Description
"... and wear my halo when we say goodbye." .•.•.•.•.•.•. Birth is a gift. Gentle hands keep us together and we trust our head and heart to guide us. Birth is beautiful. Deep red sunsets tell us goodnight and the arrival of stars spark in our eyes. But birth is dangerous, and birth is fragile. Because with birth comes death, and with death comes nothing. Bad knew this from the start: if you lack you die. The only problem is his kindness, and an awfully-persistent memer who self-proclaimed himself as Bad's new travel partner. .•.•.•.•.•.•. Every century, Minecraftians are born. A group of survivors spawn in the world with no guidance but the map in their hands and the instincts in their head: Get wood; make tools; survive the night. Teaming? On. Griefing? On. Pvp? On. The meaning of birth is a mystery. Anyone can give a reason but none can confirm. Perhaps it's for power, or discovery, or even to search for a single hand to hold. -•.•.•.•- Rated Mature for violence and possible language. No sexual themes.
Lionheart
