#hermitcraft watcher

[tommyssupercoolblog]

To hermitcraft fans more in the know: what exactly IS a watcher. Do we know?? Like I know they...watch. and remember things across seasons (I think). And. Purple. But do they have like...an order or doctrine?? Are they a kind of creature or a group or both (like vampires). What do they have to do to survive like do they have to eat different things than humans or something. Can they be killed. What powers do they have

[digitalta]

“How are you so calm?” Pear whispered, hands clutching her diamond sword almost like in prayer, “does it not terrify you? That some monster is watching your every move?”

“Well, it’s perhaps odd that it thinks I’m interesting,” Mumbo confessed, smiling sheepishly with an uncaring shrug, “but I don’t think he’s scary.”

“It’s a monster,” Pearl stressed, hands tightening until her knuckles bled white, “it isn’t safe-“

“Pearl, I am so sorry for whatever server you came from, and whatever you’ve experienced,” Mumbo said, speaking softly and kind, “but this place is different, and although we’re a bit scattered around the continent we’re a family. We wouldn’t let anything hurt you.”

“You don’t understand what that thing can do,” said Pearl, voice warbling on the cusp of tears.

“Well, no, but I have a good idea,” Mumbo admitted, “and sure it’s a big feathery monster that apparently can punch bedrock- but it’s an absolute spoon with far too much interest in coloured wool and deepslate.”

Mumbo tilted his head, trying not to smile at the face of Pearl’s inconsolable distress. Softly, he told her, “and you know, Pearl? I have a good feeling that feathery lump would do absolutely anything to make you smile.”

[humane0]

Hermitcraft Watcher au

A wip story from the soul extracting that mumbo did to grian

[digitalta]

Any thing that once knew him would no longer recognize him. He had lost all bits of himself in ways he could faintly see, but neither cared enough or remembered how to change it. He didn’t remember what made it so wrong. His hair had stopped growing, the feathers of his ears had changed and formed bones and now they shrouded his face gently with curved wings that acted as much as a veil as they did whiskers. His body moved strangely and sometimes his skin burned quite awful from where he twisted oddly and his joints pushed and stretched him to where he could tear like wet parchment. He saw everything simply and it took longer each year to think cohesive words, until it took minutes to react to the sounds and textures felt below his ratty skin. He hadn’t opened his eyes in so long he had forgotten how to do so, his eyelids settled flatly with atrophy over the reddish purple hue of the celestial sight. What purpose were eyes when he could see between every feather and every flicker of movement around him? What reason did he have to open the small feathers cradling his jaw and skull, when he could feel the whispers of movement along his body as keenly as any other blind and muted creature?

Everything banal went unnoticed, utterly unremarkable to him. He had once known colours but now the different shades were long indistinct in the darkened depths of caves he settled in for months on end. Unmoving, until the spiders wove cobwebs across the furthest tips of his feathers, and where the lichen began to creep across his living skin hungrily.

He couldn’t remember: what was the sound of his voice?