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Another explosion shakes the ground, causing Grian to curl in more on himself. His wings wrapped around his body in an attempt to shield himself in case the main floor collapses into the basement, albeit only mere dust and particles begun to fall from the ceiling. He could hear the screams of other Yellows as they were murdered, their invaders so ruthless in their killing they never let anyone get away.
It took a day for Grian to get to this village, only for a simple task of trading building materials for iron and potentially gold for weaponry and armor. Xisuma had warned him about the upticks in attacks near the border, and the Admin didn’t want one of his faction members to travel near there alone. But Grian had reassured him that he wouldn’t be long, that he’d only take two to three days.
Now, he felt the hope draining from his heart as he realized that there was an increasing chance that he wasn’t ever going back to Hermitcraft.
Tears welled in his eyes and he felt his throat constrict and the air thin with each weak inhale of breath, panic seeping into his mind and making his body shake. He felt his eyes burning—he wasn’t sure if it was from the faint glow of his honey-golden eyes or from tears—and he shut his eyes tightly in an attempt to suppress the tears from running down his cheeks.
Outside the basement, the village grew silent. It drawn out for seconds, then a minute, then a few minutes, and Grian slowly, cautiously, looked up from his knees. Racks of chests lined the the basement, creating rows and columns. He was hiding in a small corner, where the amount of storage was congested enough to hide him. It was dark; he put out all the lights in order not to draw attention to himself, so he could barely see anything.
For a moment, Grian questioned if he should try to escape. Maybe they’ve left already, and they already did the rounds to make sure no one was left. Maybe they’ve missed him. Maybe, just maybe, Grian could make it out alive and run the rest of the way home. To his friends, to his family.
Then, the sound of a trapdoor being forced open startled Grian out of his thoughts, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to quiet a startled gasp from escaping his lips. He heard the creaking of the ladder’s rungs, before the thud of footsteps landing against the cobblestone floor.
Grian’s body stiffened as he heard the footsteps trekking through the basement, the heavy clanks of iron boots only worsening his dread. His eyes followed the sounds, squinting as he tried to see who was inside. He was able to see a tall silhouette a few rows away, covered by the chests lining the racks, a faint glow of red in their eyes.
Crap.
Unconsciously, Grian’s right hand found its way to his dagger in his belt; it wasn’t much, but the winged man wasn’t ever one to fight with his hands, so it was certainly better than his fists. He heard the sound of a chest opening, before the soft rattles of items being poured into a bag of some sort. Grian bit his lip; ‘So that’s why they cleared the village. To get more loot for themselves.’
Unfortunately, the Red player was quick with it, moving from chest to chest until they were a row in front of Grian, and he begun to panic. His hiding spot wasn’t good enough to shield one of his wings from poking out the side, and he would be caught and killed in a cramped spot. Honestly, not one of his favorite ways to die if he were to.
Carefully, quietly, Grian repositioned his feet, moving his dagger to his left hand, waiting for them to round the corner. He took in a deep breath.
They moved into Grian’s sight, and he charged.
He pushed himself out of his hiding place, leading with his right hand, dagger winding back in aid. The Red let out a pained sound of surprise as his arm wrapped around their throat, but they were able to recuperate fast enough to shove Grian off of them, his body hitting the rough floor below him, hard.
He heard an axe unsheathe, Grian rolling out of the way just in time before its blade made connection with the floor, digging deep into the cobblestone. His hands reached for one of the racks, and with a yell, pulled it down to hit them, chests both empty and full falling onto their body.
Grian got to his feet as fast as he can, head throbbing from the impact and weak gasps sounding from his throat as he sprinted towards the ladder. But he wasn’t fast enough, and by the time he heard the Player behind him stand up, the iron blade cutting through air, implying the beginning of a swing, it was too late.
A sharp pain was felt through his right wing, at first small, but it grew bigger and more inflamed and Grian screamed, the heavy force of the axe sending him crashing into a different rack, metal and iron digging into his skin. He felt his shoulder hit a sharp corner, only eliciting more pain in his skin, blood trickling from the openings. Now his wing was searing, as if the muscle were being pulled apart, it was almost numbing. Grian couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down his face now, letting out a choked sob as he desperately tried to get up, but the blurriness of his vision and the pain in his limbs only made his efforts in vain.
He turned his head, only able to make out the glint of bloodstained iron, and Grian shut his eyes tightly, only hoping that an axe to the head would make his death swift and painless.
He hoped that Xisuma wouldn’t blame himself.
A few seconds passed, the pain in his wing only growing worse with each passing moment. But nothing happened, and Grian risked a bleary look behind him, his eyes widening in shock.
Their axe was still in their grasp, but they haven’t made any move to hit him once more with it. If Grian’s vision was just a little sharper, he’d be able to see the trembling of their hands gripping the handle, clenching it so tightly in their grasp their knuckles were turning white. But he could sense the conflict in their mind, bright-red eyes flickering from the axe, to Grian, to the ladder. Their sage-green hair was disheveled, a few small dents noticeable in their armor, worn over a tailored suit.
They exhaled, and Grian was shocked from their uneasiness. They muttered a curse under their breath—that the winged man wasn’t able to hear—before setting down their bag, eyes still focused on Grian, making sure he didn’t move (although with his wing nearly chopped off, he definitelywasn’t going anywhere). They rummaged through, until they eventually found what they were looking for: a golden apple, unused and still fresh.
Carefully, they approached him, setting down their axe in the process. That, in itself, didn’t really help Grian’s nerves too much, to which he flinched away so harshly he saw them wince. His wing still throbbed in pain, and he bit back a pained sound at his movement.
But the golden apple was left in front of him, offering its magic of healing. Grian looked up, seeing the Red backing away from him, reaching to pick up their axe, bag drawn over their shoulder. Their expression displayed guilt, which Grian was confused about, mind going a mile a minute as he was trying to block out the pain shooting through his wings.
He didn’t understand why they were helping him; they already chopped his wing with an axe, and had him backed into a corner, so why wouldn’t they just finish the job? Grian didn’t know whether to feel grateful or hopeless over their mercy, as his Yellow instincts and his injuries were making thinking rather difficult.
His thoughts were cut off by a violent rap against the trapdoor, causing him and the other Player to jolt at the sound. A voice called out, muffled from the upper floor.
“Pete! You good in there? We heard a scream.” Someone called loudly.
“Uh, y-yeah Punz! Just give me a second!” They- Pete, replied, seemingly caught off-guard by the question. Their voice was deeper than Grian expected, and it sounded more gentle compared to threatening. They spared one more look at Grian, before starting towards the ladder, to the winged man’s relief—and anxiousness.
They opened the trapdoor, tossing up their bag of materials they looted from the storage, before climbing up.
“You sure there’s nothing else in there?” The same voice asked, and he could hear Pete hum an affirmative.
“Positive. Let’s just get out of here,” Grian heard them say. “Where’s Harvey and Fruit?”
“Already outside. And quit the screaming, would you? I thought there was a Yellow about to kill you or some shit.”
And with that, the trapdoor shut, leaving Grian by himself.
He stayed still for a few minutes more, making sure that they were actually gone before trying to move. He felt something crumpled in one of his pockets, and his face fell when he realized what it was. Frantically, he reached into the pocket of his cargo pants, only receiving broken glass and metal of his compass. The one that pointed in the direction of Hermitcraft. His home.
He sighed, grabbing at the golden apple, carefully looking it over. It still looked okay, and it was either poisoning or blood loss anyways (with his wing practically broken, he’d rather have his death be quick). Hesitantly, he took a bite of it, immediately feeling the healing effects take hold. His wounds were starting to stitch over, although it was going to take a while for them to fully heal, and it did little for his wing; he was going to need something to help with its regeneration, and even then, it’d probably heal back wrong.
So they did want to help him. Grian pondered, thinking of a way he could get to Hermitcraft. He shut his eyes for a few moments, exhaling deeply as he felt the pain start to dissipate, leaving a numbness in his limbs. But for now, maybe a bit of rest was a good idea.