Cube Land
Four: Miscommunication
Day 95, morning
I awoke as soon as the Sun's rays graced the few portions of my body that weren't protected by my apparel. I always slept with my clothes on, as experience has taught me that I need to be prepared for anything at any time. As I stretched my limbs, my mind drifted towards the how, what, and why regarding the strange quadrupeds.
How did they get here?
What was I going to do with them?
Why—this was an extremely important why—were they not cubed like every other creature, shrubbery, block, and everything else in this whole plane of existence?
I scratched my square chin, and the stubble that had formed there overnight. The first question was still a mystery to me, but the second was fairly easily answerable: I would act as their protector until I discovered the true origin of their appearance here.
If it so happened that they were pets or companions of another yet-undiscovered race... I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.
Or, if need be, burn it.
The third question, however... I had no answer to. They are a complete juxtaposition to everything else in this cube world. Where everything else is equal and precise, they are varying and of ambiguous measurement.
They have... curves. I know the word, but I have not had reason to use it before.
The creatures are obviously not from around here; that much is certain. Perhaps they are visitors from a strange land, whose purpose I cannot fathom.
Bah.
I carefully opened the door to my room, acting as quietly as I could, hoping not to awaken the creatures if they happened to still be asleep. No matter who or what you are, being woken up by something else is always startling, and that was something I wanted to avoid.
It was fortuitous that I did so, because all but one of the creatures were sleeping. The only one that was awake was the purple, horned one that had watched me write last night's journal entry. It raised its head and followed me as soon as I tiptoed into its line of vision. The critter seemed to be...
How do I put this...
...It seemed to be... dissecting me with its eyes. Pulling me apart piece by piece, just to see how I worked, how I ticked.
Definitely not the behaviour I expected.
As I silently made my way across the carpeted hallway, intent on entering my kitchen, I tried to ignore the stare that I was being given. After a brief flash of insight, I realized that it might simply be hungry, considering they did not partake in the offered wheat from last night.
I walked through the double doors that cut off my kitchen from the rest of my home, and felt the smooth sandstone beneath my bare, square feet. I embraced the beams of sunlight that seemed to fill the entire kitchen, due mostly to the fact that the far wall is made almost entirely of glass, allowing both a beautiful view of my backyard and the lake beyond.
Taking in a deep contented breath, I made my way to a device I called a 'fridge', named so for its function; I had collected some snow from a forest of tall, dark trees, located many thousands of blocks away—a tundra. I had only taken them on a whim. Imagine my surprise when the snow didn't melt, but instead retained both its cube shape and ice-cold tendencies.
Realizing that I could use this to my advantage in regards to keeping meat and fruit fresh for a longer time, I built a small 'cold box' that used the snow as a cold source.
I renamed it shortly after to 'fridge', a play on the word 'frigid'. Personally, I think it sounds a lot better than 'cold box'.
I opened up the fridge and gathered up a few crisp, red apples and a bucket of milk for my breakfast. Placing my morning food on the kitchen table, I reached up towards the cupboards and grabbed some bread for the creatures. I wasn't sure if they left the wheat behind or consumed it before following me, but regardless, I figured that they must be hungry.
In curiosity, I went back to the kitchen doorway and poked my head around the corner, wondering if the purple one had awoken the others. I was half-expecting six sets of eyes to be ominously staring back at me. Thankfully—for whatever reason—the purple, horned critter decided to fall back asleep. It was laying on its back, belly pointed towards the window and the solitary sunbeam that decided to shine through. One of its folded legs pawed at the air.
Wondering how deeply they were asleep, I knocked on the wooden wall quietly. None stirred. I decided to knock harder. Again, the creatures refused to respond, except for the blue, winged one that let out a small snort before breathing easily once more. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the yellow creature open an eye, but when I looked back, both eyes were closed and the breathing was relaxed.
I stifled a chuckle. Whatever they were, they were clearly not morning creatures. Seeing as how I had some time to myself, I decided to tend to my garden, breakfast not forgotten but set aside. I hoped that none of the creatures would wake up before I returned.
I went back into my kitchen and exited through the door at the rear of the room, which leads to my backyard. I made a stop at the well and quickly washed my face before turning my attention towards the neat rows of my garden.
Rows upon rows of wheat stared back, all of them in different stages of growth. Almost a third of my backyard, a total of one hundred and sixty blocks, is set aside for the growing and harvesting of wheat. Partially due to my foresight and partially due to convenience, my backyard ends in a large, clear lake that I use to hydrate my crops and, on occasion, gather fish from. The fact that most creatures here cannot swim only furthers the usefulness of my home placement.
Another part of my backyard is dedicated to growing melons, which are a type of fruit. I still haven't discovered the most efficient way of growing them yet.
The last portion is split between the chickens I have penned up—for eggs, and on special occasions, meat—and a wide-open space that I use to test my more... explosive experiments. After blowing a hole in the side of my house, I decided that my research into sulphur and other mixes would be more conducive to my well-being if I did so outside.
As I went through my routine of picking the finished wheat and burying fresh seeds after, I heard the telltale squeaking of my back door opening. I immediately whirled around in surprise, grabbing for my sword that wasn't there; I had left it inside. I still had my iron hoe on me, but it wasn't much of a defensive weapon.
I'm not sure who was more surprised: myself, or the soft yellow winged creature that decided to join me outside. My rapid movement must have startled the poor creature rather fiercely, as it backpedaled in fright, causing chunks of dirt and grass to go flying until it hit the outside wall of my house. The creature proceeded to cower against the wall, its forelegs covering its eyes, and its wings flared. Whimpering noises followed.
I looked down at the creature, and then at my shadow on the ground in front of me. My shadow was tall and menacing, and the hoe that I held in a defensive stance only amplified that. It was then that I realized just how frightening I was to the small, colourful creature: it was probably half-blinded from the Sun, and only managed to see my rather scary silhouette.
I dropped the gardening tool and crouched down as low as I could without actually sitting on the ground. I still towered over the creature, only much less than before. I stayed a respectful distance away, and clicked my tongue a few times to get the creatures attention. It peered at me through one eye. I raised my hands to show that they were empty.
That seemed to do the trick, as the creature came out of its cowering state and seemed to realize that I wasn't going to hurt it. Climbing back to its hooves, the creature flapped its wings once, extending them to a length that I hadn't realized they were capable of. They look a lot smaller when they're folded up against the creature's sides. I also noticed that there were many feathers—some miniscule, and others much larger—present along the creature's wings, much like a chicken. Except chickens have feathers everywhere along their bodies while these strange creatures have a fine, coarse fur.
The little yellow creature looked up at me with two large, teal-coloured eyes. Even though I had stared into one of their eyes before—the orange one's—I was still surprised by the sheer amount of emotion and depth that they possessed. I was struck, dumfounded, and trapped by its stare: No matter how much I struggled to break free from its gaze, I couldn't.
I still don't know exactly what occurred or why. Perhaps it was some sort of defensive ability, being able to freeze their enemies by simply staring at them. Only, the yellow winged creature didn't seem to be either aggressive or defensive. Maybe they don't have any control over it.
Regardless of the stare's purpose, I was still locked in place with the yellow creature. The only thing that managed to break it was a spider leaping off my roof and landing not two blocks away from me, causing both the creature and myself to jump back in surprise.
Spiders are strange creatures. They are fairly large and bulbous, having eight-limbs converging from the central body—the spider's thorax. Spiders have the unique ability to climb on nearly any surface, with the exception of liquids. I don't know whether they take some sort of perverse pleasure in startling other beings, as I find that they frequently ambush both myself, and on slightly rarer occasions, monsters that wander too far into their territory. Normally, they keep to their caverns and trenches—which is where they nest—but sometimes they venture elsewhere.
There are two variants that I have seen: the regular variety that can be found almost anywhere, and a specific breed that only lives in caves, known as cave spiders. Regular spiders are a dark grey, almost black colour, with the exception of their eight, beady, red eyes. The cave spiders are a dark blue and much smaller than the regular spiders, but what they lack in size they make up with a poisonous bite. It's not fatal, but it blurs my vision and reduces my overall mental cohesion. I've tried to harvest their poison for use on arrows, but I haven't managed to as of yet.
Another strange thing about regular spiders—not cave spiders, as I've never seen one leave its cave—is that they are almost completely docile and non-aggressive when they are in an area with high quantities of light. None of the other creatures of the Night have shown anything even remotely connected to passivity, which leads me to believe that spiders are simply territorial creatures. Still, they are dangerous at Night and during underground forays, and I have no qualms about killing them in self-defense.
The poor little quadruped jumped nearly two blocks high in pure, unadulterated fear. In mid-air, it spread its wings and flapped them a couple of times, then proceeded to land on my roof and watch both the spider and I from its vantage point. I grabbed the discarded hoe from where I tossed it aside and turned to face the spider.
The spider, to its credit, didn't look fazed in the slightest. It looked up at me with its eight, red eyes and blinked at me, one eye at a time, creating a sort of rippling effect. It made no move to attack me or the yellow creature on my roof, but I couldn't just leave it in my backyard.
I turned the hoe around and began prodding the spider with the rounded, wooden end towards the open water. It hissed every time the stick connected, but it didn't reciprocate the nudges I was giving it. Eventually, after many pokes and prods, I managed to shove the spider into the water. What happened next amused me greatly.
The spider stayed afloat for a few seconds, using its eight limbs as a flotation device. It was practically hugging the water! The spider slowly spun around in circles, drifting towards the centre of the large lake, its body completely flattened out on the water's surface. The spider did not look amused in the slightest. Its downfall came when it tried to paddle in the direction of the shore; without all of its legs supporting it, the spider lost its floating capabilities and fell into the water, limbs flailing and splashing. It resurfaced a few seconds later looking miserable and drenched. After the spider drifted away and out of my vision, I heard a very grumpy-sounding hiss.
With the eight-legged menace dealt with, I turned back towards my house and realized that I still had a startled critter to coax down from my roof. Thankfully, when the yellow creature saw that the spider was no longer around, it fluttered down from my roof and landed a few blocks away. It looked up at me, and yawned adorably, probably from the Sun at my back.
From the creature's yawn, I determined that it had a vegetarian diet, as the teeth weren't sharp and pointed for ripping flesh like the tundra wolves. Instead, they were flat for crushing wheat and grass like sheep, cows, and pigs.
After yawning, the little creature attempted to... start a conversation with me? At least, that's what it seemed like to me: it kept chirping in its melodic language, paused—as if to give me a chance to respond—and when I didn't respond, tried to communicate something else. What strange behaviour, especially from such a timid creature.
To the creature's credit, it tried its hardest to tell me... something. It even went as far as motioning with its forelegs and hooves. If I had the time, I would've spent the day trying to decipher the motions and chirps from the creature, but I had stuff to do. First off, I hadn't eaten my breakfast and the gardening—along with the pesky spider problem—had worked up my appetite.
I ripped off a chunk of bread and offered it to yellow creature. Strangely, it shook its head, declining the offer. I knew that the creatures must be hungry, so why decline the bread? I seriously doubted that they were vegetarians that didn't like bread. No, there had to be another reason. I saw the yellow critter eyeing the bucket of apples, so I offered it one. Again, it refused.
Can't say that I didn't try.
I mentally shrugged and ate my fill of bread and apples. I checked the clock on the wall, and noticed that the day was well under way. The creatures would be getting up, whether they wanted to or not.
Either the yellow one understood that I wanted the others awake and conscious or it thought that they had slept too long. Whichever was the case, it chittered and chirped softly, which caused the other creatures to awaken, stretch, yawn, and blearily look around. The blue one proved to be quite the heavy sleeper; it took two of the creatures—the orange one and the pink one—to raise the blue one from its slumber.
I stayed off to the side, partially obscured by a shadowy corner of the room. I didn't want to startle any of the creatures by making the first thing they saw when they woke up being my tall form. My non-intervening was also due to the fact that I wanted to observe the creatures without them knowing that I was there. I was sure that their behaviour would radically change if they knew that I was watching.
I was right in my assumption.
The same creature that took the longest to wake up was, ironically, the first to spot me. The blue one immediately flared its wings—which, in hindsight, seemed much more powerful than the yellow creature's—and proceeded to stare me down. It called to the other creatures in a much different tone than the yellow one; it was deeper and more aggressive, which was to be expected, given the situation.
Upon having the winged, blue creature alert them, the others nestled together in a sort of 'V' shape, with the blue creature at the helm, flanked by the purple one and the orange on its left and right, respectively. Something about how defensive the blue creature was being made me think that it was the de-facto pack or herd leader; I'm not sure what to call their little group yet. It was only when the blue creature stamped its hoof and snorted in irritation did I move. I had remained motionless the entire time up until that point.
I really wish that I could understand what happened next, but alas, some things just can't be explained and simply are.
I took one step—only one step—and before I could do anything, one of the creatures, the two-toned pink one that literally bounced into my home the previous night, pranced into my living room, coming from the kitchen. It was eating the apple that I had offered the yellow creature. I remember it was that apple specifically: it had a solitary green spot amidst the solid red exterior.
I was dumbfounded. I still am. Somehow, the pink creature managed to sneak out of the living room and into the kitchen without my knowing, and I was watching them. It's not like I wasn't paying attention. By some of the other creature's expressions, I could tell that they were just as confused as I was, if not more. As the creature ate, my house was silent except for the loud crunching after every bite. The silence was broken when the pink creature finished the last bite and started chirping excitedly to the other critters. Its voice was much higher pitched than either the blue or the yellow one.
Thankfully, the painful silence was broken after the pink creature spoke: the other creatures started talking and discussing among themselves in their own language. I noticed that they use their forelegs and hooves only when putting specific emphasis on certain words or actions. The pink creature bounced back towards the main group, a smile written on its muzzle.
I shook my head and went back into the kitchen, not wanting to think about what had just occurred. I still can't quite wrap my head around it. Can they teleport, like the enigmatic Endermen? Surely not.
Hopefully not.
I gathered a few loaves of bread and the bucket of apples for the creatures to eat, thinking that after they saw one of their own eating, they would be more inclined to trust me and my food. They still watched me wearily as I placed the food down on the low table in the living room, and they sniffed and stared at the food for a long while before consuming, but they did eat.
The whole time they were eating, I've been writing this entry. They eat slowly and gesture frequently.
One last thing before I head out.
Each of the creatures has a strange marking on both sides of their rear legs, on the flank portion. They vary immensely, from an elaborate design of what I can only assume is a star on the purple one, to a cloud with a multi-coloured bolt of lightning on the blue one, and three apples placed in a triangular fashion on the orange one. Yes. Apples. The very same fruit that they are all eating.
I will be calling the orange one 'Apple' from now on, for obvious reasons. I will have to think of other names at a later time, as I have dallied far too long writing this log, and I must be off.