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Gem wasn’t quite sure when her base had gained life. She had been adding details around her rocks when her ears picked up a faint sound. It sounded almost like a heartbeat. Slow, weak, but steady. After being unable to find anything unusual or out of place underwater, she climbed onto the docks and explored her houses are areas that weren’t at least partially submerged. The further she wandered from the water, the fainter the sound got and after only a few steps inland, she had to strain her ears to pick up any noise at all. Gem dismissed the sound only realizing a few weeks later that the heartbeat was getting louder. She could now hear it with ease when in the water and still faintly make out it’s beat when on the shore. It still didn’t seem to be harming anything so she continued to leave it be.

A month went by. The heartbeat didn’t grow much louder in the bay but it’s influence and reach spread. The sound now covered Gem’s entire base, allowing her to watch it come alive. The palm trees seemed to sway to the steady beat which now sometimes picked up speed or slowed down, reacting to Gem wandering, terraforming and building as it saw fit. It reacted to new additions especially, seemingly intrigued by the changes to the base. When she built power lines, she intended them to spark and crackle at random intervals but was soon forced to realize that they too followed the heartbeat, if somewhat more erratically.

It was also around this time, and only now, that Gem realized none of the other Hermits could hear the heartbeat like she could. When asking her neighbours, they couldn’t see her base collectively move in a rhythm, didn’t see or understand that there was indeed a pattern in her power lines despite her best attempts to change that. And so, Gem’s base was alive. Bus only she could see it. The heartbeat now affected her too. She’d wake in the mornings sitting by the water, gently swaying as part of a whole.

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Doc wasn’t someone who built machines to interact with them. He built farms for efficiency and speed to grind materials and resources for projects or to sell to the other Hermits. The built devices to mess with the laws of physics and reality for fun. He didn’t give them life, didn’t give them intelligence or purpose beyond basic function. He thought the very idea unnecessary. Why would he? His machines didn’t need to be sentient. They didn’t need to be able to interact with him. Doc never thought his opinion on this matter would ever change. Then, Grian and Mumbo built Grumbot.

The first Grumbot wasn’t that different to any old machine Doc argued. It had a single purpose, that purpose being to make mumbo mayor, and beyond that not much more. Sure, the robot interacted with its creators but it hardly ever strayed from its campaign, endlessly repeating “Mumbo for Mayor” to anyone who could be bothered to listen. Mumbo didn’t win, and Doc dismissed Grumbot from his mind. Season seven ended and season eight started then crashed and burned without any return of it.

Season nine was when Grumbot returned. Only this time, Grian hadn’t built him. When Doc heard that a replica of the Mumbo for Mayor robot had appeared in Grian’s basement via a purple rift in space and time and that this machine supposedly came from another dimension in which mumbo did become mayor, Doc wasn’t entirely sure if he believed it. Then Grumbot started orchestrating events and it became very hard to dismiss that indeed, somewhere, a version of Grian and Mumbo had built a robot capable of its own thoughts and opinions. And Doc respected that.

But this didn’t exactly matter to him. Doc didn’t need to interact with this kind of machine. He was simply acknowledging Grumbot’s existence.

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Etho would never claim to be socially competent. He knew he was bad at small-talk, took time to respond and wasn’t able to talk about any subject for more than five minutes unless the subject was redstone and even then, he couldn’t exactly find it in himself to ramble about it the way Mumbo or Tango could. He even envied Doc as a fellow redstoner when it came to communication skills that went beyond “hello, nice day isn’t it?” followed by an awkward inquiry about personal projects and an even more stilted wave goodbye.

Etho wasn’t a people person. Sure, he loved the Hermits like a family and on occasion a random burst of confidence made him join lively discussions and debates but at the core of his heart, social interaction drained him. He would overthink it. Anxiety would make his worries spiral until he’d simply stay quiet. Redstone was simpler. There were set rules of what was possible and what wasn’t. He knew the connections off by heart, knew what blocks to put where, how to time things, how to set them, sort them, build them. Etho wished talking to people were like working redstone. That if he made a mistake, he could find the exact problem and fix it. Make things work perfectly. Etho liked building with redstone. He enjoyed the process and the results even more. He liked the rhythm that came with it. The swish of pistons, the clicks of repeaters, the woosh of dispensers and the squish of slime and honey blocks. He loved how in it’s own way, redstone was aesthetically pleasing. Etho may find talking to people about it hard but when he was building redstone that didn’t matter. For no matter how big the contraption was, all it took to activate it was one small spark.

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Bdubs liked nature. He liked terraforming and shaping it to his will. He enjoyed seeing his friends form the land around them after their own whimsies and wishes. He admired every custom tree he came across. Made sure to appreciate the patches of hand-made terrain as he walked and rode across and by it. He loved the way the Landscapes would change with every person he’d visit. The way every Hermit’s personality could be reflected and visible even without them there.

Bdubs loved trees. Loved the way they could be so individual and unique. But he also loved forests. The idea of a custom wood, styled exactly to his liking. So, he built one. Tall trees, uniform in a way that they seemed individual. Had them spread over a ridge, visible from his house. Added a little stream that naturally needed a bridge across it. Added details to the path, the grass, added animals for ambience and to help his forest come to life. And Bdubs added a wooden table with benches by a clearing not far from the path. And he made it so he could share this forest, this part of himself, with others. His friends, family even. He crafted tree after tree, placing block after block, testing the feel of the woods, the lighting, the sounds, the danger of mobs spawning. And he rode his horse through to test how that felt, and changed things and added more. And when he finished, he sat, on the bench by the table. And as he sat, he was joined by people. Some simply passing through, taking a second to rest. Others staying longer, finding peace in the calm of the woods Bdubs had created.

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The Hermits had been around for a long time. In that time, they changed seasons again and again. Teamed up, built bases, pranked others, created shops, made profits, played games and spent time together. A world was created, filled, and lived I until the builds were completed, the resources began running low and everyone started getting an itching in their hands to move, start over, and create something new. Of course, they felt sad to leave their homes, their builds behind. They’d spent weeks and months painstakingly building them from scratch and leaving everything behind like that was intimidating like nothing else. But when they went, they went together. Everyone. All starting out afresh with new ideas, block pallets, and base groupings. And even the things they left behind were never really gone.

Jokes would still be made, referencing past shenanigans. Builds sometimes reflected the past, could continue a story started years ago. They all remembered past seasons. The moments that were shared, the little inside bits, memorable deaths or accidents good and bad, it was all preserved in memory. And should the rare case occur that a Hermit would forget something. Be it big or small. The others were always right there to help them remember, remind them of times past.

Individually, the Hermits forgot things. Certain moments could become forgotten, foggy, faint, lose detail. As a group, each holding a different perspective, they preserved each others stories. Each others lives told to one another over and over. And every time they moved one, they carried the past with them, echoing around and within them. Reflected in the shadows, never truly forgotten.

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When the sun started to go down on Hermitcraft, Bdubs would carefully watch his clock, waiting for the second he could sleep and skip the dark night that let mobs spawn. He was grateful for this ability. Happy to never watch the stars if it made him feel safer. The though of letting the sun dip out of sight reminded him of flashes he would sometimes get. Memories of nights that wouldn’t let themselves be skipped no matter what he tried. Nights of fear and worry about living to see the next day. Night spent shivering, waiting for the sun to rise again as phantoms screeched overhead and mobs gurgled, rattled and hissed in the dark. He didn’t want to experience nights like those again. Assuming, of course, that these flashes were really memories and not his anxiety working overtime.

Here on Hermitcraft, he could skip the nights. No matter how afraid he was that this night, this time, it would break, it wouldn’t work, it always did. Until it didn’t. One of the Hermits, he wasn’t sure who, had asked for no one to sleep, something needed for a project of sorts? And Xisuma had obliged and enabled this request, making the nights impossible to sleep through. Bdubs wanted to beg them to change it but knew it wouldn’t be right. He was just being irrational.

His irrationality took him to Etho. The white-haired man thankfully didn’t ask too many questions and after Bdubs shakily explained the strange fears he had of the night, suggested the two of them stick together until Bdubs was allowed to sleep again. And so, Bdubs found himself protected from every fear he’d mentioned. Etho sat with him on the couch. Bdubs was nestled against his side, blankets and pillows surrounding them, keeping them warm. Music was playing from a jukebox, drowning out any and all mob noises that could have been heard from outside. Food sat in arms reach and Bdubs felt safe as he waited with Etho for the sun to emerge from below the horizon.

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Contrary to what one may think, there wasn’t much that shimmered in the Void. The star-like pattern wasn’t twinkly and bright, but rather somehow matted. Looking more like holes in the fabric of reality itself than anything. Maybe they were. Maybe they led to places. Xisuma had stopped speculating a long time ago. Centuries of growing up in the void had taught him early on that he could never reach those whiteish specks and that they never got any brighter.

He'd visited the End Ilses. Seen the cities and taken from some of the chests he’d come across. The first time he saw and enchanted item he grew excited, having heard that these were supposed to have a glow about them. A sheen ghosting over iron, diamond, and, if you applied it, even leather. His excitement diminished when the glow failed to penetrate that atmosphere of the End. Somehow remaining dull-looking despite what others had claimed enchanted gear to look like, and what Xisuma had read in books.

When he visited the Overworld for the first time, he wondered if the enchanted armor he’d collected over the years and fashioned to be his own would glow now. No such luck, it still looked the same to him now as it had in the End and it didn’t change its appearance either when he visited the Nether.

Xisuma couldn’t explain why he wanted to see something shimmer. It was the notion of something he’d never seen but had heard of and didn’t understand why he couldn’t find it. Years passed and he tried many things. Sun on water glittered, diamonds, gold and emeralds were shiny. He joined servers, met people and ended up with a close-knit group on a server nick-named Hermitcraft. He gained a leadership role and was close friends with everyone. But it wasn’t until a server-wide meeting that he looked around at his Hermits faces all in one place, their joy and happiness reflected in their eyes and oh, Xisuma thought. That, was the shimmer he’d been looking for.

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Mumbo didn’t like mist. Couldn’t, really. It dampened what little exposed redstone and wiring was in his joints and caused the already high-maintenance parts to become stuff and difficult to use. Damp redstone made it hard to think, messing up various parts of his system the longer the exposure went on. While of as bad as a full-on soaking, mist meant that any time spent outside would have to be followed by at least a quick drying and wiping of every one of his finger joints.

Looking outside his window, Mumbo sighed, watching as thin wisps floated along the ground, the clouds having descended to earth for the day it seemed. He sighed yet again when several hours later, the mist hadn’t lightened at all, rather had thickened, almost becoming what he would call fog but not yet quite as dense. So, he resigned himself to finding something to do in his base, going outside today now off the table. There was always redstone, but not enough space to create more than some very simple contraptions and he preferred to keep his carpeted floor clear and free of red stains thank you very much. So, he snacked in the left-over redstone instead. This didn’t do more than make him fidgety, his systems boosted with energy that he didn’t have a way to properly expel. Reading was now out of the question as was following through on his promise to Grian that he would attempt knitting. His joints clicked as he snapped the fingers on his hand open and shut. Over and over. Mumbo was bored. Messaging Grian made him feel lonely, the pesky bird also being stuck at home as he didn’t feel like doing the maintenance that came with his wings getting dampened. The weather made the mood and their conversations dull. It simply wasn’t a day for socializing Grian told Mumbo. And Mumbo was bored. And Mumbo didn’t like mist.

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Grian wasn’t affiliated with the moon. People compared him to the sun he was named after. Bright, high in spirit, and full of energy. His parrot wings looked best in the sunlight, feathers kept clean and in order most of the time. He was the sun, he was life, he was energy.

Personally though, despite it going against even his instincts at times, Grian preferred the moon. It reflected the sun’s energy. Tamed it to a cold silver light in the chill of the night. It changed. Going from new to full and back, crescents adorning the sky.

Grian preferred the moon, the night, the quiet that came with it. He was playful, he enjoyed it. He loved pranking, loved his friends, loved being around people, his bird-brain going pleasantly fuzzy whenever he was. But he loved the quiet. The part of him that wasn’t an avian, knew he hadn’t always been so, the part of him that would rather observe, would rather Watch, it cried out at him from the corner of his mind. Sometimes it craved solitude other times it was hungry. He couldn’t always isolate himself, didn’t want to raise questions. So, the night, the moon and stars became his refuge. He would sit alone, let his eyes wander and in the quiet, he would Watch.

When the moon stopped its cycle, he Watched. When it started growing, closer, he Watched. He watched night by night until the nights were alive in fear and the land around him reacted to the moon coming ever closer, gravity changing it’s pull. And Grian watched his friends panic and watched them prepare to leave. And in the Void, Grian Watched and kept them safe. Kept them safe until they could see the day again, and the sun shone bight. And Grian waited for the moon to rise.

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Impulse was one of those cliché people who believed that life was a journey and that those you loved most would always find a way to travel with you. And he watched it come true before his eyes. It was long established that the Hermits were a family. An awkward, misshapen one with probably a few too many crazy uncles and cousins. A family where no one was really related but they found each other just the same. A family of all kinds of backgrounds and pasts, traits and habits. A family that had stitched itself together, each patching in those closest to them until they were all connected, all one big family.

As much as this was true however, Impulse had always had a hole where one patch belonged. A hole he couldn’t exactly fill on Hermitcraft as seasons went by. Whether Soup Group, Hippies, Boatem of anything else. There was a hole, a hole the others respected, that no one would even try to fill, knowing there was no need to do so. And the Hermits moved from season nine with its events, mishaps, resistances and crossovers to season ten. And Impulse opened his eyes to the field they were all in and felt the hole in his heart be filled, patched finally, finally, pulling themselves perfectly into place as he looked around his family and saw Skizz wave back. Impulse was given all of two seconds before his best friend tackled him into the ground, sunlight around his head as bright as ever, wings all over the place in excitement. And after years of waiting for this moment, Impulse reflected in his journey, content with how it had gone, and excited to embark on a new voyage with Skizz by his side and his, their, family around them.

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To most people, Scar was simply and elf with an incredibly bubbly personality regardless of if he needed a cane, a wheelchair or leg braces that day. If you got to know him better you would notice moments when his teeth would seem just a bit too sharp, his eyes just a bit too intense. If you caught him off-guard, you just might see a brief rush of blueish tinge fade over his skin in the moment he was startled. And if he felt comfortable around you, he might allow his wings to be visible in all their glowing, translucent, tattered glory.

Now, Grian would never admit it, but when Scar had first draped his wings behind himself as they hung out, his brain had gotten stuck chanting embarrassing things like “flock” and “wings” over and over again until Scar had snapped him out of it with a too sharp smile and glowing eyes. From then on, they’d help each other with their wing care and maintenance. Scheduling times to meet up regularly. Scar learnt how to clean and align Grian’s feathers in a way most comfortable flying, how to take care of an injury hidden under layers of feathers and just exactly how many of them Grian shed while preening. (Spoiler: quite a few)

Grian in turn learnt that while Scar’s wings way not have feathers, the membranes needed to be kept soft to remain flexible. He learnt how to apply cream and rub it in without being too rough and how to patch up smaller rips of tears that Scar collected during accidents. It became a comfort, a stress-reliever, a way to snap the other out of overworking. A way to relax and spend lazy afternoons in each others company.

On one such occasion, Scar looked at the scene around him. Grian was half asleep next to him in a pile of pillows and blankets, both of them free from tension now that their wings were cared for. Jellie was curled up between them, purring as a late-afternoon sun beam stroked her fur. Scar looked at the scene around him and declared this moment precious.

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Hermitcraft had its fair share of talented redstoners. More than such some might argue. They had Etho. Etho was Etho and that meant very different things depending on who you asked. Gem called him washed up. Bdubs proclaimed him to be one of the greatest men to ever have lived and graced them with his presence. And Cleo would laughingly call him a bad husband with Scar joining in calling him a terrible father if he ever overheard them.

Hermitcraft also held Doc. His farms would run with terrifying efficiency. Something he strived for while with Tango it could happen almost by accident. There were, in fact, probably fewer Hermits who didn’t dabble in redstone. And of course, Hermits who were more likely to break and redstone simply by being near it. *cough* Grian *cough* Scar.

It only took one redstoner to build a farm but more often than not, during that construction, they would meet up, share opinions, make jokes, sometimes intentionally go through trial and error, showing off their machines and offering them up for advice and improvement. Redstone was often seen as lonely by those who couldn’t understand it or didn’t have friends who could. On Hermitcraft, a new redstone project was an invitation to drop by and see it in the works unless explicitly states otherwise.

The experienced ones spoke about repeaters and ticks and such like it was another language. The less experienced ones would show off their smaller projects with pride of ask for help when they got stuck. Farms built for the benefit of a group were carefully planned out to not inconvenience anyone. There was always enough redstone to go around.

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Gem loved watching the waters around her base move. The river that she’d helped flow smoother would gently lap against her boulders on sunny afternoons and rage war with the offending landmass during storms. Despite having spread her base far beyond the river’s confines, she often found herself back on her little starter boat when the nights became dark, lulled to sleep by the rocking of the anchored vessel throughout the night. She loved standing atop of her lighthouse, watching it’s beam sway out over the water that was a rather large lake. She enjoyed watching the sun rise over the horizon, watching it as best as she could without damaging her eyes.

Gem “enjoyed” wondering if her neighbour, who became obsessed with fishing for some time and was just generally quite strange on the best of days, was okay. There were many days spent distracting each other as they went following after two little snails that caused chaos and mayhem wherever they went. (The look on Scar’s face when he first discovered the little slimy molluscs was something Gem would forever treasure despite definitely having no part in it)

As Gem’s base grew, it attracted people over. Some to compliment her building skills, others for an activity together. Gem would invite people over to watch the sun rise or set with her from the view of the lighthouse. (Yet again, an amazing moment occurred when Etho had joined her and almost fallen off in shock when the mail system alarm jump scared him)

Though her base was technically not exactly bordering as ocean, Gem loved to pretend that the waters had a tide that came in and out. A blessing of sorts. Ingraining what she had created into the surroundings fully. Standing in the rising sun with a friend beside her it was easy to imagine so.

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Now normally Grian strongly disliked getting up early. He was perfectly comfortable ignoring his bird-like nature and sleeping in until the sun was well in the sky, justifying his late nights and all-nighters spent building. But today was a bit different. Scar had asked to meet him in one of the few remaining untouched flower forests so spend a day doing nothing but eat treats and snacks they had prepared in advance and playing with Jellie in the sun. Grian wanted to make sure that under circumstances he would be late, flitting about his base to see if there was anything he’d forgotten but had to so before he could go enjoy himself.

Grian made it to the forest early and busied himself with setting up as he waited for Scar and Jellie. He only just managed to lay down the blanket in the exact way he wanted when the tell-tale woosh of rockets made him look up, wings flapping in excitement as he spotted Jellie carried in Scar’s grip, the cat quite used to flying and therefore unbothered. The elf touched down with uncharacteristic ease and, carefully setting queen Jellie down first, welcomed the hug the avian tackled him with, laughing quietly as he was dragged to the blanket by the excited bird.

Flowers bloomed open as the sun rose higher in the sky and the two chased butterflies with Jellie, both letting her win at each game. Build and responsibilities were laid aside for the day, nothing mattering outside of the space they had created for themselves. Later, when the sun started to set and the flowers once again tucked themselves away, Scar used a little bit of magic and a wink at Grian to keep the blossoms woven into crown atop their heads open and well-preserved as they continued in each others company under the rising moonlight.

From her seat on a pillow, Jellie watched them with approval.

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Mumbo didn’t particularly enjoy the Void. He didn’t despise it and for the most part it didn’t bother him. End-busting wasn’t something he did all that often and even when the Boatem hole was claiming lives left, right and center, it didn’t affect him. He supposed it was natural to feel that way about something so clearly otherworldly. Most players probably had similar feelings aside from the voidborn ones or course. All-in-all, he did his best to stay clear of unnecessary interaction with certain death.

Hard to do when certain death has an accomplice named Grian who seems determined to sacrifice as many people to the Void hole as possible.

 Most days, seeing the death messages in the chat made him chuckle and shake his head at his friend’s antics. Other days they unsettled him. The chill of the Void seemingly following the avian or clinging to his wings in-between blinks. Those were the days Mumbo avoided Grian. Set on not killing anything this season, he didn’t know how he’d respond to being lured to his death. Didn’t want to know if he’d allow himself to be pushed in good fun or if the fear that gripped his heart would make him turn on his friend and attack him. Even when he wasn’t unsettled during the day by the presence of the Void, whenever he found himself falling into it not matter the circumstances, terror would grip his heart, the Abyss becoming sinister with malicious intent. The silence there felt as oppressing as the death itself and when he respawned, the cold in his bones would linger or even flare up if he saw Grian shortly after.

Mumbo didn’t know how to solve his problem, beginning to fear being near Grian anywhere within Boatem, but he tried to push past it, really. The Moon not helping of course. And Mumbo again, found himself floating in the Void.

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Bdubs might not actually be a fruit bat, but that wouldn’t stop Etho from calling him one. The other, much shorter hermit had taken an extreme liking to sweet things, especially fruit, and had proceeded to make it Etho’s problem by stealing from him whenever he ran out himself. It had gotten to the point that Etho had extra fruit around at all times just for Bdubs really. In some ways, Etho supposed, the mossy fellow’s obsession with the stuff made sense. It was winter, when there was less sun, and therefore less energy for Bdubs to absorb. Fruit was usually grown with the sun’s help and imported so it sort of contained what he needed? Look, Etho wasn’t sure, he didn’t know every aspect of his friend’s biology. His greatest problem right now was said hermit who had gotten himself on a sugar rush somehow. Etho had never witnessed one of those due to fruit before but supposed there must be a first time for everything after all.

Getting Bdubs down from the ceiling was relatively easy all things said. Getting him to sit still afterwards or at least, not proclaim himself king of the top of the fridge was slightly less simple. After somewhat trapping Bdubs, Etho gave in and messaged Cleo who when she let herself in to find Etho quite literally sitting on the smaller, very wriggly moss bundle, spent several minutes laughing at their predicament before agreeing to help.

It took nearly five hours for Bdubs’s sugar high to rush off and for him to collapse across both Etho and Cleo on the couch, both of them grateful for the break as the other peacefully dozed for some time, apparently unaware of the trouble he had caused and when he awoke, simply asked if he could have more fruit.

Etho groaned an Cleo bonked him on the head before explaining that no, he’d probably had enough for one day.

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When Grian Watched, he wasn’t limited to players, mobs and Landscapes in the ways some might think. When he admitted that he could see everything, he truly meant, everything. As in, the in-between stuff as well. When Grian Watched, the world became layers. He could see the world the same way players did but he could also see from every angle, see everything at once. He could see beneath that layer too. The area of his vision where players and mobs were reduced to their health bars, beacons of light in a layer where everything else had no color. Mob farms were either light shows or eye strains depending on your sensitivity he would joke when asked.

When Grian Watched, he could see beneath even that. When he Watched, the energies of the world became visible. He could see every player in the colors of their soul. Those who had magic created things that contained threads in their color, woven in, through and around each and every project. Those without still left imprints of their essence in areas they spent a lot of time in. Like their Megabases or a favorite shop. He Watched their energy fluctuate depending on their mental or physical states. Watched the ripples in the world when they used their abilities.

Grian Watched as the different colors connected and interacted with each other. When Scar wove his soul into his builds, those who stopped and admired them left behind their own imprints where their souls touched and a tiny bit of them was left behind. If Gem was excited by something and her soul glowed brightly, other players would glow too after speaking with her. In the multitude of threads in every color imaginable, Grian could see exactly where each and every one came from.

But he could never fully separate them as they were all connected, always pulsing softly together.

The heart of their world.

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Bdubs was lost. Lost in the Nether to be precise. Lost in the Nether in the sense of he didn’t know where the nearest portal was and he didn’t have obsidian to make his own. It wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened at least. He had food, enough to be confidant he’d survive without going hungry even if he had to replenish his health often. Heck, he’d considered a respawn if he didn’t have rather valuable materials on him and well, he’s used a respawn anchor so he’s still be in the Nether but he’d know where he was. But like before, he didn’t feel like gathering the quartz he had on him all over again. Or loosing his armour, his elytra, or- yeah no. He’d just find his way to a portal! The Nether couldn’t defeat someone like him! Why he was wayyy too cool to die in the Nether. That lava lake over there could only dream of being his demise!

Bdubs glanced at his clock. The spinning hands helped him hope that soon he’d be back in the overworld’s day and night cycle, protected from mobs and other unnecessary dangers. Picking a direction at random, one he hoped would take him back the right way, he checked his rocket supply and took off across the Nether caverns. Deep down, he wished he’s asked someone to come along with him. Two meant company, and conversation, and companionship. He wouldn’t be stuck alone with the noises of the Nether.

Bdubs flew long enough to fall into a sort of trance. Fire a rocket, wait a bit, fire again when he started dipping lower. When he almost smacked head-first into a lonely portal on the edge of a basalt delta, he definitely didn’t shed a few tears in relief and finally escaped the oppressive heat of the Nether.

Etho was waiting for him, eyes crinkling above his mask in amusement as he asked why he took so long in there. Bdubs protested loudly but shut up in embarrassment when forced to admit that yes, he got lost.

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Whatever unholy reason it was that possessed Mumbo to only ever wear suits no one was exactly sure but for the most part, it went ignored. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone that Mumbo owned many, many copies of that exact same suit considering how often he ruined one with a redstone project or got another destroyed in a vast multitude of ways. At this point, the Hermits had witnessed Mumbo’s suit get: burned, ripped, (lightly) roasted, used as a fly swatter, a kite, rocket fuel (don’t ask how), shredded, pulverized, tree soil (again, don’t ask), hole coverage, used as an umbrella, a headband, a blindfold (though that was just the tie really), and simply vanish into thin air.

There were, of course, less strange incidents such as Mumbo forgetting the jacket or it getting dirty enough to be unsalvageable but those weren’t as memorable and the Hermits, as well as Mumbo himself, just brushed over those incidents. It was very common for Mumbo to have to replace at least one piece of his suit within a week. He considered himself quite lucky that it mostly seemed to affect his jacket and tie, the two items that didn’t influence his public decency by much and that nothing truly embarrassing had happened yet (although the tree incident came quite close and no, he wasn’t going to elaborate on that any further).

Seeing bits of black or red (and on rare occasions, white) cloth that could later be identified as Mumbo’s was a normal occurrence for Hermitcraft. Bunting, hung for a celebration of sorts would have an odd black triangle, around Grian’s base, several red ties would replace bits of string. Mumbo had long given up trying to salvage the situation and now embraced it, going far enough to offer parts of his clothing when someone needed something. In return, the Hermits were usually kinds enough to leave him be for a few days whenever he brought out a fresh set.

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“Smile for the Camera!” Click, and Flash. Another picture. Another pin in the cork wall. Cleo was rather proud of their wall. It was filled with moments of various seasons, some significant to story lines, others simple moments she held dear and the picture helped her to remember. Any Hermit that had joined after her had a special picture of them, decorated with doodles and occasionally, stickers, a cute caption listing their name and the season they joined. She’d just finished taking Joel and Skizz’s pictures, adding them to the cluttered wall board alongside Gem and Peals picture with Grian’s picture not far off. There were many more Hermits as Cleo had collected at least one single picture of everyone alongside the many group pictures. Every season was dotted along, smiling faces of base neighbours, prank partners, shop co-owners all facing where the camera had been.

Click, a finished base at the end of a season, friends gathered around getting ready to leave together. Click, a prank gone wrong with everyone laughing at the outcome regardless of who it was intended for. Click, a picknick, a fun time with food and laughter and shenanigans. Click, a picture taken while spying on other Hermits for fun, candied pictures of their everyday lives. Click, a blurry picture, someone jumping into frame at the last second messing up the pose but everyone is laughing. Click, Jellie in the sun. Click, someone stole the camera to take a picture of Cleo when they weren’t paying attention. It’s their favorite picture of herself. She looks happy, surrounded by family who care about them.

On the wall were only a fraction of the pictures Cleo had taken over the years. Many went to the other hermits, most having their own way of displaying them. Cleo always carried the camera, the very one that recorded all these memories, in her inventory at all times. Ready at a moments notice to pull it out and-

“Smile for the Camera!”

Click!

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Scar used magic for mundane, every day things. This was for two reasons. One being that he generally wasn’t powerful enough to do much more than that unless he was actively trying to reach a certain goal, and the other being he preferred to use it in ways that made his life just a little bit easier.

He used it to keep the flowers on his windowsill fresh for longer. Used his magic to keep nooks and crannies free of dust. He used it to make little red dots and play with Jellie. A reading light hovering in just the right spot to not give off that awkward angle light you had to twist to access properly. He used his magic to turn on the strings of fairy lights when he snapped his fingers. The last one was just because it felt cool to do so.

Scar was used to offering the little lights he made to others, always willing to create a little glowing orb with a snap of his fingers and a smile. Making them never bothered him and he never felt the need to ask for something in return. He may try to scam people but not for something like this. It was Season eight and Boatem was having a hang-out/ sleepover of sorts. Everyone was cozied in the pile of blankets and pillows that covered what had once been several couches pushed together and was now a gigantic nest of sorts, curtesy of Grian and Impulse who claimed to know the secrets of comfort. (It was very comfortable so they may have been right.)

Scar had entertained with lights chasing each other, various colors shading the room. As everyone relaxed, not asleep yet but on their way there, Pearl mumbled. “You’re always so full of light Scar.” The man in question laughed, thinking she meant the light he made with his fingers but when he said as much, she protested saying: “No, just you. The way you are, it’s a very bright light.” Murmurs of agreement filled the room before there was silence.

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Warmth was not something the Hermitcraft server lacked. It was something they had in abundance. Warmth filled the air alongside laugher in the summer and spring and as days and nights grew colder, bases were kept warm and cozy with people visiting and spending time together. Warmth was found in many different ways.

Some aimed for that kind of aesthetic, like Bdubs did when the weather turned cold. If his home didn’t scream cozy, he’d arrange and rearrange things until they did.

Hermits like Grian and Scar had a natural chaotic warmth to their bases. Scar especially made even half-finished areas seem welcoming.

Xisuma might not always strive to appear comfortable but when surrounded by his friends and family couldn’t care less as they added their own flair to turning a base into a home.

Cleo would crate an immaculate interior with everything in its place but still give it the feeling of being lived in and welcoming in its own way. Wherever they were, Joe was not far off, his special kind of weird essentially being an open-armed embrace no matter where he was staying.

Mumbo relied on his friends to make sure to tell him if what he created lacked life no matter how much they insisted that he couldn’t not call himself a builder at this point.

Impulse could always count on Tango or Zed’s visits to whatever he built make the entire thing feel more relaxing and the same went vice versa. (Even Decked Out two was warm and cozy in its own way above the Dungeon with the addition of the Hermit’s private rooms for their trophies, cards and the like.)

Keralis was always warm, he didn’t need anything other than himself to make a place feel friendly and safe, always drawing a willing Hermit into a hug or a cuddle pile.

The Hermitcraft server was full of warmth. A warmth that they carried in their hearts.

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It wasn’t often that Pearl took an afternoon off of whatever her current projects were and decided to bake something. This included coming to the realizations that she’d always be out of something, have to gather it, only to find something else was missing. In turn, this meant she’d call or ask another Hermit for said required ingredient only for that Hermit to join her and take baking from a quick and easy thing to a few fun filled hours with several mishaps and a delicious desert at the end of it. All in all, Pearl considered it to be a fair trade-off.

It became almost a sort of rota, who got to bake with Pearl. Sometimes it would be multiple Hermits helping her, other times she’d spend a memorable afternoon catching up with a friend she hadn’t talked to in a while. Which Hermit she was baking with also affected what she would make and what the outcome would be. While there would always be one successful attempt in the end, the number of failed attempts was dependant on her kitchen partner at the time. Baking with Grian for instance, despite being like a younger pesky sibling to her, resulted in far more burnt cookies than calling over Impulse. Baking with Mumbo or Zedaph had a 50/50 chance of exploding something though mostly unintentional. Baking with Scar resulted in making many more of whatever had been the days dessert than initially planned but as the man himself kept insisting, and something Pearl agreed with, “You can never have enough desserts!”

Pearl looked forward to those days. She enjoyed the anticipation of seeing who’d respond first whenever she’d ask for help or for someone to bring something over. It was a gamble if today would be more of an easy day like when Keralis or Stress came over, a hilarious afternoon as Xisuma attempted to whisk eggs again, a fire hazard in which an apologetic Tango would insist he’d make it up to her, or a day of banter such as when Cleo or Doc attempted flexibility despite both being stubborn.

The results were always worth it when Pearl could share a slice of something made with a friend.

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Mumbo was not a small guy. Like at all. He wasn’t the tallest person on the Server, but he was probably the lankiest. Grian always complained that it was Mumbo’s fault he wasn’t taller. This didn’t really make sense considering they weren’t related and even if they were, that was simply not how genetics worked! Bdubs refused to back up Grian on his statement but always climbed up onto something to be more eye-level with him before speaking. Most of the time, Mumbo wouldn’t comment on it. He was quite attached to his kneecaps thank you. (Honestly, short people.)

Anyhow, Mumbo was not little by any means. Just because he had long limbs, did not mean he could fold himself into tight spaces. It usually wasn’t possible. Which was why the universe must truly hate him for him to be trapped in a box of all things. It wasn’t a large box, but it wasn’t tiny either. He’d seen this crate lying about and some part of his brain, probably the part that spent way too much time around Grian, had insisted: “That is a Mumbo sized box that needs to be sat in.”

So he had. And the first five minutes had been lovely! There had been no harms simply sitting, legs curled against his chest as the walls came up almost to his hunched shoulders. But it hadn’t been quite enough, the Grian in his head wanted to hide in the box completely so he could no longer see the outside world. And foolish him, being the absolute spoon he was, had attempted to comply. He’d scrunched up as far as he physically could and laid down on his side. And this was very nice too! He was beginning to understand exactly why the part of his brain that was, come to think of it, probably Grian’s soul, liked this so much. It was only when he decided he’d had enough box time and should continue his redstone that he found himself unable to get back out, having twisted himself in a manner he wouldn’t be able to free himself from without assistance.

And so, Mumbo was stuck in a box.

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Tango didn’t really like the cold. It was something he’d often complain about only to head right back into Decked Out, adding more ice, snow, and soul fire. Some of the Hermits made jokes out him secretly rolling in snow, only complaining when people were around. Even his appearance was frostier these days. Working with soul sand to achieve blue fire meant that over time, grains ended up in his own head of flames, turning his regular happy and bright, orange-yellow hair the same blue as the soul fires around him in his build. He wasn’t quite sure how, but his typical crimson eyes also changed to a shade of blue, something he’d only noticed when Zedaph pointed it out, and was still puzzling over many months later. Tango’s new hair and eyes, paired with the Dungeon Master’s cloak he’d been gifted by Cleo and the sheer amount of time he spent building said Dungeon would lead Hermits to wonder if Tango had become immune to the cold. This was not the case. Tango may have become absorbed in building his Dungeon and rarely saw sunlight these days, but he complained to Zedaph every day about how cold he was. Soul fire didn’t radiate heat in the same way normal fire did so even his hair didn’t do much for him when he was arm-deep moving snow around to look just right. Zedaph, often enlisting Impulse’s help, would try to drag Tango out of his cave often enough to make sure he got some sunshine as well as making sure his friend was eating enough and didn’t freeze to death during work. He knew how much the project meant to his friend, how much testing would need to be done, how much more work was needed before it would be ready to play, but in the meantime, as Tango’s sleep schedule was derailed by never seeing the sky, Zedaph often awoke in the mornings to a message from Tango complaining about the cold.

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It was an interesting concept, Cleo mused. Life. She’d debated with Joe on this matter many times, friendly bather sometimes making them question their own existence. She knew that by all rules and definitions she was a player. They didn’t burn in the sun, didn’t have any strange cravings like some of the other hybrids, the only thing that marked her as part Zombie was her green, patched up skin and, depending on the season or event, display of her inner organs. The Hermits, thankfully, were used to it, only inquiring if her body was just going to be like that or if they needed help, regenerating or in the worst case, help forcing a respawn. For the most part, Cleo didn’t even notice her exposed ribs or the stiches in their skin. To her, her body felt normal, movement came easily and no one treated them differently.

But that raised a question in their mind. Were they undead or only Zombie-like appearance wise but not in any other way. Joe seemed to think so, pointing out that she didn’t burn, had to breath, and had a pulse. Cleo argued that they’d never met another Zombie hybrid, causing them to believe that maybe the look was triggered by and almost permanent death or something of the sorts that would place her more along the lines of undead or walking dead if they were dealing with a resurrection.

At any rate, Cleo didn’t consider herself to be lesser despite arguing with Joe about their status as “alive”. They often made jokes along the lines of life being overrated, adding a sarcastic morbid tome to shenanigans. They laughed, ate and drank, loved, hurt, bleed, the same as the others. Life was just a ground for a debate.

Because as far as anyone on Hermitcraft was concerned, Cleo was as full of life as any of them.

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On Hermitcraft, death wasn’t a real concept. Yes, you could die but death was temporary and lasted for little more than a few second before waking in your bed, fully healed and ready to go collect whichever items you had lost before respawning. Permanent death was something only mentioned after the worst of nightmares, in the deepest of fears. Hermitcraft was safe from those horrors, Xisuma and whichever Hermit’s would help him from time to time made sure of it.

While all the Hermits ignored their lack of mortality or a regular basis, Scar seemed to have a special talent for creating a death loop out of the most ordinary of situations. Well, situations that could be avoided if he spawn-proofed his builds better or didn’t allow zombie access.

Sometimes, they would hear stories of dying servers, corrupted, leaving the inhabitants to a permanent fate. Some of the Hermits had darker pasts that they tried to hide or gloss over, not wanting to relive the memories that plagued them on the worst of days. Grian included. Hermits learned each others cues, learned to read facial expressions and distant eyes, tensed shoulders, gripping a sword just too tightly. Those who had no memories to plague them but were sometimes assaulted with instincts were calmed and brought to safe places to reduce risk of them hurting themselves or others, thus making whatever was in their heads at the moment worse.

Those who struggles had two or three friends they could call at any given time, friends who could break through the fabricate barriers and comfort them in the ways they needed. Other friends would give them space, wanting to help but knowing to wait and cash in hugs later.

But most days were calm. Most days everyone was okay. No one was afraid. This was Hermitcraft. Death wasn’t permanent.

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Doc had long ago made it his mission to see how much in life he could automate. He built machines, farms, world-eaters, done into shadow redstone to manipulate his inventory, break the fundamental rules of their world and defy physics in every possible way. “Rules were made to be broken” was a sentiment that, in this case, he agreed on with Grian. Many Hermits were baffled by the things he created. Some amazed, asking him how it worked, only to be even more amazed after he explained. Others, mainly those who acted as admins, watched in horror as the Server struggled to keep up with his mind and creations. Those who didn’t understand what was happening watched in befuddlement whenever something new was demonstrated. And the only reason Doc had yet to claim world-domination was probably that despite how genius his inventions were, it was very difficult to Grian- and Scar-proof them. It was somewhat a joke among the Hermits that the Vex and the Avian were the only things keeping Doc ascending to Godhood even though they knew their friendly neighborhood german mad scientist had now plans of ever leaving them for a higher pane of existence.
There was one thing however, he’d never bothered trying to automate. If anyone suggested it, he’d chew them out and make them sit through a lecture. After five Hermits suffered through that, the general agreement was made to not ask Doc why he grew his Tomatoes manually. Because that’s what he did. He carefully selected the soil, checked the nutrients, the ratio of sand and clay, tilled it and added fertilizer before gently planting the sprouts he’d grown in a specific tray before. Every little plant was set into the dirt with care, evenly spaced, the plot in an area with just the right amount of light in a day, protected from strong wind and with a very intricate sprinkler system which trickled the exact amount of water into the soil that was needed that day. Doc made sure to keep all the pests away with as few chemicals as possible and every year he harvested more tomatoes than he had use for, enough for the entire server. The saying is “You reap what you sow” and since he sowed tomatoes, he got tomatoes

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There were many kinds of carving that happened on the Hermitcraft server. Several Hermits practised wood carving, many more sculpted in different ways. When fall came around however, they picked a date, gathered a whole bunch of pumpkins, many more than there were Hermits, in case of accidents involving the big orange fruits, and they all got together to carve them. Now the preparation for this event was a lot more complex than that. These were the Hermits after all. Multiple first aid kits were distributed to each table, a shot presentation on how to use the things inside in an emergency was needed because no matter how many times they did this, someone would always forget. The Carving tools and knives were also explained in a lecture on safety, not that they’d ever held a gathering without someone hurting themselves. Large bowls were organized for the pumpkin guts alongside sifts to try and separate the majority of the seeds from the pulp so that each could be repurposed separately. A barbecue and furnace were set up, with safety precautions, to bake the pumpkin seeds into snacks as the event continued. The pulp was used for soup and pumpkin pies which would be served later. When all this was prepared, drinks on had (non-alcoholic), placements made along the various tables, pumpkins chosen, the event would begin.

It was always set that several pumpkins would be instantly destroyed as the Hermits fooled around, quickly making more mess than one would think possible. Each Hermit went for wildly different designs too. Skizz carved a simple face into his, simply happy to participate in his first event of such. Bdubs was apparently set on creating an intricate carving with layers mere nanometers thin. Grian and Mumbo did their best to replicate each others faces while sabotaging the other. Scar seemed to forget the objective end ended up with a small village of pumpkin hobbit houses, which were still very beautiful. Experience and commitment ranged from art pieces that would only have a short life, to shenanigan faces that one couldn’t walk by without smiling at for the time they were set up.

When the event ended, all the pumpkins were given lights inside them and lined up for all the Hermits to admire.

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The first few nights on a fresh Server were the most exciting. Sometimes the most dangerous. Usually just the most eventful, high in adrenaline and achievements as more than twenty late-game specialists were confronted with the task of making a wooden pickaxe. It was a time of chaos as people spread out from spawn, many deaths as the casualness of dying within the first few minutes with no items to lose was exploited to its limit. Hermits clumped themselves either together or alone, going laughing into the caves to gear up, more chaos unfolding as even simple caves were more difficult to maneuver, jokes about being professionals were made and cackled at. Eventually, the Hermits find groupings and settle down. Some have decided to stay stationary the entire season while others start in one area but have made plans to move when they run out of room to build.

The definition of starter bases varies. Some Hermits consider a started base to be the first structure they build. Others assigned that title to the quaint dirt hole they cowered the night in as they tried not to lose their spoils from the mines. Others still, have starter bases consisting of a pile of chests with a hastily scribbled sign of their name, a weak, and mostly unnecessary attempt to prevent people stealing from said chests. The first few days before anyone even pays a second thought to the idea of a shopping district are filled with hap-hazard trades of varying value, generous gifts to those behind, and more minor bartering as friends pool material and resources before the farms get set up and order is established.

The first few days and nights spent on the Server are some of the few where Hermits might prefer to seek cover during the dark without their usual armour. It’s a special and rare time for how short it lasts, but always stays in mind even as the season progresses.

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The sun rose over Boatem as Grian woke with a start, feathers ruffled and hair a mess. He sat up in bed, looking around for whatever disturbance had caused him to wake at least an hour earlier than usual on a relaxing day. He'd pulled several all-nighters recently which had gotten him sent to bed via strict gazes from Pearl, Mumbo, Scar in Impulse who really weren't any better and honestly had no right to judge him for his sleep schedule. If anything, he had the advantage over then because his bird brain got tired naturally when the sun went down.

Finding nothing, he moved from his rather messy nest-like contraption, you could get lost in it sometimes, and got up, still half asleep, and stumbled himself around his base getting ready. 

When he left through his upstairs window after a relatively quick breakfast, he still hadn't discovered what had woken him up. On his flight, he couldn't see anyone else about and nothing out of the ordinary. All the builds were untouched, the chests unmoved, nothing strange happened to the G-train, nothing was wierd in the midnight alley. Finally, he stopped at the Boatem pole, having circled everything around it as he avoided the void that had claimed so many lives. 

Ah, this was where the disturbance came from. The Void, and therefore the air and energy felt different. Not by much, but just enough for it to have woken him. Grian frowned. This wasn’t normal. The Void didn’t just change unless there was, … interference. Instinctively, Grian looked over his shoulder, checking internally for the familiar feeling of being watched rather than being the one doing the watching. Finding nothing, he decided to leave it and let it go unmentioned for the time being, resolving to keep a close eye on the Server from now on.

Even so, it took him some time to realize that the moon was larger than it should be. And at that point, it was too late.