Ever since your return and his re-entry into the Exterra scene, fans have been asking for you to race against the Drift King. Considering he’s often referred to as your predecessor, what’re your thoughts on that?
Now, now, we all know I’m a man who wants a fair fight above anything else. I don’t think I could face RT in ET1 without a guilty conscience.
Could you elaborate on that?
Dude, he hasn’t been in ET1 since…well, before my break! I’d absolutely kick his butt in an official race. Can’t humiliate the old man too much, can I?
So can we give the hopeful fans a firm no, then?
Hey, I only said I wouldn’t face him on an ET1 track. If we wanted a fair race, we’d go to Exterra Experimental. That’d give him at least a chance against the Red King.
Are you saying you’ll be applying for ETX?
I’d just keep an eye out on next season’s roster if I were you. And tell RT he’s due for some practice!
moooore space opera AU! RT was fan favorite of Exterra before Ren rose to fame, but stopped racing on the regular by the time Ren was at his career high. naturally, the second they ARE both active in the sport at the same time again, everyone wants to see them go head to head. (ET1 = Exterra 1, the official, “normal” version of spaceship racing that has the most set rules and guidelines, ETX = Exterra Experimental, unofficial, way more wild and dangerous tracks, less strict rules, for your adrenaline junkies. RT’s home turf the second part of his career)
The scene where Ren finds Martyn alive on red?? Yeah
[ ID: A drawing of Ren and Martyn from Third Life. They’re hugging, with Ren partially in the air. Neither of their faces are visible. Ren is wearing a cape, a loose shirt, a corset, pants, and boots. He has short, choppy hair, and his crown has fallen off his head. Martyn is wearing a long, dark coat, a loose shirt, dark pants, and a bandana. End ID ]
with fairy themes and space! (fairy!ren amiright . anyway this is part 1/14 of my self indulgent hermitcraft fairy au boards . only doing specific hermits for this week but i might continue with the rest later)
Wolf Therians, as well as Canine Therians in general, are known to be unshakingly loyal and affectionate. Especially to those they consider family.
This makes Ren’s abandonment of his life as a hitman especially strange. There have been many accounts of him, openly, calling his teammates his “pack”. Whatever gave him the desire to completely discard both his post, and his title, must’ve been truly bad…
Ren was yellow. If this were Third Life, if this were Last Life, Ren being on yellow would mean… Well, it wouldn’t mean nothing, but it would be inconsequential. It would be a game. A traumatic game. A game he would be thrilled by, turn over in his head like a bad dream - or a very guilty good dream - for weeks after the event. He would think about how scary it all was, how scary he was, how scary his friends were, and then he would think about other things. He would live, he would die, he would lose, he would cope. He, eventually, wouldn’t care all that much.
But this wasn’t Last Life. This wasn’t Third Life. This was Hermitcraft.
Ren, for all his talk of valiant violence and brutal bloodshed, is not a man meant for the battlefield.
He could act the part, certainly, with a deep and steadfast sense of conviction and pride. He looks the part, too, the way his smile gives way to snarling, wolfish canines, or the way his brow is always smudged sticky, wet, and red beneath his gleaming crown.
However, when the Red King first rose, it wasn’t Ren with his hands dirty. It was Martyn, the green Hand, standing red-handed on the altar.
Grian stares out over the edge of the perimeter. He’s been sitting here a while. He kicks a rock, watches it clatter all the way to the deepslate and bedrock floor of the thing, even as he hears someone approach.
He looks up. He looks at the other for a minute before looking down into the perimeter once more. “You know, on the anniversary of when it all started, we threw a party.”
Ren sits next to Grian and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Maybe today’s less of a partying sort of day, my friend.”
“Maybe,” Grian says.
They’re both quiet again for a while. Grian curls his wings tighter to himself. They almost feel heavy, like this. They almost feel like they wouldn’t catch the wind.
“Any reason you’re out here instead of, I don’t know, bothering S—”
“I’m not… I can’t look at him today,” Grian says.
“Funny,” Ren says. “Neither can I.”
Grian snorts.
“I could ask you the same about—he’s one video call away.”
“Well,” Ren says, and they’re both quiet again. Grian’s hands feel awful. He’s already washes them several times, though. He could go land in one of the little ponds nearby, or the river, and wash them again, but it won’t make his hands or feathers feel less grimy.
After a moment, Ren hands him a can of cheap domestic beer. Grian stares at him, baffled. “Well, despite Doc’s grumbling, I don’t drink the good stuff when I’m sad,” Ren says reasonably. “I don’t taste it that way.”
“I’m not sure getting drunk is a great idea,” Grian says.
“Just a toast then,” Ren says.
“Fine.”
Ren thinks for a moment, cracks his can, and then, in a deep, affected, barely-Scottish accent, says: “To the Red Kingdom! May those bloodstained stones rest peacefully.”
“…to us,” Grian says, “and can we rest peacefully too.”
“Hah!” the Red King says. “I’ll drink to pointless dreams, laddie.”
“Youwould.”
Grian takes a swig of the beer and promptly chokes. It tastes absolutely terrible, as expected, but is unfortunately grounding. Great. He’ll have to admit to Ren at this rate that he might have been right about something.
He stares out over the perimeter a while longer.
“To one year,” the Red King says.
“To one year,” Grian echoes.
“To your victory,” the Red King says.
“To never winning again,” says Grian. “It’s a long way down. It’s a long way down.”
Neither of them leave that spot for a long time, not until after the sun has set and a nearby skeleton arrives to drive them off.
