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The Antarctic Empire.
Something that should not be as remiss as it is, and yet, it's been long disbanded. With my services being called out to the Greater SMP and Wilbur's sect named Pogtopia, it quickly saw its downfall. It wasn't that the Empire wasn't in the right hands, far from it. It was just that the Antarctic Empire's greatest weapon was dutifully assisting some other protectorate.
Alas, that was it. A weapon. I had been taken from my cosy settlement in the north and moved to a random schism of the earth-- a cavernous ravine littered with faux promises. A pit. Bad memories. I am reminded of it each time I go southbound by the voices, even if I am not returning to Pogtopia. I still am wracked those feelings.
Nothing can be done, though. Nothing more. I have already seen to the destruction of Wilbur's forever unfinished symphony, and paid due in vengeance on Tommy's betrayal-- his death being something I practically laughed off. Betraying me numerous times, taking my things, using me for my wit and brutality?
Had he not any idea who he was in cahoots with? His ally? His instability was equitable to that of a glass cannon. He fires off ferociously and shatters once the tension snaps. It would have been an absolute treat to see him shattered on the floors of the prison he'd supposedly been locked up in. Stuck with Dream. Beaten to death by him.
I brought a hand to my snout, clenching a single strand of wheat between the cloven hooves of mine. I chewed anxiously on the end of the wheat, knowing I might go through a whole sheaf of these crops before my partner in crime arrives. Puffing out steam, I continued to think.
Even with the news of Tommy's death, there wasn't any further relief than personal grudges being fulfilled. Tommy's demise did not signify the abolishment of government, nor did it seem to shake those with intent to form more collectives. I could not rest. Nor could my associates rest.
I could feel my shoulders tense, knowing more work was to be done. Snowchester was a target of mine, despite the insistence from Tubbo that it was purely a militaristic colony. The Egg was a concern to everyone. Its effects tantalizing and anything but ephemeral.
Incessant, was the feeling of uselessness. Unsatisfied perpetually. My lungs felt cold, head collapsing in on itself, and mouth dry of any acquisitions or ideas. If I was not actively tackling the issues of this server, then I was being of no use. If a tool-- The Blade-- was hung on the wall, then it was no better than decoration. That's how they all perceive me. Who is to say they are wrong?
I groaned aggressively, ripping a snarl from the back of my dry throat. Spitting the wheat out of my mouth, I made a point in presenting the frustration I felt on the outside, as I could see the half-n’-half Ranboo look up from the farm he was tending to. Until Philza figures out the secret to making the farm automatic, we have just employed the teen in our hut to take care of it for us.
Speaking of that teen, he brings forward his own array of problems. Specifically, his part in the Syndicate being less of a pro-anarchy stance, and rather a pro-pacifism attitude. That would not be an issue on its own, if the Syndicate wasn't made for anarchists! Although, with Ranboo always around and curious, it would be impossible to work with other members right under his nose.
I shook my head.
Philza had decided to just bring home the enderman hybrid one day, and now he was part of the quasi-commune of the north. Ranboo was appreciative of everything that Philza offered, and somehow grateful for my more subsidiary hospitalities. He's a fine kid, but I worry for him. He’s aloof, strange, mystic.
I think, whilst living with a seemingly-immortal man with wings. I am also a pig with cognitive and reticular abilities. Maybe I should not be the first to judge. With less hostility than before, I stared out at the wide-eyed Ranboo, offering a short wave. Even with my best efforts, any attempt to try and understand the kid would be lost. I'm not some sort of caregiving, paternal personality.
That would be Philza. The only one who could find themselves adopting every homeless child they see on the side of the road. I wondered how he could manage all these different children, but then remembered that he wasn't really raising them to the best of his ability. Judging by his kids, two of which being dead, Philza’s a questionable father. Doesn't change how I feel about him, though, parenting is tough.
Only time I've ever seen Philza physically age was when he started taking in Tommy and Tubbo. Knowing Philza for years, and hearing of the hundreds of years he's lived before me, you'd think those wrinkles would come from his various battles through the centuries. But, nah. It was from the kids.
I pushed myself up from leaning on the railing between Phil and I’s house, tugging the fluffy cloak around myself tighter with my talons. I often cut into my own fabric on accident, but that was to happen when you're a huge piglin. Plus, I'd seen my fair share of battles. These tears could have just as easily been made by an enemy.
Entering my home, I inhaled deeply. The smell of gunpowder still lingering from my chests, where dusty handprints from Phil sloppily attempted to stuff it away. I laughed to myself at that scattered memory, heaving out the rest of my breath through those laughs.
“Whatcha laughing about, mate?” I clearly heard from behind, my door not making its usual closing noise behind me. Instead, an outstretched wing kept the door wide open-- cold air rushing in from behind the voice. My friend, Philza. I turned around, body tense again as I was suddenly deprived of the only soft emotion felt all day.
Philza noticed the aggravated expression, his casual smile faltering. He put his hands up as best he could, despite clearly holding a sack in his right hand. I felt some embarrassment in discomforting Phil, sighing out and dropping my attitude for a moment.
“Phil, please close the door. You're lettin’ cold air in.” I requested, then waving two talons in his direction haphazardly. With a hum, I proceeded to speak.
“And what's in that? That-- that bag.” I kept a comfortable distance between the two of us, not wanting Philza to feel any claustrophobia between myself, the numerous foxes, and the bear just outside.
Philza looked down at his bag, then sheepishly smiled. He handed it over to me with a laugh, prompting vast confusion. He was easy to amuse, sure, but laughing over the contents of a bag? I peeked into the cloth sack as it was handed to me, having to jut a claw into a tight knot at the top to get it opened.
And inside was.. sand.
“Hehh? Sand?” I looked up from the bag, then back down, then back up. Phil couldn't meet my eyes, as he occupied himself with barring the door to my cottage with the rug. A tactic he used to minimize the amount of breeze let in, knowing I can be quite discomfited with the cold. Once closed, he finally met my eyes; humoured.
“I’m setting up the dojo. Gotta put some concrete on the walls. So, sand.” Philza grabbed the bag back from my talons and tied it up again, huffing as he hauled said bag over his shoulder. If he bruised one of his wings holding it, I wouldn't be surprised. It wasn't as if he had a use for his blown-up wings anymore, though.
Ever since his son, Wilbur, blew up L'Manberg, he hasn't been able to fly. I've tried to make it up to him by allowing him to use my roof as a place to take off with a trident. Alas, those contemporary refinements would never make up for the permanent crippling.
I nodded at him slowly. It made sense. He wanted to make a dojo for us to continue training, to keep up strength. Possibly teach Niki and Ranboo to be better fighters. With no qualms to be had, I continued to shamble about the floor, eventually shedding the heavy coat which provided comfort. It made my movements stiff and difficult, especially when it came to actually navigating the small room.
Philza stood by quiet, and I noticed him giving my new fox, Blitz, a pat on the head. He could tell I was in one of my ruts, offering quiet companionship-- I could see it. If I wasn't so adversed to speaking at the moment, I would have conjured more appreciation. All that came out was an awkward smile.
That was seemingly enough, though, as Phil laughed. He walked up next to me and laid a hand on my back, patting there. As he pat, I felt some of the tension melt away, having some reassurance from another. I almost collapsed against the ladder as I tried to move up to the top floor, in my bed. I couldn't make it, instead just awkwardly standing and being pet.
“You're so tense, mate. What's bothering you?” Philza asked me, finally pulling his hand back to get that bag off his shoulder. He let it thump against the floor, flexing his bare wings modestly, then returning attention to me. I huffed and looked away. I enjoyed Phil’s concern, yeah, but he didn't deserve the weight of my problems.
Phil didn't take my brutish snorting for an answer, instead insisting I speak to him using his decisive, blue eyes. I could feel their coolness slice into me. Agh, no, not the disappointment of yet another father figure of mine! Curse Mr. Minecraft and his scathing gaze. I broke before Phil, resting my forearms against the wall next to my ladder. My head dropped between them.
“Government.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s bad.”
“Yeah.”
“Don't like it.”
Phil brought one of his hands to my arms, pushing it down so he could see my face. I obliged and stared through furrowed brows, suspicious of what he could be planning. Did he just want to tell me my cause was useless to my face? That I was useless? That we should have left everyone to their own and continued our authoritarian rule of the Antarctic Empire?
I sucked in another breath, staring down at the determined Phil. Without words, he guided me off of the wall, placing either hand on my side. His wings hung low glumly, as he attempted an earnest solace for me in his wordlessness. When that didn't work, he spoke.
“Techno, I know you don't like what's going on. And that it's overwhelming. And that you feel bad just sitting here.” Phil read me like a book, squeezing my arms supportively, sending his energy. I tried to fight the deafening voices, which were attempting to block out Philza’s encouragement with harsh criticism.
“You’re doing the best you can. I'm proud of you, mate. We’re making progress. Rome--”
“--wasn't built in a day. I know, Phil, I know.”
“Smartass. Alright, come on.” Philza smirked at me, patting my arms, then getting out of my space. Despite the razzing, I could tell he meant well. The blonde gracefully slid over to my double chests, and before I could pest him about not asking for permission, he’d pulled out two bottles of honey for us to share.
Phil pressed the bottle into my hooves, then quirked his head in a beckoning sort of way. He led me out of my house and across the bridge, into his smaller cabin that he'd recently built. I watched as Phil offered Ranboo a friendly wave, the previously-shaken enderman now piping up out of the wheat fields and chirping back at the two of us.
I smiled. Philza looked back and caught a glimpse of my warmed expression, before I was able to suppress it. He laughed softly, and I spared a small chortle as well. With the two of us in his cabin, Phil began to drink the viscous honey. After he had a hearty chug, he raised his eyebrows at me. I hadn't opened my bottle.
“What, mate? Ease up. Tubbo’s military isn't gonna nuke your home ‘cuz you're taking a break, Blood God.” Philza casually mentioned Tubbo’s supply. Right. The two nukes which were nicknamed Godkillers. Using that nickname on me, I could see what Phil was implying. I sighed and sat on one of Philza’s chests, letting my boots cling onto a ledge.
I uncorked the honey bottle using my teeth, rather than one of my talons. When you've only got three finger-like appendages, you have to get creative with these sorts of things. I drank with Phil, the honey’s unique flavour coating my whole mouth with its sweet taste. We had an unlimited supply of this stuff, thanks to Philza’s own bee farm I asked him to set up.
A blessing and a curse, that was. I didn't have the heart to tell Phil that I didn't need all the excess honey that was produced, as he worked fairly hard on the machine. Harder than I ever worked with bees, anyway. He even refills the bottles every other day, there's no way I can turn down eating honey-flavoured pancakes with honey ale and honey syrup when Phil put so much work into it.
We both continued to drink in pleasant silence. Across the room from one another, distant sounds of animals from the outside sounding muffled to my ears. The voices had no qualms with being so sedentary like they had prior. The voices respected Phil, so him telling me to take a break has given the voices reason to be quiet.
I finished my bottle and stored it on my person, hooking it in a hoop I often used for my sword. My foot tapped against the side of the chest impatiently, unable to relax in the way I had earlier. The silence, while comforting to a point, lacked the encouragement I desperately needed. I could feel the compulsion to return to my work, or even more alluring, return to a total hibernation. To not feel bad.
“Phil.” I murmured, eyes askance from the ground and back on my friend. He noticed my increasing paranoia, approaching. He reached up to the top of my head and took off my crown, then pet back the layer of fur that was uneven from the crown’s presence. Tension in my head was assuaged by the friendly contact.
I stared up at Phil, who carefully set my crown aside. I had attachment to that, like any other symbol of my own wealth, but it wasn't nearly as important as my earrings or armour. Those being encrusted with precious memories and enchantments. Phil let me unwind again, relax as I was treated with companionship.
“There won't be any tyrants in the future, old friend. We’ll make sure of it.” Phil addressed the heaviest weight, more even more burdensome than the golden crown. My fear of our goal being compromised, of being useless. Of being alone. But he reassured me otherwise. And for that, I was grateful.
My talons met Philza’s arm, holding it at its crook in a supportive way. We kept honest eye contact for a moment, his blue eyes reading me all the way through. I hummed in concord, patting Phil’s arm. The two of us were harmonized in a single concept, one that would alleviate ourselves of the burdening guilt from many years past.
No more empires.