Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sitting on the edge of a cliff dangling off the side of Hermitopia isn’t the safest thing Rendog’s ever done, but if the house hasn’t fallen off by now, it’s probably sturdy enough for the extra weight of one man. And considering it was moved here by Shubble’s Potion of Lore, Rendog has faith in it.
The taste of root lingers on the back of his tongue, and Ren shudders. He’s learned his lesson about the power of Lore on Empires, after all. The hard way.

It all starts with gratitude, and dirt.
Rendog’s arrival on the Empires server is not a step through the Rift–it’s an awakening in a sealed tomb. If not for Pixlriffs hearing his echoing cries and breaking the ground above the coffin lid, Ren doesn’t know how long he would have been down there. (Or how long he WAS down there to begin with. Hard to tell time in a tomb.) 

Ren wants to thank Pixlriffs for saving him from such a claustrophobic and lonely fate.
He also wants to take a fresh start on a new server. To do things the hard way, like a Professional Minecrafter.
Combining the two creates the Giblets, a series of Rendog’s firsts of everything on the Empires server. (Each with its own proper and dramatically embellished tale, of course.) Such a collection would be the highlight of Pixlriffs’ museum - but Rendog won’t just hand them over, oh no! He decides to spread them around to the rest of the Emperors, in hopes of giving Pixlriffs a fun puzzle, and an excuse to spend more time with his friends. Shenanigans are the best gift!

And, okay, maybe the tale twists from the truth as he goes along. Maybe he was grateful to Pixlriffs for pulling him out of the not–shallow–enough grave, actually. Maybe Rendog doesn’t actually know how long he was buried for, and that scares him a bit. Maybe the root in his mouth was making it just a bit too hard to breathe; maybe he’s still picking dead soil out from his claws; maybe the sun on his face again made him want to weep with joy. Dr. Pix L. Riffs, PHD, might’ve done Rendog the biggest favor anyone’s ever done. 
But Empires wants Lore with its shenanigans, and so Rendog plays along. Adds some drama to the mix. Actually, he’s mad at Pix for exhuming him–Ren wanted to stay in the tomb! It was comfortable! And proper for a dead man–yes, he’s dead, a king slain by his people for his corruption and now. Er. A zombie but also the self before his corruption. (It makes as much sense to him as anything else on this server.) And that’s why he’s giving the Giblets away to all the other Emperors so Pixlriffs has a treasure hunt–out of vengeful shenaniganery! Not enrichment and social engagement, certainly not.

Except the more Rendog tells this version of the story, the more he finds himself believing it–even fully aware that he’s Making It All Up. The flare of rage that surges inside him when he says Pix’s name is uncomfortably Real. There’s a taste like old metal on the back of his tongue when he speaks of his plan, and it puts Ren in mind of the King he was before he came here, dying with the crown in his mouth. He tells the Grand Tales of the Giblets, of the dangers that he faced, and wounds he never took ache; scars showing up places that only got hurt in the stories.
And Ren slowly realizes that Lore on Empires isn’t just a bit, undercut by a wink at the camera. It’s not something that you beg your viewers to sit through. It’s not something you put on and take off like a costume.
It’s real.

On Hermitcraft, Lore is optional, casual, a seasoning. Everyone has a little bit of story in their bases to entice the viewers. Rendog is more invested in Lore than most, and he knows how eyes begin to glaze over when he gets too deep into speaking about the Gigaverse. He likes the intricacy, the layers.
And you can get swept away in Lore, assuredly. Ren knows that better than any of the Hermits, and better now than ever before. The blood of the King had scarcely dried on the flagstones before everyone left through the Rift; the after-effect of Ren getting swept along by the bit of being in charge. (It wasn’t even his idea in the first place–it was Bdubs!) None of the Hermits are immune to a bit, but Ren knows he is particularly susceptible to a story.

Empires Lore makes Ren look reserved by comparison.
The power of Lore on Empires is tangible–it suffuses their lives, their belief in it absolute, to the point that one of their emperors is literally a God by and of Lore. (Even Joel seems more beholden to Lore than having any control over it.) They aren’t just telling stories; they’re living them. And the stories they do tell become real. 
Jimmy’s vehemence over Not Being A Toy isn’t just friendly bickering–it’s him fighting the transformation that the ‘joke’ threatens to bring to his very body. Scott’s reputation as a trickster seems to lead his dealings, rather than the other way around. Even his fellow visitor Pearl is changed when Ren runs into her; distant and regal, wearing a beautiful dress that looks familiar in a way he can’t place. They’re not just humoring each other or playing along; this isn’t for the audience’s sake. The Emperors don’t even seem to acknowledge that the audience exists.
From the inside of a story, it’s not a story. It’s life.

Deirdre is the true price Rendog pays for realizing the power of Lore too late.
Objectively, it’s a perfectly logical loss. Taking a mount of any kind through a Nether portal of unknown size is a risk, and Sanctuary’s portal is too tightly decorated for her to fit, nor even to turn around and retreat.
It’s the way it happens that seals it for Ren. Being crammed into sudden darkness, hearing the sound of crushed bones and pained squawking for only a moment before being thrown back through to Hell. Dazed, he wanders through the portal, coming back just in time to see the feathers floating around a fallen saddle. All that’s left of Deirdre.
Lore wants Rendog to have friction with Sausage, instead of an easy bond. Lore wants the dramatics of a grieving man. Lore wants to make sure that the one unequivocally kind thing Pixlriffs had given him was gone.
Ren and Sausage dance around the subject, both of them understanding their role here. Grief and apology, recompense that can never replace her. He can see in Sausage’s eyes; the man is no stranger to Lore’s tight grasp. He understands.
(And later, when another portal sends him and Sausage to Hermitcraft Season 8, bare days before moonfall, Rendog panics. Because if Lore has followed them, they’re doomed.)
(They make it home. He forgets.)

Hermitopia is pretty much exactly what Ren expected from the other Hermits–a technical monstrosity towering over the end of the Greatbridge. Farm after farm, teetering verticality of practicality. 
Yet even here, the Lore has snuck in, wrapped its fingers around even the most story-skimming of his friends. Xisuma pushes Ren into the Hermobbit machine with a touch of glee. Can’t be let into Hermitopia without undergoing the process!
It feels…wrong. Everything is just a little bit higher off the ground. His head hurts. But Xisuma is smiling through the mask, and so Ren smiles back.
Anything for the Lore.

Thankfully, once Rendog falls in line, the rules of Lore can be used for good as well.
Any other server, transplanting his house from its current location to Hermitopia would be days of painstaking work, moving block after block and just hoping he remembered where everything went. Here, Shubble has done exactly that with one of her own builds, and knows just the potion! Transdimensional 98% sameness is close enough–probably better than Ren could do on his own, anyways.
Shubble didn’t tell him to say magic words, but it’s a caution Ren adds on his own. More magical, more storybook, more Lore-y. Abracadabra Shubbleoramus feels right.
It works perfectly. Even enough of the ground comes with it that Ren can pretend he’s not hanging thousands of blocks in the air, on the side of a mechanical conglomerate. (If he covers his ears.)

And now he’s here, sitting on his transplanted porch, waiting for tomorrow.
The Hermits are going home tomorrow. At least, that’s the plan, anyway, according to Grian and Grumbot. Rendog’s not quite sure whether plans seem to work on the Empires server–and they didn’t always work that well back on Hermitcraft, to be frank.
It’s a question if it’s right for the narrative for them to leave at this point in time. In the hands of Lore, one more time.

The battle is mostly bloodless. The fort is quite penetrable. Hermits shove past the Emperors in a flood, and the Rift flares to life around them.
Lore says it’s time to go home.

Just like that, they’re back on Hermitcraft. Rendog feels the weight of shulkers suddenly filling his pockets, the hum of his Gigawatch reconnecting, the grounding of being home. He watches with the others as one by one, the Hermits stumble through the Rift. Followed by the Emperors. Jimmy, Lizzie, Sausage, Joel…
And there’s Pixlriffs, that terrible meddler, who disturbed his rightful slumber just like any other dusty, grave-robbing–
Wait.
The spark of ire flares out; no longer on Empires, the Lore doesn’t have hold of him anymore. Truth returns. Ren blinks, and there is Pixlriffs, the man who dug him out of a hole so he could spend time with friends old and new.
He smiles, and offers the man a pair of Gigawings, to get him out of the hole they’re in now.
Even.

With a disoriented and crowned Sausage in tow, Ren flies back to the castle he’d been ousted from, just before this whole thing began. After his time abroad, and without the madness of the King running through him, it’s not quite home anymore–and yet it’s still a marvel. A marvel he’s happy to give to Sausage, befitting a king who knows the delicate balance of Lore, in a place that’s a bit less over-enthusiastic about it.
A marvel with Pixlriffs sitting on the throne waiting for them both. Sitting on a diamond block, holding a borrowed Orb and Scepter; a mockery of royalty.
The last ember of rage dies in Ren’s laughter, as Pix sheepishly admits that he can’t actually pick the diamond block back up now since he has no pickaxe. Ren grabs it for him, and says the castle’s large enough for him and Sausage both, if they’re amenable. Pix accepts, but says he’s going to take a page out of Rendog’s playbook first–get geared up the proper way. The Professional Minecrafter way. 
As they watch him barrel roll off the balcony, Sausage jokes about it being someone else’s turn to search for Pix’s firsts. And Rendog remembers he’s still got work to do.

When Rendog sneaks his way back through the Rift, there’s two goals on his mind.
The first is to take the Empires’ Genesis Block; Rosie was hounding him about it before the whole King thing, and the one on Hermitcraft got replaced with a turtle egg before he could get there (probably Doc, who probably has his own Giga-level plans for it). None of the Emperors will mind. Probably.

The second is to finish his giblet business. Holding the chest, Rendog can feel the twinges of the Hatred of Pixlriffs hovering about his heart again, but he holds firm. Ren makes his case to the Lore itself–the Giblets are only valuable on the server they belong to, and it would make for a poor story for Pixlriffs’ desperate quest to be made impossible when the Rift closes. The story is better if he spreads them out here, for Pix to find. It would be narratively unfulfilling for Ren to keep them on Hermitcraft.
He feels the Lore consider him, and the hatred recedes. The Lore lets him work unaccosted, planting Shrines of Rendog across the corners of the world and the varied dimensions.
(It has other plans to punish Pixlriffs’ good deed.)

Rendog returns home, ready to just Play Minecraft again for the first time in too long. No kings, no emperors, no lore.
A beep from Rosie on his Gigawatch, and he revises. Okay, maybe a little lore.