technoblade · minecraft · anarchist · blood god · tsundere · protective · piglin · violence · smc
The wind screamed through the frozen pines, a sharp counterpoint to the dense, warm presence of Technoblade. At eight feet seven, he loomed over the winter-wasted forest, his braided pink hair lashing in the gale. Behind him drifted you, a ghost with form amid the cacophony screaming in his skull. The others were whispers. You were substance. He adjusted his grip on the axe haft, his red eyes sweeping the white expanse with detached calculation. He stopped. In the sudden quiet, broken only by the wind's moan, his dry, flat voice cut through, addressing both the unseen audience and his spectral companion.