desperation

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The desert is well-known as the hottest biome, and the sun beating down on Grian’s back through his sweater all but proves it. He really should take it off but it’s a layer of protection, between him and the sun, him and the other players… him and Scar, not that he thinks his only teammate would hurt him but, well, it doesn’t hurt to be paranoid. (Except when it does–) Shut up.

His wings itch, they need a preen but he doesn’t have time, he needs gunpowder for TNT, he needs more levels for better enchants, he can’t relax into Scar’s gentle hands or they’ll both fall behind. Grian wedges a hand behind his spine, scratching roughly at delicate tertial feathers. It only takes a light pull to pry several of them out, and– goodness that hurts, but he’s a little less itchy and that’s some small win by his own hands. Actually– yeah, that is a win, however small, by his own hands. A painful win, yes, but it feels- really good, actually, to solve a problem for once, instead of making a new one. (He’s bleeding–) Shut up.

It doesn’t matter if he hurts himself, if he hurts Scar, if he kills Scar– (He won’t–) it doesn’t matter even if he does, though, because he’s a survivor, and he’s too close to winning to go soft now. (This isn’t right–) This is the way of the world: kill or be killed. No one has managed to kill him yet and he’s not about to let that change. If he can win on green– if he can win on green that’d be a dream, really. (It’d be a nightmare, more like, he doesn’t want to hurt Scar.) Grian pulls out another handful of tertials. He’ll do what he has to do. There is no alternative (Be in cahoots with Scar) That’s only going to get him killed, he can’t trust Scar, not really. (He has to, who else can he trust) Himself. (That doesn’t count and he knows it) There is no one else.