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Bermuda Bound - Birth

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avatar Dystopian Utahraptor
Level 17 : Journeyman Dragon
The ground heaves and ripples, creating creases and crests that form a spiral. Not unlike someone has taken hold of fabric and twisted it up. Merged within the coils, chunks of embellished buildings and roads peek, broken glass leaking water and lava alike, all with the unearthly glow of Glowstone blinking between the cracks.

There is an uneasy quiet, trees and mountains warped into this hellish concoction of civilization and the end thereof. All that reigns here is death.

It has been little under six months since the ground shifted and wrapped the Triad Kingdoms into its embrace. Trapping them like a possessive lover unwilling to let go. A crackle breaks the silence, soft like gravel shifting, but loud like a landslide. The air shimmers near the peak of the spiral, a visible distortion in the code and in the reality. For now, besides this, it is silent once more.

Decades pass. The horror that befell the Triad does not stop new peoples from moving near the place where the ruins twist grotesquely with the landscape. Simple settlements, a few houses and farms. Villages. Townships.

The distortion grows. The progression is slow, but it eventually encompasses the central mount from base to summit. The coils tighten, the mount is sinking. Reality warps here, twisting perception of the world on a sense-driven scale. The first new settlers tried to build near here once, the houses and farms left to rot away, abandoned.

They say this land is cursed, shadows of tortured ghosts appearing amid the ruins buried. They say their touch can rewrite code and that if you are touched, you become them. Distorted images. Phase-ghosts, blinking like screaming static among the unnatural rolls and coils. They do not go far from the central mound, but their existence keeps potential settlers away.

The first of the oddities grows. The World Trees shoot through dirt and stone, twisting twin trunks of all woods, elegant canopies of leaves a mix of all trees. First one, growing rapidly. Then a second, and a third. There are ten total that grow, reaching full maturity within thirteen years each. They provide rare and new elements; some grow Emerald fruit, some Redstone. Some have Gold beneath their bark. Some have Glowstone. One sheds glistening leaves made of a fine metal not seen anywhere else in Minecraftia, one that does not tarnish.

The distortion has grown considerably in a short amount of time. The mound is collapsing in on itself, blocks breaking off day by day. The distorted waver envelopes this space almost completely, from where the coils merge back into the ground to the center and down the other sides. People who come close enough to it say they hear something. It sounds like someone crying. A small child, maybe, or a young woman. The stories of the phase-ghosts still persist to this day, no one is brave enough to go nearer to investigate. It’s for the best.

A village starts sprouting around one World Tree, one with Emerald fruits dangling from its branches. They plan to use it as a beacon, as a shelter. A means to survive and live comfortably.

The Desert next to them begins to develop clouds. Not light and fluffy. Dark and foreboding, a coming storm. This is not normal weather for a Desert, and their Admin sees why. The BiomeIDs are changing; what looks like a Desert is now an Ocean, and the change is spreading. It’s almost to their Plains now.

The hostile Mobs have fled the area, but it is not Peaceful. The change is worrying to those humans and non-humans alike. Earthquakes are more frequent. Change is on the horizon.

It comes suddenly. At midnight, when the moon is at its zenith. The wind picks up, the haunting sound of sobbing carried with it, the phase-ghosts at the haunted land flickering as though agitated and in greater more disturbing numbers. The wind turns to a gale, felt by all who inhabit the space this new unseen entity has laid claim. It is vast. Buildings are rattled or torn apart. It grows louder.

It is dark where she is. Light does not penetrate. It is confining, suffocating.

She is in pain. This is all she knows, all she is aware of. Searing agony wracking her existence. She shouldn’t be able to feel it, but she does. With the pressure pushing in on her, she feels it all the more. All she can do is cry and hope someone hears.

No one comes. She waits for centuries, millennia. Those who hear her whimpers for help fear them. She is always alone, left to the mercy of crawling little parasites. Feeding off her. Leaving her weak.

The shriek is one born of a desperation to be free. The mound falls completely inward, swirling into a vast cauldron of the Void, passed the Bedrock. The coils of the Triad ruins hold the unstable ground steady, but still slowly chunks away into the Void. Shifting downward. It calms for a few days. A week, maybe.

She is still alone. Her pain is different now. A pain born from neglect, loss. It roils into her new consciousness, whirls around itself and changes from the agony of being forgotten to that of rage. The energy is different now at the funnel, from sadness to anger. It changes and evolves to livid possession, like a spoiled child not wanting to share her playthings. No one will ignore her again, no one will turn away from her.

In her rage, the magnetism spreads. The resulting quakes of it fell one of the World Trees, the one with the pretty leaves of metal. It snaps in half and falls, killing thousands as its gargantuan bulk -even halved- crushes them when it lands on their budding city. Fueled in childish ferocity, she rips what she deems hers away, sectioning it on all sides from the main bulk of Minecraftia. Void peers through the channels, the Fractures fresh and new. It awakens other things.

The next uncounted centuries are increasingly unstable. They say ‘Don’t get attached to anything, she’ll rip it from you before you can blink’. Cities are sheered in half and moved. Chunks torn away with sheer drops into nothingness. IDs changed, for Biomes and Items alike; crops planted don’t always yield what is expected, and the eyes are easily deceived by familiar sights with unfamiliar outcomes.

All anyone can do in this Era of the Upheaval is hope it passes and that those displaced by the entity’s fits of rage find their way home. They call the epicentre -the haunted lands they all avoid- the Cataclysm and take heed of the silent lessons there, those that haven’t fallen into the Void. The lessons wrought by the hands of a temperamental young demigod trying to prove his worth.

They name their malevolent prison ‘Bermuda’. She has made it impossible to ignore her again.


: I normally don't write tidbits at the ends of story posts, but I felt this needed a hint of explanation.
So! Welcome to the lore of one of my favorite [and actually haunted, we're pretty sure] server maps. Ever. To better learn about Bermuda and what she is, you can check out THIS POST, and THE FIRST INCARNATION as well. Both maps are downloadable, but I warn you, they're both ... weird. For lack of a better word to use.

I might add more Bermudan lore pieces like this to the Hallows event, but we'll see. Enjoy.

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