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.