Herobrine

Displeasure

The mortal's home is not what people could call 'home'. In fact, in the Nether King's eyes it resembles more to the zombies' work of creating a mound of dirt than building an actual safe place to live in and rest.

Steve's new home is not really that far from the place they encountered each other, however, it is pretty much a mound consisted of around 17 blocks above ground, under a tall spruce tree, with a 1x1 dirt hole poking out from between said blocks. The thoughts of the former-miner living in this so called 'shelter' is very preposterous, especially in such weather. It does not mean the King cared at all, but seriously? To get this miner's trust he has to live in this damned excuse of a shelter, in such cold weather, which hole can barely fit a man even when he crawls in? His clothes would get dirty, and he quite wondered if the putrid smell came from the miner and that hole instead of the dogs.

"Dude, quit staring," Steve frowned. "It's hurting my pride for my terrible build, and it's getting too long out here. You want to crawl in first or what?"

In all seriousness, no. He does not wish to enter at all. Again, he might do things to get the miner's trust but this? He would rather live in a dirt home and eat bread everyday. Steve really is some lowly miner. Does he not understand the basics of interacting with a guest? Or to bring him to a 'house' looking house than a hole in a mound?

'I would rather build in a shack next to yours. Won't take long," Herobrine muttered, his eyes never really leaving the mound. Steve replies with a raised brow and a face with 'Are you serious?' expression etched on it.

"Oh I'm sorry if you are really that of blue blood, but it's past midnight and the zombies might get restless if we don't get in. There's no time for a better shelter, just some dirt on your sleeves and knees won't hurt,"

Yeah. Right.

He hated the thoughts of having that disgusting wet feeling in the underside of his clothes and having patches of brown dust on his clothes. All these are prohibited in his mansion. Even the creepers are to be super clean. Except the zombies. They're dumb.

'...I can manage,' Herobrine surrendered, cursing at the miner silently in defeat. He needs to know more about this particular mortal for his own good. And as he said before, some dirt on his sleeves and knees will not hurt.

Well, here goes.

Swallowing a lump that suddenly formed in his throat, Herobrine went on all fours in front of the hole. He stared at it for a long time, before raising an arm and pushed himself into the hole. It feels wet and squishy under his skin, and he growled in annoyance at the very unfamiliar feeling.

"You won't fit that way," Steve called out as Herobrine is half through the small opening with effort. "You gotta go on your stomach and crawl in that way."

Herobrine's eyes went wide for a while. Go on... on where?

'No!' Herobrine quickly interjected. 'What do you think I am; a fool? I only have these clothes on me!'

"I can lend you my shirt, okay? Don't worry and just hurry in! I'll wash your clothes later!"

His shirt. If his house is like this... then... maybe his shirt...

Herobrine shook his head at the thoughts, forcing himself not to shudder, especially when that certain miner is glaring daggers at his underside. He slowly clawed on the dirt and tried to get in. At least all he can try and do is salvage his teal t-shirt, and he'll be fine afterwards.