A Minecraft Fan-fiction;

Idyll

By Scribe191

The desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose.

- Isaiah 35:1

Sol is setting now, sleepy as she drifts off into the outstretched arms of her father, Terra. In that moment, her beautiful radiance is released. From a flaming blue, she has cooled to a tender orange, staining the sky with streaks of luscious peach pink running into a light violet. Closer and closer the pair become, until eagerly Mistress Sol reaches the warm embrace of Father Terra. In that one instance, a cosmic reunion is captured: A daughter, nuzzling into the one that she lovingly calls "Daddy". A father, cuddling the one he holds dear to his heart.

As Sol is borne away in the arms of the Earth, the pilot watches. His face is expressionless, but his features are hard. His eyes are as cold as ice and sting with tears. It was not so long ago that he himself was once a caring father, laughing with his beloved, carrying their daughter upon his strong shoulders.

But he had failed in his duty as a protector. The both are gone now. His life is now empty as vacuum, devoid of the alien thing called "love".

He turns away from that touching scene, wrapping his cloak around him to stay the cold. Already the chilly stars had turned away from serenading Mistress Sol, fixing their wintry gaze upon him. He heads back to the skiff, the only hospitable place in this forsaken desert.

Unfortunately, the spiders have already beaten him there. He reacts quickly, diving behind the cover of a nearby sand dune, drawing his sword as he does so. To his dismay, he counts and there are three of the foul arachnids swarming over his skiff. Two he could deal with, but not three. They would be over him in an instant, their fangs sinking painfully into his succulent flesh and he would feel no more.

That is not the plan, fortunately. The pilot has more than a sword up his sleeve. He flips open the small satchel at his side and gingerly draws out a peculiar item. It is black sprinkled with grey, its cracks revealing a smoldering gold inside. It is a fire charge, and he has five of the little devils with him.

He takes a deep breath, knowing he is about to enter into battle. He utters a short prayer to the Earth, imploring Father Terra to keep him safe. He then pulls back his arm, and lobs the small incendiary into the eyes of the nearest spider.

It was as if Hell itself had been unleashed. The spider screams, a horrible grating sound not unlike claws gouging steel. Its forelegs scrabble at its face, trying hopelessly to put out the fire. But in its desperate attempt, the fire instead spreads. The waxy carapace that encases its fragile body has betrayed it. The fire has caught on, blazing a path of pain across the spider as its body burns like a torch, caught in an inferno that seems to have come from the demonic realm itself. The foul denizen of the desert screams its last breath before collapsing onto the sands, where its corpse smolders out.

The pilot leaps out from his cover, waving his sword and yelling as loud as he can. The remaining two spiders back away, afraid of the prey that had turned the tables on them. It was not worth the risk, they think. Better to run away cowardly, than to not run away at all.

The pair turns to run and the pilot begins to sigh in relief. Then his sigh sticks to his throat as another spider, even bigger than the ones before him, rolls down a sand dune and unfurls before his eyes. Seated a top its back sits a rider, another pilot much like him, but he is of the Risen.

The Undead Archer's rattling laughter echoes across the desert plains, sending shivers up the pilot's spine and a chill that cuts deep into his soul. An unearthly voice sounds. It is an unholy speech, a black, course tongue that worms into his mind and eats at his hope.

The spiders however are heartened by the perverted words, being as twisted and evil as their skeletal master. They turn to laugh at him, a grating sound as rough as gritty sand.

The Archer leaps into the air, landing with barely a sound. Its grotesque body, dried and stuck fast to bleached bone, sickens the pilot. An unnatural emerald fire fills its skull, burning bright with fury, even as it grins in undeath. It walks slowly, deliberately, every move designed to brand fear into the pilot's heart.

But he will not be shaken so soon. The pilot readies. His muscles tense, his body poised to spring. His fist tightens around his blade. Sweat trickles slowly down his face. His feet shift into position and he takes up his stance, ready to flow into attacking or defending. His vision narrows, focusing upon that frightening foe.

Calmly, he breathes in. Dry desert air fills his lungs before being slowly expelled out. In that instant, his sword becomes the very extension of his body: utterly deadly. He is the very embodiment of the calm before the storm. He is an artist of battle and the sword his brush.

The desiccated Archer stops a hundred meters short of its opponent. It draws its bow, a long-range weapon of precise destruction. It nocks a barbed arrow from its quiver and sets its sights on the brave man before it.

All is silent, only punctuated by the occasion sound of rasping spider breath. A spark passes invisibly between them. A knowing smile touches the lips of the pair.

The time to strike is now.

[A/N: I thought that the first chapter was a bit short, so I posted the second one as well. Enjoy!

- Scribe191]