DAY TWO : In which Matheson has still not made fire.

He poked his head out of the door and looked around. Not a soul to be seen, just the chirping of birds in the air, and a few sheep off in the distance, jumping up and down like a seizure victim trapped on a trampoline.

He surveyed the night’s damage. He’d repaired his house a little bit in the night, just to be safe, but there was still some wall missing, and the creeper had opened up a massive pit right next door.

le sigh

His first thought was merely to fill the holes back back in, but as he started to dig up some dirt, he decided that this might actually be a good thing. He could turn this pit into a basement of sorts, a kind of retreat and bunker. He might be able to actually get some sleep down there, cut off from the sounds of bloodthirsty monsters hungry for his flesh.

Not only that, but this stone might come in handy. It was much too hard for his shovel, but a few moments of jabbing things together and he’d whipped up a rough, but serviceable pickaxe.  He set about leveling things off and digging things out – Matheson was a stickler for classical symmetry- and in not to long he had a pretty decent space carved out.

He sealed it off with cobbled chunks of stone from his mining, ugly things, but probably a little sturdier and maybe better able to survive a creeper kamikaze then the wood. He put in some stairs, stood back, and voila! His house was good as new, if not better.

Peering into the darkness of his basement, however, he was instantly reminded of his need for fire. He cursed himself, and started rubbing sticks together furiously, only really managing to rub the flesh raw and give himself a few nasty blisters.

Well, shit, he thought. He still couldn’t remember anything about his life, but he guessed he hadn’t been a boy scout. He looked out over the world- maybe there was something out there that could help him do this? Either way, he’d have to hurry.

He started climbing down the hill, thinking of maybe returning to the beach and looking for some washed up glass or something, anything, he really wasn’t sure yet.

He’d gone maybe twenty steps, when he noticed a rather unusual formation of blackened rocks. He walked up to them, and gave them a good whack. Black flecks sparked and chipped off.

Bow before my might!

COAL! He gave out a holler. He couldn’t believe his good luck. Coal, this whole time, had been maybe a stones thrown away. He started picking away at it excitedly. The vein went on for several feet, and though he’d exhausted it in no time, he’d gotten a massive hall.

He carted it back up to his house, whistling a little song, and fashioned a crude torch. He struck the rocks against themselves, and bam, fire. Maybe things were going to be alright after all?

He set a few up around the house, put some up in the basement, and breathed sigh of relief. He was starting to feel right at home.

Sweet Basement, Brah

It was still ugly though, he thought, and though survival was his first priority, he knew somewhere deep inside him that Matheson Squareface Quiverbottom, Esq, was not intended to spend his days in a hovel.

He was no architect, but he added a sloping roof, and then a few sunken walls, and stood back, pleased with himself. He even made a little tower on the side, and put torches around it, so that if he ever (god forbid) got lost in the darkness, he could have something to guide him home.

Home Sweet Home

In all the excitement, though, he’d stopped keeping track of the time. The sun was already shrinking back into the hills, and as he gazed out over the ocean, as if on cue, the moon rose out of the sea, ominous and uncaring. He muttered a curse under his breath, took one last look at his house from the outside, and headed in. Hopefully, this night would go better than the last.

Little did he know, it would be much, much, worse. (continues to the next post.)

DAY ONE : The First Night

It got dark in what seemed like seconds.

I'll probably be fine.

The sun had been starting to edge down, for sure, but the time between that, and absolute darkness, was what felt like mere seconds.

At least there is a sun, he thought, with everything else that is strange about this place.

He’d been laying the foundation for his shelter- he’d found a patch of dirt he liked, dug into the side of the hill, whipped up a shovel and leveled it off, and was just placing down the walls and ceiling when the darkness hit.

He hated fumbling about in the dark like this, placing blocks by the stars and the scant moonlight, but he wanted a roof over his head in case it rained, and, though he hated to admit it, there was something creepy about this place at night.

He banged his head and hurt his hands several times, but finally finished it off, except for a little space in the front where he was planning on putting a door, if he could just figure out how to make one. He jammed the wood this way and that, but couldn’t quite get it.

And then he heard a peculiar sound. It was far away, and he would have thought it was the wind, except, there had been no wind all day. It was like a whispered hiss , far off in the distance.

And sounded like it was coming closer.

He stopped moving and strained for a few seconds, to listen.

Footsteps.

And they were definitely coming closer.

Fear gripped his heart. He was not a cowardly man, and if anything the fear made him redouble his efforts at building the door, but there was something inhuman and calculating about that noise that made his blood run cold.

More footsteps. And out in pitch dark, a low, strangled moan.

But always the hiss, getting nearer and nearer to where he was.

In desperation he heaved blocks this way and that, willing them into place with sheer force of mind- and then, bam, something locked and he held a door firmly in his hands.

He raced forward and jammed it into the doorjamb, securing it tightly from the inside, just as a dark green face emerged from nowhere, mouth open wide, rotted teeth barred.

Matheson shrieked and jumped back.

The creature was ugly. Ugly beyond belief. Green broken, rotted skin and lifeless eyes. It had that same vacant look as the pig, except it clearly intended some form of harm, its detachment making it all the more terrifying.

It jostled the door and pounded the walls, trying to force it’s way in, never taking it’s eyes of Matheson’s, but when it became obvious that the house was solid, it slowly slunk off to the side with a final, vicious hiss.

He knew it wasn’t gone, however. He could hear it breathing as it moved around his house, and after a while other noises became apparent as well; The clatter of bones on stone, the soft thud of decaying flesh on dirt, the gurgled cries and mad shrieks of inhuman creatures thirsting for blood.

Matheson wished desperately for some light.

If I survive the night, first thing I do tomorrow, I light a fire, he told himself, cursing under his breath he had wasted so much time today. I didn’t know it was going to be like this, he thought, I didn’t know. He slunk against the wall opposite the door, hoping they couldn’t see him in the inky darkness, hoping against hope he wouldn’t see the moon obscured by a sinister face.

That was a prayer that was not be answered.

Within minutes the creepy green being was back, it’s eyes burrowing into his soul. He stared back it, at first overcome with a growing sense of terror that slowly began to give way to an indignant rage.

I’m not going to hide in the corner just because you stand there, he thought. This is my house, ugly as it is, and I worked hard to create it. I didn’t ask to be dropped here. And I’ll be damned if I let you get to me! He shouted that last part, caching himself off guard. Did he say the whole thing aloud?

Either way, the creeper just stood there- creeper, that was a good name for it, he thought. It hissed, but stayed motionless.

He cast about for a weapon, grabbed his axe, and stood up. This ends now. I am a man- I am Matheson Squareface Quiverbottom, Esq. You picked the wrong place to play peeping tom.

He gripped the axe tightly and inched forward. The house was not very big and he was at the door in seconds. He couldn’t see the creature much better, and it was no less monstrous up close, but the smell, somewhere between rotting flesh and week-old egg salad, was enough to gag a dead dog’s worth of maggots.

Get some

Ssssss, it hissed. Matheson put one hand on the door, took a breath, and wrenched it open.

“SSSS THIS!” he bellowed (internally regretting that that might be the last thing he’d ever say) and whacked the beast on the head. It recoiled, and a phosphorus like glow flashed across it’s skin, but Matheson was not deterred. Again and again he struck it, and then all hell broke loose.

Matheson was thrown off his feet as a burst of heat and air erupted across the ground, sending splinters of wood and stone and dirt flying through the air. He was knocked back into his house, and struggled quickly to his feet only to find half his house in ruins- the creeper was nowhere to be seen, and in it’s place was a smoking crater.

This is not good, he thought, and he gripped his axe tightly as he edged around the corner, peering into the darkness.

There was a snap, an arrow embedded itself into the wood just inches from his head. He sprang back into the corner.

Now they’re shooting at me?! He stayed motionless. There were footsteps outside, the crunching of dirt and clattering of…bones?

Curiosity got the better of him and he crawled forward, peeking slowly around the crumbled wooden wall.

There was a man in the crater now- no, a skeleton! A walking, breathing, living skeleton. It growled at him and held up its bow, aiming another arrow in his direction. He withdrew his head and the arrow pounded uselessly into the wall.

Great, he thought. Exploding zombies, and now this. It’s only a matter of time before it decides to crawl it’s way up here, and makes me into a pincushion. I have to do something.

He edged forward, and sure enough, he could hear the skeleton trying mostly unsuccessfully to clamber up.

He waited until a skeletal hand came into view, and then brought his axe down on the hand, splintering bone and sending white fragments of fingers flying. He immediately lunged forward and whacked away, striking the skeleton on the head and shoulder in a flurry of blows.

Take this, you bone-headed skeletal bastard

 It took a few hits, but the arrow it had at the ready went wide, and before it could notch another, he’d returned it to the bone yard from which it came.

Exhausted but victorious, Matheson slunk back into the corner. The night was ending, he could tell. Tendrils of pink and purple were weaving their way across the sky, and the terrifying noises were growing dimmer and dimmer. He listened intently for several minutes, for any sound or sign of a new foe, but by the time dawn had broken he was sure he was finally, happily alone.

Continue to the next post.

DAY ONE : More beginning...

Matheson walked and walked and walked over the unfamiliar ground, over hills and through groves of trees and along the ridges of seaside cliffs, but he found neither sign nor trace of people. There was only wild, untouched land for as far as the eye could see.

He felt frustration well up within him with every step he took. Every peak he ascended, he held his breath he might see of in the distance the outline of a house or the spires of some city, but civilization eluded him.

“What is this?” He said, angrily, the sound of his voice unsettling and further depressing him. He tromped down the hill, not even watching where his feet fell but somehow, in his anger, avoiding falling to his death. It was at that second that he caught movement- MOVEMENT- out of the corner of his eye.

He spun around, recoiling at the blockish, pink mass before him, only to be met with a startled ‘oink’ in return. It was a pig. An ugly, weird-looking, probably thoroughly inbred pig, but a pig, nonetheless. He kicked the ground and cursed.

But wait! He thought suddenly – A pig is a domestic animal. Maybe this is a farm….a really, really, shoddily kept farm, but a farm all the same!

Only for a second did he entertain the morbid thought that perhaps he had been kidnapped and would be considered livestock, too. But for what? Organ harvesting? Hunting for sport? Some sort of psychological study on isolation, run by a sadistic madman?

He ran over to the animal, which regarded him warily, but kept loudly munching on grass. But, as he approached he saw no markings, no brand, no collar, no signs that it was anything other than a wild pig, ranging around the mountainside looking for food. And, as he looked, he noticed there were actually several pigs in the area, and what looked like wild, grossly-matted sheep in the distance. These animals were obviously hovering together in a pack, and they were equally obviously on their own.

Matheson’s depression returned, and then, after staring around for a bit longer, cascaded inside him, and he turned and drove his fists into the trunk of a nearby tree, once, twice, three times, again and again.

It exploded. Shards of wood fell around him, and he jumped back in shock, and then again to avoid what he was sure would be the bulk of the tree crashing down on top of him.

But nothing happened. The top of the tree just hung there, suspended in the air, as if gravity had no sway over this world.

What the devil? He thought, and then, further confusing him, he spied a shiny block of wood hovering on the ground before him.

He picked it up, looked it over, and looked up at the tree. He walked back to it, and cautiously hit the trunk a few more times. Nothing happened.

He looked around, and then started wailing on it, and poof! It happened again.

Again and again he struck the wood, and again and again it exploded into tiny fragments before his eyes. He tried another tree, and then another, all with the same result.

Thoroughly perplexed, and slightly out of breath, he sat down on a stump and contemplated the little army of wood blocks he’d assembled. He saw lines in them, strange little grooves, and as he poked and pulled he found he could pull the blocks apart into little wooden slabs.

Intrigued, and being the type who loves a good mystery, Matheson Squareface Quiverbottom, Esq., began jamming the pieces of wood together in all sorts of ways, searching for the secrets of this strange happening.

After a few frantic minutes he found himself with a pretty solid stick/handle-ly looking thing, and a fairly decent piece of flooring. He paused of for a second, and then took a bunch of the blocks and fit them together like magic, his body operating on some other, primal level, and after a flurry of movements he had before him a crude sort of…workman’s toolbox?

“I don’t suppose this makes any sense to you, because I’m quite buggered,” he said to the pig, who merely stared at him with vacant eyes and then lifted it’s leg and urinated where it stood.

Matheson ignored the animal and looked at his toolbox. He was in the zone right then, and somehow, in some way, something was speaking to him, telling him what to do. Without really knowing what was going to happen, he started banging away at wood planks and arranging sticks- and voila, like magic, he’d fashioned himself a crude wood axe.

He eyed his handiwork, and then gazed at the forest around him.

Before

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’re all going to die.”

After rampage

A few hundred whacks later, and his strangely endless pockets were positively bursting with wood scraps. He didn’t know exactly what he was going to do with it all- the thought of shelter crossed his mind- but he had worked his frustrations out, and even if he couldn’t control where he was or seemingly his own life, he was going to control something. He leaned on his axe and wiped his brow, and his eye’s met the pig’s, who was staring at him with the empty, souless expression of a beast bred for the table.

He looked down at his axe. He looked at the pig. He became distinctly aware of hunger pains in his stomach. He slowly brought the axe up and advanced on the pig, his shadow falling over it even as it continued to stare up at him with unblinking eyes.

Seconds to live

He sat on a pile of dirt and watched the sun beginning to set, gnawing absently on raw porkchop. He’d slaughtered the whole pack, something which maybe wasn’t the smartest approach but he was feeling rather destructive and vengeful, and seeing even one of the pigs left alive filled him with a sense of guilt. They just stood there as he cut into them, hardly even trying to escape, oblivious to the fate of their comrades three feet away.

Such stupidity should be rewarded with death, he thought, but at the same time he felt a little teensy weensy bit like a monster.

But he quickly pushed those thoughts from his mind.

 A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, he told himself. It’s time I change how I look at this. It’s not me that’s stuck here on this island. This island is stuck here with me.

Continue to the next post.

DAY ONE : The Beginning

Matheson gazed out over the harsh, sunlit landscape blankly, slowly becoming aware that something was terribly wrong; or if not wrong, then different.

Where am I? He scanned from left to right, seeing only an unbroken ribbon of sand and water threading its way along the shore, giving ways to masses of trees and grassy cliffs jutting up from the ground. He could swear the land was…almost dropping into place as he watched, but it was happening so fast, and he was so dazed, he paid that thought little mind.

Am I camping? He cast around at his feet. Nothing there, no tent, no tracks, no backpack. Only empty sand. He scratched his head.

He couldn’t remember anything. He had no idea how he got where he was- actually, he realized, he couldn’t remember hardly anything. There were flashes of something before this, but they were muddy and faded- a woman in a blue dress laughing, a stick of cotton candy, the smell of cut grass, rain stinging his face in a grey-tinged city. Then, he was here.

Even those ‘memories’ were remote and far away, so distant in fact, that his inability to remember them hardly bothered him. He felt, deep down, that there was something terribly wrong with that fact, and with his present situation, but with no history to compare it to he simply accepted his situation and moved on.

Perhaps there were other people out there, who could tell him what was going on? He took a few bold steps forward, then quickly turned back around and scooped several great handfuls of sand out of the very spot he had woken up on.

This spot, he reckoned, might have some special significance. In fact, he felt a certain kind of destiny worked into the ground there, as if it was a place he might want to see again.

Satisfied that the spot was marked, he turned back around and strode off into the unknown.

Continue to the next post.

Introduction

I’ve only played a few hours of minecraft here and there, over the year or so since it’s been out. Mostly because my laptop actually could not run the game- ugh- but also just due to time.

I was an hour or two into my first game and was just starting to realize how little I knew of it, and how incredibly entertaining it was, when I decided that I wanted to chronicle my game. Initially it was just going to be a couple of screen shots and a few jumbled notes, but that didn't last long.

What follows is the adventures of one Matheson Squareface Quiverbottom, Esq, as he and I attempt to navigate the changing and dangerous world of Minecraft, recreate a world in his image, and hopefully not get buried under tons of sand or lava in the process.

I’ll be playing with two house rules:

I have to eat once a day, and food must be a top priority, just as it would be in life. This means, even if the world is swarming with creepers and I’m armed only with wool and string, I still have to attempt to forage (obviously creating a safe food supply will be a top priority).

I only get two respawns (three lives).

I heavily considered just limiting myself to one life, but I figured it would be really shitty if I died due to something stupid and had to give this up after putting hours into it. Three deaths still means I have to be incredibly cautious- it is quite easy to die- while allowing me some wiggle room. I don’t think it’s terribly unrealistic; think of it as two close calls, that Matheson somehow awakes from, covered in scars but hopefully smarter.

I’ll be playing on Hard, initially with no mods but I will certainly add some over time as I get a better handle on the game (and provided they are save game compatible.

This AAR may, and most likely will, contains adult language, themes, and situations. After a long time alone in the middle of nowhere, sheep start to look real pretty. You have been warned.


And finally, I'd like to dedicate this AAR to three people:

• Living In Oblivion is a hilarious account of a guy playing Oblivion as an incredibly ugly, cowardly NPC. It changed my whole concept of what an AAR could be and kept me wanting more for months.
• Me, Floris is a massive Mount and Blade AAR, and probably one of the most popular after-action reports of all time. I don't know how he does it, but I read all 50+ of posts and just kept coming back.
• And last, but not least, to Becky, who unintentionally inspired this whole project. 

Alright then, on to the first post!