of the land. Peaceful creatures left the darkness behind and surrendered it to the beasts. Villagers were allowed to roam around during the day, but when the moon rose, they were meant to surrender it to their stronger counterparts.

For they were weak and defenseless.

The villager's nose flared with fury as his breathing turned from heavy and slow to a more violent pace. His eyes, red from weeping and mourning the love of his life, acquired a wild and bestial glow. As he felt the innocence leave his heart, as the hatred and fury invaded his mind, he felt liberated.

He felt free for once. Free to hate and want, free to fight and rise, free from the restraints the gods and their elders had put on them. He felt free to need revenge. As the rage and loss, the pain and suffering coursed through his veins, the villager decided.

He was no longer a man of peace and quiet, for that was what stung him the most.

The silence.

His lover lay dead before him, an entire village had been destroyed and sacked, a dozen men, women and children were scattered throughout the fields, rotting away in the sunlight as the filth of the earth feasted on their flesh and bones, and all he could do was mourn them in silence.

The wind was blowing calmly, the crickets were chirping gladly and the horizon was painted a beautiful orange color. And it all was happening as he suffered. It was the laugh of the gods that he was hearing in the silence. The taunts and mockery as they dared him to voice his protests, as they laughed at him for not being able to speak.

It had always been so. The laughingstock of the gods, of the land, of the builders. To suffer like he had and not being able to say a word against it, to see his world crumble and his love die and having to sit quietly throughout it. His screams of pain twisted and writhed inside his mind, torturing him, clawing at the insides of his head.

But they would never get out. The last laugh of the gods was to see him mourn and weep in the perfect silence and peace of the night.

To let the pain destroy his mind slowly.

A Lifetime Of War

The night was absolute, obscuring the land and shrouding it in darkness. Trees swerved sideways with the wind as it flew past them, quietly moaning into the shadows below them, whispering for the soldiers of the night to rise and battle. To wage war and spread terror across the land. To end the lives of those who resisted, for it was they who opposed the darkness, and said darkness resented such defiance.

Growls of hunger and painful moaning erupted from the shadowy treeline as the forces of the undead drew closer and closer to their target, to their battlefield, to their graves.

A house made of wood and stone stood atop a small hill in the middle of the woodland. Its walls made of oak and its roof of birch. A platform of stone below the wooden walls offered the strength to its foundations and the might to its appearance. Next to the house was a shed in which chickens were kept. And a large fenced area at the foot of the hill kept cows and sheep.

The home was as elegant as it was strong, lit torches adorned its surroundings and a stone wall of about a meter in height stood around the hill, unfinished and besieged, for the forces of darkness had marched from their hiding places and were fast on their feet.

A group of the undead jumped over the stone wall and ran up the hill towards the wooden doors left open wide, inviting the beasts to enter. It was one of the organized hordes, four regular undead flanked by two of the skeletal archers from the surrounding caves and mines charged uphill, hollering and screaming.

The skeletons glanced around, as they were intelligent and sharp on their senses, they felt themselves being watched from afar. The night was alive with the brutal howling of the many undead that roamed around aimlessly through the woods, so it was impossible to hear anything. The scent of rotting flesh and foul magic was thick in the air.

It would be impossible for anyone to smell the hunter.

He stood silent and calculating, quiet and deadly, tall and mighty inside his home. The calm demeanor he held was a challenge to the invaders, his silence was an insult, and the drink in his hands was the salt on the injury. The man took a sip of the alcoholic drink and swallowed loudly.

His left hand was holding the cup, his right hand on the hilt of his sword and his mind was set on his plan. The beasts just had to venture inside, where the frame of the door would stop them from overwhelming him and render their archers useless. He waited in silence as the screams became louder than the roars of the cannons outside on the high seas of the Mediterranean ocean.

The air was thick and stank of murder, much like the waters outside of Sicily. The familiar weight of his sword brought him confidence and serenity.

He was a soldier of the seas, a warrior of the storm. Death and murder were a lifestyle for him, a simple ways of earning the coin for a piece of moldy bread and a mug of bad wine after a week of smelling the gunpowder in the air and the blood on the deck.

The first of the undead kicked the door open and entered the quiet house. The beast fell silent and looked around, his mutilated face failing to see much of his surroundings.

The monster snarled and sniffed the air. His shattered nose was an ugly mound plastered in the middle of his face, the left eye had been buried beneath a large chunk of hanging flesh from the beast's brow and his right eye socket was empty.

All this the man noted as he stared at the monster, all this he considered as he constructed his attack. Much like the monuments and tunnels, similar to the fortresses and houses, resembling years of arduous building and shaping projects of might and pride.

He was not only a fighter and soldier, he was a Builder, a son of the land, a warrior of Minecraftia, and that made him worthy of his calm. The man slowly placed the cup on the floor and stood up. Making sure to stay on the beasts blind side.

He unsheathed his sword and moved closer. He would only have one chance, one strike, one hit. The beasts may not be smart and the one in front of him might have been blind, but the archers were intelligent.

The foul undead were being led by the bowmen of the underworld since the raids had begun. Groups of zombies with their skeletal leaders marched through the night after every sundown.

Spreading death and terror to all. Both builders and natives suffered greatly at the twisted hands of the beasts. The only difference being that the builders were not going to let themselves cower in fear before the forces of the night.

With the elegance and swiftness of a toreador, the Builder leapt from the shadows, sword in hand and drove the blade into the monster's temple. The creature shrieked loudly and thrashed his arms as the blood erupted from his skull.

The Builder scowled and twisted the blade sideways, drawing more blood and shrieks from the creature. His left hand was holding the zombie's arm to stop him from hitting or clawing, but the beast was strong.

With the might only the desperate can muster, the creature of the darkness slashed at the soldier with his hand that remained free. Claws missed flesh by mere millimeters, cutting through thin air and nothing more.

But the Builder lost his balance and had to take a step back, losing his hold of the monster. The beast howled madly and tried desperately to get rid of the sword still piercing through his skull.

Each touch of the claws on the hilt of the sword made the blade scrape against the bone, sending merciless waves of brain shattering pain across the zombie's body. In the end it couldn't take it anymore.

The monster collapsed and died from the horrible pain and mutilation. Years of suffering and starvation ended that moment as his lifeless body fell to the ground, devoid of life and purpose.

The Builder did not waste any time. He ran towards the corpse of the monster and pulled out the sword from it's skull. Blood and a white paste oozed out of the wound and onto the wooden floor. The man cursed under his breath. It would be a pain to sweep the floors in the morning.

But the more mundane tasks would have to wait. The hollers and howling of the other beasts reached his ears as the monsters approached. The three remaining zombies barged into the building while the archers hissed orders angrily in the dark language only they were able to understand.

It would have been a swift and horrible defeat for the Builder. Dragged to the floor by the hideous monsters and having his innards exposed before his eyes as the beasts feasted on his flesh and tore him open inside his own home.

Many a minecraftian warrior had fallen in a similar fashion. Bravely facing the monsters or cowardly running for his life before being dragged to the ground. The land before their feet had been drenched in their blood as their screams pierced the darkness.

But not him.

He who had sailed the darkened waters of the mediterranean, he who had led the assaults on many a pirate galley or galleon, he who had seen his steel drenched in the blood of men, he was not going to die.

Not again, not ever. His hands were used to the dance of violence and war, his mind was well suited for the danger and uncertainty of that ever changing corridor of savageness he had so many times walked.

Back in the seas, in the jungles and cities of the world, the brave soldier had seen his share of the violence and brutality of battle. Having taken many a life on the shores by Sicily and north Africa. Hunting corsairs and pirates for the king and queen of Spain had left its mark on the mercenary from Toledo.

He shouted his defiance and turned to face the oncoming beasts.

The first zombie to barge in growled and slashed his claws at the Builder's face. Claws moving swiftly as they sought flesh and bone, intent on tearing a hole on the soldier's face.

But steel met the blow with brutal strength. The creature howled in pain as the sword amputated his arm, and blood splattered the walls and floor of the house. The arm fell to the floor with a loud thud and the beast snarled and screeched as the loss of blood caused it lose focus.

The Spaniard's anger was rising with every drop, with every stain and scrape that the monsters caused upon his home. It would be a horrible mess to clean in the morning, long and exhausting, boring and dull.

He scowled and delivered a blow to the beast's face with the pommel of his sword. The monster's growl was cut short and his head flung back from the force of the blow. The creature tumbled backwards and fell out of the house and down the hill.

But there was no time to celebrate. An arrow flew past the doorway and found its tip through the wooden wall behind the Spaniard, missing by mere inches the Builder's face.

"Bastardo hideputa!"

The Spaniard then glared at the oncoming beasts. Two more zombies and their skeletal masters were drawing closer and closer.

"Just like Tlaxcala... Don't let them overwhelm you." The soldier adopted his battle stance. Sword close to the body. Arm drawn back for a better thrust. Tip of his steel aiming upwards to get through the rib cage and pierce the heart. Eyes locked on his next target.

Both beasts roared and charged at him. Archers drew the string of their bows back and took careful aim. The soldier took a menacing step forward and smirked.

Dear Brother, Good Rival

Chicahua ran as fast as he could while carrying Twilight's unconscious body on his back. The cold of the land bit down on his naked flesh as the air flew past him. The trees urged him onward as the howling of dozens of undead was heard in the distance, fast approaching and hungering for death and flesh.

The Nahuatl warrior felt his legs aching and his arms screaming, his chest in pain pleaded to stop and rest, but he would not. He no longer had to care for himself only, but for the gal's safety. She would not die as long as he could do something to stop it.

No Builder would be left to forces of the darkness, for it would be sinful. They were there by the will of the gods, and every arm and sword would be needed for the dangers that lay ahead. The moans and screeches of the night were proof enough that the war was taking a turn, that the night was on the offensive once more.

They had been successful so far. Slaughtering and destroying the beasts of the night was no major problem for the seasoned fighters. But it was not going to remain like that for long. With each passing day, the night became stronger as its forces marched in ever increasing numbers upon the Builders.

Chicahua would not let the gods down, they would never see him fail in his task. All builders were to be rescued and trained in the ways of their ancient teacher, of the first and most powerful of them all. As it would be the will of the great builder himself that all of his descendants followed in his footsteps.

And the gal, she wasn't bad looking either. She was no princess of Tenochtitlan nor a virgin priestess of Cholula. But her innocent pale face, and her long dark hair with such odd coloring made Chicahua think back to the walks through the marketplace of the great city in the lake.

All the different spices and trinkets being sold by merchants from afar, her scent rekindled the memories and he felt the nostalgia for his home even as he ran. Her hair, the darker purple in contrast with the lighter, almost pink strands of silk that ran from her scalp down to her shoulders.

The purple was like the gems of his father's armor. Her hair was like a polished amethyst encrusted into the eagle knight's armor, gleaming in the sun. Her exotic skin tone contrasted in totality with his own darker shade of cacao colored flesh, it brought to his mind the white colors of the Tlatoani's castle in the fair city of Tenochtitlan.

He sighed as he ran, for the memories hurt his heart and made him ache for the touch of his city's stone floors and walls. The warmth of the Aztec sun as it showered the maize fields with Quetzalcoatl's blessing. The sight of the fair maidens of the Aztec nations as they walked through the streets between the large temple pyramids.

"Oh fair city in the lake, forgive my greed and pride and allow a haunted soul to return home. Invite me back into the large halls of the king and his lords, to drink and rejoice surrounded by the beautiful women of the fair Aztec lands..." Chicahua recalled his death with pain and hurt, for it had not been glorious or purposeful.

A duel, a quarrel with a rival. With the great temple as witness they fought, both macahuitl slashing and swinging as their owners sought to end a life with their gods as spectators. All it took was a confident step forward, a simple mistake, and Chicahua found the side of his head being split by his opponent's obsidian blade.

His pride and life had been shattered. The brave Nahuatl nobleman had died wishing to have held the glory and power over his enemy. It was that final thought of greed and want that made him awake in Minecraftia, for only those who wish more are allowed into the land. To fight. To survive. To be free.

Chicahua forced the tears back into the shameful place from which they crawled. He was a son of the land, and had been a proud prince of the Aztec empire and its subordinate nations. Crying was for those weak enough to allow themselves self pity. But it had been destiny and divine intervention that had found him in the land of Minecraftia.

He would not back down from the challenge.

The proud warrior ran through the foliage and made his way to his brother's home, deep into the woodland. Plenty of beasts and monsters attempted to attack them, but the years of living in the southern jungles of Minecraftia had made him an agile runner and a fast thinker.

Even with the weight of the girl on his back, he was able to run. Many campaigns against the enemies of the Tlatoani had him racing into war while carrying much loot and trophies from fallen enemies.

And there were always the prisoners to bring back to Tenochtitlan, although most of them walked, Chicahua had more than often refused to leave the wounded to die a useless death, and opted to carry their crippled bodies back to the capital for them to be sacrificed to the glory of the gods.

He had earned much honor and rank during those campaigns, as well as strong arms and legs. The later ones were what would prove useful that night, for as he ran, many undead followed him closely. Archers shot and missed, their arrows slamming into trees or the ground instead of piercing flesh and bone.

Chicahua was panting heavily. Although the gal was not especially heavy, the cold was unusual for him and it drained his energy rapidly. Should he not find himself inside his brother's house quickly, he might become easy prey for the overwhelming enemies around him.

The Nahuatl warrior jumped over a fallen log and moved into a glade. The moonlight shone above in the sky, illuminating the wooden house atop a hill in the middle of the clearing. Its oak walls darkened by the shadow of the pines. The wind whispering a song of calm into the woodland as the leaves of the pines danced to the rhythm of the breeze.

The snow was cold to the touch and the chill of the air urged the chased man to run faster. The howls of hunger and death forced his legs to give a final push, one last effort to enter the safety of the shelter. A final race for safety.

But the night was a dark mistress, clever and evil. She would not allow those who opposed her to so easily escape her grasp.

As the Builder and his cargo approached the dirt path that led up to the house, a loud and horrible sound filled air with dread and terror. Misery and despair invaded the warrior's heart as realization of what was approaching sunk into his mind.

For there were few who would not fear the beast and terror, the monster and bringer of death.

On four legs it walked. Scales of depressing green adorned its body. Eyes filled with sadness and longing accentuated the frown carved into it's face. As the monstrosity slowly emerged from the treeline, the many warriors accompanying it could be seen beside it.

Four undead scavengers flanked the bringer of sorrow, stone swords in hand and torn leather armor on their rotting bodies. They gazed forward with the same thoughtless expressions of their lesser breed. Scavengers were no more intelligent than the average zombie, they may have been dumber even.

But they were disciplined. The skeleton officers that usually led the lesser undead into raids were not allowed to take the scavengers, for they belonged to the creepers. Evil masterminds of destruction, intelligent to an extent and the superior beings among the forces of the night.

Creepers were warlords among monsters, organizing the forces of the night into raiding the forests and valleys. They had long being enemies of the Builders, harassing them through their mines and homes, leading many enemies to their doorstep. The only thing creepers felt was sadness, they were consumed by it, morphed into the epitome of the lonesome feeling in their hearts.

Why their sadness was there no one knew, but it was obvious in the way they gazed upon a Builder's creations that it was connected to the land and its riches. Perhaps the lack of arms with which to create monuments of their own? None had the knowledge.

The creeper advanced further into the clearing, menacingly hissing at the Builder as its guards moved beside it, swords unsheathed and at the ready. Chicahua felt his heart sink as the monster moved closer. He was paralyzed, unable to move. The terror in his heart increasing by the second as he saw into the depths of the creeper's eyes.

The eyes.

They say they are the gates to the soul, well, pray you never look into the soul of a creeper. For it is as depressing as a funeral, as saddening as death and as tragic as lost love.

Stuck in a terrified trance stood the warrior, unable to move. For it was pure terror to stare into the beast's eyes. He did not notice his grip on the gal slipping and weakening, until she fell. Twilight slid from the naked warrior's shoulders and landed on the snow.

The beast tilted its head sideways and gazed at Twilight, sadly scanning her body and that of her defender. The black pearls that were the creeper's eyes then returned their attention to the warrior.

Arching its head forward, the beast of beasts roared gutturally. The heart wrenching sound echoed throughout the expanse of the forest as it called the beasts of the night to do battle. All four scavengers howled maliciously and beat their chests with their swords, the loud thuds accentuating the terrifying sounds sprouting all around the clearing.

Groans and moans, hollers and screeches, screams and growls, they all echoed throughout the forest as the call of the creeper rallied the forces of the night to wage war in the name of darkness.

Chicahua cursed under his breath and hurriedly went down on his knees, desperately trying to get Twilight back on his shoulders. They were losing valuable time, and they did not have much left.

The mighty king of monsters roared one last time, and after the echoes of hundreds of his brethren replied, the beast glared maliciously at the Builder. It took a step forward, intent on getting the first kill.

Chicahua got on his feet and clumsily tried to run up the hill, slipping and losing his grip on the path as the blood drenched stones caused his feet to slide and slip.

The creeper was getting closer, gaining on him with speed unmatched despite its bulky frame. Mouth open and fangs readied in anticipation to biting down on the flesh of the Builder.

But from the heights of the hill, from the depths of the home, a man was to emerge.

"You clumsy savage! Never able to get here without dragging all of the Nether behind you!"

Chicahua looked up with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. There was only one man he knew that could be so hostile in his way of speaking, and at the same time be so lighthearted.

"You're one to talk! Leaving the door wide open is not of wise men!"

The monster of pain and dread looked at the exchange between both Builders and was confused. For creepers are wise beings, older than most trees and as intelligent as an elder. And they knew things... Secrets...

The beast of beasts stopped advancing and growled instead, ordering his minions to advance and claim the life of the girl.

But they were given explicit orders not to kill either male Builders.

The creeper then growled yet again, louder and fiercer, so that all the forces of the night in the nearby vicinity were able to hear his twisted commands.

As the ancient language of the darkness traveled throughout the forest, the many howls and screeches from earlier ceased to exist. The monsters had received their commands. None were to touch the house for the length of the night.

The creeper retreated back to the treeline, eager to watch the pair of builders as they spent time together. For the beast knew of the past of the bearded one, he knew of his life and crimes, of his sins. How would the dark skinned one react once he learned of secrets and lies untold? The monster of monsters wished to see, he loved the pain and suffering, he longed for it.

And he could feel a great amount in the near future for both men.

The Spaniard soldier ran forward to meet his friend at the foot of the hill. He was limping and blood was flowing from his left shoulder, bite marks carved into his flesh. But he stood proud and tall, for he was a proud man, having stood defiant in the face of death many a time before had left him strong and fearless.

His dark hair fell down to his shoulders, dirty and loose. His mustache and beard adorned his dirty face, not quite touching but not too separate from each other. His dark brown eyes never leaving the approaching undead.

"So, Chicahua, whom have you brought to my doorstep this time?"

The Nahuatl lowered Twilight onto the floor once more and unsheathed his stone knife, smiling as he walked beside his brother to face the undead scavengers.

"Mere sheep my brother, mere sheep."

The scavengers growled menacingly but didn't charge, they instead advanced steadily as they had been ordered. Marching in a block formation shoulder by shoulder in a two by two rank and file. The ones in the front aiming their swords at the builders.

"And what is it we do to sheep my brother?" The Spaniard drew his sword arm back, and locked eyes with the scavenger on his left, a poor looking bastard at that. The beast's lower jaw was missing, his tongue hanging limply, touching the monster's throat.

Chicahua held the blade of his knife with his index finger and thumb, taking careful aim at the monster on the right. A hideous beast he was, both eyes glowing with yellow indifference, saliva running down the corners of his mouth. But it was large and strong, it would be best to get rid of him from the beginning.

The monsters quickened their pace and broke into a jog, growling and screeching menacingly. Both builders stood their ground, steeling themselves for the battle to come, several other shapes could be seen exiting the treeline as the creeper growled more orders.

It would be a long fight.

"We take their wool and make a stew out of their flesh." The Nahuatl nobleman drew back his arm and shot a quick prayer to the gods before sending it hurling with terrifying speed towards its target.

Howls and shouts from both sides of the battle were heard throughout the forest of Minecraftia that night. As the moon sailed the skies and the clouds swam in darkness.

Chapter: 3

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Games In The Dark

The lost and forgotten tend to have the strongest of wills, the mightiest of ambitions, the fiercest of minds. Their reluctance to fail and die is amazing, for they refuse to let their souls fade into the heavens until their mortal desires are accomplished.

Some may call this a sin, a greedy and unholy aspect of mankind. But those who know, those who have felt the burning desire to be more and better, stronger and mightier, they are the ones who can truly be aware of the true meaning of their ambition and want.

Call it greed or pride, sin or blessing. It does not matter in the slightest when the sword is at your neck and the chains are at your back. Which will you chose? To spar with life and the mighty? Perhaps you would prefer to back away and chain yourself to the wall?

Well, they chose their paths, followed their destinies and accomplished great deeds in their mortal lives. They who walked the earth with dreams of greatness and power. They who perished with a scowl on their face as life stripped them of their power and might, leaving them to the communist grip of death.

For we are dust and to dust we shall return.

Or will we? Can a man have a will so strong that he is greater than death? Could life become so meaningless for those who are meant to be mighty? Perhaps mysteries shall remain unsolved and questions unanswered. But never forget those who wanted, because the world on which we stand was erected atop their bones and blood.

Darkness and shadow were the norm and rule. Solace was nowhere to be found as the merciless battering of hatred and rage was heard throughout the land.

Hear the pain and misery as the wind flies past the trees. Listen to the crackle of the flames as they rise up to consume the sky in their fiery embrace. Watch and despair as the earth and sky is devoured by hundreds of screams and acts of depraved mercilessness.

The land is harsh on those who are weak, for Minecraftia is home to the brave and daring, the ones who fear nothing except slavery and oppression. Those souls who would be exchanged so easily for power and might.

Let the night shower you in its darkness, its hate and horror. Face the darkness and then tear it to shreds with the light of your want, for such is the way of Minecraftia, such is the path that prevents death and a shameful end.

The moon glared at the men who opposed her. The shadow of her twisted children moved ever closer to them, led by the abomination of a hundred and one nightmares.

Chicahua's knife had ended the life of the largest beast, but the other three were fast approaching, moving slowly and carefully. Stepping over their agonizing comrade as he thrashed wildly on the floor, blood spraying the ground around him and tainting the snow a sickening dark color.

"Take the one on the right, I'll keep the other two entertained." The Spaniard raised his sword and advanced.

Chicahua nodded and moved forward, both friends remained shoulder to shoulder as they approached the enemy. The monsters looked at them without sentiment, without emotion, a cold and empty gaze is what it was.

They knew nothing of bravery or love, of hate or anger, the beasts only knew hunger and pain. It was their damnation and motivation. Their very existence revolved around those simple facts. Because they hungered they fed, and the suffering from taking a life made them hunger once more.

Their lack of anger and passion made them easy to manipulate, but it also restrained their ability for combat. Without anger and fear, how was a soldier meant to do battle?

Spaniard and Nahuatl, both so different from each other, and at the same time so similar.

Wether on the waters of Sicily or the jungles of America, on a galley as it rammed a pirate ship or in front of a pyramid to the gods, as they held a sword or spear in their hands, both had felt the same during battle.

Pride for the waving flag that symbolized their nation, rage as they saw the enemy across the battlefield, fear as steel met flesh and screams surrounded them.

But brave they had been and brave they still were. You could see it in the way the Spaniard stood as he awaited the beasts to attack, sword in hand. It was obvious in the steeled gaze of the Aztec as he ignored the flowing blood on his injured face and readied himself to do battle, unarmed.

These were no mere men. The days of humanity had been long left behind them, for now they were so much more. They were sons of Minecraftia, warriors of the land and proud survivors of the night.

The Spaniard looked behind the scavengers and noticed the moving shapes among the treeline, several skeletons and undead emerged from their hiding spots and formed a circle around the creeper.

The creature of nightmares let out a guttural growl and the scavengers broke formation. Each one of the three darted towards a different target. One raised his sword and charged the Aztec, another one growled and swung his weapon at the Spaniard, and the third...

He sped towards the unconscious gal behind the men.

"Bastardo hideputa! Chicahua! The gal!" Steel missed flesh by mere inches as the Spaniard jumped out of harms way before the scavenger's blade swung. The beast growled and attacked again with a backhand swing.

The Spaniard grunted and blocked the blow swiftly. The swords met and sparks flew, neither of them yielding any ground to the other. It was a battle of strength and might.

The monster leaned in closer and roared into the Spaniard's face, the stench and rotten teeth were more than enough to make the veteran soldier flinch and loosen his hold on the sword.

His eyes widened as the beast freed his weapon and slashed at the soldier's leg. A scream left his mouth as the blood began to flow, but he did not falter. The Spaniard took a step back and readied his sword yet again, eyes full of rage met an uninterested gaze and both fighters charged at each other.

***

Chicahua heard his brother's warning and turned his head to see the third beast rushing up the hill towards the unconscious girl, sword in hand and murder in his mind.

The Nahuatl cursed under his breath and ran uphill. The beast behind him missed by a second as his strike hit the snow covered ground. Growling and screeching, the scavenger followed the warrior upwards.

No time was to be lost, as there was no time left. The hordes of the night were converging upon the builders, quickly darting out of the forest with the intention to destroy and murder. The creeper hadn't been able to maintain his grip on control of such a large force and individual skeletons charged forward with their retinues of undead following.

The Builders had to hurry or die, make haste or perish at the merciless hands of the beasts. The day was not too far away, they could still survive if they fought well. They would have to stand their ground until morning came.

Chicahua reached the spot were he had left the gal earlier. She still lay peacefully on the ground, her chest heaving as she breathed. But the calmness that radiated from her was but a mask that shielded the reality. For the beast was standing above her, sword raised and ready to strike a deadly blow.

The brave Nahuatl wasted no time. Swiftly he increased his speed and jumped, tackling the hideous beast and sending it tumbling a couple of meters back before it fell downhill.

Chicahua grinned and noticed the beast had dropped the sword as he fell, the iron weapon shone with the moonlight reflecting upon its surface. Chicahua picked up the sword with his hand and turned to meet the approaching monsters. The one that had been following him was almost upon him while the other one was getting back on his feet.

The Nahuatl warrior stood between Twilight and the darkness, determined not to let any harm befall her. He steeled his gaze and readied his sword.

***

The Spaniard grunted and cursed as his foe pressed onward with his attacks. The beast readied a thrust and took a step forward. The soldier parried and slashed, his attacks losing strength as the blood flowed out of his wounds and into the ground. The scent was driving the creature mad with blood lust, its attacks increasing in savagery and brutality, but also lacking coordination.

"The corsair galley outside of Malta, the fires of the cannons and the stench of blood. I have lived through worse hellholes than this!" And he had. The waters of the Mediterranean were no peaceful place and no strangers to war. "Alfonso, Wolf of Sicily they used to call me, and damn right I was!"

To sail the seas and murder the dangers that in them lurked, to fight for your meal every day, to stare death in the face as the splinters of a ship fly around you as the cannonballs tear the men to shreds. Alfonso, the Wolf of Sicily, that was the name bestowed upon one of the greatest bounty hunters the Spanish Empire had, and he would honor the name, even after death.

Alfonso shouted at the monster, he shouted at the world, he shouted at death and life. The pain of living through death twice was not something he was about to accept.

With might and strength worthy of only the strongest of warriors, the Spaniard drew back his arm and then thrust forward with the blade aiming for the beast's head. The scavenger did not react, no fear was painted across its features, no sign of anger or fury left its eyes. The creature only brought its sword to level with the Spaniard's shoulder and delivered a thrust was well.

Alfonso did not flinch nor scream as the blade pierced his right shoulder, he only pushed his own sword deeper into the scavenger's head, the motion made the undead's sword sink deeper into his shoulder as a result but he did not care. The bite of steel had been an all too familiar feeling back in Madrid and Italy, where a simple glance could drive men to a duel for honor.

In the end, the beast collapsed and died. Alfonso retrieved his blade from the monster's bleeding skull and pulled the sword out of his shoulder, wincing as he did so. He knew he was just about useless in combat for the rest of the night, both of his shoulders were badly mauled and he was limping. Chicahua would have to fend for himself and the gal.

Alfonso looked around his home. The house was mostly intact, the door being the only thing beyond repair as it lay smashed by the previous encounter with the beasts. The floor around him was matted in blood and footprints, the stone wall around the hill was still unfinished and it would not hold back any monsters should they charge.

Alfonso then decided to expose himself to the harsh truth. He looked over the wall and towards the treeline. He let out a frustrated groan as he saw what lay there, waiting its turn to attack.

At least seven more undead were rushing out of the forest with hunger and cannibalistic intentions in their rotten hearts. The wind began to grow colder for a moment, but whether it was Alfonso losing hope or the wind aiding the beasts in their fight, he didn't know.

All he knew was that they were outnumbered and wounded, and unless the gal woke up and grabbed a sword, they were in for quite the battle.

***

Chicahua fared no better. The scavenger that had been following him slashed and stabbed without mercy, growling and spitting blood and saliva. The brave Nahuatl did his best to block or parry the creature's blows, but he was unaccustomed to the iron sword in his hand. All his life as a warrior had been spent with either a spear or a macuahuiti in his hand and a shield in the other.

The strange sword was heavier and uncomfortable, unbalanced in his hand and of poor craftsmanship. But he still fought with bravado and courage unmatched, darting in and out, thrusting and slashing with no fear of death. His torso and legs had several small cuts and gashes from the hits asserted by the beasts, but the monster was in no better condition.

The scavenger howled in pain as Chicahua pushed the sword deep into its entrails, blood pouring as the intestines were pierced and rendered useless. The monster waved its arms frantically, seeking to slam a fist into the Builder's face or arms, needing to feel the warm flesh between its claws and fangs.

Chicahua made no noise as he lowered the hilt of the sword and brought the blade upwards. With a final thrust he drove the iron sword through the stomach and liver, to finally end piercing the heart. The beast was suspended into the air by the momentum of the thrust, screeching madly as it writhed in pain. Chicahua felt the cold blood oozing out of the wound, gushing over his hand and into the dirt below him.

"That is for my face." He grimaced as he felt his own wounded cheek sting as the cold night air brushed past it. The Builder pulled out the sword and let the body fall to the ground. The scavenger howled horribly as its ankle twisted and snapped upon collision, but it was short lived.

In few moments the beast convulsed and its eyes lost all glimmers of life.

Chicahua sighed and looked around.

The scavenger that had fallen downhill was on its feet by then, but it was clumsily making its way upwards, limping badly. It would be a minute before he had to worry about it. The Nahuatl looked to the foot of the hill and saw Alfonso cleaning the blade of his sword in the snow, but never letting his eyes part from the stone wall.

The beasts that were barely arriving were fresh and hungry, ready for battle.

Chicahua looked back at the gal in the floor, sleeping soundly despite the massacre taking place. She was regaining warmth faster with his clothes on, good ones too. Best leather one could get out of the ox from the plains biome always came from the southern villages. The natives had a knack for trading on those parts.

Chicahua smiled softly, making sure not to strain his wounds. Distracted as he had been by the multiple attacks from the undead, he had not forgotten how excited he actually felt about the arrival of a new Builder. It was a matter that called for all minecraftians to gather.

Chicahua remembered his first gathering, it had been his day of rebirth after all. He recalled the others, so grim and powerful, so old but young in appearance. They had gathered to greet him into the new world, they had made him one of their own and taught him of the land and its ways.

Akio Daichi, master of the land, oldest warrior alive and the wisest. His tutor and friend. For a hundred years Chicahua had roamed the expanse of Minecraftia beside his teacher, learning from him the tales of the past and present, absorbing the information of the hundred lives his teacher had lived.

Two thousand years of age were of rare happening, and Akio Daichi had recently achieved it. No Builder aside from the original one had managed to outlive the thousand five hundred mark. The land was cruel even to the gods it harbored, biting with fangs, slashing with claws, tearing the inhabitants to shreds withing centurial spans of time.

But not as much now, thanks to the efforts and strength of the teacher and his disciples. The oldest minecraftians alive had been drafted into the only form of authority there was in the land, with Akio Daichi leading the triumvirate. Chicahua had been reborn when Akio Daichi was a thousand and two hundred years of age, and the Nahuatl had been of great importance when it came down to convincing his teacher of installing a form of government.

While all minecraftians despised being controlled or enslaved, they all hated being attacked by waves of monsters a little more. And so it was agreed, the first council was established by the five oldest ones. A former king of Gaul and a general of modern times leading the council while Akio Daichi and three others enforced their dictates.

But alas that the council did not last! War erupted from within as the Gaul attempted to assert his domain by slaying his foe. Alliances were made, assassinations carried out, battles were fought and the number of Builders dropped from the original twenty, to six.

Both leaders were slain, many others died as well, but Akio Daichi and two other council members survived. The triumvirate was formed and the number of builders was duplicated with the passing of time, although it did not reach its former glory. Chicahua had been tasked with roaming the land and saving all Builders reborn into Minecraftia. Out of his eight centuries alive, Chicahua had been roaming the expanse of the land for six hundred years in search of all who were worthy of life.

He found Alfonso during one of his pilgrimages, naked and dying in the central woods of the snow biome. The Spaniard had been hostile to him for a long time after they met, shouting in his native tongue as many foul words as he found towards the Nahuatl. But a persistent mind and a several decades of tutelage in the ways of the land finally forged a friendship stronger than steel between them.

Both were proud to consider each other as brothers.

And once more the bond they shared was at stake, once more they would stand shoulder by shoulder against the dangers of the night. To perish together or find glory as one, such was the way of life in Minecraftia, such was the reality of the land.

So, with thoughts of camaraderie and valor in his mind, the nobleman turned to face the remaining scavenger as it made its way to the top of the hill once more. Coldness in its eyes and hunger in its mind, the beast approached steadily despite its limp.

Chicahua was in pain and very annoyed at the beasts, having taken much of the joy out of seeing his brother after fifty long years. He was eager to see the night come to an end, and he would see to it that the undead did not bother them for a while longer after the battle.

The warrior charged.

***

Alfonso slowly retreated uphill, wanting to have the higher ground if the zombies got too close. Regular undead were no match for a Builder, but the fight against the scavenger and the battle from earlier that night against the skeletons and their minions had left him wounded and tired. Seven undead were three too many for him to handle at the moment, should he wish to win, he would need Chicahua's help.

"Bastardos infelices, couldn't you lot just stay dead?" The Spaniard turned around and clumsily made his way up the hill to regroup with his brother and the unconscious gal. The moon remained atop of the sky as the clouds made their way through the darkened ceiling of the earth, moving like vessels in open sea. Not caring for anyone who would see them, not heeding the call of life as they lazily moved without noticing existence itself as it unfolded below them.

But not all who roamed the planes of the universe had the luxury of living with no worry or despair, as it was fact that most who drew breath were to see it taken from them in the most brutal of ways. For it was blood that was demanded by the land, and blood it would have.

The Spaniard moved as fast as his wounded self would allow, the sounds of battle were echoing from atop of the hill. Groans and screeches of pain were audible as Chicahua dispatched the remaining scavenger, making short work of the rotting piece of flesh.

The thing with scavengers was, they were highly disciplined and were good in a defensive role, but they lacked the savageness of their regular counterparts. Having exchanged their ferocity for fencing ability was useful to an extent, but when wounds and injury prevented them from remaining in groups, they were vulnerable.

A lone scavenger was worth less than a regular zombie, but five zombies were worth less than a pair of scavengers.

Alfonso reached the top of the hill just as a loud scream of pain roared over the stillness of the night, it hoarse and broken, sounding of age and suffering. There was no mistaking the screech, Chicahua had ended the monster's life.

Alfonso stood before a corpse, an exhausted warrior, and a sleeping gal. Panting, sweating and bleeding, the Spaniard gave a tired smile and nodded towards the stone wall besieged by the undead group of seven.

"Ready my friend? Or would you prefer to lay down and whimper like a beaten dog?"

Chicahua smiled and grimaced as his torn flesh screamed in protest. Doing his best not to upset the wound he replied with a determined nod as he raised his blood drenched sword.

"After... You."

Both men turned to face the beasts as they raced towards them, salivating and wildly clawing at the air in desperation as the shapes of the Builders appeared in their sight.

Both men stood shoulder by shoulder and faced death and danger, steel in their eyes and iron in their hands, resolve in their hearts and pride in their lives. They were the sons and warriors of a land not their own, but at the same time as theirs as it could ever be.

Taken from a world and tossed into hell, snatched from the playground of men and thrown into all out war against a foe they could not defeat, but only battle against for the rest of eternity, till their flesh be hacked from their bones, till their blood drenched the fields of their land, till their bodies drew their last pained breath and all became numb to their limbs as the world turned to blur in their eyes.

Till life departed their worn out corpse, exhausted from the wars and battles no man could ever hope of wining. Until then thwy would stand, they would fight, and they would prevail. Proud sons of Minecraftia they were reborn, and proud overlords of the land they would depart.

The beasts reached the top of the hill. The warriors raised their blades to greet them with their sharp edges.

Blood splattered the dirt.

Bloody Dawn, Frightened Twilight

"What is it Twilight? Is something bothering you?" Princess Celestia asked as the lavender mare trotted into the castle, a hurried pace and worried look in her eyes.

"Princess!" Twilight Sparkle ran through the hall that led to her mentor's throne room. The walls seemed to be of wood instead of marble, and the floor was cold to the touch of her hooves. It was different from what she remembered but the warmth in her heart as she saw her teacher once more was enough to calm any unease she might have felt.

As Twilight approached the great hall of her sovereign and beloved mentor, the floor began to freeze. A light layer of ice began to expand from her hooves and spread towards the farthest reaches of the corridor. The walls shattered as the stone turned into walls of ice, unable to hold its own weight.

But Twilight kept on running, ignoring the destruction around her as the physical world gave way to a black void of nothingness, expanding forever and ever into the depths of existence itself. Into the nothing.

Celestia started to vanish as Twilight reached her, in the middle of a stone island surrounded by nothingness.

"Princess Celestia, I'm scared! I... I think I'm lost and I can't find my way back. Please help me!" Twilight sobbed in front of her mentor's hooves, wishing that the mirage of Celestia would aid her, but it did not. It muttered a few unheard whispers into the air and disappeared completely into a grey mist that lost itself in the void.

Twilight did nothing but weep as the island of stone around her began to dissolve, slowly but surely as the blackness consumed it inch by inch. Sparkle, unicorn of great magic and power lay motionless between it all. Doing nothing as the void devoured what little remained of her world.

Not that there was much she could do, after all. The void was the mistress of pain and suffering, the harbinger of heartache and ambition, the lady of death and freedom. It was the call of the land, it beckoned and taunted, it whispered and called. There were none who could defy it, for it was absolute. There were few who could survive it, for it was without mercy.

Weary traveler! Fearful page! Tread the roads of the land not. For it is mighty and strong, menacing and unfair. It will take hold of your body with its fangs and tear you asunder with its rage. But should you wish to carry on, should you desire the pain and hurt, then come in. I shall not welcome thee to the undoing of many, for you are not welcome in the slightest. But know this and know it well, should you defy and conquer, resist and survive, then you will be free of all and any who assumed themselves your masters...

A body in the snow stirred as magic took hold, a soul in submission rekindled as the fire of torches and the warmth of the arcane were felt. It was a sensation of power and mastery, a feeling of control like no other. Fear those who seem weak, for it is under their weakness that strength unmatched hides.

As soldiers and beasts battled and waged war, as blood and steel were joined, a simple being of a world untouched by anger began to recover life. And slowly but progressively, Twilight Sparkle came to life.

Her hands twitched and closed, taking hold of the biting snow beneath their palms. Her feet moved their toes, and the unfamiliar sensation of legs as they knelt was felt. Her arms applied pressure against the frozen dirt beneath them and her body began to rise.

Twilight Sparkle was not conscious, not yet. But her soul was unwilling to die.

Mere feet away from her moving frame, two men and warriors, two fighters and gods, faced their foes like true sons of the land. Slashing and hacking, severing limbs and tearing flesh off the bone. Warriors with steel, men without fear. The undead were reduced to three as the rest rolled down the hill in pieces.

"You're supposed to cover my right!" Alfonso growled as another of the beasts broke through Chicahuas defense and almost clawed at his sword arm.

The Aztec warrior did not respond, his injuries were painful and his mood was dampened by the addition of a large gash running down his left arm. It hung by his side, useless as the tendons and upper muscles had been shredded by the teeth of one of the beasts.

The remaining monsters were wounded horribly, their torsos were filled to the brim with hideous gashes and stab wounds. Blood flowed freely and in torrents from every single one and the beast to the far left was without an arm. The sun was raising fast on the horizon by the time, and without a hasty retreat they would surely burn.

Their master had left, their armies were gone. But the last order they received from the beast of beasts was to slaughter the girl, and even in their crazed murderous minds. They knew it would be suicide to return without her head.

And so they battled on. Without a sense of duty or pride, without anything but indifferent hunger and want. The beasts of the night stood their ground until the sun rose above the treeline and roasted their flesh, scorched their eyes and burnt their beings into nothingness.

They screeched and writhed in pain as the sunlight caressed their rotten skin. They attempted to run back into the forest where they would be safe from harm, but the fires licked and slithered across their bodies with faked love and concern for the impure bastards of the land.

In the end, the flames consumed them. Minecraftia cared little for the existence of a few weak ones, it ignored their cries of pain and misery as they died a slow and painful death. Perhaps it even chuckled? Maybe, maybe the land was cruel enough to take satisfaction in the poor and desolate who perished daily on its hills and mountains, on its plains and valleys.

Such was the way of the land, such was the way of Minecraftia...

As sunlight dawned and the beasts burned into the ground to meet with countless other corpses, the Builders collapsed to the ground. Exhausted and injured heavily, tired and mauled by the night. It was but mere luck that they survived assaults of such magnitude, even if they were not a daily occurrence.

Indeed they were not. Creepers launched a planned assault once every month, while skeletons led small raids almost every other night. Individual attacks by lonesome zombies were far more common than any other beasts attacking, and were much more easy to repel.

But now that the battle was over, it was time to gather arms and valor, mend wounds and bruises, fortify the defenses and await the next war to be waged. For there would be no respite from the endless battles, no rest for the wounded men and women of Minecraftia.

Alfonso and Chicahua knew this, and so they held no self pity for themselves. They stood up in silence and gathered the swords and armor of the fallen scavengers as well as their own. The extra supplies would aid in the battle to come, for it would be a month before a new wave of foes was led by the creeper.

The Spaniard groaned and picked up an iron sword from the ground, it was more like a rapier and the Spanish pirate hunter felt homesick as he saw it. The familiar shape, the weight, even the scent of the iron reminded him of the streets and plazas of Toledo. The women and wine, the bar fights and duels after a night of heavy drinking with some friends from a war not so long ago, on a shore not so far away.

Chicahua noticed his brother's sadness and placed a hand on his shoulder. His speech was badly impaired from the exposure of the bone to the chill of the night, so he simply nodded. Simple gesture, not hard to accomplish. And yet, it carried as much sentiment as a thousand words, written in the finest walls and murals of the most beautiful of temples in the Aztec cities of his former home.

Neither were immune to the moments of depression that lurked around every corner and behind every shadow of their eternal homes. Memories remained...

A former lover, a previous friend, a loving father or a worried mother. The days of camaraderie after long campaigns, the drinks and conversation among veterans of a war long past. The glory and pain, the joy and frustration, the pleasure and suffering... It was all in a life long gone, in a past forgotten by all except the ones it haunted.

Alfonso returned the gesture and both friends departed to different tasks. The Spaniard gathered the weapons and Chicahua returned to the gal.

The Aztec nobleman clutched at his wounded arm and grimaced as best as he could without upsetting his injured face. He was in poor condition, but he would not allow himself weakness. It was not the way a warrior of his heritage should act and he would not act in such a manner.

Chicahua bent down and thought of the best way to carry the sleeping gal. But then she stirred, almost unnoticeable but still enough to be recognized. Twilight moved her hand and frowned as a shiver ran down her spine. The cold was still making its presence known, and after a nightmare like the one she had, it would take more than fire to keep her warm.

But it was not only the fire from the nearby torches that had waken her. No, it had been much more. The will to survive and the power to make it reality, the magic and strength to force the body into a final push and last stand against death.

Chicahua did not attempt to carry her, instead he nudged her lightly in the shoulder, trying to wake her up. At first she seemed oblivious of his attempts, but eventually...

"Wha...? Where... Where am I?" Twilight Sparkle awoke, eyelids opening slowly as snow fell from her face. Her voice was hoarse from exposure to the cold merciless weather and her limbs were on the verge of freezing. She spoke in a paused and pained manner, needing more strength to form thoughts than it normally would have.

But she was strong and intelligent, a specimen unlike any other in many ways. It was obvious in the way her magic saved her, it made itself apparent in her resolve to survive. She was now a daughter of the land, a slave of its freedom and a master of her own destiny. Whether she liked it or not.

Twilight trembled as a current of air brushed against her skin, now bare and unprotected, naked but by the cover of a light fur coat.

She opened her eyes against her better judgement, having heard a voice of strength and care. She knew little of where she was or how she had gotten there, but help was welcome in any way it came.

"She's... waking... up." Chicahua said as best as he could despite the wounds in his cheek, blood had stopped flowing and had clotted around the gashes, but the bone was still feeling the cold brush of the frozen wind, and it ached in protest. The pain was horrible, but the Builder did not wish to scare the gal.

Alfonso heard his brother with ease since all was silent and calm, the monsters having departed long ago. He left the weapons in a pile and walked over to his brother and the gal. The Spaniard was not as excited to meet the newcomer, but it was a welcome break of routine, and some new allies would indeed come in handy should the monsters grow bolder and assault more frequently.

Both Builders knelt down beside the awaking girl, expecting a panicked reaction. Both secured their weapons away from her reach in case she had been a warrior back in the old world. One never knew whether death would come in the form of a foe or a possible ally.

***

Twilight closed her eyes again, feeling exhausted and cold, freezing and drained, but alive. She felt her mind recovering control of her body and movements. But something was amiss.

"Whe... Whe..."

"Shh, do not speak. Rest." It was a stallion's voice, it sounded like it. Twilight had regained control of her ears, as if it were a battle for her body. Her mind and will to survive aided by magic against the bitter cold that had so easily overwhelmed her before. But now she was regaining her dominance, recovering her body from the forces of ice and snow.

It had begun with her chest, the heat having retreated to the vital organs in a final stand to maintain the body alive. Then, with pure magic and determination, she managed to survive through the night, until the sun raised itself over the horizon and lent his aid along with whatever reserves of magical power remained in her.

And so it had happened. The many parts of her being began to be reoccupied by the forces of life, first it was her chest and head, then her stomach and neck before the warmth spread to her limbs. She had won the battle, she had survived the land for the night and even though many more skirmishes would be fought against it, she could rest for a while knowing she had won.

She would have let herself slip back into the warmth of unconsciousness, but being the curious mare she was, and having heard the voice of somepony. She was determined to see for herself who had helped her.

Twilight Sparkle once more forced her eyes open and slowly shook her head to clear the blurriness that tainted her eyesight. She slowly began to make out the features of what lay in front of her, the sky, pines and snow, a wooden house and several lit torches around her, a face...

She was not startled by it, for she was lacking in strength, she did little else other than look at it with mild curiosity. She tried to raise a hand to touch it but failed, her strength was non existent, having been spent on keeping her alive.

Twilight opened her mouth to speak but found a hand covering it gently, the face above her was smiling softly. The creature standing above her was not a stallion, but it was male. Dark colored skin and no facial hair, light brown eyes and a gentle smile, even if it seemed somewhat forced as if he were in pain.

Twilight knew nothing of him, and so she wished to learn. It was her impulse and born talent to wish to know more about anything she knew nothing about. The former unicorn mare had many questions, all of them of great importance, but she could barely remain awake.

The creature seemed to notice this and turned to face sideways, speaking to someone else. Perhaps another one of those beings? Twilight did not know. In the end they grabbed a hold of her by the arms and legs and carried her inside the wooden house while the mare wondered every passing second how she had become so elongated and where her hooves were.

She saw the strange limbs and awkward body she now possessed as her saviors carried her into the house, taking care not to harm her as they passed several pieces of furniture. Twilight noticed the blood on the floor as they walked, as well as the ragged clothes of the bearded male holding what should have been her hooves.

Twilight passed out yet again, sliding down the path of darkness that had shielded her before. The men carried her to a small bed at the inner depths of the wooden home, struggling despite her light weight. Both were exhausted and badly mauled after hours of endless fighting, blood had stopped flowing out of their wounds and instead clotted on their clothes and flesh, matting their hair and faces.

Alfonso felt his knees trembling over the effort, the slash across his leg looked menacingly at him, threatening to commence bleeding once more. Chicahua grunted and grimaced with ever step and shift in the weight of their cargo. But the bed was not too far anymore, a mere three feet away.

The Builders gently placed the unconscious Twilight on the bed and collapsed to the floor beside it, exhausted and drained.

Alfonso smiled and nudged Chicahua gently on the shoulder.

"Heh, seems to me, you're getting fairly weak, brother."

The Aztec attempted a smile, but he lacked the physical and mental strength to do so. Instead, he simply looked at the Spaniard before shaking his head and pointing a finger at him. Alfonso gave a tired laugh before standing up and walking over to a closet beside the bed.

"You forget that I single-handedly took care of a pair of archers and their lap dogs." Alfonso opened the closet and pulled out a pair of blankets and pillows. The blankets were old and had plenty of holes in them, while the pillows resembled rocks in texture and weight. Commodities were few and far between in the land of Minecraftia, for it was not the place to go should you desire comfort and peace.

The Spaniard laid the blankets on the cold wooden floor, pillows laying against the wall. Both warriors got as comfortable as one can get in a house with no fire, while the snow fell outside with merciless strength.

The Blacksmith

What is more dangerous than a trapped wolf? Than a wounded beast? What makes the hairs on the arms stand and the shiver run down our spines with such strength we become paralyzed? Tell me now, what is more dangerous than death itself?

Fear...

Not knowing what will happen, not wanting to know. Seeing the world burning in your dreams and waking up covered in sweat, praying it never happens. To fear is to be weak, it is to bend your knee to the world and those who are not afraid. But, who can resist fear? Who can look it in the eye and smirk as he drives a cold knife through its ribs? What monster could be capable of such deeds?

Oh, it is no monster my friend. Quite the opposite, for those who would see any danger in the eye and laugh in its face, those who smile at death and open their arms to welcome it in a warm embrace, in a final move to end it all. It is those who no longer hold anything dear to them in the cold, bitter world that has drained them of it all.

Those who fear nothing because their fears have come true, those who no longer have nightmares but memories, replaying over and over in their minds like a broken cassette. Do you imagine the pain and suffering? Cherish your nightmares and love every second of heart wrenching fear you experience, embrace the fear like a lover and learn to adore it.

Pray your fears remain being so, and do not turn into reality.

Those who are too late however, those who now see the world through cold eyes and depressed gazes, it is them whom we should be terrified of. For when everything has been damned to the farthest reaches of the nether, when the fires lick and bite into the few things we had ever loved, it is then that we no longer care.

For the native as he ran, for the wounded man as he escaped the burnt remains of his home, for him, it was reality. His unsought fears had turned into his reality, and forever it would haunt him in memories, of a slaughtered village, of worms and maggots writhing in obscene ecstasy through the exposed intestines of the only woman he had ever loved.

He wept as he ran, he mourned and damned it all into the nether. He prayed for death and an end to it all, he cursed at the gods in silence as his feet moved with speeds fueled by hatred and rage. But no fear, he was above fear as fire is above warmth, as frost is above ice.

This was no longer a man of weakness, he was no longer a peaceful being like he had always been intended to be. He had left a life of calm and peace behind when he gazed into the lifeless eyes that had once looked into his own with love, care, lust and adoration.

Never to return, never to hold her again, forever doomed to remember the worms and blood, the dirt and pain. His unspoken screams of terrified anguish as he had seen her die at the hands of a being so much more powerful than himself, unable to do anything but weep and suffer. Like a beaten dog, like a worthless animal.

Like a man in fear.

The native ran through the foliage, breaking branches and snapping twigs. Trying his hardest to create as much noise as his tortured soul needed to reflect in screams, taking out his rage on the flora of a defenseless forest. What else could he do? He was weak, he was pathetic. As far as Minecraftia was concerned, the worthless native had gotten as he deserved.

For being weak and small, for not being as strong as the gods made his foe, for being what he had been intended to be. He suffered because of the same principle by which he had lived his entire life, a peaceful existence, a life of not harming and sharing, a life of kindness, honesty, loyalty and generosity.

The native stopped running and looked around at the destruction he had caused. There were broken twigs and snapped branches littering the floor, birds had stopped chirping and animals had abandoned the area, everything was silent. And he hated the silence, he despised it. His eyes grew wide and his nostrils flared as he looked at all he had accomplished.

Nothing.

His love was still dead, his home destroyed, the bastard was still alive and well. Everything he did was tire himself, and cause a nuisance for the local fauna. He fell to his knees and wept yet again, hearing the voices of the gods laugh at him and mock his pain. He wished for something, for anything.

Be it death and a sad ending, he did not care.

Unbeknownst to him, the world's silence became one of fear. The gods ceased their laughter and instead gazed curiously at the broken man as he recollected himself. The land of Minecraftia, beautiful woman, dreadful executioner, turned her head to look at the native. It was completely unknown to the man, but he had just broken the seal that bind him into a world of submission.

Slowly, carefully, viciously the loving mistress of Minecraftia extended her arms and took the native's soul in her palms. She took it and elevated it high into the heavens before crushing it with such anger and rage that any mortal man to have seen it would have feared the very sight of the heavens.

The land destroyed the innocent soul all natives held upon birth, she ravaged it, depraved it and transformed it into something new, something more powerful. The native stopped weeping and stood up, his eyes gazing into the horizon as the sun began to lower, giving way to the night.

He felt the urge to run back and hide inside his home, but he crushed the thought beneath his anger. Minecraftia smiled.
He knew what would happen should he stay outside when the moon rose, but he cared not. Minecraftia urged him onward.
He thought of death and pain, he considered the years of hiding like a lesser being, and he felt fury. Minecraftia held his hand.
He thought of the man that had taken everything he held dear, and only one thought crossed his mind. Revenge.
Minecraftia embraced him and made the native her acolyte.

The broken and suffering initiate stood and gazed in the direction of his burnt village, his eyes shining with a new feeling, sweet and bitter, sour and burning. He felt ambition for the first time. The heretical feeling washed over his mind and body like the crystal waters of the fountain of youth. His past life of sharing and communitarian ideals burnt and writhed in the floor as greed and want overtook him like flames did to lumber.

He had a plan, but he needed help.

The native decided to end his past life and all he had been up til then, starting by his lack of a name.

Natives had never held names, for it was a separatist tradition and it would have only lead to the death of them all. Such were their customs, that no man was to hoard property as his own. All goods were communal and belonged to everyone, homes were not of private use as it had been all whom had helped in building them. Families were nonexistent since children needed to learn how to love all and everyone in the community as equals. Having them prefer a group over the whole would separate their village and lead to disaster.

It was only through complete union that they had survived, through lack of individuality and through the sharing of everything. For the night wanted them to be separated, the moon desired for them to be fighting amongst each other so her children could slaughter them all.

But the native saw no more usage in those customs if a single man could deal so much damage despite their union. He wanted to have his revenge, not the village's, not the community's. It had been the love of his life that had died, and so, despite having broken the rules of his people by loving a single woman, despite having being a heretic for loving her and being loved back by her. He wanted his revenge.

The native knew little of names, but he chose one that had always made him proud.

"Blacksmith..."

His trade of old, his one particular ability that had always made him feel different from all. Once a source of shame and religious worry, his trade was now much more.

It would be the name he wrote in the floor of the land with the blood of the Builder. It would be the name written down in books of history after his passing. It would be the name his fellow natives would inscribe above his grave after having him crucified for treachery.

His eyes shone with eagerness, both for delivering retribution and being killed in such a grisly manner. He no longer cared for death, but he would welcome it once it came, for he no longer had anything to look forward to.

In silence he made his way back to the ruined village, ignoring the howls of the undead around him, and, as if by Minecraftia's doing, the undead ignored him as well.

Wake

It was midday, the sun shone through a window on the side of the house, illuminating the dark room and announcing itself to the sleeping figures inside.

Twilight Sparkle sneezed and groaned, she covered her eyes with a hand and turned sideways on the hard bed.

"Ugh... Spike... What time is it?"

She searched for her pillow to cover her face with, but found nothing. Frowning, Twilight groggily opened her eyes and looked around.

She gasped when she noticed she was no longer home, in her library, in her bed and room. She tried to sit up like she would have had she been a pony, but felt herself moving strangely, in a manner alien to her. Twilight fell facefirst into the mattress, her scream of shock muffled by the fabric.

She regained her balance and looked down at her body, what she saw was not what she had expected.

Her eyes widened, her breath caught in her throat, and her former hooves shot up to hold the sides of her head.

Twilight Sparkle screamed.

"Que carajo?!" Alfonso's eyes snapped open and his hand darted to meet the hilt of his sword.

"Tlein pano nikan?!" Chicahua's hands shot to his injured face as soon as the words left his mouth. He had strained his wounds too far.

Twilight screamed again as she waved her hands frantically in front of her face, she kicked the covers off of her and looked at her feet and elongated body with confusion.

"Calm down! Maldicion! Calm down!" Alfonso was on his feet in a second, trying to get Twilight to stop screaming. He held her by the wrists and looked into her eyes, speaking words of solace and calm to her.

Twilight was afraid, she had seen the face before but had lacked the coherent thought to feel anything. In her mind a dozen thoughts sped through, none were comforting, but the man before her spoke and his words were as honest as the sea was blue. She saw no malice in him, but still found no innocence. It was as if he were a mixture of the two, and still lacked either.

In the end she stopped and looked frightfully into his eyes, seeing little other than his irises.

"Where am I? Where's Spike? Wh-"

"Shh, quiet. My friend and I will explain, but first you must eat and we must tend to our wounds." The Spaniard pressed a finger against Twilight's lips and loosened the grip on her wrists.

He was not a man to allow his impulse cloud his judgement, but it had been so long since he had last held a woman in his arms. He felt himself lost in her eyes, deep purple and beautiful, young and innocent. His mouth felt dry and his body warmed up, his hands were reluctant to let go of the flesh they held.

Twilight retracted her hands from the man's grip, eyeing him curiously. She did not notice the eager look in his eyes as he explored her figure like a poor man does to a chest full of coins, nor did she see when the other man placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Alfonso... We... Should get the... Food..."

The Spanish veteran violently turned to meet his friend's gaze, glaring at him. But the look on Chicahua's face spoke more than his words did.

The Aztec was looking at him warily, reproaching his actions and telling him to leave the gal be. Both had been young when death took them, both had been eager to taste all the pleasures life had to offer. From drink to food, to battle and women, they had seen it all. But the Spaniard had done all of it in a more savage way, drinking till he stood no more, eating till his coin ran dry, killing to his heart's content and being with as many women as his pay could afford.

Life at sea was merciless, and so he had taken every chance to enjoy life as much as he could.

Chicahua had been a nobleman, of highborn family and of refined tastes. He refused common drinks and kept from drunkenness as it was unfit for royalty. He had eaten the foods that a noble would eat, but never ate more than what manners would allow. In war he had killed, but preferred to take prisoners so his gods would be glad with him. As for women, he was not one to take any and all. Only the fairest and pure had he allowed himself to hold, and all in secrecy and privacy.

Yet both were of noble intentions and kind hearts, neither would do harm to an innocent, for such reasons they became friends.

Alfonso broke eye contact and nodded, acknowledging his error. He slowly walked away from the bed and refused his body the pleasures of a forbidden fruit, as he walked over to another room of his home.

Twilight had her eyes closed, ignorant of the battle of will that had taken place before her. The young gal now tried to recollect her thoughts, and make sense of the strange situation she found herself in. Her eyes opened and she sighed, defeated.

Chicahua looked at Twilight as she looked around the room, her curious gaze trying to make sense of it all. He understood why Alfonso had felt the way he did, it was rather obvious and understandable for a man to react that way after hundreds of years in solitude. For the few women in Minecraftia were difficult to... convince.

Twilight's mind was a blur, she did not know where she was, she knew nothing of the men she was in company of and her body was no longer her own. The former mare had tried to cast a spell but found herself depleted of magical energy, it was at least a comfort to know she could still summon the arcane powers.

Twilight concentrated and asked her magic to levitate a small pebble from the ground, simple and easy. Her magical aura traveled from her mind and heart and coursed through her veins like it always had, but this time, instead of going up to her head and into a horn she no longer had, the magic traveled to the fingers on her hands.

She recalled the fingers from many a book on anatomy she had read. Many bipedal races and animals lived in Equestria, and thus it would be stupid to assume she would be surprised to see the appendages. Although it was certainly disturbing to see them on her.

The magic went into her fingertips and she tried to direct it towards the pebble, but the energy failed to leave her fingers. It stuttered and died, leaving a frustrated Twilight glaring at the pebble.

The Aztec warrior smiled and decided to make a friend in a land where allies where hard to come by and enemies were aplenty.

Chicahua cleared his throat to grab Twilight's attention, she turned to face him and eyed him curiously if a bit warily.

"May I ask your name?" The Aztec asked rather eagerly, for it was a rare treat when any of them were able to meet new Builders.

Twilight blinked and words failed her, she noticed the eagerness and wondered how much information was safe to share, and which details to keep to herself. She was no longer in Equestria, after all, and she was not certain whether the inhabitants of this new land were friendly or not.

"I'm Twilight Sparkle, and I... Well, kind of just appeared here..." She smiled sheepishly and rubbed the back of her neck with a hand, but the still alien feeling of fingers made her jump a little.

"Oh, yes, I was the one that found you actually. You were reborn by a clearing just west of here." Chicahua smiled again but found himself forced to cover his wounded face with a hand after the outburst of speech reminded him of his condition. Twilight noticed and cast a curious glance at the man.

Her eyes widened when she saw the hideous scars and deep wounds all over his bare torso and face.

"By Celestia! What happened to your face? Are you hurt?" Twilight gasped as she saw the many wounds and clotted trails of blood on Chicahua's body, she knew not much of the man but still worried over his well-being like any good pony would have. "Do you want me to call your friend?"

Chicahua waved a hand dismissively and turned his back on her, shielding her eyes from the worst of his injuries.

"It's nothing... We'll explain after tending to our wounds... Please, rest awhile." He managed a quick bow before walking off in the direction the other man had gone, leaving Twilight alone in the room.

She was confused, very confused. As if life had not dealt a heavy blow with almost having her killed, she was now in a strange body, with two strangers and their wounds. Twilight Sparkle knew little as to how she should react. Panic would help her not, yet she felt on the border of a breakdown, it had been blood on his face after all. But there would still be more in store for the little innocent young woman.

She felt the cold air brush against her body.

"Thank Celestia I still have my fur..." The thought died as soon as it had formed. The fur that covered her body was not her own. "Oh my..."

Twilight Sparkle screamed once more.

Chapter: 4

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Burial Wish

He moved through the shattered glass and broken planks that laid scattered throughout the ruins of his village, moved about in the darkness of what he had once upon a time, not so long ago, called home.

The pain drove him forward, the rage kept his resolve burning fiercely despite the biting chill of the cold wind. A wind that had been so pleasant, so peaceful. It now carried the scent of the dead and the suffering.

The Blacksmith looked around himself in sadness, he cast his gaze over the dismantled buildings and the dug up ground, exploited for its flint and stone. For that was the reason for which they lived, the one and sole purpose by which the gods decided to place such filth unto the land.

Builders were slaves to their greed and want. It was something the Blacksmith had come to hold as truth. That it was by greed and power that the world moved, that the trees grew and that the animals lived. They all were created with the intent of fueling the never sleeping machine of their avarice.

The Blacksmith walked over to the corpse of his beloved, of the one and only who had seen him for more than what he truly was. She had loved him, not as a brother of the community, not for the mere purpose of being like her. She had held him and felt him for who he was, a man with his flaws, a soul with it's stains.

To see her in such a state, to look into the eyes of one who had held such joy and love, to see her lying there in the mud while vermin writhed within her flesh.

It hurt.

Yet another victim she was, however. Not the first nor the last, for the land was unforgiving and it would take as much as it pleased without giving back anything but the memories of a haunted soul.

The Blacksmith knelt before her, no longer weeping. For his tears had long run dry and his soul had hardened to survive. He would not show more weakness, he would not care nor worry for his own fate anymore. As it was meaningless and he understood that.

For the land he was nothing, for the Builders he was less, and for his own people he was a traitor and a heretic. The world was unfair, and yet it was just in its own way. It was cruel and malicious, but it was rewarding of those strong enough to fend for themselves.

The Blacksmith now understood everything clearer than the elders themselves. It was a crystal before his eyes, water as calm and transparent as the village had been a time not too far back in the timeline of existence.

He lowered his hands and slid them beneath her corpse, careful and gentle in his movements. He half expected to hear her soft breath and see her eyes open slowly. Just as she had done, a hundred and one spring and winter mornings before a day of horror, a day of death.

With his final wish on his arms, the Blacksmith carried her back to the entrance of what had been their home. A homely building it once had been, a pleasant place to spend long days and nights. It was now a floor with no roof, with one wall. Splattered in blood.

He knelt down and placed her on the floor, gently. Almost as if through the kind touch and careful treatment she would somehow wake up. It was foolish, it was nothing but stupid desire mixed with despair. But he still held some hope, even if everything else mattered little anymore.

The Blacksmith cast his gaze over the ruined home, and began to dig. Steady chunks of dirt were sent flying behind him as his hands worked tirelessly. He was ignorant of anything else around him, he ignored it on purpose. Focusing only on the task at hand.

To dig a grave for his dreams, for his hope. For his fears and pain a crypt, for his love and desire a hole. A forgotten and unkept secret would be left untended in the vast expanse of Minecraftia, forever lost to the annals of history and ever exiled from thought or memory.

It was her grave, it was her final resting place. One among hundreds, a drop of water in the sea of tortured souls that perished with each and every passing day.

His eyes cold and his heart frozen, the Blacksmith dug. Knowing fully well what would hurt him the most about the grave, knowing in depth why the world would never feel well to him, not in the morrow, not ever again.

In the morning the birds would sing, the sun would shine, and the clouds would drift lazily about. It would be a beautiful morning. A disgustingly beautiful morning.

As the world smiled that fake grin it loved to wear, he would suffer. And it would be eternal, it would be unending. His punishment for whatever crime he had committed. It would be to see the land mock him with beauty his heart would not feel. Not without her.

His hands kept on pulling out rocks and dirt, digging deeper and deeper while the howls of the undead filled the cold night air. Eventually he stopped and looked at the sky.

The moon was gliding above in the sky, looking down on her children. The dark and evil machinations of darkness that roamed the shadows after the sun went down, they patrolled the domains of the silver orb in the skies. Eternally damned guardians, eternal in suffering, unending in despair.

The Blacksmith looked back down and continued, ignoring the howls of the beasts and monsters. Hellbent on finishing his task before the sun rose.

In the end, he finished. A dark, humid dirt hole lay before him, just as the dawn began to break across the horizon. He stood and held her in his arms, lifting her up and then gently placing her on the hole, on her grave.

He ran his fingers over her chest and stomach, tracing paths and trails he had travelled before, when the nights had been calm and the night air warm. His eyes fell on her hands, cold and stained with dirt. Maggots writhing over them.

The Blacksmith leaned down, slowly. He pressed his hands against her own. Ignoring the worms, forgetting the dirt. Choosing instead to remember when their warmth had comforted him, when their soft and gentle touch had made him the happiest he had ever been.

Then he laid her back on the grave, and using his hands, he filled the hole. Fighting the urge to steal one final glance, one last touch. The broken man hid his shattered hope, buried his mangled joy.

Upon placing the last stone atop the mound where she would rest, he walked back to the library where the other three waited for him. They were innocent as he had been, they were what he would never be again.

But they would be the instrument to his revenge.

Planning

In a cabin amidst the woodland, a safe haven in hostile grounds. There was a clash of cultures, like so many before had come to take place. This one however, was different. For in this place were two men of war, two who had seen the world in flames and blood run in rivers.

And the third one, she was a peaceful creature. One who had done no wrong to anyone, committed no crime in the eyes of righteousness. She had been nice and gentle to all and everyone. An angel, some may say. But angels were meant to be perfection and obedience, beautiful creatures with no flaws nor mistakes. Sparkle had her wrongs, little as they were, few as they may have been, they were still present.

Her scream made the men of war jump and search for their weapons as they faced each other, confusion and alertness showing in their eyes. Alfonso had a swift flash of fear and rage go through his face as a thought passed his mind, a thought of a passage long forgotten, long being in disuse.

"Carajo! Ahora que?!" The Spaniard shouted as he reached for his sword, a furious look in his eyes that shouted for murder.

Chicahua gave his brother a confused look, wasting nothing but a fraction of a second before standing up and grabbing his knife, still bloodied from their battle earlier that morning. The Aztec warrior stood from the chair were he had been resting, and ran back to the bedroom, Alfonso following close behind.

Both warriors of time long past, reached the door and kicked it open. Screams had accompanied their short race the entire way as Twilight made her plight known to all and any who passed nearby. Its sound was reminiscent to that of a person in agony, in despair, one whom had seen the world and all who inhabit it perish in a most painful of manners. But as the men gazed into the room, into the source of the screams, their eyes widened and the blood boiled. For it was not a damsel in distress that stood before them, it was not the sight of a foe and monster having their evil way with a confused woman, of a scared lady.

They were met with an unusual sight, a rather welcome one, but still unexpected.

Backing against the wall behind the bed, face contorted by terror and surprise, chest bare as the day upon she was found, and eyes staring frightened at a fur coat on the ground, was Twilight Sparkle. The most recent novice to the ranks of the great and mighty, of the ones and only, of the few and proud Builders of Minecraftia, was naked from the waist up and screaming in terror at an article of clothing.

Chicahua looked to the side respectfully while Alfonso groaned in exasperation.

"Some gal you've found yourself Chicahua." The Spaniard sheathed his weapon and walked back out of the room, though not before having had a second look at the terrified woman against the wall.

The Aztec payed him no mind, and instead moved towards Twilight. Or at least attempted to, for she backed away from him as soon as her eyes noticed his presence. She was scared, horrified even. Through her mind passed the thousand and one horrible things monsters would do to those unfortunate enough that crossed their paths. And it was here that Twilight had her flaw, had her mistake.

To assume without assessing the facts, it was a mistake she and her friends had committed in the past, and in the end resolved. But now, with a much more real threat in mind, and with a vague form of evidence before her, Twilight found no reason not to panic, no motive to be friendly. She wanted to escape and go home, before anything could befall her at the hands of those monsters.

With widened eyes and shaking steps, Twilight moved away from the Nahuatl, moved away as fast as she could without losing her balance. The once composed and objective, the rational and scholarly student, felt no thought pass her mind, no way to resolve or explain what was happening. Only one thought, only one thing would allow itself passage through her head.

'Why?'

Why did these creatures find themselves so full of scars and wounds? Why did they bear weapons covered in blood? Why was the skin of some innocent creature laying on the ground, manufactured into a piece of clothing?

"St-stay away!" She said, her voice quivering with unspoken fright, with unrestrained terror and confusion. It was her nightmare made into a reality, one moment, one minute, one fleeting and passing second of not knowing. She imagined many things that were gruesome and horrifying when the man before her took a step forward, but the one thing she did not know, or perhaps did, terrified her the most was the confusion.

Chicahua lowered his hand and unsheathed his knife from his belt, stopping his walk and covering his wounded face with a free hand. The Aztec looked at Twilight with eyes honest as those of a friend far away, loyal as one whom Twilight may never see once more, eyes that spoke the words his mouth could not.

'I am not going to hurt you.'

The Aztec soldier, long dead and long forgotten, yet still bearing the pride and honor of a life long lost, lowered his knife and placed it on the ground. Not once did his eyes leave Twilight's, not once would his gaze depart from hers. He was true to his word, as he had always been, and held no ill will against the frightened woman before him.

Twilight was afraid, but fear could not cloud her mind and shroud it in darkness with the proof that no harm would befall her so close by. She was cold, she was confused and terrified, but she was safe. That much she knew, that much she could say was true. The man before her would not harm her, nor allow anyone else to do so. It had been proven and written in blood on the snow outside the house, it had been sealed and demonstrated in the horrible wounds, in the deep and unforgiving marks left upon his flesh.

Twilight stopped retreating and looked him in the eyes, with questions in her own. She had allowed her mind to stop worrying, to trust she had given her consent. Whether it was naivety, wishful thinking, stupidity, or ignorance, she was still willing to trust him, to believe in the good of all souls and that no evil would befall her at his hands. The rest was on Celestia's hooves.

Chicahua tried to smile, to reassure her, to comfort her, to ease the pain and confusion of what she was going through. But his own pain was reminded to him in the form of a stinging sensation shooting across his face, across his flesh and into his mind. It was agonizing, with the cold biting down on the bone and with the exposed veins feeling the unforgiving chill on the air. Chicahua grunted and grimaced, clutching his wounds in hope of ridding himself of them, as if they were a rag of cloth which he could simply tear away and be done with.

The temptation of clawing at the wound just to see if it would fall was great, but he was no idiot and knew it would only worsen his situation.

Twilight once more found herself taken aback by the wounds and injuries the man had sustained, and in demonstration of her nature, of her natural born instinct which almost dictated she did good and cared for all and any who needed her help, she spoke. Shaky and scared, filled with uncertainty and softly she moved her lips and allowed thoughts to form into words.

"What happened to you?"

Chicahua recalled the flight from the sacred circle, the battle that there took place, and then the invasion which they had repelled at the doors of Alfonso's home. Twilight had slept through it all. She had not seen the undead, she had not seen the beast of beasts nor its skeletal minions. She was oblivious of how close she had come to never waking up again, to being flesh and meat before one of the many beasts which walked the land. To perish as many others had, to die screaming in the darkness were none would hear, none would care, none would help.

"It's nothing. Why did you scream?" Chicahua waved the question away and tried to change the topic, not wanting her to know, not yet, not when she was in such a frail state.

Twilight then remembered, she then recalled, the fur. It marked the death of someone who, in her mind, had been a thinking, living being. She shivered as she thought about it. In what grisly manner it must have perished, in what horrible moment did it meet its end? To die for the vanity of clothing... Just why?

"What is that coat made of?"

She had asked it with as serious a face as she could muster, not wanting the fear of the answer to mark her features, not wanting him to know just how terrified she truly was. But it showed, it crept up to the surface whether she wanted it or not. Fear is an entity that delights in showing itself, in manifesting her presence to the world by filling hearts with her presence, by stinking the air with her smell, by betraying those who would trust her to hide and not show herself.

The Aztec warrior had seen fear many a time, in the face of those who would escape war, in the eyes of the men who died at his feet, even in the ungrateful gaze of cowards not willing to be sacrificed to the great god of the sun and war, Huitzilopochtli. And now he saw it yet again, with understanding and sympathy. As he had been where she stood before, he had felt as she did. Confused and alone, surrounded by the unfamiliar sights of a new world, without friends nor allies to depend upon.

But he found himself still confused as to why it had been the coat which had startled her.

"It is fur, the finest of the western villages. Why do you ask?"

Twilight looked incredulously at his confused face as he asked. She did not know how he could simply state that the clothes were made from the skin of dead creatures so simply, without caring. Twilight felt herself completely confused, and that only served to ignite something, something she felt ashamed to feel, she felt was not appropriate.

Instead of anger, of fear or disgust. Instead of yelling and shouting, of calling him out for the monster he was. Instead of the thousand ways one would refer to him and his actions, Twilight felt...

Curious.

But the fear remained, and it prompted her to be careful in her wording. She did not agree with the death of living beings for something as mundane as clothing, and yet he did. It was this, this difference, this clash of thoughts and cultures, it was this that drove her curiosity. And this time, instead of feeling afraid, instead of judging, she analyzed.

The man had no fur, and the snow was bitter cold outside of the structure where she now stood. There seemed to be many dangerous creatures roaming on the outside, judging by the horrible wounds he sported, and if that was the case, was he really to blame for taking the pelts of beasts who meant him ill? When he could place them to good use? The reasons went on and on, the causes and effects forming complicated links that kept on leading to dead ends. There would be no enlightenment, no veil lifting unless she asked, unless she made cultures clash.

"Don't you see anything wrong in that?" Twilight asked through chattering teeth and shivering limbs. The cold was strong, even inside of the humble cabin.

Chicahua noticed her cold and went to pick up the fur coat, but remembering her question, he reconsidered and pulled out a woolen shirt that had been laying around the floor. He was sure Alfonso wouldn't mind, as the Spaniard rarely took much care of the clothing he had, especially so if it wasn't made out of fur or pelts, as the Builder had a liking for everything made out of the trophies he collected out in the wild.

As he picked up the piece of clothing and handed it to the shivering gal, whom after inspecting it carefully to make sure the material had not belonged to any living beings before being turned to cloth, slid her arms into the sleeves and let the garment warm her body.

Only after seeing her stop shivering, and only then did Chicahua answered her. As strange as the question sounded to him, as unfamiliar and odd as it was for her to ask such a thing, he answered.

"I don't see why I should, as you can possibly tell, it is very cold here and the pelts aid in keeping the warmth." Chicahua spoke gently, patiently, and kindly if a bit strained because of his injuries. He knew not why she asked what she asked, but wanted to answer her nevertheless. She was confused and lost, as he had been, as many others who found themselves reawakening in Minecraftia, and as he had done with many others, he would help her.

Twilight nodded, thinking deeply as to what her next question should be. What to ask without revealing where she was from? She knew he meant her no ill, but she could see he was dangerous. Or at least he looked the part, and to allow him knowledge of Equestria would mean possibly allowing him entrance if she- When she returned. She did not wish any ill to befall her home, and even if this man was of good heart, some of his kin may not be. She would not run the risk.

"Where am I?"

It was the question. The one and unique, the one and only that truly mattered. For it was where she was that changed all the variables, that altered all the outcomes, that modified all the possible acts she would commit. For it was no longer in the land of Equestria that she walked, it was not earth that she would suffer in, and it was not on the desolate deserts or frozen plains of another planet that she would live.

"You are in Minecraftia, in the Snow Clan's territory to be more specific, inside Alfonso's home." Chicahua offered with a half smile, trying his best to maintain the smile without hurting himself. More questions would come, he knew it. A simple name she had not heard of before would not satiate her need to know, but it was a start.

"What is Minecraftia, exactly? And why is my body changed?" Twilight knew she had made a mistake, and a grave one, when she noticed Chicahua's face take on a look of confusion. He obviously didn't know she had changed physically, and to say she had been a pony would place her home at risk. Would place her at risk.

As far as she knew, this one that stood before her was willing to kill any species that was not his own. Why would a pony be any different? Improvising swiftly she spoke once more, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"I... Uh... used to smaller! Yes! That's it, I think I gained a little weight when I... got here?" Twilight smiled to hide her actual thoughts, hoping that he would believe her, or at least that he wouldn't press the matter any further. Luck was on her side it seems. Chicahua nodded as a slight smile formed on his face.

'Women.' He thought, believing her concern to be nothing other than worry for her figure. Little did he know of the many more complex thoughts circling through Twilight's mind, thoughts of home, thoughts of friends and family. These were things she sought to protect.

"Well, rest assured. It is hardly noticeable." The warrior smiled quickly once more, the pain in his face starting to numb as the cold left nerves without feeling. He remembered the many things that needed to be assessed, and decided to get started explaining. "Miss Twilight, come with me. We'll explain everything to you soon enough."

Twilight nodded, glad that answers would come, scared that they may not be to her liking.

She slowly focused her strength on her legs, willing them to move. In her mind she ran the motions necessary, she calculated the strength and distance she'd have to walk. With care and delicacy, she moved her leg up, and planted her foot down just a few inches away from where it used to be.

Smiling widely at her success, she rested her weight on her leg and moved the other forward as she had done with the first. In little time she was walking, albeit rather slowly, but walking nevertheless. She tried to follow her mind-traced path towards the door, but it was difficult. She was tired and unaccustomed to her body.

Chicahua noticed her struggle and offered a hand for support. Twilight looked at him and then at his hand, wondering whether it was alright for her to accept. She than noticed the look on his eyes, where she found no evil intent, no means to harm her, and she accepted.

Both walked through the house and into the kitchen, were Alfonso was mopping blood off from the floor. The stains were already dried and the man cleaning them looked annoyed and tired, his own wounds inflicting pain every time he moved, every second he spent standing.

Twilight looked uneasily at the blood stains, a question unasked, a thought unspoken. Chicahua noticed and nodded to the open door, where the sight of several corpses could be seen laying on the ground as they rotted under the morning sun. Alfonso caught his brother's gaze and hurried to close it, before Twilight saw the cost of every night, of every hour in the land of Minecraftia.

Chicahua pulled the chair closest to him and set it before Twilight, who thanked him and sat down, her gaze still lingering on the blood drenched floor.

The Aztec pulled another chair and walked over to a shelve standing a little ways behind them.

"The cask still there, brother?"

"Has been since last you came, been saving it for the next reunion."

Chicahua nodded and pulled out a wooden cask from the shelve, along with three wooden mugs. The soldier walked back to the table where Twilight was sitting, and placed the cask and mugs before her before filling them and taking one for himself and handing one to Alfonso.

The Spaniard thanked him and drank greedily, downing half the drink in a matter of seconds. Chicahua took a sip from his own, tilting his head to the side to prevent the alcohol from touching his wounds. He grimaced despite his precautions and sat down.

Twilight eyed her drink curiously, noticing the strange odor that was expelled from it and knowing it did not resemble anything she had ever seen or read about. She was unsure whether to try and drink it, despite knowing it wasn't dangerous, as she had seen the others drink quite contently.

"It'll help with the cold, drink it." The Spaniard said as he refilled his own mug, a grin crossing his features.

"Ok..." Twilight eyed her drink warily, but decided to trust and not be rude. She took a small sip, just enough for her tongue to grab a taste of what it was like. She rolled the liquid around in her mouth for a while, taking in the taste. It was bittersweet, and had the taste of oak from the cask it had been inside for who knows how long. She drank it, and felt the drink run down her throat, leaving a slight burning sensation as it went.

"Feel any better?" Alfonso asked as he grabbed a chair for himself.

Twilight did feel the cold start to leave, not entirely, but her limbs felt the bite of the air a bit less.

"Yes, thank you."

Alfonso nodded and sat down, readying another mug for himself, as the cold bit harder against those who had lost blood. Chicahua knew this and he wanted nothing more than to be able to drink along with his friend. But his wounds and a pending duty stopped him, and he would not feel relaxed until he was done with the matter at hand.

"Regarding your earlier question." Chicahua cleared his throat and sat up, looking Twilight in the eye before continuing. "You are in Minecraftia. You came here by the will of the gods, by the desire of a greater force. Your destiny, much like ours, is meant to be great since you were chosen."

"Zealot..." Alfonso murmured behind his mug as he drank some more. Chicahua ignored him and continued.

"We all were gathered by the will of the great Builder, whom ruled the land long before our arrival. He recruited those whom he saw fitting for his kingdom and bestowed upon them great knowledge, so they could reach his greatness one day."

Twilight listened as he spoke, taking careful note of what he said, considering why she had been chosen and whether this 'great Builder' would help her return.

"Upon his death, his disciples strived to match his skill and prowess, but perished in the attempt. All they were able to do was to save the new recruits and train them. You see, the great Builder, in all his glory, foresaw the fall of his students, and called forth from the spirit world for more to come and learn of his ways, so that his legacy would never fall."

Twilight noticed that Chicahua seemed to get lost in his own story as he narrated, forgetting whom he was telling it to as well, and simply focusing on the narration. His face shone with eagerness and awe as he told of the tales passed down unto him by his teacher, and Twilight seriously considered whether Alfonso's joke of him being a 'zealot' were based on truth.

"...and so we arrived here upon our deaths. The knowledge of-"

"Wait, wait, wait! Deaths?" Twilight stopped him as her eyes grew wide and her mind struggled to process what she was hearing. "You don't mean you..."

"Drowned at sea, sword stuck in my chest and bullet going through my eye." Alfonso said cheerily as he took another swig of his drink. "Was on a mission for a nobleman from Sicily. He wanted me and my crew to chase off some pirate galley from an island nearby. Turns out, it wasn't a pirate galley. The bastards were ottomans, and there was an entire fleet of them."

Twilight looked at him slack-jawed and confused if not a little scared. Chicahua rolled his eyes at the roughness of the Spaniard, but decided that since the lass was dead as well, adding his story in may help her feel not so alone.

Twilight turned towards Chicahua, face asking if the man had been joking or if he had been serious. The Aztec nobleman shrugged and smiled sadly.

"I died in a duel, outside of the main temple in the great city of Tenochtitlan. A nobleman from Texcoco and I had a disagreement over whom a noblewoman's daughter should marry and we fought. I fell into a dirty trick of his and he struck me on the head." Chicahua passed a hand through the hair of the area where he had been struck, as if he expected to feel the blood afresh, and the wound renewed.

Twilight nodded slowly. Not believing for a second what she was being told, but knowing it was not a joke. Perhaps it was a figurative way of speaking? Was it in code? There simply had to be a reasonable explanation. But there wasn't. Their eyes showed sadness unspoken as they talked of their deaths, their voices carried regret and unfulfilled dreams and hopes. Of a life long past, of a future they never had.

"I... Well, that's a lot to take in..." She forced the words out, having trouble as her own mind processed what their tales meant, what they said of her own arrival. No, she wasn't dead. She couldn't. Impossible. And yet it was what their mouths silently said, what their sad eyes and gazes implied.

"Oh, there's even more! Just wait until he gets to the interesting part. You'll love the place even more." Alfonso served himself a third mug of the drink inside the cask, and drank. Ignoring the cold completely, forgetting the bite of the wind and the lash of the snow.

Twilight noted the changes in Alfonso's mood, she attributed them to the drink and decided to place it down for a while, lest she found herself being affected. Careful in her thinking, and deciding to leave the more sensitive questions for later, she moved unto safer ground, known territory if you will.

"What happened after?"

"On the story? Well, the great Builder's disciples trained the newcomers in the ways of the land. They passed down the spells and rites, the recipes and lessons of their teacher down to the others." Chicahua sipped from his drink and sighed. "Sadly, many of the original disciples died before fully completing their student's training. Thus, many of the great Builder's discoveries and powers were lost to us,"

"But those that were remembered were put to good use. The disciples buried their fallen teachers and roamed the land for centuries. They lived off the land and battled against the beasts of the night-"

"Beasts?" Twilight interrupted, curiosity besting politeness.

Alfonso chuckled and pointed at the door.

"Who do you think the blood belonged to? Almost died last night, you too."

Twilight felt a shiver run down her spine, and as her eyes looked at the wounds of the men before her, a new light shone in her mind. Marking them as heroes, as saviors. To think such scars and injuries would befall them, and could have befallen her. It was strange for her, new and terrifying. A thought that had no place in her usual world. Death was a concept she did not meet on a daily basis.

"The beasts were strong and many, but our predecessors survived them. Well, some of them did anyway." Chicahua paused and looked at Alfonso expecting him to continue. "You tell this part better than I do, since you are more objective about it."

Alfonso nodded and lowered his now empty mug.

"Aye, that I do." He sat down and began his tale.

"After the second generation of disciples lost their mentors, they went their own separate ways. Living out in the wilderness in cabins like this one, not having contact with the others for centuries. They fought their own wars against the undead and built fortifications to defend themselves."

Alfonso pointed at Chicahua without taking his gaze off of Twilight.

"Then he happened. Chicahua was found by Akio Daichi, one of the second generation disciples. The man trained him and they became close friends. Chicahua convinced him of forming some sort of ruling central government, in which Akio would play a leading role,"

Twilight found herself deeply entranced into the story, into the knowledge. The more she knew of this new land, the safer she felt. As if by lifting a veil her path was illuminated.

"Most of the Builders didn't like that. If there's one thing we all have in common, it's independence. We don't like being told what to do. And yet there he was, insisting it was necessary. No one believed him, until a mine was overrun by the undead and the treasure inside was lost. A Builder almost died in the attack,"

Alfonso stopped narrating and refilled his mug.

"Then the vote was unanimous. A council was made, led by a man from Gaul and one from... Err, what nation did the other one come from?"

"An empire called Republic of Congo or something similar. Never heard of it however." Chicahua replied as he searched his memory for a nation with a similar name. 'Strange' he thought. 'I studied every single empire and kingdom of the known world at the Calmecac, yet that name is completely unfamiliar...'

"Well, man's dead anyway, doesn't matter much. The council was made, those two led it while Akio and three others backed their decisions. But soon enough, the Gaul tried to crown himself king. War started, and everyone was forced to pick sides. Akio, Chicahua, the councilmen and a few others supported the man from Congo, while several others aided the Gaul in the wars to follow,"

Chicahua nodded somberly while Alfonso served another mug for himself and his friend, Twilight's was still half full and the cask was beginning to run dry.

"Whom did you support?" Twilight asked innocently, engrossed into the story with the attention a drowning man must place upon a nearby boat.

Alfonso shrugged.

"I wasn't here when it all happened, I was reborn sometime afterwards. But I think I would have gone with the man of Congo too. If the Gaul had won, well... He was too ambitious and I doubt he would have been content with ruling over the council. Might have crowned himself king of the land..." His face grew serious, not liking the idea of being under the service of yet another king.

"So the man from Republic of Congo won?"

Chicahua shook his head with a smile across his lips.

"No, he died along with the Gaul. He thought it would be an excellent plan to ambush the Gaul inside a mine, but most of us did not wish to enter an enemy construct. They were filled with traps when the war began, you see? Anyway, he went in with a small group, about three others."

"Turns out the Gaul was waiting for them inside, ready and armed for a battle. Outnumbered him too, and would have won if the mine had not collapsed." Alfonso finished, both the tale and his mug.

Chicahua nodded and decided to continue, but upon opening his mouth he felt the sting of the wound reminding him of his state.

"Damned beasts... Alfonso, continue with the rest. I'll go bandage this damn thing..."

Alfonso nodded as he saw his friend leaving. He knew the wound was painful, but both had endured worse injuries and far more costly defeats.

"Is he going to be alright?" Twilight asked as she saw Chicahua leaving.

Alfonso smiled at her and nodded.

"Bastard's tough as stone. A good friend too, if you can look past the odd color of his skin and the smell of him." Alfonso chuckled as he spoke, lightheartedly poking fun at the expense of his friend. A soldier he was, a crude, blunt man he was. Offensive? Maybe, but life had made him what he was, and he did not regret his own self.

Twilight didn't understand how they could call each other friends when they made such comments of each other, but decided not to ask, lest she angered them, and instead continue with the tale.

"What happened then?"

"Not much. Akio and the other two surviving councilmen formed a triumvirate that forms some sort of authority up to today, Chicahua was tasked with rescuing other Builders and training them. That is how he found me and several others. Recently the only interesting things going on are the increasing assaults of the undead and... Well, you."

Twilight felt his gaze falling on her, she felt the weight of curiosity and expectations, the heavy collar that this new world had placed upon her. She did not know how to react, what to say or what to think. She did the only thing she knew would be smart, the only possibility for answering her question. Ask.

"What happens now?"

Alfonso stood up and refilled his mug, then he walked over to the door and rested his hand on its wooden surface.

"Your choice gal. Will you come with us? Will you learn the way of a soldier and fighter? The way of a minecraftian warrior?" He lowered his hand and instead kicked the door open.

Twilight gasped as she saw them.

The corpses. At least a dozen of them, laying on the snow covered ground, rotting away as the sun's warmth licked at their flesh mercilessly, uncaring, without bothering to see if the stench would bother anyone. The land once more mocked and laughed at the pure of heart, at the sensitive souls that had no malice in them.

Twilight's eyes looked and suffered, at the blood, at the intestines, at the bare bones as they were picked by birds of prey. Her innocence being tested, her mind being battered. Minecraftia had already shattered a man's innocence before, and she could do it again, as many times as she pleased. Twilight was the next one to feel the bite of her teeth, of her jaws. The jaws of the land.

"Or will you die?"

Twilight looked at Alfonso in the eye, she saw no malice, no evil. Just pain, painful memories of a time when he had been asked the same question, when he had been subjected to a similar fate. In Twilight's mind only one thing was thought of, only one thing passed through.

'I want to go home.'

The land heard and laughed, the land heard and grinned. The land opened her jaws and readied to devour what used to be a gentle soul, a kind heart. For her own heart was soiled, tainted. Minecraftia's heart was black with evil, and there were none who could cleanse it.

There were only men, who could feed it.

Chapter: 5

View Online

The Messenger

The thundering sound of wheels rolling through the plains resounded as a chariot and its rider moved eastwards, leaving a cloud of dust and broken grass behind them, caring little for the peace and quiet that used to exist before their passing.

Two boars attached to the chariot by harnesses squealed and bellowed as a whip cracked just above their backs, eliciting terror from the beasts. Not that their master cared though, as he was far more preoccupied by the setting sun and the horrors it would bring upon him.

Ambroise looked around the vast expanse of flatlands surrounding him; he looked and frowned, as he knew what would soon emerge from cracks and crevices, just after the sun had set. It was the peace before the storm; the calm during which every creature would crawl away into the safety of their home and sleep until dawn. The act was not out of choice, as they could always remain awake during the wee hours of the night in search for food.

No, it was an act of fear.

Ambroise scowled as he saw the first shapes of undead forming across the horizon; their mangled and torn bodies at the service of decomposed brains began to crawl from the underground and roam about the land, as they always had done. As they always would do. Never leaving; always roaming, with no say in their own life and existences. Mere toys of the land.

"Yah!" The minecraftian warrior cracked the whip with renewed effort as the undead began to moan and holler; rushing towards them after having smelt the scent of flesh and boar from miles away. "Move your stinking hides!"

The beasts of burden squealed and whined, but redoubled their speed as the whip tore off the hairs from their backs; the marks stung and the flesh reddened, but the cries of hunger in the distance pushed their hooves onward, making them ignore the pain.

Ambroise and his carriage sped across the plains with thunderous power and astounding ferocity as the very ground beneath them shook and trembled at their passing. The minecraftian warrior allowed himself to smile, but only after the shapes of undead were too far behind for their screams to be audible.

With a contented sigh and a decrease in his frown, the Frankish soldier arched his arm backwards and gave one final holler and crack of his whip. The squeal of pain that came from his boars caused a slight grin to cross his mouth, and propelled the carriage forward with much more speed towards his intended destination.

Ambroise was a soldier; he was a fighter of an empire as mighty as the king that ruled it. But now; now he was a god. And gods need a palace as much as the universe needs to keep expanding.

The Frankish warrior travelled through the plains and into the eastern lands, crossing through the valleys and over hills; he drove his chariot until the grass gave way to snow and the air began to chill and bite down to the bone. It was the frontier; the line that divided ice and grassland stood before him as the boars slowed their run, and the chariot stopped in its tracks.

Ambroise pulled the reigns back; the beasts gave a grunt before digging their hooves into the dirt–stopping the cart, and allowing the Frankish builder to climb out. He dusted himself off of the dirt that had clung to his clothes and armor, and then walked to the back of the cart mumbling and grumbling.

After unloading the heavy chests filled to the brim with materials and loot from his raid, the builder extended his arm and spread his fingers so that the palm was facing upward.

"Dig up graves to bury our craves."

From his hand arose flames, spiraling up into the air for several inches before exploding in a rain of splinters. The wooden shards flew in every direction, but evaporated before touching the ground, leaving in their place a shovel crafted from wood.

Ambroise smiled and gripped the shovel tightly, taking note of the weight it gave and the comfort it spread across his body. He had spent many years and countless hours digging up dirt and grass, only laying down the tool when stone replaced gravel.

It had been his second shovel, and the first iron tool he had ever crafted. Oh how it shined! Glittering with one of the hardest-to-find materials in all of Minecraftia! There had been a day once, when iron was a common find in mine shafts and tunnels, but not anymore.

A frown slowly crept into his features as he recalled just why it was so hard to procure iron at all. Memories swept into his vision–memories of war and battles, of skirmishes deep underground and high up in the mountain peaks.

The undead had gone unleashed.

They had always roamed the land–scavenging for prey and weapons–, but it had become worse as time went on.

First it was the tunnels and caves. Thy became dangerous to explore by oneself, as the undead had increased in numbers by the dozens. Packs of the beasts would hide inside an unexplored shaft, and they'd remain there until nightfall, when they would emerge to prowl the landscape.

But then the mines followed.

The beasts grew bold and ignored the heads and torches left to warn them off the territory occupied by Builders. The undead first flooded large and spent mine systems–the first ones ever built by Builders in Minecraftia, but then they moved on the the ones still in use.

Battles were waged; tunnels were recaptured and lost once more; supplies grew limited, and armor became a luxury only the strongest of Builders could craft.

People began to die.

Ambroise sighed and walked over to a small tree, holding the shovel in his hand, and one of the chests under his free arm. The builder lowered the crate and began to dig. Clumps of dirt went flying as he dug, widening a hole in the ground with each pull of dirt.

The Frank eventually stopped.

A small hole stood before him, barely wide enough for him to fit through. Ambroise smiled and muttered the same words he had used to materialize the shovel from before, and the tool disappeared in a puff of blue flames.

It was an odd thing, magic. He could shrink down objects and merge them together for easier transport, and whenever he wanted to use them, he had but to mutter a short incantation. The object appeared in his hand from wherever he had placed it, but it couldn't transport over large distances. It had to remain close to the caster.

Smile still in place, the Builder dumped the crate into the hole and walked back to get the rest, after which, he set the boars loose and left them to graze before returning to the newly excavated entrance.

Dumping his loot into the darkness, the Frank followed.

Sword in hand; Ambroise moved through a dark and declining tunnel, threading deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth. The chest was held under his left arm, while the other pointed the tip of his sword ahead. He was wary, and rightly so.

The Builder moved ahead, a light sweat starting to run down his brow. The tunnel was completely dark and moist, making the air warm and humidly uncomfortable, but he continued nevertheless; as he had business to conduct, down in the deep.

The tunnel took a right turn, and then a left; several bends and twists; sometimes going down so steeply, that it seemed about to turn into a precipice. Others it would climb up so tall, that it appeared to turn into a mountainside, but it always returned to its original direction.

Down.

Ambroise was sweating profusely by the time he reached the end of the tunnel; it was a large and roughly carved stone table standing in the middle of a cavern that the opened by the end of the tunnel's mouth. Torches lined up along the walls, and the center had a large, quadrangular, stone table.

The frank sheathed his sword and took a single step into the light-filled cavern, measuring his following words with care and precision he did not know his mind possessed. It was unsettling, but he would not show it; uncertainty cradled his thoughts, but not a sign would be allowed.

The Builder slowly walked into the cavern, and placed the chest on top of the table. His hands trembled lightly, but not from fear. He was anxious, eager even, to see what would come from this meeting.

"Ambroise! It been long, no?"

The Frankish Builder tensed, and a hand immediately hovered atop his sword's hilt. The words he had heard time and again, but still they unsettled his soul. Ambroise did not turn around; he did not unsheathe his sword. Ambroise simply did as he always did, and opened the chest filled to the brim with loot.

"Stone, wood, iron, food, and flint. The usual."

The voice chuckled and footsteps were heard across the cavern.

"Ambroise! Ambroise! Where art thou?" A sore voice kept a low growl that had once been laughter, now tainted with wounds invisible in the dim light of the cavern. "You know Romeo and Juliet? Was play, famous play in home. Father take me watch play."

The Frankish soldier felt warm breath on the back of his neck, and a skeletal hand lower itself on his shoulder. He did not move; he did not make a sound. The sweat kept running down his brow, and his hand missed the cold feel of his sword more by each passing second. But he dared not move.

"No, I haven't seen it."

The raspy laughter returned and faded; the hand no longer placed on the Builder's shoulder.

"You know, the master ask for Ambroise. I tells him, you is good soldier; brave warrior." The voice dissipated ever further; leaving through the dark tunnel behind the Builder. "Master say, he thinks not. I says you is, but he does not believes me. You prove you are warrior. Master say you prove by separating them."

The voice disappeared completely, leaving in its wake but the sound of echoing laughter.

Ambroise stayed frozen amid the cavern, feeling the cold sweat from his brow dry, as the shadows on the walls danced and flickered.

From Student to Student

"No, no. You're putting too much effort into it; try to-" A pained groan, and Chicahua's hand flew to his injured mouth. The bandages stained with blood and infection having started to set in.

It was nearing midday of the second day. Twilight and Chicahua had spent the day in training; covering the basics of her new capabilities and strengths; instructing her in the dangers of the new world. Alfonso had left him to it, and gone off to hunt. The Nahuatl warrior and his new student stood behind Alfonso's home, attempting to instill into the newborn gal some sense of direction when it came to utilizing her new abilities.

"I don't think the cold is helping you any, maybe you should go back inside."

"No, no. We need to teach you these things before we go; it's vital." The Builder pulled his hand away and made his best to form a smile. "Now, try it again. Remember, the magic will come only if the land allows it to. Don't force it."

Twilight looked at him dubiously. Magic had always obeyed her, and done as she wanted on command. Why would it be any different here? And yet the spells she was told to reciprocate would fail her, and the magic would not come. Her own spells were perfectly fine however, and her magic seemed to be now directed through her fingers rather than a horn.

Frustration was not something she liked though.

"It's just not working though! I don't understand, and I don't like not understanding!"

She kicked at the snow in desperation, ignoring the composed image she had told herself to acquire in presence of the men. Her personality seeping through her facade.

Chicahua smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't worry Twilight, you don't mind if I use your name, do you?" Twilight shook her head. "No one ever manages on their first attempt. Magic is not something people naturally do, after all."

Twilight felt a small smile tugging at her lips despite her frustration. She could and did use magic almost all the time, but this new magic was odd. It seemed to demand to be asked for permission before being utilized, and that was unlike anything she had ever heard of.

"Okay, thanks Chi- Chi... err, sorry but, how did you pronounce your name again?"

"Chicahua." The Builder chuckled, and it earned him another pained grunt. "Gods damn this wound... Anyway, try once more, and then we can retire for a warm bowl of soup."

Twilight smiled and nodded thankfully. It had been a day since her arrival, and the men had been nothing but welcoming of her.

Well, one of them had.

Chicahua walked over to a nearby tree and placed a hand on the bark.

"The first thing every Builder learns upon entering Minecraftia, is that the world is deathly." He turned his gaze back to Twilight, and his features were serious. "You must never underestimate the land, as it is the greatest enemy you will ever face here."

"But she is also your greatest ally." The Aztec warrior pulled his hand back and curled his fingers into a fist. Twilight watched with wonder, already knowing what would happen, but still fascinated by the act. "Wood is one of the pillars on which every Builder has to support his survival, and its gathering would be impossibly slow if not for our divine strength, gods-granted."

The fist was drawn back a bit more, and then sent forth with terrifying strength. Pieces of bark were sent flying as the Builder struck the tree down with several punches. The wood fell to the ground, and the rest of the tree followed soon. Chicahua then used his strength to cut the entire log into smaller pieces.

"I still have no idea how you do that."

The warrior chuckled.

"I've told you, the gods granted our strength as a gift and tool. In exchange we are but to construct in their name and for their glory." A glint of glee crossed his eyes, and a smile forced itself to shine despite the bandages. "So there is no need to examine my 'physiological and muscular capabilities through physical analyzation' anymore, right?"

Twilight felt a sheepish smile form on her face, as the memory of her first lesson with the Builder went through her mind once more.

"It was a scientific procedure purely meant to discover the reason for otherwise unexplainable strength."

"I believe it was called something else among the youth in the Calmecac."

"I just touched your arm a little, it couldn't have possibly been that uncomfortable, could it?"

Chicahua smiled and turned to face the broken down pile of wood.

'Not uncomfortable, not at all.'

"Now, try again."

The gal stood close to the pile of wood and extended her arm, willing the magic to flow from somewhere she had never drawn it from before. It stuttered in her fingertips, but failed to be born. She sighed in exasperation and forced back the urge to blast the ground with magic she could control. The men knew nothing of her ability to handle her own magic, and she was wary of letting them know.

With reassuring pat on her shoulder, the Builder aimed his own hand to the pile and his hand glowed bright red. The wood shimmered and shrunk, transforming into minuscule brown-colored blocks. Chicahua stuffed them into one of his pockets and nodded toward the house.

"Let's eat; we'll attempt anew in a few hours."

Twilight sighed and nodded, then both walked up the path and into the house.

A bowl of mushroom soup sat before the both of them. The ingredients were hard to find — since Alfonso lived far from the nearest swamp, and the mushrooms did not grow in the cold, but there it was. With Twilight's unexplained refusal to feed off red meat, Chicahua was forced to find something else to cook up a meal.

Both ate in silence, the man being forced to eat slowly and painfully.

"We'll be moving out soon."

Twilight looked up from her meal, and met with Chicahua's eyes. The Builder lowered his ladle into the bowl and moved it aside.

"You need to know how to fight before we do though. We can't afford to lose you midway."

Twilight finished her own food and remained silent. Chicahua continued.

"Alfonso left to find some supplies for the trek, and we have to be ready by the time he returns, lest we find ourselves leaving minutes before dark." The Builder massaged his jaw and stood up, walking to the front door. "The monsters that attacked us last night know we are here, and that Alfonso and I are injured. We have to put as much space between us and this cabin before sundown."

Twilight looked outside; to the empty ground were the corpses once stood. Chicahua and Alfonso had explained to her what they were, and why they attacked them. Beasts of the night, always in hunger and with perpetual hatred for all living beings. Cursed men. She understood why Chicahua and Alfonso fought them, and — even if she didn't like it, she knew she'd be forced to fight them as well.

"Where are we going?" She asked, and the Builder replied — a small air of excitement in his voice.

"To meet the triumvirate, and my teacher. He'll assign one of the elder Builders to instruct you into our ways, and then you'll be off. Many of the others will be there as well, since something like this is very rare indeed."

Twilight nodded, and accepted her fate as Chicahua unsheathed a dagger and handed it to her.

"Come, we have to practice for a while."

From the Ashes...

Footsteps across the plains – the only sound; a determined mind – the only one. It was as he ran that he thought; that he pondered and suffered. He was no longer a speck in the grand scheme of things; he no longer formed a droplet of water in the ocean.

He was more.

The Blacksmith turned to face his growing force. Two females, and one male from his village had survived along with him, and to them had joined four others from another settlement that was overrun by undead.

They now numbered eight, and they'd grow in size by much more; of that he'd make sure. His love had been crushed, and his happiness taken from him. No more.

Blacksmith stopped and his followers did as well, kneeling down and rubbing their sore feet. It was midday, nearing sundown, and the beasts would be out soon.

They had to move.

Blacksmith scanned the surroundings with his green eyes, piercing through the apparent stillness of it all. He could sense the dangers; he could smell death in the near future, and it would not take him by surprise.

With move of his hand, he signaled the group to move. Protests were voiced, as one of the females was pregnant and needed a respite. One of the males – possibly the father, stood from the group and ran his palm in front of his face in a slow motion.

'No'

The Blacksmith stared at him, and raised his own hand – fist aiming to the sky.

'Danger'

The male shook his head, and walked back to the pregnant woman. The Blacksmith understood his position, as he was not ignorant of the feeling of fatherhood. He himself had several sons and daughters, when the village was prosperous and thriving.

But it would doom them all if they stayed.

The Blacksmith sat next to the couple, and embraced them; the physical contact reassuring them, and granting security that they would never feel otherwise.

Through signs and gestures he explained, and they understood. The male and his partner stood back up, and the Blacksmith allowed the woman to lean on his shoulder for support. Between both males they carried her, and the group made good progress through the plains.

They hid in a cave as night fell, and the beasts hollered and screeched in frustration – unable to reach them, they left. Sleep was hard to achieve, but the group managed.

By morning, they all were glad to be alive and thanked their leader for it. Thanked the Blacksmith.

The position of leadership was nonexistent in their communities, as they all lived as one; caring for one another, never seeking superiority. And now? A leader had risen from the ashes of a burned town.

Males and females placed hands and heads on his shoulders, thanking him; of the scarce resources found, he was allowed the first bite; of the direction they chose, he would have the final word.

The Blacksmith led them through the grasses for days, long after the Builder had ravaged their town, and the undead had overrun the other's shelter. Unbeknownst to them, Ambroise and the other Builders had been summoned away to the triumvirate's courthouse, and thus the villager's trek went undisturbed.

It was during the fifth day after Ambroise's attack and Twilight's appearance, that the Blacksmith finally reached the neighboring town. Largest village in the plains biome, and the most populated and well defended one.

The Blacksmith and his followers stood atop a hill, gazing down at a large valley filled with green and colorful flowers, upon which the town was resting. Three golems could be seen patrolling the streets, and the weary group rejoiced greatly.

Finally they were safe.

But the Blacksmith did not return the touches and pats his brethren shared, for his heart was dark and drowned. In his mind was nothing but a thought of vengeance; a desire for justice.

His followers were plenty and loyal, and this village would prove to be his next step to retribution.

He ran a hand from his heart to his forehead; a meaningless sign, that he had now bestowed meaning upon.

'Vengeance.'

With rejoicing hearts, and a plan in mind; the group entered the village.

Heart Of The Land

by EdBoii

Prologue

Chapter: 1

Chapter: 2

Chapter: 3

Chapter: 4

Chapter: 5