The End Has Come

Limited Life Winner Symbolism

So I had a few ideas for the symbolism of the winner of Limited Life and this is it:

The Sky: As the timer ticks down, the Sky remains the same. They change with time as all may do, but ultimately they remain loyal and are still the same person no matter what. They live their life as the others around them focus on the dwindling of time left to live. At the end of it all, the Sky will honour the fallen and remember them all eternally, even in death.

The Sea: Strong and powerful, the Sea is dedicated to protecting those closest to them. Their waves, raging or calm, move with the pull of the Moon and smile up at the Stars. At the end of it all, when those around them are dead and gone, the Sea will welcome its fate with open arms.

The Void: They take and take relentlessly, prepared to kill to delay their inevitable death. The Void is ready to die, but will go out swinging or won't go out at all. Theatrical and brave, they will fight until the end and accept their death with open arms, prepared to join the others.

This is all I have for now!

Woes Of A Thieving Parent

The child just wouldn't sleep.

Scott had awoken from his slumber for the umpteenth time that night to the sound of a wailing goblin baby. He threw the covers back and his feet slipped onto the cold floor of his manor. Shuffling forwards, he reached for his trusty jacket hung up nearby and his signature fedora. Now he was dressed (well enough), Scott left the confines of his room.

He had given the kid its own room. The point of this was to have it be somewhere else so he wouldn't have to hear it screaming constantly. But that plan had flopped almost immediately. Now pretty much the entirety of Chromia could hear the small goblin child cry out in the midst of the night.

Scott was not parenting material.

Why couldn't fWhip deal with his own population burst? Scott found himself cursing Goblands under his breath as he gently nudged open the door to the child's room.

The goblin child had its arms and legs waving in the air, kicking and reaching out for hands that would never hold them. Its ears were tilted downwards as opposed to the usual upward point of most goblin ears.

He drowsily approached the child's crib and picked up the baby. How was he meant to hold a baby again? Scott had been to many places in the past and stayed with many people. At least one time he had lived temporarily with newly-made parents and a young baby. He barely recalled the way that both parents had cradled their baby and rocked it back and forth.

Maybe he could try that?

Scott gingerly shifted the baby's position in his arms to something reminiscent of what he had seen during his days of travelling. The baby's wails were still ear-splittingly loud, but slightly more bearable. He rocked the baby back and forth gently. What else had those parents done when he lived with them? Sing it a lullaby?

Oh. Oh they did do that.

Scott's dignity was going to die tonight, wasn't it?

Hesitant, Scott began to mumble a lullaby under his breath. It was one he somewhat remembered. One from his childhood. He couldn't recall who exactly it had been to sing it to him, but the voice sang alongside his own as he repeated it to this child.

At least the child's screaming was quieter. Now instead of screaming and crying at the top of their lungs, the goblin child babbled faintly. They made grabby hands and poked Scott's cheeks as he sang. Resisting the urge to pull away, he kept singing.

It took him a moment to realise the child had stopped screaming.

The child had nuzzled their head into Scott's chest and was babbling jovially. Eventually the young goblin's head dipped down further as slumber finally overtook them.

He did it. Scott got the child to sleep.

With a silent cheer, Scott placed the goblin child back in its crib. The child's breath hitched from the sudden loss of warmth. Its tiny green body shivered.

Scott sighed in defeat as he took off his jacket and wrapped it around the goblin child. Was the term swaddled?

If he had ever thought of handing the goblin child off to his people, he certainly wouldn't be able to go through with it. The child's hands gripped his jacket tightly and its ears were finally tilted up in the usual sign of contentment. Even more, the goblin child almost seemed similar to Scott, despite the difference in species. The goblin baby's eyes had taken on a mild teal hue, with one eye ever so slightly yellow around its pupils.

Damn it. This was his kid now, wasn't it?

Scott never thought he could be a parent. The option was never really available. Not when he was constantly on the move. Constantly running, whether it be from the consequences of his actions or even the law. Back then, he only ever wanted to travel and 'collect' things from everywhere.

Love never crossed his mind. Mainly because he knew he'd screw up. Betray them, cheat on them, steal from or scam them, run out on them in the dead of night. Or he would abandon them at the smallest hint of misfortune. There had been many instances from the past when Scott had left behind a multitude of lovers because of his desire for adventure and his cowardice.

Children were new to him. The prospect of now having a child to raise, on his own no less, was alien to him. He had always turned away at the prospect of kids. The best he could do was tell tales of his adventures to the children of whichever village or town he resided in.

The child's eyes fluttered open for a milisecond, and they smiled at him with a naivety and joyful innocence only a kid could have.

Scott hesitated. Then before he could second-guess himself, he pressed a small kiss to the goblin child's forehead.

He wanted to leave the room. To go back to bed.

But just in case the child woke up again, Scott wanted to be nearby.

So he slept on the floor. For the sake of his child. Not because he wanted to ensure it was safe throughout the night.

Scott got comfy on the cold floor and removed his fedora, clutching it tight against his chest.

He would figure out the whole parenting thing eventually.

He still hadn't given the child a name, had he?

Secret Valentine's

This is my entry for the event hosted by @writeblrcafe! It was fun doing something like this again :)

This is my gift for @kittrrrr.

Word Count: 1610

---

"Can you cut it out?" Aren snaps, breaking his concentration. The cobalt glow emanating from his calloused palms shrinks to a pinprick. A soft sigh escapes his lips as tension leaves his body. "I don't know if you can tell, but I'm trying to get this done, and if you distract me, it's gonna go wrong. I don't fancy having to deal with another zombie, thanks very much."

Gracie-Mae crouches down. "Why don't we just leave this guy here? It's not like we're getting paid." She unsheathes a jagged dagger with a gleaming topaz embedded into the hilt.

He glances at the limp body in front of him. By all means, Gracie-Mae was right. Nobody was paying them anything. They had no obligation to offer their services. He could just stand up now, say he did what he could. Maybe they could hit the pub on their way back. There was a drink somewhere with his name on it, probably accompanied by bad decisions and a faceless figure in bed with him. Then he'd find Gracie-Mae later on, figure out what he got up to, then move onto the next village.

And yet...

He couldn't just leave this guy here. He probably had a family or something. Not quite old enough for a wife and kids, but maybe a pet? Or he might still live with his parents and siblings. In which case, Aren definitely couldn't just leave this guy.

Cobalt light floods the entirety of his palms as he lays them flat on the man's chest. Aren breathes in, then out, then in again. With each breath, the man's body begins to glow with that same light. He keeps going. In his gut, he feels the familiar tug of a rope and he grabs onto it, following the rope to wherever it shall lead him.

On the other side was an ugly, black mass of gunk latched onto the guy's lung. It pulsates with each breath Aren takes, convoluted green light spilling out from the gaps and spreading towards him. It creaks and groans like an old squeaky door, but moves at an incredible speed. He stamps his foot down on it, wincing in disgust at the atrocious squelching noise it makes in response.

He approaches the black gunk and, with a swift flick of his wrist, causes it to dissipate in an explosion of blue. Aren is yanked back out and into reality. He heaves, leaping to his feet and peering over the man's face.

"Did you do it?" Gracie-Mae whispers. She, too, stares at the corpse in front of them. "He still looks kinda dead."

"Give it a minute."

And, surely enough, there's a quiet groan and two green eyes stare up at the two of them. They're hazy and unfocused, but then the man blinks a few times and his pupils thin. He sits up. The man studies the two of them silently, his expression remaining blank and unreadable. It's mildly surprising; a man dressed this well shouldn't be so good at hiding like this from criminals.

Maybe he's dipped his foot into the criminal world enough times for a few instincts to be ingrained into him.

"Who are you two?" The man's voice is hoarse, as most newly-resurrected people's voices are at first, but sweet. It washes over Aren, coating him in that sickly sweetness. The mild accent there caused inflections on the vowels.

"Aren," He says, holding out his hand. "And that's my sister, Gracie-Mae." The man slowly lifts his shaking hand and takes Aren's, pulling himself up with it. "What's your name?"

The man looks startled at such a question being asked. His eyes go wide, lips parting in thought, and if that isn't just the sweetest thing he'd ever seen. A moment passes, and then he responds, "I'm Carter."

"Pleasure to meet you, Carter." Aren says.

Gracie-Mae rolls her eyes. Her eyes flash with an electric yellow, the air around her crackling and sparking. Carter swallows nervously. She presses her thumb to his forehead and mutters under her breath. Carter winces, then stands up straighter.

"To give you the rundown, here's what happened to you: a guy - drunk, lazy, unimportant - got mad at you for something. I dunno if you owe him money or had an affair with his wife, but he was pissed. He saw you leaving the tavern-" She points at the building behind them- "and got an idea. He whacked you on the head with a broken beer bottle. It wasn't pretty. He hit you a few more times to get the job done." Gracie-Mae pauses. She meets Aren's eyes. "We saw you, and decided to give you a hand."

Carter fumbles for an apology, but Aren cuts him off. "It wasn't easy, mind you. You had this weird thing on one of your lungs I had to get rid of. Real creepy, that thing. But the point is, you're alive and well." He slings his arm around Carter's shoulder and starts to walk him down the street. He glances over his shoulder at Gracie-Mae, and winks. She sighs but lets him go. He knows she'll still be watching.

To his credit, Carter doesn't look uncomfortable or scared at being taken down the street by a complete stranger. In fact, he seems completely relaxed. He walks without a care in the world, like he hadn't been lying on the ground a mere minute or two ago.

"Why'd you bring me back?" Carter asks. "I'm sure there's tons of people that deserve to be brought back more than I do."

Aren shrugs. "You seemed interesting." He left it at that.

Carter gives him an inquisitive look. "But why?"

He waves his hand dismissively. "Look at it this way: you have another chance at life, thanks to yours truly. All I ask is that you don't tell anyone that me or Gracie-Mae were here. Alright?"

"Alright." Carter looks like he wants to ask, but doesn't.

He didn't want to tell Aren the real reason he brought him back, but it was a glaring issue. Every time his eyes drift in that direction, he brings them back to facing forwards. More and more similarities crop up by the second. He isn't happy to admit it, but Carter has his eyes, and his hair was styled the same way he loved. He wore the same sort of clothes as him, and even his voice was similar to his. If he looked at Carter for too long, Carter would cease to be there; in his place, he would stand, arms open and a warm smile on his face as he welcomes Aren home.

They arrive at the place Aren and Gracie-Mae have been holed up in for the past few days, and he ushers Carter inside.

"Your injuries are mostly healed, but not fully," He explains, guiding Carter to a chair and getting him seated. "You'll need time to let them heal before going out."

Carter nods, then shuts his eyes. Aren, rather foolishly, in his opinion, bends down to quickly check Carter's pulse. It is sputtering, stopping and starting at random, but it seems consistent enough. It'll even out after a few more hours.

He just needs to make sure Carter doesn't get injured in that time.

"Well, you're royally screwing us over," Gracie-Mae comments as she slides in through the window. "The guards know where we are now. No thanks to your little stunt."

Aren rolls his eyes. "Maybe if you'd been quieter when I was getting it done, they wouldn't have found out." He shuffles around the dinghy space they call a flat in search of their first aid kit. He pulls it out and returns to Carter's side. The wounds on his body aren't hurting him, but they still need to be cleaned and tended to. Aren cracks on with it as he always has done.

Gracie-Mae falls silent. She normally does, when she wants to vent but has no words to vent with. Aren quickly finishes off tying some of the bandages around Carter's abdomen, then stands up.

"I'll meet you outside later. We can work this out when I'm done."

She relents, and slinks off to a hidden corner, either to sulk or do... whatever it is she does when she's alone. Aren's never around to find out what her hobbies are. For all he knows, Gracie-Mae just stares at a wall for hours. He has no way to know, and if he's honest with himself, he doesn't want to. It's her time to do with what she wants. He doesn't need to know every little thing she gets up to.

Aren stares down at Carter. He examines his work, then his hands glide across Carter's torso, gently adjusting the man so he can see what he's looking for better. A canvas of smooth skin, marred by the occasional blotches or scars or marks. His fingers stutter to a halt when they encounter something so small he almost misses it.

It's a tattoo, barely the size of his thumbnail, and yet so intricate in detail. It's a tiny ram's head, the horns gushing with thorns and petals. The eyes of the ram are hollow, staring up at Aren as if to ask who he was.

A grin overtakes his face. This is unbelievable. Lady Luck is truly on his side. Aren contemplates calling for Gracie-Mae so she can see it for herself, then looks down at Carter's face. He can't bring himself to do it yet. Later down the line, perhaps.

For now, that information was a valuable asset. He'd find an appropriate time to reveal it later.

Writing Prompt #1

The Divide impacted everyone. The earthquakes were relentless, splitting the ground. Smoke descended from the heavens and covered the sky. The sun was gone, turning its back on us all in shame. We'd torn it all apart.

And we didn't regret it.

A Token of Peace

The Pufferish of Peace had been a spontaneous thought. Perhaps not even that. A distant memory, lingering in the back of his mind that sang of different times and different lives. It called to him like how the sirens would sing from their islands, luring sailors to their untimely and gruesome demise without the slightest of remorse. The world worked like that. Ruthless and cruel. It would give and give and give, but the second you failed to return that favour, it would take everything from you.

Yet as Scott named the small pufferfish in the bucket, he couldn't help but reflect on his time so far. Only 24 hours to live. He'd gained some as the Boogeyman, but he knew that time would run out. After all, 24 hours only amounted to a day. Even if he managed to not die at all, which was unlikely, there was still not enough time to do much with his life. What did he want out of such a short existence? He'd seen so many battles, cried over the loss of his husband in one life, refused to kill his friends until he had no choice in another, and died in favour of his so-called "soulmate" in the last. This one was just another life where he'd lose someone in the end. Maybe Martyn. Maybe Scar. Maybe Pearl.

But god forbid it be Jimmy.

Scott travelled the distance to where the self-named "Bad Boys" lived on top of the Woodland Mansion. He climbed up the walls, careful not to let the bucket tip too far lest the pufferfish escape. It was precarious, but it felt right. Giving it to Jimmy felt right.

"Iya!" Scott called out as he jumped onto the roof. It was evident how startled Jimmy had been in that split second. Fair. Anyone could be trying to kill him at this point. It was only about an hour or two ago when Scott had to kill Skizz.

"Oh!" Jimmy smiled at Scott. Then paused. His brows furrowed in confusion. "Wh-what did you say?"

"I said 'iya'."

"What does that mean?"

"Like 'hi'. Hiya."

"What is- why is that- i-iya?" Jimmy fumbled to speak as he tried to mimic Scott's greeting. Scott honestly found it amusing to watch. He'd almost forgotten his very first life with Jimmy in the flower forest. Now, he could picture exactly why the two had been husbands back then.

"Like iya! Like 'hiya', but the 'h' is more quiet." Scott repressed a giggle.

"Uh- nice. How you doing?" It was a bit awkward to talk with Scott in Jimmy's opinion. The two had a lot of history, and the whole "soulmate" thing had made it somewhat worse. It was bad enough that they had been husbands once, but how do you talk to your husband from a life ago when in the most recent life he'd been soulmates with Tango?

"Good! I heard you were living on top of the mansion." Scott took a deep breath. "I have something for you."

"What's that?" Jimmy moved closer. To say he was intrigued would be an understatement.

Scott grabbed the bucket with the pufferfish in it. He tensed ever so slightly and handed it over to Jimmy.

A second passed. It felt like hours.

Jimmy stared at the pufferfish in the bucket. The Pufferish of Peace. He chuckled to himself.

"Ooh. Pufferish of Peace!"

"Yeah!"

"You ev- you even spelt it the same!" Jimmy felt euphoria flood his veins. This was a peace treaty of sorts. A way of knowing that Scott remembered it all, too.

"I did!" Scott tried to hold back the tears of joy brimming in his eyes. "I live in the coral reef now. And as Etho said 'you're gonna get a lot of pufferfish' one appeared. And it felt kind of like a sign, so I had to bucket it, name it, then come and drop it off."

"Alright, let me put it in my chest." Jimmy was quick to run over to the chest and tenderly place the Pufferish of Peace inside. "My Bad Boys' chest!"

"Your Bad Boys' chest." Scott laughed soundlessly under his breath. It was nice seeing Jimmy like this. The Life Games had changed them both so drastically that it was the small things like this that made him happy.

"There it is. Pufferish of Peace. I'll keep him in there and if I get an item frame I'll put it in there." Jimmy whole-heartedly hoped he'd be able to uphold that promise.

For a few moments, as the two filled the silence with idle chatter, their minds lit up with the phantom sense of remembrance.

Between them, though they couldn't see it, poppies had taken root in their hearts and refused to be moved.

Gold Is Appealing

The crown weighs heavy upon its wearer's brow. Each passing day makes the crown grow heavier, and the wearer grows wearier with each day. Some say that a curse had been placed upon this crown during the first brawl to take place over its ownership. That, in the bloodshed of the rulers, the crown had been cursed to bring death and misfortune in its wake, and that any who wear it face cruel and startling punishments. For some, this means betrayal from one whom they'd loved, being poisoned in their own domain. For others, the crown brought magical powers beyond their own control, causing a harsh and gruelling winter to befall their lands.

It is needless to say that the crown had been swamped with misery and famine since the first few days of its creation. And that it had been buried long ago for good measure.

Pix had failed to read that in his books. But to be fair, there hadn't been many accounts detailing this crown, and those that did contain information were...vague, at best. So he'd seen no issue with donning the crown and wearing it with pride. He'd made his rule, as the books had mentioned within his newfound capabilities, and for the short time of having it, Pix had almost enjoyed it. Not the power itself, no. In other circumstances Pix wouldn't dare do such a thing. But in the name of history, he simply had to, if only to keeep the crown's rich tradition alive.

Perhaps it had been this that caused his untimely demise.

During that tea party at Glimmergrove, Pix hadn't initially thought much when he started withering. He'd assumed that Katherine had found him. After all, he had seen that Katherine did kill those that she managed to find. All in good sport, of course. The respawn ability every ruler shared was used not in life-or-death situations, but mostly as a measure of strength; a way to test how long one may survive against a terrible foe, or when they're on the brink of death from poisoning.

But when he did die, he came back...different. A ghost. A spectral figure that startled the other rulers upon seeing him. Pix had, quite literally, become as dead as history. He'd merged with it. Was that meant to be his fate all along? Condemned to live as a ghost after a light-hearted discovery and some innocent tradition-upkeeping? That didn't seem fair to him.

Scott had the crown now. At first he hadn't meant to acquire it. He'd simply stood nearby and accidentally retrieved the fallen things of the late Pix. And that meant he had to put out his own decree for the other rulers to follow. There wasn't anything he really wanted. Scott was a collector at heart; an adventurer. He'd spent a large part of his life travelling, permanently borrowing artefacts and living freely. It hadn't really been his intention to become King of Chromia, but he took it in his stride. In fact, he had been planning to continue his streak of permanently borrowing other people's possessions. So for now, he administered a simple task: build a statue, building or other form of structure for Chromia. He'd laid out the borders, and left it at that.

But upon his return home, he'd encountered a most peculiar note left for him. It requested that he create a Brown Mooshroom and take it to a place called the Hollow. Scott knew something bad or risky when he saw it. And this note definitely had sinister connotations. Would this lead to his death the same way Pix had perished? There was no real way to tell for sure.

The crown was laced in malice. None would know this. Perhaps a demon from the days of the past had cursed it. A demon that had cursed it as a last resort in case he was sentenced to death.

Who knows? All we know for sure was one thing.

That gold, the very gold within the crown, was appealing to all rulers.

He Wouldn't Have It Any Other Way

He had died to Martyn before. In the first hunt when was the final Green left. He had begged, screaming through the water for his ally, his fellow Mean Gill to kill him. He had smiled as his friend plunged the sword into his chest and finally ended the hunt, bringing on the Yellow Mellow Era.

He wouldn't have had it any other way.

He had lived on, thriving on the Coral Isles. He had watched as they were destroyed. By TNT, primarily. Time and time again his Isles had been bombed by the others. He'd rebuilt it every time with Martyn's help.

He wouldn't have lived his life any other way.

He had gone on a hunt. Recklessly killing those who had tormented him during the hunt for extra time. He'd stolen hours. He'd done so with pride. And yet, he had no regrets. No regrets, even as more and more blood stained his already red hands. No regrets, even when the voices in his mind cursed at him for doing so. No regrets, even when he knew the other versions of him, somewhere in their own SMPs, were frowning upon him for being so primitive.

He wouldn't have killed them any other way.

He stole as many hours as he gave away. Allies came running to him in a desperate plea for the time he had. They would offer a trade for him; items in exchange for time. But that wasn't necessary. He had more than enough time on his hands. He would've given it away regardless of a reward. He'd grin foolishly at how his allies would thnk him graciously for his generosity.

He wouldn't have given away his hours any other way.

He recalled the last few moments he had left. Impulse and Martyn had taken two of his hours, one each. They were all on a level playing field. Equal chances of death. One or so kills would be enough to end their lives and stop their clocks. He had gripped his sword tighter than he ever had before in his life. The roar for blood pounded in his ears. The ticking of his timer resonated with every heartbeat, every breath, every subtle twitch of bloodlust. His entire body ached with the need for blood. For more time. For survival.

He had died to the hands of an ally. He had finally broken his curse. He no longer had to outlive the ones he loved most. He no longer had to look out over an empty plain with an ache in his chest as his heart yearned for the touch of his closest friends, sometimes even lovers. First it had been the sweet, wonderful Jimmy who he had been married to during the first game. Pearl was second, the amazing and helpful friend she was. Cleo, the not-soulmate he had made to spite how their soulmates had mutually abandoned them. And Martyn. Protective, comforting Martyn. A loyal soldier until the end. He had saved Scott's life countless times in this game. He had long lost count of how many times the two of them gave and took lives in the effort of elongating their ally's life. He lost count of the nights they had sat together, warm in each other's arms as they stared at the waves lapping at the shore of the Coral Isles. The traps. The small domestic moments they shared. The joy.

And even as Martyn stabbed the sword through his chest with the ruthlessness of a man so numb to killing it no longer hurt to slaughter his closest ally, he couldn't help how joyful he felt. His curse was broken. He could finally die without grief weighing down his heavy heart. He could be brought back to seeing his friends after the games as their ghostly forms floated about to oversee the end. He no longer had to weep at the sight of his friends.

He watched Martyn win with a warm heart and happiness pumping through his blood. The curse breaking would upset Them. They would be furious. He laughed at the thought. He really had denied them every time. Only on this occasion, it had been with the help of another that he had defied Their wishes.

He gave the order. He told Grian to do it. He watched Martyn be killed in the blissful peacefulness he had experienced many games ago. And he threw himself into Martyn's arms desperately, relishing in how his ally hugged back.

Scott wouldn't have had this any other way.

Not one bit.

Calm Before The Storm

There were no more Yellows now. Which as a result meant no more mercy, or grace periods. No one would show kindness anymore, not when the entire world was against you. Allies would only be standing in your way. Hindrances to success.

Scott stood at the diving board, staring out upon the server. He could see everyone beginning to head back to their bases clearly. His fingers itched, the way they always did when he was Red, slowly finding his bow and holding it up. An arrow was nocked, aimed and ready for someone's head. He didn't know whose head. It didn't matter in the end. They were all just heads on bodies waiting to be chopped off.

Shaking himself out of it, he lowered his bow and put the arrow back in its quiver.

Gem was sat on the floor with her sword in her lap. A strand of hair fell over her eyes and she hastily brushed it away. She stared at her reflection in the sword, a frown tugging at her lips, tilting it this way and that presumably to find a noticeable change.

Everyone felt different as a Red.

No one knew how. There were no physical differences to before, no changes in demeanour or personality. A player didn't instantly grow cold and calculated with an intense thirst for blood. The bloodlust was always inside of them. It just never arose as a Green or a Yellow. It simmered in their stomachs on a low heat, only to have the temperature rocket up and the pot overflow, teeming with the urge to kill. The need to have blood on your fingers. To feel the weight of a weapon in your hands, or to hold the lever to set off a TNT trap.

Many tried to look for a difference. It was quite common for players unfamiliar with the game to do so. They always believed there to be something wrong with them physically, and resorted to searching for changes in what little time they had on their hands.

They never found anything, sadly, but no one did.

"Gem," Scott began, walking over to her. She lifted her eyes to his for a moment, then looked back down at her sword. "Gem." he repeated, firmer. She paid him no mind. Apparently a reflection was more important than her teammate.

Impulse stepped out of his house and sat next to Gem. He stretched his arms and placed his palms in the grass, running his hands through the blades. Like many other players, his hands were riddled with scars, burns, blisters and callouses. "What's up?"

"That's the problem," Scott replied. "Nothing. Nothing is happening."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Impulse asked. "I mean, that means we have time to prepare for an attack, or a trap." He nudged Gem with his arm playfully. "Right Gem?"

She didn't respond.

Scott leaned in a little closer and sighed. Her eyes had glazed over. Again.

"Third time today." he grumbled.

Standing up, Impulse bent down to scoop Gem up into his arms and made a start for the gate. He gestured with his head for Scott to follow, and follow he did. He opened the gate for Impulse, and the two of them descended down the stairs and walked past the Secret Keeper statue. The mere sight of it was enough to send shivers down Scott's spine and make him want to run.

They stopped by Cleo's first. Unsurprisingly, Etho was there too.

"What is it?" Cleo asked. She whispered something in Etho's ear and he nodded, scurrying off quickly.

Once his receding footsteps were out of earshot, Scott answered. "It's happening again. I'm gathering some of the players."

She nodded, gradually understanding. "Alright, just give me a moment to grab my things." she disappeared.

Scott stood there, impatiently tapping his foot until Etho arrived with Grian in tow. Both of them were holding bundles of blankets with some snacks thrown in there for good measure. Grian yawned, attempting to rub his eyes.

Cleo reemerged a short while later with more snacks and some water.

The group left and headed towards Pearl's, where Scott broke off from the group to retrieve an additional guest. Before he could even knock on the door, Martyn was outside with all his stuff, a small smile on his face.

"Cleo messaged me," he explained. Scott walked alongside him back to Pearl's, where everyone was sat waiting. Some of them weren't able to join them, so it wasn't quite as full a group as usual, but it was still something.

He took some of the blankets from Martyn and laid them out on the floor. Everyone else did the same, then sat down.

Gem was the last one to sit. Impulse had to guide her to an available spot and gently lower her until she was perched on the edge. Her eyes were still glazed, but a fraction of light and normalcy was returning to them already.

Scott sat down beside Impulse, with Martyn's head in his lap. He absent-mindedly twirled strands of Martyn's hair whilst humming a small tune. He couldn't recall where he'd heard it; perhaps in passing, in the space between the games, or maybe it had been playing when he was in a different server. It sounded similar to a drinking song, so maybe it had been from Pirates.

"Now what?" Grian asked. He perched himself far from the others, but close enough to Cleo and Etho to reach them in case of an unfortunate event. His gaze was on Gem, his eyes narrowing mildly.

Etho chimed in. "We hang out. Eat. Talk. And we wait for Gem to come back."

Cleo nodded in agreement, a small smile curling at her lips. Her hand met Etho's, and their fingers entwined.

---

It took a while for Gem to come back fully. She'd return in brief fits, then leave soon after. It was like flicking a switch on and off repeatedly, only more stressful and each wait seemed to stretch on for eternity.

But once she started to ground herself, it became easier.

Her thoughts were a swirling mass of death, flashes of red every time she shut her eyes. Something was wrong with her. Something had changed, but what? What had changed so drastically about her?

She looked the same. Felt the same. Even tasted the same, which she tested herself (although maybe she did taste different and simply didn't notice.)

But something about her must have been wrong.

She was wrong. A freak. A creature of her own design or maybe someone else's.

Whenever she came to, she was surrounded by people. Impulse's hand on her knee, fingers tapping along to a rhythm. Scott humming a tune, playing with Martyn's hair, his hums occasionally turning into snippets of song lyrics. Cleo and Etho holding hands and smiling, Etho's head on cleo's shoulder, eyes shut in contentment. Grian watching warily. Pearl next to him with a calming hand on his shoulder.

A pang struck her heart when she came to.

They were all here for her. They'd dropped whatever they were doing, for her.

She was important to them.

Gem fell back again into that whirlpool of thoughts. They swirled viciously in her mind, growling and barking and biting like a pack of rabid wolves. Their fur was the colour of blood, and Their eyes were pools of purple. A strange black liquid oozed from Their fangs and dripped onto the ground. They approached from all sides, closing in slowly, leaving Gem less and less time to escape.

Panic bubbled in her chest and she balled the clumps of her shirt in her hands, trying to remember how to breathe.

"You're okay," Impulse's voice whispered in her mind. Was she? She didn't feel like it. "I've got you."

She almost laughed at the thought. He didn't. Not only because she was here and he was out there but also because no one could ever truly have Gem secure in their company. There was always that thin line, that tightrope of danger she was obliged to walk on. One misstep and she fell back into that world of blood, wolves and that rising sense of fear.

"Gem, we're here for you. Take your time." Cleo.

"You've got this," was a half-hearted encouragement from Martyn. He yelped, grumbled under his breath, then hastily added, "I believe in you!"

A hand gently squeezed her kneecap. She saw it, saw the hand, but not the hand at the same time. It flickered in and out of physicality, not wanting to be there for too long. Then it settled into reality with a firm determination.

Something else appeared, too. A shaky apparition, a figure bathed in sunlight. His wings were folded against his back, his red sweater worn and fraying. There was a scar on his temple, and a bruise on his cheek. A second appeared closer to her, gently illuminated by small floating stars, his pointed ears sharp and alert. Then came another, in a cloak of woven moonlight, a toothy smile revealing her elongated canines.

Then finally came one surrounded by a thick outline of red. There was a pendant around his neck of a hand grasping an hourglass.

They all smiled kindly at her, their faces coming into visibility slowly. Everything unnatural about them faded away until they were simply Grian, Scott, Pearl and Martyn, all still in their respective positions.

"Welcome back," Etho greeted.

Scott exhaled in relief, his hand falling to his side. Martyn frowned at its absence, sitting up properly. His hand crept into Scott's lap and rested on his thigh. A grin curled at Scott's lips.

Gem leaned into Impulse. "I'm tired." she whispered, not trusting her voice enough to raise it much more. Still, her words carried across to the others and a blanket was tossed her way. She caught it easily - surprisingly enough, but that must've been a good thing if her reflexes were already coming back - and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"G'night," Martyn said, letting gravity push him backwards. Scott fell with him, letting out a displeased noise when his back hit the ground. "Let's all have a five minute grace period before killing each other, yeah?"

They all mumbled their assent.

Gem and Impulse lay down, close but not touching. She couldn't touch him just yet; her body still didn't quite feel as it should. But when it did, she'd hug him.

Until then, she'd have to rest.

A Red Life was many things; vicious, unforgiving, spiteful, vengeful.

But they were also kind, gentle and merciful when the time called for it.

Music Witchcraft SMP Characters Would Listen To

So I had this thought in my head for a bit, and this was the result:

Scott - rock. The others can often hear heavy metal coming from Scott's tower, and Cleo has seen Scott playing songs on a guitar before. Most of them are break-up and recovery songs.

Cleo - classical. Gentle music drifted out of her tower to bring back memories from the other witches of happy times. Or even sad ones, depending on Cleo's mood. She owns a grand piano and a violin and will sometimes play them alongside Scott.

Cupquake - folk music. Her tower has songs passed down from villager to villager, and all are collected together. They often make good background music for her gardening and is relaxing for when she's practising magic.

Joey - pop. Upbeat melodies flow from his tower that can brighten the days of most passers-by. High-pitched for fire, low-pitched for ice, and a medium-pitch for both.

Lauren - musical theatre. You approach her tower and songs from various musicals or cheesy romcoms are blaring. She tries to do something unique compared to the other witches, and although it is a bold choice, the music is relatively okay.

Eloise - jazz. Smooth jazz plays whenever she uses illusion magic in her tower. It calms Eloise down a lot, and she owns a lot of jazz instruments for her to try out one day. Not yet, though.

Pris - a variety! Songs from 'The Little Mermaid' can often be heard from within her tower, as well as the occasional rock or classical here and there. Pris is inclined to mix things up. Her taste in music is as fluid as her water magic!

Shubble - techno. Electronic sounds forming energetic melodies flow from her tower. Maybe she can use electricity to generate new sounds to experiment with. Different songs can reflect the weather outside (e.g fast-paced could be storms, slower sunny, etc.)

So there you go. If any band AUs are out there, maybe this could help for which genres each member would be a part of. Or maybe this can just be for fun. Either way this was quite entertaining to make!

Have a nice day!!!

Darkest Before The Dawn

Teleporting into walls didn't really phase him much.

The crippling fear was dead and buried along with the many other hatchets lying six feet under. He no longer was sent into a frenzy when he made a mistake. The walls welcomed him with a suffocating embrace. They gripped him tight and squeezed the air out of his lungs with little to no remorse.

It didn't mean it didn't shock him, though.

Accidentally teleporting into a wall wasn't pleasant. It slammed into him like a bucket of icy water he hadn't been prepared for. But it didn't frighten him. More like a minor inconvenience.

Scott's body tingled as he teleported out from the mound of dirt and grass he'd unintentionally managed to teleport into. He was lucky he wasn't claustrophobic. Being trapped inside the dirt and grass wasn't nice. It was as if he'd been buried alive and couldn't escape. Like no matter how much dirt he clawed his way through, there was always more to get through. He'd never be able to get out. It was just an endless purgatory he could never flee from. The weight of the dirt would crush him.

His knees buckled and he collapsed.

Shaking, Scott tried to stand. His legs seemed uncooperative and refused to hold his weight. Many times he fell to the ground. Many strings of curses passed over his lips and swirled on the breeze.

Eventually he succeeded in standing.

Slowly, he approached his house. The path of grass and dirt underneath his feet served as a reminder. Dirt clung to his clothes. The ground's grubby fingers grabbed at his feet repeatedly. Scott did his best to ignore it. He kept walking, drawing nearer and nearer to the door.

He made it inside.

---

Jimmy still felt himself falling.

It was just meant to have been some friendly revenge. Nothing more.

It wasn't meant to end in him plummeting to his death.

He should have been more careful. He should have watched where he was stepping. He should have been able to make it out unscathed rather than dying.

He was a world class idiot.

Panic had overtaken him. His senses screamed at him to do something over then just freeze. To run. To try and find something in the walls to hold onto. To move in any way possible that meant he might be able to live.

At least he didn't have to feel much more than his body falling.

He died soon after he touched the ground.

But he hadn't been respawned yet. For now, he was floating in some kind of limbo that he couldn't escape from. Just existing. No point or purpose other than to exist. That was all he could do for now. Exist and wait for himself to be reborn as something new.

Maybe the world would be cruel and give him wings or immunity to fall damage.

Or maybe it would make him even more vulnerable to it.

Fate was fickle, but fate was also cruel.

---

Martyn would kill for his colin-y.

The snowy and semi-friendly creepers in boats in his house. He'd slaughter every single person on sight if someone even petted one of them wrong.

And currently, surrounded by their soft snowy coats, their warm eyes and their curled horns, he couldn't be happier.

He could lose them. All of them. The reality of it would never escape him. If one player saw the colin-y and got spooked and attacked when he wasn't around, then they'd be gone. Permanently.

At the thought, he approached Colin E and hugged the snowy creeper tight.

Martyn couldn't afford to lose them.

Any of them.

He hummed quietly, a song he'd heard in passing. He hadn't paid much mind to it before, so many parts of the song were lost, but he recalled the main bits of it. It was far from complete, but it was still a song.

Colin E made a small noise as if joining in with the song.

Smiling foolishly, Martyn's humming crescendoed. Other Colins joined in. He'd made himself a choir of creepers.

He pushed the thoughts of losing them out of his mind.

Martyn was content to be in the moment with them.