//------------------------------// // Chapter: 5 // Story: Heart Of The Land // by EdBoii //------------------------------// 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.