This is basically a Minecraft adaptation of the barbarian migrations of Roman infamy. Disregard how Piglins zombify.


It stood as tall as ten people and stretched nearly as wide, composed entirely of dark, black glass that gleamed in the light of the sun. The wind seemed to whistle strangely as it moved through the hole in the middle.

A spark, a flame, and a great wave of purple light that spread until the whole obsidian frame was filled with a strange, alien glow. Yet that light began to fade, dimming and dimming… to reveal a hellish vista of jagged red rock and lavafalls.

The Builder looked up at his portal and thought it… interesting. But not interesting enough. They rose into the air and shot away, looking for some other oddity that might tickle their fancy.

Meanwhile, the portal stayed open, the very fabric of reality almost seeming to groan and whine under the strain of this aberration. If the animals were wise enough to understand, they might grasp the fundamental wrongness of that gash linking realities…

But they meandered through the meadows regardless, without much care.

On the other side, though? Things were different.


A sweet, cool wind blew into the Nether, and with it, change. The wandering tribes of Piglin knew this land was miserable, and expected nothing else. They would scrape out a living, never truly perishing, eternally shambling those same miserable vistas.

Until the opening.

No longer were the Piglins bound to this rotting dimension, this land where they squatted in the ruins of great builders gone before. They crept up to the portal and saw green and blue, saw a single, incredible dot of glowstone which hung far, far above.

They walked through, and took a whiff of clean air, not choked with the smell of burning and brimstone. It was enough to make the heart soar, enough to let them ignore the strange feeling of… sickness.

Soon, murmurs began to spread across the Nether. Under the great arches of the fortresses, through strange forests, and into the crumbling remnants some Piglins made home.

They couldn't mine. They couldn't build. But they could fight, and a world of plunder waited for them, through that portal.


Some came alone. They walked under strange trees and observed the wildlife. Cows and sheep were fair game, but the Piglins saw something of themselves in the pigs. Dumb and foolish, certainly, but meek. Unlike the mauling Hoglin, dread foe of the hunting band, these were mild. In a land so overflowing with plenty, the pink ones could be left alone.

When night came, there was shock and fear. The great glowstone light had run its race and settled for rest behind the crests of the hills. Its spawn covered the whole dome this land sat under, twinkling and shimmering as the silver light chased behind.

But with the silver light came the others. The shambling corpses, like the shambling dead of home, but corruptions of some different form. Pale versions of the old enemy, the defender of the Nether's dark fortresses, walked the land. They did not fight unless attacked, the Piglins quickly learned.

The eight-legged ones and the green ones were similarly neutral, but the way the latter exploded… Like the great white specters who floated through the hellish crags, wailing of some unknown agony.

Some of them mourned, mourned the great golden light that had meandered above. But miracle of miracles, it came again, rising from the bosom of the earth as vibrant and brilliant as when it parted.

The shambling husks burnt in the great light, and the Piglins felt joy. This was a land of renewal and of change. Perhaps lacking in gold, as far as they could tell, but rich with game. This was not a static country, but a living one. One of constant renewal.


It wasn't really the sort of thing the Brutes did. They hunkered down with what was theirs and made any Interlopers regret trying. But there was only so much space in bastions, only so much inherited plunder. Increasing the size of your hoard wasn't easy: despite the tempting deposits sitting in the rock, the only way to acquire gold was to take it. To fight.

Attempting to sack a bastion was inadvisable… but the world beyond the portal beckoned. A Brute ordered his bastion's Hoglins slaughtered for provender, before his group of Piglins went on the march to the portal, with everything they could take. The saddles, in case a river of lava needed to be crossed, those strange pieces of golden armor looted from fortresses… everything.

A few of the smaller Piglins– the ones who could mount the docile baby Hoglins– rode ahead, scouts for the force. They confirmed the rumors, and riding further ahead, they saw something strange: buildings. Not as grand as the Bastion, but inhabited buildings.

Only one problem: there was a great blue thing between the Piglin horde and the village. It was strange, it was unknown, and their only experience with liquids was lava. An attempt to force a strider over the surface failed and killed the creature.

Some hesitant dipping of tool handles into the blue stuff proved that it wasn't dangerous. Hell, it wasn't even hot. Bravely, they forded the river and marched into destiny.


The villagers panicked when the golem charged off into the fight. If it felt the need to go fast, there was trouble. Heavy limbs sent bits of gravel flying, and crossbow bolts glanced off the mighty brow.

With a cry, the Brute led its fellows into the fray, ax at the ready as the ones with crossbows flanked. The Brute managed to get a good hit in– although the ax blunted terribly– before an iron punch sent him flying back, a piece of shattered tusk flying in the air.

Its comrades squealed with fury and attacked with their swords, slowing the golem before it launched them back with a great, sweeping blow… that left it open to a volley. It teetered and then tumbled, hitting the ground with a crash.

The villagers peeked through their windows and trembled at the sight of these strange creatures. Their mood only got worse when the monsters began to set up camp, jostling the doors and laying down their damaged arms outside the villager's houses.

The village's cartographer caught their fancy, unfortunately– they seemed to think his gold-framed monocle was some sign of distinction. They dragged him from his house and made some threatening gestures with their weapons. Something like a deal was worked out.

The Piglins had no use for the great green rocks the villagers held up to them… but the gold-bodied clocks? The golden carrots? Those were snatched.

(The Pigment seemed almost offended when a villager explained they were to be eaten. The normal variety proved delicious, more palatable than the chewy wart back home. Eventually, the Brute and a few of his Piglin braves tried the gilded carrots. They were better than they could have imagined.)

It wasn't all take, though. Mostly take, sure, but the Piglins recognized the villagers as craftsmen and laborers, and valued them for that. When pillaging parties chanced near the village, they were met with cold ax and flying bolt.

From there… well, the blacksmith tended to the Piglin tools to keep the village alive, provided arms and weapons to make up for the lack of a golem.

When other Piglin bands worked up the courage to ford, they didn't infringe on the territory of their settled fellows… the ones whose golden weapons had become showpieces, replaced with more practical instruments of perfect, flawless diamond.

They were even more intimidating when they realized the saddles used for Striders worked even better on horses.


They exploded across the world, galvanized by rumors of temples and smithies filled with gold. Wandering traders found them surprisingly willing to barter… and unfortunately willing to follow the wandering traders on their treks, in search of gold.

The first of the truly great Piglin gatherings was centered on the mesa. The mineshafts were ripe for plundering, and the nearby villages in the savannah were especially flush with gold. If you wanted some gold of your own, the mesa was the place to be.

The necessity of large forces to defeat the golems forced the Piglins to cooperate more than they ever had before, and while some of these loose bands were dissolved by greed, the stronger ones stayed together. Planned expeditions into the mineshafts, made an efficient system of plundering and tribute gathering. One village was good, many was better.

The exceedingly clever baited the green prowlers into exploding near ore veins, mining ore for them… or blowing holes into the floors of temples, to expose the plunder within.

Not even the oceans stopped them forever, not when frost walker boots let them cross the seas. They probably would have tried to dive if they knew what treasures sat beneath the waves, but they were not comfortable with water.

Sometimes… they came across strange things. Half ruined portals, of the same sort that let them to destiny, and stranger things still. Strange structures, half completed, built of substances none of them had ever seen. Some of them thought it was the work of the same builder who opened the portal.


Thinking about it, the Rhine freezing was quite like a portal to hell opening. (Is it hate speech if the Vandals don't exist anymore?)