A/N: Greetings, Internet! Derpidy derp, I forgot to add this A/N in earlier. ANYWAY, here's a little piece I felt like writing because the Wither King is awesome and I became more than slightly obsessed with the idea of them. :P If you don't know what they look like, I've done what I'd like to think of as a pretty good rendition of it on my DeviantART account, Abberance. All my drawings are tagged with that name, so you can just search that up to find my profile and the Wither King drawing. :D You won't believe how much fun this was to write.
Now, let us begin. :D
Wither King
See a taiga, frosty pine trees rearing their snow-capped deep green heads to drink their fill of starlight. And starlight there is aplenty as barely a cloud covers the diamond-studded sky, the moon a waxing crescent somewhere near its zenith. The air is chill and still, but a feeling of tension makes it thick and choking. Something will happen here. The land itself knows it.
Dive between the icy needles to the forest floor, blanketed thickly in brumal whiteness. Zoom between dark brown trunks, whacking niveous branches out of our way, until we swing about to see a small clearing in the centre of which stands a form dwarfed by the huge trees and brooding shadows.
The figure fusses about, muttering under its breath as it darts back and forth in front of a T-shape that protrudes from the snow in the very heart of the clearing. We stay well back, but it is easy enough to see the great tome clutched in the shape's hands as it nibbles its fingernails and shoots glances at the T.
Surely we are curious and cannot keep our distance for long. We rise up from our resting place and slowly drift across the space to peer over the figure's shoulder at the book in its hands. Spidery Script is scrawled all across the page, but a bizarre illustration takes centre space. It is a T-shape made of some kind of mud-like substance, three charred-looking skulls perched atop the highest blocks of it. We begin to attempt to make out the Script, but abruptly the tome is slammed shut and the figure looks over its shoulder, scared. We rear up and zip backwards, retreating to the cover of the trees. Book held tight in one hand, the figure looks around fearfully for a moment before shaking its spare fist angrily at the trees and yelling something in incomprehensible Tongue. We shrink into the shadows. Keeping our distance is indeed a good call.
With one last gaze cast over the shadowy trees, the figure winces and turns back to its statue. It mutters again before slinging a backpack from its shoulders and dumping the thing on the ground, beginning to rummage through it. "Mm," it murmurs as it pulls out three charred-looking round objects, gathering them in its arms and clasping shut the bag. Setting the things on the ground for a moment, it puts the bag back on again before picking them back up, setting its shoulders and staring at the structure with determination and fear on its face. It takes a deep breath.
The land does too, and holds it.
Our throat tightens.
This isn't good.
This really isn't good.
It sets the first skull – for skulls they are – on one arm of the T.
A wolf howls in objection and the figure shivers.
It sets the second abomination – for abominations they are – on the opposite arm.
The winds breathe, nooooooooo, and the figure shudders.
It sets the last of the death sentences – for that is what they are – in the centre of the T, and without a sound a thing bursts into existence.
Without a sound we burst into existence, weak, pale blue, but glowing, growing stronger. We stretch our necks, eyes closed, and extend our spines, floating into the air slightly to make our long tail taught. Ah, it is good, so good, to feel the night air on our faces, starlight making our energy-building glow brighter still. We feel a warmth backing away from us and drink in its horror, faint contented smiles on our faces as we stretch our half-living body back to its full vigour and almighty strength, draining the light from the air and the life from the soil, turning the deep blue sky slightly red. It is good. It is very good. The warmth is retreating, but we will retrieve it, as we will retrieve all the warmth of this world and take it into ourselves. For as our power returns, we begin to hunger.
We are ready, breaths Left, pleased.
Indeed, agrees Right, itching to open its eyes.
Then we may begin, decrees Centre, letting its head fall until it is facing forwards…
And all at once, our empty grey eyes snap open.
BOOM.
As we throw back our spines the greatest of explosions rocks the taiga and sends the nearest warmth – a Minecrafter, we remember – flying into a tree, crying out, singed. Centre allows itself a mildly amused huff as Left and Right survey the terrain. There is the warmth, Left says, extending its head towards a crumpled form lying against the burning stump of a tree. Indeed, we agree, floating over to it slowly. We cock our heads to look down at it, curious as we reach it. The golden crown atop Centre's head skims the leaves of a persistent spruce. On your feet, warmth, we command, knowing it is alive. The Minecrafter groans and stirs, so we run our tail across its cheek to sting it into waking. With a gasp it bolts upright, clutching its slightly withered skin, and moans at the pain from its burns. We are unsympathetic. On your feet. Our tail is wrapped tight around its neck and it emits a strangled gasp as we yank it to its feet and let go again, letting it stumble a few steps. We look over it coldly, its singed clothes and scarred skin, its messy hair and newly-withered flesh around its cheek and neck. There is an obvious band of blackened wrinkles around its throat now, and we feel stronger than ever. This thing is indeed full of life. Did you summon us?
The Minecrafter stares up at us, back hunched slightly, hands cupped around its neck. Did you summon us? It still appears dumbfounded at the question.
Are you mute, warmth, or did you summon us?
It tells us in Tongue that yes, it summoned us, stammering and stumbling over its words. It tells us that it was told we would give it great riches. Great rewards.
Rewards indeed, warmth, we reply, smiling slightly. Great rewards. It straightens up, hope in its eyes. We smile again.
Your reward shall be the chance to give us great strength.
The anticipating smile fades from its face as it stares up at us and without further warning we stab out with a spine, lightning fast, and let our long grey limb pierce right through its body and come out the other side, coated in blood. Letting out small choking noises, the Minecrafter gapes at us, horrified, as its skin shrivels up and collapses in on itself, bright red life force travelling up our spine to spread throughout our body. It is delicious; if the Minecrafter was not impaled, we would be able to feed on its delightful screams too. Perhaps next time we will find a way to Wither without impaling, Right suggests as we drink our fill. Indeed, Left and Centre agree, using another spine to peel off the Withered body and letting it fall to the ground with a dull thud. Not looking at it for a moment, we rise into the air to look around. We detect spots of warmth throughout this forest, in the ground, in the air…
We smile.
This world will well suit the Wither King.