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The moon hung in the sky, shining on the Overworld below. Soft, white light illuminated the environment’s sharp edges and only further darkened the abyss of the night that wasn’t covered in pouring light.
Footsteps sounded through the spruce forest, growing louder and louder. Then, the sound of metal sinking into wood, as a Player dodged the airborne weapon, only stealing a glance behind them with golden eyes.
Someone was chasing them. Someone Red was chasing them, still.
Blood rushed through his ears, Feinberg's sharp, red eyes focused on the Player ahead of him. Their movements weren't as sharp, as precise, and he could track the faint glow of yellow weaving through trees, the colorful hue sticking out from the grayscale of his vision. The fabric of his gloves rubbed against the trident's handle as it retreated from the tree to his grasp, prismarine and metal cold against his skin.
Fiery fervor was a haze in Feinberg’s mind; he needed to clear his head, needed to rid of the restlessness that was plaguing him. And a sudden killing would do the job just fine.
Get back here. He wanted to yell, but decided against it, trying his best to focus. But desperation still clawed at him, the urge to kill growing and growing.
They were growing closer, as the forestry began to thin out, finally. The heel of his boots caught on something—probably a tree root—and he stumbled with a hiss through gritted teeth. He could see a straight path being formed ahead of him, and his grip loosened on his trident; predictable.
Throw it, he heard a voice in his mind say; one that craved so badly for blood to be spilled, to run along his fingertips.
Kill them.
And he let go.
He watched his weapon go flying through the air, the purple gleam of enchantments glisten in the moonlight. It was a straight shot, the trident’s spears sparkling.
Then, covered in red.
And the Player screamed, voice coming out raw and dragged from their throats, and Feinberg felt a flare of satisfaction, relief, ease.
It caught in their leg, blood immediately seeping from the open wound and trickling down the prismarine. He heard the Player gasping for air as he approached closer, bloodlust nearly satiated.
Voices whispered in satisfaction, but a grin didn’t spread on Feinberg’s lips. Instead, he gripped the handle of his trident, and the Player tensed below him, Yellow heart racing. A choked sob escaped their throat, and it almost made the Red feel regret, feel pity.
Did he know them in a past life? Maybe, maybe not, it all was fuzzy in his mind, an uncomfortable itch that he wanted to avoid.
He didn’t have room for that anymore. He couldn’t save room for that anymore.
He yanked the trident from their leg, not even registering their scream of pain as he plunged it into their skull, red painting the near-colorless grass with a lively hue.
Satisfaction poured into his body, adrenaline and Red instinct finally dissipating into a numbness that he felt many times after a killing, but couldn’t manage to explain.
Feinberg didn’t feel happy.
After all, it was only temporary. Before he’d have blood on his hands once more.
He glanced downwards, seeing the Yellow fading into Red, slowly. Their body was disintegrating, ready to leave items for him to take or let rot. His trident was painted red with blood, already cooling and drying on the prismarine.
It didn’t look right. He sighed, closing his eyes.
He should probably head back to HBG.