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After famine, comes the feast. The World is ready for harvest.
For its Admin to partake of all that remained.
Season nine had been the longest one yet. Almost two years he had held it. Nurtured it, doled out his power, maintained and trimmed and pruned. Kept the hunger at bay with regular upkeep, and laughed along with the Hermits that teased him about trimming all three dimensions now. Only a few seasons ago that he had started with the End, and they thanked him for the opportunities to keep exploring without ever asking if there was a deeper reason than fresh chunks.
Creation was easier when his stomach wasn’t empty. He didn’t allow anyone to help, not when he would have to remind them just how deeply he was connected to the worlds he created. How hungry he got, the longer they stayed, and he kept giving.
At least he remembers to make sure they’ve all left first. Temporarily disables the whitelist, leaving himself alone with the tempting feast before him.
(He’s glad that Bdubs has forgotten, though he won’t forget that bitterness of taste any time soon. The season eight world was barely a snack, after all.)
Today he is alone. The mirrored shell is already saved, a simple snapshot of scaffolding and ghost blocks, ready to be created by someone else’s power, or explored in a single-player format. He is free to consume, to take what has been left to rebuild himself, to reabsorb everything he has poured in over the course of the season.
He sheds his limiting player-skin, in the void between worlds. His stomach growls, his skin feels too big for the yawning emptiness inside, hollowed out and starving.
Two years. Long, hungry months, of giving of himself, and watching the feast prepared and laid out. Of not touching, not tasting, of watching and smelling and remembering not to salivate in front of the table. Of pretending, eating the empty foodstuffs of the world, and knowing it will never be enough. Of keeping himself to the scraps, the empty calories of unused chunks while masterpieces are crafted before him.
He has waited, and is rewarded for it. He’ll do it all again, just to have this moment. These moments when his gift comes back to him multiplied, and he will start over with a full belly.
He waits no longer.
He starts with the outer edges. A mostly tasteless crust, chunks loaded for the minimal time it takes to keep them, with little activity of note. A spark, here and there of flavor, a small build, an activated prank, a farm used once or twice and abandoned. It whets his appetite, primes him for the feast ahead. His own builds are much the same; a mealy blandness that does nothing but make him want more. Only David Copperfield V has any substance at all, the faint flavor of another’s creation nearly overridden by the redstone involved.
He likes going for the industrial districts next. With their crunchy textures, the assortment of flavors that come from the different farms, and the empty little pops of named mobs, they’re the appetizers that promise more for the meal. From there the minigames; bits of sweetness for the ones built for fun, and rich savory deathgames with hints of spice.
The End, with its airy spaces and tiny islands, its cities a minute tang on his tongue. The Nether is still little more than a warm drink, the few farms a garnish easily consumed. Only the Nether Hub is worth noting; Tango’s early effort blooming into a delicious snack that leaves him wanting more for the tease. It turns his attention to Tango’s other build in hopes for something more substantial.
Decked Out Two nearly spoils his palate.
There’s an immenseness to the course that could have been a meal in itself. Rich and satisfying, every layer holds new flavors, bursts of taste that flash like sounds and color in his maw. Joy and despair, fear and cunning, pride and sorrow in a thin wrapper of snow and crafted blocks, and again the bursting pops in his teeth of wardens and ravagers and the brine of One Eyed Willie. The build is marinated in player blood and experience, and the depth of the flavor has him wondering if he shouldn’t feel so bad about season eight.
(If one season, he could convince the Hermits to let him taste them at the end of the world. If their acceptance of him at his most monstrous would change the flavor, or affect his gluttony.)
He finishes it off without pausing, too hungry to stop, too involved to do more than passingly savor the way it only begins to fill him. As strength returns, so does his appetite, the feel of those hollow spaces inside as they call out for more, and beg to be filled.
He could stop, now. Savor it and return. But he’s been starving too long, and there is still food on the table. Who knows when the next meal will come, or how much of himself he will give in the meantime.
Pearl's terraformed alien base is soup and salad, with creative garnish. Gem’s castle is a flavorful cracker, and Impulse’s dwarven keep is a strong palate cleanser. Keralis’ shipyard town holds a strong brine, and paired with Cleo’s lost city of Atlantis provides a refreshing oceanic course, flavors there enhanced by the personal magic of the armor stands and all they represent. He follows it with the gorgon’s courtyard, and Bdubs’ monolith that overlooks it, Joe’s House of Horrors and the season-changing tree grove so lovingly tended. Scar’s elven tree, and Cub’s basement, Gem’s treehouse and Iskall’s hill and Hypno’s cliffside home. He takes a break with Etho’s waterlogged creation, with Grian’s crunchy floating rocks and Mumbo’s hollow vault. Stress’s mushroom inspired mansion, Wels’ floating island, and Iskall’s underground oasis. Finds xB’s oversized train car and picks his teeth on Jevin’s stony cathedral. Moves along to False’s mountain castle of wood and stone and elytra and ice courses, to Wels’ terraced home and xB’s refreshing sunken base, to Tango’s haunted mansion and Ren’s kennel and Stress’ cozy teapots, the empty shell of iEnchant and Jevin’s home with the tasty green pig above it, and the ufo with the snappy onyx deer beneath it.
He’s almost full already, but there’s more. So much more. There’s the Christmas district, with the mark and taste of visiting players, brand new flavors that he hasn’t tried before. Zedaph’s Hall of All that is such a mishmash of everything it almost becomes bland, though in such a unique way it’s like eating a muddled rainbow. Joe’s pinball machine is a delicate souffle, built with time and an attention to detail that hits every tastebud.
His maw is overwhelmed, and he turns to the more modern builds of Keralis and Beef. Simple, effective palate cleansers again, to wash down the heaviness of a full belly. Cub’s TCG pyramid arena is doused with so many sauces of emotion it’s hard to pick his favorite. He has to taste the others to compare--Doc’s arena is despair and iron, Evil X’s arena is emptiness and lightning, Beef’s are citrus and comfort. They’re all his favorites as soon as he tries them.
There is still more. He is no longer hollow, he is nearly filled to bursting. There must be room. He can not allow the work they’ve put in to go to waste.
One bite at a time, he continues. Slower now, steadying himself through the courses that remain. Bdubs’ cyberpunk temple, with all of its textures and details. Grian’s underground cave, where Grumbot slumbers in dormancy, awaiting its next worldline. The monitors and pipes fizz going down, making him burp and chortle at the lingering taste of mischief.
Total Chaos is next. He’s almost done. He must find room for it all. The snow, the lava, the pumpkins. More Hermit blood, soaking it all. A sponge of delight, with a heavy cream poured atop to soak into its layers.
The museums. He savors these, takes his time and takes each in multiple small bites. They are heavy with history, with the gathered items and monuments and collected recollections. Heavy fruitcakes each, dense and packed with every imaginable texture with each bite and nibble.
Only a few courses left. He is bloated and lethargic, each breath threatening to return the last bite. He must slow, but he can not stop.
The Perimeter takes a lifetime to consume. Though its namesake farms are empty enough, the wealth of story and lore built into its walls are enough to slow him further. Murals and the greenhouse, tomato orchards and a goddess reimagined, with an aspertif of buttercups and redstone machines.
Ren’s Scabland is an amusingly tasteless cracker to clear his palette with once more.
Scarland is a daunting task of a meal. Every alley, every tree, every storefront and block is steeped in the magic of a Scar build. The details in the build alone are thick fudge swirled through the sweetest of a hand-churned dessert, and Cleo’s armor stands are the bits and bobs mixed in, candies and fruits and nuts that explode every bite with almost more flavor than he can handle.
He can hardly move. Every fold and crevice has been filled, his insides are threatening to spill back out. His gut is heavy and hanging, his stomach distended and tight against his ribs. His skin stretches over what he’s already consumed, and even a light touch makes his gut gurgle and his gorge rise.
It’s a wonderful fullness. An engorgement of being, of a powerful completeness. He wants to sit back, to savor the way he has expanded to contain it all, and watch as it slowly digests and becomes energy and life borne anew.
He’s not done yet. It’s exhilaration and trepidation both. He knows what’s left. Two last courses, and then World Spawn. That’s all. That’s all. It’s almost gone, and he doesn’t know how he’ll manage it, but he already mourns the end of it.
The Kings Quests and the Crastle. Here again, the richness of story. Where a king was made, where quests were given and fulfilled and undermined, where a party was hosted, where plots and deals and mischief were laid. He consumes it all, absorbs each taste and flavor in pieces and as a whole and relishes the depth and cunning of it.
He’s going to burst. Even the smile of satisfaction hurts. For once, he has eaten too much. He can not finish, but he is so close. He must. He must complete his task, this meal set for him, this bounty of power that would be lost to the void if he does not take it.
What remains is what he both dreads and is eager to taste. A simple build of oakwood and cobble, and a mine reaching deep underground. Soaked in love, and regret, fondness and loss, and tears roll down his cheeks as he takes it bite. by. bite.
TFC will be remembered always, and the memories the Hermits have left here in his mines will continue to follow them from world to world, until the Void reclaims them. It’s a bittersweet dessert, but he wouldn’t pass it up for every diamond in the universe.
World Spawn is a single mouthful after that, and he holds in between his teeth; the beginning and end of all their hopes and dreams for the world. From the first blocks broken until the last block placed, this is the last bite. The first and the last of his power given and used, and now returned to him.
He swallows, and basks in the stillness of the void. The World is gone, only the Worldeater remains. Sated, stuffed, overflowing with possibilities and power, holding it all in for as long as he can. Soon enough, it will be crafted into the birth of a new World. Soon enough, it will feed the next season, new builds, and returning friends.
Soon enough, he will give it all up again, and join them inside his tiny skin, to live and play in the World that's perfect for them.
After the feast, the famine returns, and the cycle continues.