Oneshots! (Mostly Hermitcraft)

The End of Pixlriffs [Pix]

TW: injuries, suffocation, death

sand

Pix didn't make an Empires season 1 finale... So I wrote one (Yes, I just found out about this. No, I haven't been watching season 1 finales because I need more LORE).

Pixlriffs stared at the Vigil, his eyes tracing the twists in the sandstone that rose into its majestic spires. Candles floated around the hewn rock, each color representing an Empire. The number of waxen lights varied greatly between colors, accounting for the various survival skills each Emperor possessed.

The monument flashed red for a millisecond and returned to pale yellow. Pix squinted at it, trying to read the message he was sure he could see in the crevices. He limped backward, unable to discern more than a few encoded letters.

The king of Pixandria was deeply troubled by the events of the last few hours. He vividly remembered the accident a few days ago; the lightning had shaken loose boulders from the recent earthquake and sent them crashing toward him. He had barely cleared himself from their path when a rock had turned underfoot. He fell into the trail, and one leg was crushed irreparably beneath the oncoming landslide.

Strange happenings had occurred systematically since his injury. Death messages appeared in chat, earthquakes shook the earth, and smoke rose constantly from other empires. The chat was virtually dead, save for further death messages, and no one came to enlighten him about the happenings.

Upon returning after several days of painful travel, he had struggled immediately to the Vigil, seeking answers. None had been offered, and he knew he would receive no comfort from staring at the rocks.

<SmallishBeans died of despair>

<JOEYGRACEFFA perished>

<Smajor1995 was slain by Smajor1995 using [The Rune Blade]>

<Xornoth died>

Candles appeared before him, along with the flint and steel he had used his whole life to continue the records. He shook as he dragged himself forward to set and light the candles in front of the monument. Several moments of silence passed as he knelt out of respect and grief for his server mates. Somehow, he knew they would never walk again. With a sense of finality, he heaved himself to his feet and staggered away, heavily relying on his uninjured leg. The tight, constricting bandage did little to assist in bearing his weight.

A harsh wind blasted through the city. Pix fell as it swept him off his feet, tearing relentlessly at his clothing. He wrapped his cloak around his body tighter, trying to prevent himself from being carried away. The sandstorm grew stronger, flecks of sand building into torrents of grains and pebbles striking and covering everything in sight.

He buried his head in his cloak to keep the particles out of his eyes as he groped along a wall for a door or crevice to hide in. His fingers found rough wood and scrambled to grasp it, allowing him to pull himself upward again and grope for the handle so he could thrust himself into the warm and safe interior. The wind howled as it tore him away with gusts, escalating in power with each blustering punch. It spun him aimlessly, and any hope of finding his way inside was dashed against the ground. He could feel nothing except the shaky ground beneath his feet and the storm.

Pix hit the wall at full speed, his head whipped back and impacting the sandstone a millisecond later. He felt the wound open and blood drip out, carried away by the wind. Sand blew into the cut, working under his skin and opening the scrape further. His knees collapsed from the pain, and the wind blew him into a corner, where he slumped, unable to move against the storm.

Sand piled around him. He moved his cloak to cover his face, keeping a small air pocket to breathe. His shovel was trapped beneath pounds of sand. The wound in his skull continued to bleed profusely, caked in sand and blood. The grains were covering him up to his shoulders now, an immovable weighted blanket that doomed him to death. Still, he persevered, opening the cloak slightly to gain fresh air.

Sand cascaded into his lap, and he hurriedly closed the garment. His breathing grew faster as the relentless storm refused to relinquish its grip. He was faint from blood loss and exhaustion. The winds outside his improvised tent appeared to be quieting, but he was unable to shift the sand from his body. The arm preserving his air pocket trembled from exertion. He switched arms, wincing as blood ran down his neck in a fresh wave.

He couldn't do it anymore. His strength was all but gone, and the weight of the sand had increased tenfold in the past thirty seconds. Each second more felt like an hour as exhaustion and fatigue tempted him with sleep. He could feel himself drifting off and knew there was no return once he succumbed to the tantalizing promise of sleep.

A fleeting hope surged through him, and he cast his hand upward, praying someone would see and drag him out. Sand rained down his sleeve as the tip of his fingers emerged from the sand. The wind quickly erased his feeble attempt at escape as the arm supporting his cloak collapsed. Sand flowed downward, filling every crevice faster than he could renew his efforts to escape.

He had run out of life, and he knew it.

^-^

:D

How are you today?