#pixl tag

[froggymarsh]

Eloise gently lifts him off the ground and settles him into her lap.

"Look, there's your little face," she says. There's a smile in her voice as she leans over him, and the fuzz in his head spreads, warm, comforting, "what a sight."

He tilts his head up to look, again, at his gravestone, but then Eloise gently strokes his feathers and he melts, suddenly engulfed entirely by the safety (and maybe even the hope) that Eloise brought when she arrived.

"It's the man you once were. Gone!" she's saying. He closes his eyes, soaking in the wonderful feeling of being pet. It's a feeling he's never cared for before- never a fan of getting his back rubbed or his hair tousled. This is the chicken brain, one hundred percent, and he never wants it to end.

"For another couple minutes, then it's back."

She's still smiling. Still petting him. All the stress of dying leaks out of him as she does, the memory of choking on lava fades into something that feels manageable.

"I didn't expect you to be so cuddly," Eloise says, gentle. "You're a sweet little guy."

[syn4k]

hello pixlriffs fandom i made a cool thing

(alternative title: well that's maybe three months of on and off embroidering that i'm never getting back!)

-------

seriously though hi. So a few months back I decided to go looking to see if Pixlriffs' iconic jacket was on sale anywhere and the answer was no, they stopped selling it years ago. there were no lookalikes anywhere either so i did the very reasonable thing of sulk about this for about a day, go out and buy a shit ton of thread, and make the damn thing myself.

"wait," you say. "hold on. Those stripes aren't made out of fabric, are they?"

No, Dear Reader, They Are Not.

Those are

embroidered

by hand to boot because i don't own a sewing machine.

"What the fuck," you may ask. "Why."

autism

im really stupidly determined to pull through on projects especially when it comes to stupid shit like this

i needed a big time consuming creative project to get me through the Seasonal Big Sads

THE SHEER POWER AND SWAG THAT I HAVE NOW THAT THIS JACKET IS COMPLETE IS IMMEASURABLE. Nobody else I know is going to be rocking up to school wearing something that they embroidered themself over the span of three months. Textile work is cool. This looks fucking awesome. I am unstoppable.

did i mention the autism yet?

anyways i may be currently focusing on other fandoms but pixl's videos (especially his empires smp series) have been getting me through some really tough times consistently for over a year now and i figured i may as well show that in some way. i'm pretty sure this is the coolest thing i've ever made to date.

AND i completed my goal of finishing it before 2024 (in my timezone)! at the time of writing this it is 10:16 P.M on December 31st, 2023 :] i did it i did the thing

and an extra lil bonus thing on the back that i added because i had the time (yes that is latin also please ignore the pet hair i have two dogs and a cat):

vigilate, amici mei.

(stay vigilant, my friends!)

[starheirxero]

RAHHHHH SOLAR FLARE BE UPON YE

[ahautism]

looking forward to his revenge against scott <3

[keyslox]

I did some doodles at work today im not immune to gunpowder boys hehe

[illmamnim-art]

Two Watchers and a Listener

[cheaploafs]

late night cuddles

[bdoubleowo]

happy flower husbands week i think this is the first time i've. ever drawn pixlriffs

[seth-kia]

Pixlriffs sees the world as it used to be.

At first, he's nothing special. The archeologist's guild relocates him to the Ancient Capital, where he sits for hours in the blistering heat, hikes across hills and cliffs and mountains, even delves into caves armed only with a torch and feeble sword--he's a historian, not a mercenary--to catalog a massive diamond-infested ribcage the neighboring Sheriff discovered during his spelunking trip.

He mines and farms to keep his little patchy settlement alive. He brushes fossils and restores paintings and is careful, so careful, with the crumbling stone and the withering grass. He does his job, and his research, and does his best to restore the past with gentle hands.

Perhaps it is his gentleness that gifts him the visions.

His hand brushes through the rising columns of houses made from basalt and deepslate, through the walls as if he's the ghost. It's disorienting, at first, to reach out and be met with nothing. He calls it a vision, because it's far too vivid to be a mirage, and he does his best to ignore it.

But something about the ruins haunts him while he tries to work. Something stirs in his heart as he watches the walls flicker and shift, and he feels… he feels longing, deep in his ribs.

Maybe that's why, the next day, he picks up his tools and gets to work.

Pixl knows what his job is. Preserve, restore, discover, record. This isn't what the guild authorized.

But the instinct to bring the vision to life, to put it where it belongs, is insistent.

Building, as it turns out, is much more difficult than restoring. He gets the hang of it, though, and the blueprints that he sees each time he blinks are helpful, if maddening. The itch in his ears is resolved once the ruins are no longer cobbled, and the frame of a long-destroyed home is returned.

He knows his strengths, though. It's not returned to its former glory. But the house is once again standing where it belongs, and it fills him with awe and longing and emotions he can't even begin to describe.

It's only a house, but it's inexplicably, indescribably right for it to sit on the crest of that hill, nestled between his wheat and the slowly wearing path to the campfire.

He brought it back from the past. He brought something back to life. He feels warm, like peace has settled into his stomach and given him time to rest, and to work.

The next time he sees something that isn't there, the peace is obliterated, and he is filled with apprehension.

There is no way he could build that.

The bridge spans for miles upon miles. It is absolutely massive, with twelve towers digging deep into the river, and it screams to be a symbol of pride, of honor, of unity. It is regal, tall, brilliant. He is washed in awe to bear witness, but he knows his limits.

He's just an archeologist. He can't do that.

So Pix tries ignoring it.

He spends the day working, getting his hands dirty. It's easy to turn his back on the vision in the distance, while the sun is high. He focuses on the discovery of the catacombs, of trading with the other… 'rulers', they call themselves, expanding his area.

The night is a different story.

Pix is a light sleeper. He tosses and turns on a good night. But he can't close his eyes, and he can't stop thinking about the bridge. His muscles still ache just from the little house across his field.

He tries to reassure himself--maybe it's a mirage. Go to sleep, Pix. Everything will be normal in the morning.

When the voices speak, he thinks he's lost his mind.

It is a big thing to undertake, but we are with you.

"Who?" he starts, choking on his saliva and nearly landing on the floor beside his bed.

The Great Bridge must be build again, they whisper, low and conspiratorial and ageless, and you, with your gentle hands, and your fire, are the one to do so.

"I… who are you?"

The voices don't answer.

There are voices in his head. He's losing it.

He thinks. He clings to the sheets of his cot, and he prays to whoever is listening that he's not going just as crazy as whatever Joel has going on.

"I can't do that," he says, hushed and bewildered. "I'm… I'm just a man, I can't do that."

Heroes like to say that, they whisper sadly. But do not fear. We are with you.

The vision fills his mind once again. The Great Bridge, miles above the sea level from where it once was, in glory and in greatness.

A symbol of unity.

"Okay," he says, voice small. "I'll… I'll try."

After that, he loses time.

He remembers his knees scraping against sharp stone and getting soaked from falling into the river several times. He remembers calloused palms and burning skin. He remembers building. Working.

He's good at that. Working.

When he feels himself again, he is kneeling, covered in dust, with bloody knees and aching hands, in the center of a bridge a million times his size, and he feels like the world has woken up.

There are voices in his ears, cheering to him. He is laughing, helpless.

This is what he was made for. Restoration. This, the thing he's collapsed on top of, this is history.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, kneeling on the bridge. Someone swoops by and asks if he's alright, and he answers yes, feeling light. He's never been better, he says.

They fly away rather quickly, but he hears their elytra spiral around the bridge for many seconds before it fades into the distance.

Hero, the voices whisper. We are with you.

He goes home, and he sleeps for three days, and then everything goes back to normal. He tends to the wheat and the cows and the froglights. He eats, and cleans his bloodied knees, and speaks with the rulers, and trades.

He is complimented on the bridge for weeks after. Even Joel, the eleven-foot god, stops by to leave a small floating bedroom in one of the towers. The rulers seem to have accepted him in their world, and he feels the stories move along around him. The blueprints are gone from behind his eyelids, now that he sees the true buildings before him every day.

The next vision is different.

Pix wakes up, in the middle of the night, forced out of his bed by something akin to fear, to anxiety. It stirs in him, pulses and ties his stomach to knots, and his gaze is frantic as he tries to discover the perceived threat.

His eyes land upon a statue that certainly wasn't there when he went to sleep.

There is a woman.

She towers. She is strong, in all but the material that builds her; she is love, she is strength, she is mothering kindness, and she is light, in everything, she is light.

She holds a sword, but her arms are open. Her hair is long, in waves; and behind her spreads wings, and behind her still a circlet of gold like the sun behind her.

Santa Perla, the voices whisper, and they ache equally with longing and joy.

When his gaze meets hers, the fear calms.

Santa Perla.

The night is high, and the air is cold, and the monsters are angrier than most, but he picks up a shulker, and he works.

Pix remembers the moment before, when her gaze is locked on him, melancholic and ageless. And he remembers the moment after, when she stands tall, in glory, looking to the horizon, gracing the land with light.

His fingers are bleeding from the stone, his eyes are dry and his stomach is howling and the sun is setting, but the peace fills him and he can't stop smiling.

She has returned, he thinks, and it is right.

"Are you there?" he asks the voices, once he's brushed the final dust from the stone. "I did it. She's back."

We are with you, they whisper. The air around him shimmers, cool against his burning skin. We are grateful.

He laughs, breathless and achy. "What's next?"

Wait, hero. You have served us well. Rest, and we will return.

"I'm no hero," he says, and is met only with silence.

It continues. The gates are shaky in his mind, like a mirage in the desert. The museum grows to be a constant, the voices murmuring soft in his head as he adds history into reality. The castle, oh, the castle, it is bigger than he could ever imagine.

But the bridge was just as big, and the voices just as strong. Hero, they call him, and he finds the word fits on his shoulders.

So he puts down his feet and he gets to work.

He builds and discovers history as he creates it. With every piece he restores, he stills the stirring in his chest, and he feels more like himself.

He works, and he grows, and he learns. He is called hero and he is called king.

Pixlriffs sees the past as reality, and he brings it all back to life.

ao3 link here, inspired by @darubyprincxx and their post on pix's lightmatica wristband actually being visions. i love my prophet!pix headcanons. sue me.

[gracebethartacc]

school doodles yayyyy

[sweetest-honeybee]

beloved bee,I don't know if you even follow empires but if you're ever itching for random inspiration Pixl, MythicalSausage, and Fwip would look so good in your style... 🥺 But! Regardless! Your amazing!! Have a fantastic day!

I can FINALLY answer this omg

So I didn’t do sausage but I tried my best with the other two 😅 I haven’t seen much fanart of them at all so I’m just going off of vibes and my friend suggested Pix have a ponytail hehe

[froggymarsh]

little gunpowder boys thing hi hello. pixl gets mad at fwhip in this one and there is some yelling + annoyance + arguing + vent regressing so beware yesyes

Pixlriffs is trying, desperately, to get things done today.

Even with the extended time he gets as he's adjusting to his new role as the newly crowned king of Pixandria, he’s behind schedule- blueprints for the newest section of houses shouldn’t be taking nearly this long to review, but he’s distracted by the overexcited heir to the Grimlands' throne.

Fwhip sits perched at the edge of his desk, swinging his legs after Pixl told him he couldn’t have them up on the desk itself. The movement of it is shaking the table, but Fwhip doesn’t seem to notice or care, looking down at the blueprints with interest. In his hand is a red and black juice box with a cherry design on the side. He sucks on air, making loud slurping noises, having finished the box ages ago. He's giddy and a little bit too excited to point out everything that’s wrong with the current plans.

“You’re going to want to rethink the positioning of your stables,” he says, pointing one gloved hand at a building next to the road that winds around the Vigil. Pix nods, making a note, and Fwhip pulls back to mess with the straw of his juice box- pulling it up and down rapidly. It squeaks. Loudly. “Unless, y'know, you want horses pooping all over your sacred grounds."

“Sounds as though you’re speaking from experience,” Pixl remarks.

“Something like that,” Fwhip laughs, and the straw flicks up and out of the box this time- “oh- whoops!”

Pixl’s nose wrinkles in annoyance as Fwhip accidentally splatters tiny red drops of juice all over the blueprints. The builders won’t be happy about that.

There's also little drops on his arm, and right now Pix isn't happy about that. He glares up at Fwhip, who offers a sheepish grin and goes back to chewing on his straw.

A juice box. The annoyance crescendos into something louder. By the gods, isn’t Fwhip a bit too old for juice?

"Here lemme just-" Fwhip leans over, using the end of his scarf to pat at the droplets. Pixl sighs, and Fwhip just laughs, "it'll work, it'll work! Trust me, here-"

He lifts his scarf. It's only made it worse, turning the small red speckles into far more noticeable smudges.

Pixl glares at him again. The crescendo comes with drums, now, his heart beginning to pound in his ears.

"Whoops," Fwhip says again, as if he didn't just ruin months worth of work, "I uh- let me-" he laughs, a little self consciously- "let me get some markers, I can probably fix that."

He slides off the desk, the movement jarring and causing a cup full of pencils to go toppling over the side, too fast for Pixl to catch on reflex, fingers closing on open air. He sighs. Fwhip looks sheepish, offering a far too playful smile as he scoops the pencils off the floor, back into the cup and places it back on the desk.

"Sorry," he offers. Pixl waves him off, scratching another note in the space between two larger blotches.

Fwhip honest to goodness whistles as he walks away, drumming on his pants as he exits the room, seemingly unable to go longer than ten seconds without making noise. He disappears down the hallway and Pixl gets about ten minutes of blissful silence before the half-vampire is sauntering back into the room.

"So I couldn't find any markers," he says, approaching the desk, "but I did find some blank paper and some crayons, so I figured I'd just redo the blueprints on here. Sound good?"

Pixlriffs sighs. It comes out more frustrated than he meant for it to be, "no, Fwhip."

"Please, Pix?" he hops up onto the desk again, "I can fix it, lemme fix it."

The annoyance spikes. So does his heartbeat. "It's still readable, Fwhip."

"But it could be color coded," he says, and there's a childish lilt to his voice now, softer, excited, "c'mon Pixie, please?"

"I said, no, Fwhip," Pixl nearly growls.

Fwhip huffs, frowning. He puts down a piece of paper, covering a small corner of the blueprint, and shuffles through his crayons. "I'm going to do it anyway."

Pixlriffs slams his hands on the desk, making Fwhip startle. He slowly begins to stand, rising to his full height, and Fwhip's head tilts up with him, their eyes locked. Fwhip shrinks under his glare, eyes wider at the sudden outburst, fingers gripping the crayon in his hand a touch tighter.

“Count Fail Whip, heir to the throne of the Grimlands,” Pixl snarls.

Fwhip’s face flushes at the use of his full title, but he doesn’t break eye contact. It’s far, far too formal for the friendship they’ve built, but it does its job. He has Fwhip’s full, undivided attention, crayons and paper forgotten.

“You. Are one hundred and fifty-seven years old,” Pixl reminds him. Fwhip’s cheeks turn scarlet, across the bridge of his nose and all the way to the tips of his pointed ears. “Act like it."

The silence is thick and unwavering. Fwhip's eyes gloss over- he's the first to break eye contact, looking away and swallowing.

Pixl glares at him. He's staring at the door across the office, unaware.

"Sorry," he whispers, putting his hands in his lap.

Pixl huffs- it's a short laugh with no humor- and sits.

"You said you'd help," Pixl says, "and you haven't been helpful for at least an hour."

Fwhip does not look at him. He sniffles again, one hand reaching up to wipe his cheek.

"I was trying to help," he answers. Without looking at him, he shows Pixl the crayon, nodding and setting it down on the desk, "I thought I was, lightening the mood or something, I guess. I thought..."

He trails off. Dares a glance at Pix, eyes snapping up and away again. He clears his throat. "Sorry."

"My architects cannot work with a crayon drawing."

Fwhip laughs, self conscious, and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, "yeah. Sorry. Don't know what I was thinking."

"And you spilled juice on a blueprint we've been working on for three months."

Fwhip huffs, an echo of Pixl's same, bitter laugh, and climbs off the desk.

"I get the picture, Pix," he scoops his crayons back into their box and gathers up his paper, fangs on display as he snaps, "I'm afraid I'll have to cut our meeting short, but I really do wish you the best of luck with your blueprints."

Pixl bristles, "thank you, Count Fwhip."

"No problem, your highness," he snarls back, "best wishes to you and your kingdom."

With that, the Count takes his leave. Pixl half expects him to slam the door behind him, but instead it gently clicks, and Pixl is left alone in blissful silence.

He takes a deep breath, running his hand through his hair. It says there, elbow perched on the desk as he retrieves his pen with his other hand and gets back to work.

[syn4k]

AND NOW, REPORTING LIVE FROM JOE HILLS' TWITTER, IT'S PIXL KEYS GIVING YOU LIVE COVERAGE! Technically I'm not qualified for this job but what the heck, it's funny.

Well, folks, looks like Doc's gone straight for the jugular. (What's this- IT'S DOCM77 WITH THE STEEL CHAIR!)

More updates coming as fast as we can get our grubby little hands on the screenshots!

[dappledpaintbrush]

spotify play sarah by alex g

Anyways omg shadoo. This is for my version of Dimentio’s backstory for the game alone. YAYYYYYYYY ill be posting more about it soon

[ahautism]

the narrator’s dilemma

hummingbird - edu // pixlriffs empires smp season 2 episode 9 // ozymandias - percy shelley // pixlriffs empires smp season 1 episode 15 // tales to be told - the mechanisms // piclriffs empires smp season 2 episode 1 (transcript) // grian hermitcraft season 9 episode 32 // road to hell - hadestown // into the woods

[sundewa]

variations of the copper king