Our home village has burned down, and one of our own has gone missing.
For certain, this tragedy is not to be mistaken as fortune. Despite that, I am thankful for the many midnight trips I took to make my repeated copies of what I have written here. Of course, I wish none of this happened at all. Some twenty, thirty full volumes were in that collection. All copied, all protected. Still, that doesn't stop my heart from hurting when I see the few ash-crisped pages left.
My home is gone. I wasn’t able to warn them. I was foolish to think they would not attack. I should have protected them more. I should have stayed to fight.
I could see the smoke, even from Point Beta. Too focused on the failure of a launcher to even notice my own home burning away. Foolish.
I’m only writing this to bide the time. To not think about these idiots that destroyed my fortress.
They will suffer and burn in the same way
Nothing was left. The golems were taken down. Buildings were smoldering. I didn’t see a single body.
There was an explosion. I begged, pleaded that it wasn’t what I thought it was—a derailed Minecraft, a broken farm—something. But it was impossible to deny.
I haven't heard or seen anything like it. I was organizing shelves within my personal library, when I heard something awful. By pure instinct it caused me to draw my sword. A piercing growl rumbled through both air and earth, penetrating even down to the depths of my library where I was. From how it sounded, it seemed far, thousands of blocks away at least, yet it was still so loud.
I climbed to the top level, and gazed beyond the trees to see if I could get a glimpse of whatever creature made that sound. While I could not see it, I had at least a wink of an idea what caused it.