incorrect-hermits · 2 days ago
At a meeting of the HC Redstoners Club (this probably not an actual thing)
Tango: I mean, small creatures just tend to be more vicious.
Zedaph: Maybe it’s because their anger is bottled up in such a tiny space?
Impulse: Oh, really? Name one example.
Iskall: Bees.
Doc: Cats.
Etho: Bdubs.
Mumbo: Grian.
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snowyowlsys · 2 days ago
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trapped him in the loop. never to escape.
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loafabun · 21 hours ago
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Since hermitblr liked boat boys so much, I hereby present mosh man
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Plus a bonus Pearl
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mistresslizziestack · 2 days ago
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Dm me if you want to be dominated by a dominant woman
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kai-andrew-art · a day ago
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Scrunk Shrub
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sarioh · 2 days ago
ive said this a few times before but i really respect how bdubs treats his life like its one big ongoing social experiment. he wakes up in the morning and hes like Hm what can i do to stir up the masses today. oh i know! *drops the most deranged shit-stirring tweet out of nowhere* *confesses his love for etho on camera* *murders his closest ally for no reason* *goes on a 3 minute narcissistic tangent* *marries a cow for roleplay purposes* i would die for him actually
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gildedblazes · 23 hours ago
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welcome to the first installment of Hermits As Shit Me And My Best Friend Have Said
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totallynotpuri · a day ago
POV: You are Bdubs at the end of Hermitcraft season 8
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cannedcrow · a day ago
Hermit’s Hold: Part III (HC Gold Rush AU)
CW: Alcohol, fairly graphic blood/gore, talk of cannibalism and wendigoag.
Part I, Part II
Summary: In which Scar and Grian revisit Easy E’s, and Etho recounts a harrowing memory.
A/N: Wendigoag are a creature from Native American folklore that have been changed a lot in Western media and I really didn’t want to contribute to that. I aimed to respect the original legends, and thus I looked into this extensively in order to create an accurate depiction while adapting it in my own way! Anyway, enjoy. :)
The miles passed quickly in company, and it was tranquil as dusk melted down on the scenery. Presently, the two dismounted outside Easy E’s Saloon, and hitched the horses by a water trough. Grian hadn’t seen the place since his first meeting with Doc, and he marvelled at how quickly his own demeanour had changed in the short time since he’d arrived. He was far more at ease, approaching as an ally, a friend.
Once again the place was full and lively, familiar to the initial image Grian remembered so vividly. Smoke and alcohol mingled in the air with the familiar duet of fiddle and piano, and Ren grinned and nodded a greeting, deft hands never missing a note on his instrument. Scar immediately called to the broad form of Doc, who sat at his usual place at the bar. He turned and grinned widely in welcome. They joined him at the bar, Scar clapping Doc on the back happily.
Grian rose a hand in greeting, far happier to see the man (he still used that word tentatively in regards to Doc) than he had on their initial encounter.
Scar claimed the stool next to Doc, relaxing on the bar with the easy familiarity of routine, but Grian remained standing and leant on the bar, unwilling to relinquish the rarity of height. Doc motioned to Etho and drinks were ordered.
“So,” Doc began, grinning, “Are you here to return our avian friend or can I take his presence as a sign that he’s been accepted?”
“The latter,” Scar declared with a laugh, and Grian rolled his eyes. “He’s staying at the camp, in my cabin-“ Doc raised a teasing eyebrow, and Scar continued, “-for logistical reasons. He was planning to use a tent and I decided there was no sense in that. Anyway, it’s been great! Makes for good company and he’s very good at his trade.”
“I’ve made good progress so far,” Grian added, still anxious to prove himself (and slightly annoyed at being discussed over his head as though he were an unruly child) “I’ve built most of the skeleton, anyway. Most of the work is in the material gathering, and I doubt it’ll take more than a few weeks.”
“Excellent! I knew this would work,” Doc exclaimed in unmistakably smug delight.
“I can still change my mind just to make a point,” Scar retorted petulantly, though he grinned back and raised his glass.
“To new friends, good fortune, and the journey ever-onward!” he declared, and the three met their glasses with a polyrhythmic clink.
Grian delighted in the burn of alcohol as the three downed their whiskey, a revitalising dose of fire that coaxed a suppressed cough from him. (Nonetheless, Scar noticed and shot him a smirk of mock-superciliousness.)
“Oh, Scar,” Doc said casually, “You won’t have heard, but there’s been another body found up near Donner pass. Third one in the past few months; people are worried.”
“Wh- a body?” Exclaimed Grian in horror.
“Fancy that,” murmured Scar, with the air of one discussing the weather.
“Mm, nasty business,” Doc continued, “Stripped right to bone, and even those gnawed pretty well. Hard to tell if it was before or after the death. Most think it’s a bear, or maybe wolves. I think only a bear would be strong enough to haul a body halfway up the pass though - could be a panther I guess, but they usually don’t go for people.”
“The Donner wendigo,” supplied a matter-of-fact voice. Etho seemed to have materialised out of nowhere, holding a bottle of whiskey and evidently intending to refill their tumblers.
“Good God man, I never hear you coming!” Scar said with a jolt of near-comical shock, “Good to see you, E. And what’s this about a wendigo?”
“Oh, that’s a good story!” Interjected another voice, and Grian looked up from the topaz stream to see the man in the moss capelet he’d seen before, grinning over Etho’s shoulder.
“Hazards of sitting at the bar,” Doc muttered to Grian, who had to suppress a laugh.
“Bdubs!” Scar greeted happily, “Now we’ve got a proper party!”
“Story?” Grian pressed, intrigued.
“Etho has a wonderful story about the Donner wendigo,” Bdubs explained cheerfully, “He saw it once, but most people don’t believe in it.” The animate part of Doc’s brow creased in a thoughtful frown. “I haven’t heard that one.”
“Well, now I’m intrigued! Regale us, won’t you?” Asked Scar, persuasively amiable as ever.
“Well, I’ll tell you then, for background,” Etho said with his usual tone of mild indifference, though it was clear he enjoyed the role of storyteller. With a fluid, well-practiced motion, he retrieved two more tumblers for himself and Bdubs.
“You guys wanna talk in the back room? It’s loud in here - come with me,” Etho directed, taking a bottle of whiskey. To Bdubs he said, “Can you see if Ren is willing to play bartender for a bit? Tell him his drinks are free if he does.”
The five were soon settled around a table in the small room behind the bar. The barrel-lined walls muffled the chatter and music of the front room well. A lantern on the table held its light close around it and threw sharp, monstrous silhouettes on the walls. Grian half suspected Etho had chosen this location for its atmosphere rather than practicality, and he smiled. Theatrical lot, this, he reflected.
Etho poured generous servings of whiskey for himself and Bdubs, who settled back in his chair in practiced readiness for a tale.
“The Donner wendigo,” Etho began, “Got the name from - well, no doubt you can guess - The Donner party, that nasty business a few years ago.”
“Ah- sorry to interrupt, but would you mind telling us what a wendigo is?” Interjected Grian.
“Oh, right,” Etho conceded. “Wendigoag are a creature from Native folklore. It’s a type of evil spirit - they say the surest way to turn into one is when a person commits cannibalism for survival - for any reason. Accounts differ, but some say it can infect the souls of cruel or greedy people, too. They are the embodiment of hunger, in essence. So you can see how that’d be linked to the Donners, right? You’ll know that when those families were trapped up on Donner pass, most of ‘em resorted to cannibalism. Keseberg was the worst of them - ate a man’s son and told him when the man returned with a relief party. Butchered poor Tamsen Donner, too. Anyway, most of them died, but one of them turned wendigo.”
He sipped his drink and allowed the exposition to sink in before continuing.
“I travelled up the pass a year or two ago with a moose hunting party, before Bdubs and I opened this place. It was me, Joe Hills - you may know him, he’s the local trapper - and a couple others called Antonio and Jack. I remember it well - cold as hell, and the trees were like burnt matchsticks. It’s always snowing up there, and it was deep. We set up camp that night in a clearing, got a fire going to get warm. So there we were, locked in a circle the firelight cast, when the singing started.”
“Singing?” Broke in Scar,
“Singing,” Etho confirmed, “Or maybe closer to wailing? That’s the best way I can describe it. Like … metal screeching plus howling wind. I’ll never forget it. So we agreed it was a wolf, else a fox or coyote. When you’re trapped like that, sleep comes easier if you lie to yourself. So we stopped thinking about it. Kept talking, told stories, then we decided to go to sleep. There were two tents for the four of us, and I was with Jack - Indian fella who was guiding us. He’d gotten all quiet and tense when we heard the singing, but he wouldn’t say what was spooking him. But after a day of walking uphill through deep snow, not even unease keeps you up, so the both of us dropped off to sleep. Then, about midnight, I heard - well,” he paused and fidgeted with his glass, “I can’t be quite certain, because I was half asleep. I heard someone call Antonio. ‘Antonio’ was all it said, and it sounded like wind going through leaves. Dry, cold. Like something that’s been frozen and dead for decades trying to talk again, in a language it doesn’t know.”
Grian was already beginning to feel the cold draft of unease creep up his back. He folded his wings closer to his body and sipped his whiskey, grounding himself in the alcoholic burn.
“I thought I was dreaming, and I went back to sleep. So, we woke up early in the morning, must’ve been about 5 o’clock. Black as coal outside, but we had to start packing up camp. First thing I noticed was an odd smell in the air, sweet, heavy. I got a lantern lit and went to talk to Joe. He was real worked up, couldn’t find Antonio. Said he left the tent in the middle of the night, and that he - Joe, I mean - went back to sleep before he came back.”
“He didn’t hear your mystery voice then?” Inquired Doc.
“Didn’t mention it, but I didn’t either. So we scouted around the clearing, looking for signs of where he might’ve gone. Luckily it hadn’t snowed, so we could see the tracks clearly. We called and called, but he was nowhere nearby. Then I told Joe to stay at camp, and-“
“Let me guess, you strolled out into the woods alone to look for him?” Doc sighed in exasperation, pinching his nose bridge.
Etho smiled rather sheepishly. “It definitely wasn’t the right thing to do,” he admitted, “But that’s what I decided on. I took a rifle and my lantern and started to follow his tracks, all the way outside camp. Then there was another pair of footprints that joined his, only they were much larger, only far shallower. Whatever it was had walked atop the snow as though it weren’t more than an inch deep. They would’ve been hard to see if it weren’t for the blood - the snow was stained red where the prints were, you see, and their depth filmed with frozen blood. The footprints went forward together, side by side, and I followed. All the way there was that scent in the air, cloyingly sweet. But gradually, the larger pair began to cover so much distance, each step farther than a deer’s bound - nothing possible for any human. And Antonio’s footprints began to drag and skim over the snow with the other pair, like he was running only without his full weight on the snow. By this point I knew I shouldn’t be there, but I was … in sort of trance. I kept going, following this trail for a few miles. My feet felt frozen, and I didn’t know the land. I relied on my tracks.
And then, all of a sudden, there it was. The most horrific thing I ever saw - thin as a corpse and on all fours, hunched over something. It was like a person, but with arms so long they’d skim the ground if it stood, and vicious claws. Would’ve been as tall ad a tree if it stood. Looked like a corpse, dead white skin stretched over its bones and eaten away by frostbite at some extremities. Like a thing dragged from deep in the snow, something that should never have felt the air again.”
He paused then, finally seeming affected by his recollection. He kept his eyes trained on his drink as he murmured, “Every sound is magnified in the silence. I remember the sound of blood dripping onto the snow, hot and fresh enough to melt it a little. I still hear that, you know - when it’s too quiet.”
“I crouched behind a tree, tried not to make any sound. I reckon it’d have heard me if it hadn’t been so distracted. That was the oddest part - it didn’t make a sound. The forest was quiet as a grave but for the sound of muscles and skin ripping, and the blood dripping of course. When I peered ‘round the tree, that’s what I saw. Antonio, dead and bloodying the snow. He was practically unrecognisable, and the wendigo was ripping him apart like a thing that’s been starved for months. When it looked in my direction, I went as tense as ice. It’s face wasn’t human - nose and lips torn away by frostbite, and it’s teeth long and jagged and yellow - at least they would’ve been if it’s whole face hadn’t been stained with blood. It’s eyes were sunken into skin as thin as spiderwebs, and glowing like hot coals.
I wish I could say I did something daring and heroic, y’know? But I didn’t. I didn’t try to shoot the thing in revenge or anything. My head was spinning with the overpowering smell of death and blood and rot there. When I saw that thing, all I knew was that I wanted to be as far from it as possible. It was something I should never have seen. Antonio was a heap of gore, and I prefer being alive to a pointless, heroic death. So, I slunk off, creeping away quiet as a cat. Soon as I thought it was safe I ran like a deer until I found the others again, and I must’ve been spooked enough for them to take me seriously because we abandoned the hunting and immediately started back down the pass. We must’ve walked all night, and sometimes we heard that ghostly wailing, echoing around the mountain so it felt as though it were everywhere, and that it was us being hunted. I haven’t gone near the pass since, and neither have the others, to my knowledge.”
He paused to refill his glass again, then said, “You know, I once talked to Jack about this, and he’s the only reason I know about wendigoag - like I say, it’s a thing from Native legend. He told me the wendigo is a clever creature. It has senses better than any beast, it’s stronger than a bear and faster than a deer. But they’re hungry. Their nature is to be always ravenous, always hungry but for the very moment they’re eating. That’s why I reckon I lived - it was too busy gulping down Antonio to listen properly.
I’ve never forgotten it,” Etho concluded, his voice nearly a whisper, “Often I imagine I can hear it calling me, in that horrible imitation of a voice. That it knew I was there, and it follows me now. I hear it and I lie awake all night.”
The five men around the table were silent, all gazing at Etho, who gazed, seemingly forgetting of his audience, into the amber depths of his glass.
~ Thanks for reading! Reblog if ya enjoy, it means a lot! (。’▽’。)♡ ~
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dialetheia · 2 days ago
me on main: here is a general update. Love ya!
me on my locked: crying laughing puking emoji
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gubbymcyt · 15 hours ago
Reblog to shake a bdubs and make his googley eyes rattle 🙌
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poorlydrawnmcyt · a month ago
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saphushia · a month ago
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thinkin how the hermits would film/be watched in-universe
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kai-andrew-art · 4 hours ago
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So…the weather, huh?
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bdubsclips · a month ago
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caddied · 2 months ago
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what is last life if not a really big friend group who murder each other in occasion
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bottomfeederhoe · 4 months ago
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commieinnit · 2 months ago
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