Chapter Text
He wakes up stiff and sore. The world is silent as he pulls himself into reality. Stone and dirt muffling whatever lays outside this cramped hole. Today, he assumes, he will have to deal with the reality that the forest is soon to run out. They aren't infinite after all. With a huff he breaks the dirt above his head and shoves himself out of the hole. Time to get moving.
He walks and walks and walks, feet quiet against soft earth. When he meets the edge of the forest so many steps away he follows the curve of it to his right. He tries his best to stay well within the treeline even as it thins out and pins him against a river. His gut tells him not to cross that river, and he would be nothing if he didn't trust that instinct. He follows the curve of the river and trees until it turns into a proper forest again. Large enough to lose what way he'd been going back in the beginning, with trees that blend into each other, and trunks to duck behind and weave around.
Birds here twitter as if he isn't there. Unfazed. They sing their songs, notes clashing against each other. He swears he even sees one dive from a higher branch to a lower one. He's not sure he's ever actually seen a bird before, and maybe the little gray blur was something else. A wolf yips somewhere in the distance as well, although he doesn't see this one. He's thought about taming a wolf many times before, but he never sticks around long enough to justify the little helper. He's managed just fine so far, rarely dying to the monsters anymore.
A stick breaks behind him.
His eye whirls around behind him, the world blurring until it catches sight of the figure behind him. Short, eyes too large, little antenna sticking out of dark brown hair. His eyes only seem to get larger when Moss' shoulders catch up to his eye.
"What in the WORLD?" He's so loud. Moss winces away, takes two stutter steps away. "Halt!" The player attempts to order Moss. His comm flicks up in a pale blue haze that Moss can't make out anything on. He types something fast, and this seems to be it. He's called in the cavalry. Moss pulls out his sword, and shoves his axe into his inventory rather than strapped to his person. The two sit side by side, sword in the first slot and axe in the second. The other player dismisses his comm just as Moss gets ready to charge. "Judas Priest!" He barely ducks his wild slash.
The short bug guy pulls out his own sword, and they seem to be equally geared. Except for the pants, he realizes. Chainmail, of all materials, this player chose chainmail for his pants. Moss side steps a messy lunge, and attempts to get hands on his back while he's off balance. Somehow the player doesn't go face first into the dirt like he expected, just barely. Moss backs off quickly then, making space between himself and that blade.
That's when he hears the sound of rockets fast approaching. At least one player, although it sounds more like two are flying in at breakneck speeds. It's enough to surround him once they land. Someone touches down behind him. It's been a long time awhile since he's ever been to the end, but the scent of dragon rolling off this person is overwhelming. He whips to the side, trying to get the both of them in his peripherals. It's not easy, and it's even worse when the third touches down next to the maybe-dragon. He looks human, which is easy enough.
He backs himself up, sword held in the middle of his body, arms steady. There's distance now between him and all of them. There's no way he can run now, not with three on him. He'll just have to fight.
He'll just have to win.
The dragon is first to leap into the fight, sword not quite held wrong, but in a way that speaks of a lack of confidence. Moss parries one blow, and uses it to sink his own sword into their unprotected stomach. Really, who jumps into into a fight with no chestplate? They disintegrate more than poof, ashy with the bitter scent of smoke. The human gasps a little at their friends death and Moss moves quick to take advantage of that surprise. They haven't put a chestplate on either, so with all the brute force he can manage he shoves through their lacking defenses. Close quarters combat is a hard skill to manage with a sword, but he swaps to the axe in his inventory as he moves. It goes deep into where their neck meets their shoulder, skin and muscle forced apart in a bloody spray. They don't die yet, though, staggering back as the axe is ripped from their body. They're low though, stumbling further and further back as they try to shove food down as quickly as possible so that the magic of the world can knit their flesh back together.
Curse Life for imbuing nearly every world with that magic.
Moss is quick to follow the backwards steps, faster than the bleeding player ever could be. Another swing of his axe and they poof into death. He almost swears that a voice whispers it's displeasure as items fall to the ground. He ignores it, letting the magic of the world do it's job and sucking up the items on the ground. The bug hesitates, and he uses it to his advantage, a moment to check his inventory.
Three weakness splash pots and a bunch of blocks. And tools, but he doesn't waste time looking at what's on them. He pulls two of the splash pots to his hotbar, replacing the water bucket. He doesn't need them yet, but he has a feeling they'll be useful eventually. Sword back in hand he turns to look at the little player that's left. His large eyes aren't trained on Moss, but instead the sky. Moss turns his own eye, although not his body, to look up there. Two avians circle in the sky. That explains why he didn't hear them.
When he squints he realizes it's one avian and the watcher. They make no moves to dive yet, so he rushes the last player standing. His sword nicks his face, a line of red dripping down his face. Their swords meet with the next slash, this player struggling to keep up with his attacks if the little grimace is anything to go off, but managing all the same. He shift his weight to one side and pulls the sword down and to the same side. He take two steps in that direction, looking for a different angle to attack from. There's the sound of many players approaching from the sky spurring him on. He feints the way he's been moving before lunging in and digging his sword into the exposed neck. The player gasps and falls to his knees before dying. He doesn't even watch them poof, turning to where he can hear the pack approaching from.
Pack is an understatement.
The sky is moving with all the players in it. The winged ones, because one of them is not a player, are still circling. Looking. Watching. The pack is coming in quick, though, and he doesn't doubt that they'll land with them. He takes a breath, watching doom creep closer.
It isn't Death. He knows Death, she's kind. She isn't a swarm of players bearing down on him.
The first player touches down in front of him. He barely registers a red tie before he's shoving his sword into their guts. They don't even have a chance to put a chestplate on.
Two more land behind him. One clumsily, taking obvious damage from the way they hit the ground. He strikes them first when he whirls around and they're still stumbling. They poof and he's onto the next. They've got horns lowered at him, but he manages to side step the charge. This is wasting time he doesn't have. He gets a sword in their back, but they don't die. They just get away. He doesn't have time to worry about that.
Three more are on the ground now, their weapons drawn and looking ready to fight together. He hopes they're like the rest, bad.
His luck is out. They're not bad. He recognizes the one with an observer face. They hang back, bow drawn, but no arrows flying as of yet. The other two, a blue slime and someone wearing a bandana, charge. They get on either side of him and it's all he can do to duck blows. A blade catches his arm, he barely feels the heat of pain as he gets out from their trap. It's not his dominant arm, it doesn't matter. He goes for the face with the slime, blade sinking in with a squelch, and pulling back wet. They don't poof, but they do stumble back far enough for him to risk turning away. His blade finds the other players sword, and it's a loud sound. An arrow strikes his shoulder. He ignores it.
He gets past defenses, killing the bandana wearing player just in time to duck under the slimes next attack. It's a good swing, but he could hear them coming. Two quick, but a little weak, slashes to the slimes stomach sends them to a respawn. He wonders briefly if they bothered setting spawn nearby or if he's sending them all back to their homes.
They must've realized he's not going down easy because once the slime has disappeared they all rush to the ground. Several stagger in bad landings, but this is too much for him. He pulls one of the splash puts out, weakness will help. Four minutes of weakness, possibly enough to buy him something. He throws it on the crowd. It breaks easily, glass brittle just as the brewer intended.
It doesn't stop the charge. The avian, the real one, is the first to meet him. Their swords meet and he already knows she's stronger than him even if she's looks scared.
"Look, we aren't trying to hurt you."
He growls as he tries to knock her sword to the side.
"Please, just, just stop fighting!" She sounds like she's begging. He doesn't.
He can't get inside her guard. He can see the other players moving. He can't stop fighting her. Somebody's blade slashes at the back of his leg, it nearly sends him to the ground. Someone else yells, he doesn't bother to listen to the words. No more hits come from back yet.
There's the approaching sound of more players. More players. He's done for.
He manages a slice to her arm before he's forced to whirl around and slash at another player. This one has wolf ears. His teeth are bared, ears turned back, fearful and aggressive. He lands a good hit on this player, sending him back far enough to give Moss space to turn back to the avian. She hasn't even readied to hit him.
He does.
She stumbles back, a hand grasping the wound dug into her side.
He whirls around, the watcher is behind him. Their scent and the dragon's are fighting for dominance, it's overwhelming. Unfortunately, it seems the watcher is a good fighter too. Parrying blows, trying to get inside his guard, and certainly not trying too hard to attack while clearly affected by weakness. Moss can't seem to win. His shoulder is losing mobility quick, the damage from the arrow beginning to take hold. He needs to win now. His slash is too big, leaving him wide open before his sword even thinks about making contact. The watcher takes full advantage of this, blade biting into his hip, and then hands shoving him to the ground.
Distantly he hears more players land.
"Impulse! Do you have the rope?" someone calls out in a panicked voice.
Rope? He tries to shove himself up, his arm collapses as soon as he puts weight on it.
"Does anybody have weakness?"
There's silence. He does, apparently no one else does though.
The watcher above him sighs and changes the grip on their sword. They bend down and grab a fistful of their shirt with a sad look.
A sad look?
The pommel of the sword slams down into the side of eye while the watcher grimaces.
—
There's rope around his wrists and a pulse in his eye. Darkness envelopes him, and he's sure he doesn't want to pry open his eye to figure out where he is now.
So he chooses to focus on the rope. It's scratchy, but it binds his arms in front of him. Honestly, that's probably a good thing considering he's laying on his back. He tries to move his feet, finds that although it aches, he can. They haven't tied him fully up. Immediately he opens his eyes and tries to sit up.
"Woah, woah, woah! Don't do that." A hand gently pushes on his chest, but there's a strength behind it. He shoves up harder. He expects a flinch at least, not the slightest bit of increased pressure and a practiced calm reaction. "You're almost worse than Impulse back in the day, not quite though. I don't think anybody can top dipple dop on that front." He laughs as if he's said something funny. Moss finally bothers to look at this player fully.
He's confused by what he sees.
There's a man, clearly some type of ravager hybrid. That much makes sense. However, his short hair is pinned back by two little red clips, and he wears the shortest little white dress. There's a red cross over where his heart should be. Moss squints at him, unsure of what any of this is supposed to mean.
"Etho and Xisuma will be coming in any minute now. We don't know why Etho's so insistent on seeing you, but it's good to see him coming out of that shell of his!" He laughs again. Moss doesn't make a sound.
Etho isn't a name he recognizes.
He doesn't think so anyways.
He runs through the names he remembers.
Life, Death, Blood, Cycles, Dazwischen, his own. He runs through them again. No, none of those are Etho.
A door he hadn't noticed opens. It's copper, heavy and bright. Two people walk through, probably this Xisuma and Etho.
One is dressed in green armor, a mask obscuring their face. Voidwalker, he knows immediately, very familiar with that type of player.
The other makes him freeze. He looks nothing special, white hair, a cloth mask covering the lower half of his face, a scarred and red eye, plain clothes. Moss swear he recognizes him, though.
"Oh snappers."
"What is it?"
Etho doesn't say anything back, not even blinking as he watches Moss. Then he does, slowly, "I have a theory."