//------------------------------//
// Chapter: 2 
// Story: Heart Of The Land 
// by EdBoii 
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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.