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Technoblade, the pig, the legend. It is said he can cut down his enemies with a slash of his sword, and he could uproot cities as easily as a farmer harvests potatoes. All manner of people have seen him, burned his imposing figure into their minds, for fear of death. Tusks that could pierce ivory, blood splattered on his armor and staining his fur, and eyes redder still than that, all crowned with a thick thing of jewels and gold and robed in crimson silk. They've learned to scatter at the sound of heavy hooved footsteps and flee when they see his silhouette out of the corner of their eye.
And yet, it is not a hoof that steps into a secluded wooden cottage in the middle of a tundra, but a bare foot. A square face slightly marred with thin scars scan the inside of the home, shutting the door with a thud and slipping off the armor on his body with practiced ease, setting them on an armor stand carefully, as if it were delicate chinaware instead of an instrument of war. The cape, which he set on the ground temporarily, is placed atop the shoulders of the hollow netherite, and he dusts it off, cleaning it. He notes a new hole in it, but he knows it will never be fixed. He keeps meaning to get to it, but for now he excuses himself, saying it adds character. Setting his sheathed sword beside it, he looks it over, adjusting it a bit here and there. He’s a warrior, sure, but he’s not tasteless.
He’s left in a loose cream shirt, with straight sleeves and practical cuffs instead of lace lined puffy sleeves. It’s quickly shed from his body as well, being replaced with a heavily ruffled and lacy nightshirt, with sleeves that might as well be clouds and detailing of flowers embroidered on the edges. His crown stays on though. It always does. It’s a part of his head now, and its weight is nothing compared to what he regularly deals with anyway. He tosses the used undergarment into a growing pile in the corner, telling himself he has to do laundry tomorrow, and sits on a wooden chair, facing the window.
The night is as cold as ever, the bitter ice lacing each breath he takes. But he’s used to it, and he’d dare say it’s comforting, if he ever became soft enough to admit anything was comforting. He scoffs at the notion, but he does admit that the moonlight reflecting in the delicate snowfall outside of the window is quite a sight. He quickly scurries up the stairs, retrieving a book, an unlit candle, and his reading glasses. He heads down again, and freezes.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!” A high-pitched scream rips itself from the throat of the young boy standing before him. It’s hard to make out who it is, exactly, because of the relative darkness. The moonlight doesn’t reach all the corners of the room.
“AAAAH!!!” Techno lunges at the boy, not caring to grab the sword he put away earlier, moving to punch him in the throat.
“OH GOD- WHAT THE FUCK-” A thin clank resounds on the floor, presumably a sword. He’s pinned down onto the ground.
The man pauses. He yanks the boy up forcefully by the collar, bringing him into view. He’s scrawny, a little taller than his current form, with hair the color of wheat and eyes the color of deep waters. He drops him with a grunt.
“You’re Phil’s boy.” He moves to grab a box of matches in one of his chests, and strikes one aflame. “Come on, you want something right? Spit it out.” He places the candle into a golden candle holder, and lights it.
“I- Well, you see, I’ve kind of been kicked out?” He manages to stammer out, his hands clammy and his face pale. He was expecting a ferocious boar, and while the man sitting in front of him reading a book was no less imposing than one, it isn’t how his 6-year old mind remembered him.
“Kicked out? Seems a little out of character for the old man, doesn’t it?” Techno says, his gaze fixed upon his book.
“Ah, uh, true. Less kicked out, more told to run.” The boy glances around the cabin, taking in the humble appearance of it contrasted with the immensely showy decorations.
“Mmmh. I see. Could you sit down over there?” He lazily motions to a chair similar to the one he’s sitting on. He obliges, still a bit bewildered. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Tommy.” He says. “Can I ask you a question?”
“One question, I’m kind of busy here.” He bookmarks the page by sliding his finger in the crook of the folded paper.
“Why are you not, you know.” Tommy roughly motions to all of him. “When I was younger, I saw you when you visited my dad, and you were more- you know you were more-” He awkwardly flexes his muscles and pushes up his nose, mimicking a pig snout.
“You mean like this?” He huffs, and he’s back in his more imposing boar body, almost entirely filling out the big chair he sat in. He nods, and swallows his fear. Sighing, he returns back to his smaller human state. “Shapeshiftin’s a lot like flexing a muscle. You can’t do it for a very long time, or else you get tired.” He gestures to the gaudy interior with his book. “As you can see, this is my house.”
“Yes.”
“And what do you normally do in houses?”
“...Live in them?”
A groan. “Obviously, but what else do you do?”
“You… eat in them?”
“You can do that anywhere.”
“Uh, sleep?”
“Bingo.” He opens up his book again. “I was resting, preparing to sleep until your butt came tumbling right through my door.”
“Oh.” Tommy fidgets nervously with his hands.
“And I’d like to get back to it.” A tight lipped response, leaving no room for further discussion.
And yet somehow, Tommy weasled in the silence again.
“I mean, my predicament’s a little important, time-sensitive if you will?” He’s met with a red-eyed glare.
“I’m tired, alright? Your predicament’s gonna have to wait ‘til the sun rises.”
“I really can’t-”
A dagger brushes past him, not nicking him, but he can feel the air beside him get sliced cleanly by the sharp blade. It digs itself into the wooden wall firmly. “You. Can. Wait.” He goes back to reading.
He’s always called to adventure and bloodshed like this. The voices in his head clamor for him to stop, to go and assist his old friend’s child, but like many times before, he shuts them down. The blood god needs rest, and he will rest, problems be damned.