Voices in Technoblade's head

If someone animated a video about Techno's chat to the song Rush E. I think it matches how chaotic the chat is. And also that version because E.

So, I'm just gonna assume this chick was on her period, but here's how the conversation went:

Girl 1: Oh god I need to go to the bathroom-

Girl 2: Why? You haven't even drank anything yet.

Girl 1: The blood god has awoken and chosen me as his victim...

Imma use that from now on-

Pings: @PoggersRanboo My first ever fanfic ping!

I stumble through the snow on my way home, the voices rejoicing at the blood now dripping off my pickaxe. The door to my house flies open with a bang, and the doorknob promptly cements itself in my wall. Screw being a pacifist. When I’m finished with L’manburg, there will be a crater where it once stood. I will tear it down like Rome tore down Carthage. Nothing will remain.

After a few hours of restlessly making plans, I go to bed. I don’t intend to fall asleep, but nearly being crushed by an anvil tends to take a lot of energy out of a person, and I eventually drift off.

Next thing I know, I’m standing in a familiar long, dark hallway with a door at the end. The voices are shouting, begging to get to the door. I begin moving, each footstep echoing loudly through the dim hall. A migraine splits through my head about halfway there, and the voices seem to triple in number and volume, but I ignore them and push through. I know the drill. I will get to the door and turn the knob, there will be a blinding flash of light, and I’ll wake up. It’s the fastest and least painful way out of these dreams. Finally I reach the door, and my hand settles on the doorknob. But when I turn it, there is no flash of light. Rather, I enter what looks like an occult room, with a large circle and a small altar. Unlit candles are set every few inches, and there are two bowls in front of the altar. Curious, I walk toward them. The bowls are large and lavishly decorated with latin words in a fancy font. One is empty, and one is filled with ashes. Resting on top of the bowls is a matchbox and a knife. Without thinking, I pick up the matchbox and strike a match, stopping a second to admire the flickering flame. Almost like someone else was controlling me, I walk around the circle, lighting each candle, then sit in front of the altar. The voices murmur, almost to each other as I pick up the first bowl. I make a ring of ashes around me, stopping just short of the altar. Then I pick up the knife. ‘Yes! YES!’ The voices chant. ‘Do it Techno!’ ‘E’ ‘DO IT!!’ I take a breath and prepare to cut my hand. Why am I doing this? I try to set the knife down, but something stops me, and I slowly pick it back up. I try to fight it, but with a blood curdling scream from the voices, the knife plunges into my left hand, and my hand is held over the empty bowl. I gasp slightly at the pain, but even more at the fact that I am not controlling my actions. As my blood flows freely into the bowl, the candles begin to glow brighter, not with white light, but with red. The voices grow louder too, chanting, blood for the blood god, blood for the blood god, Blood for the Blood god, BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!!!! Then an explosion bursts from the altar, and I throw my arms in front of my face, attempting to shield myself, but the inferno does not reach me. Rather, it stops around the ring of ashes. I guess I really don’t ever die. When the debris settles, I blink heavily. Where the altar was, now is a woman, about her early twenties, hovering majestically above the ground. She wears a black tube top, black fishnet tights, and red high heels. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail with sharp bangs swept to the right and long strands of hair framing her face. Her eyes are blood red. Without a word, she holds out her arms, and one by one, my voices quiet, and a red, translucent, human figure sweeps into the room. Thousands of figures have filled the room before I realize that, for the first time in as long as I can remember, my head is completely silent. I look around, finding children as young as 8 years old to adults as old as 25. “What the…” I stutter, staring at the woman. “Peace, boy.” she smiles, helping me to my feet. “Who are you?” I demand, snatching up the ritual knife, still stained with my blood. The woman giggles. “You don’t recognize me? You’ve been hosting my spirit for twenty years.” I just stare at her as the phantoms surrounding us begin to chant the too-familiar phrase, blood for the blood god, blood for the blood god! The woman shushes them. “Quiet now. I suppose I should introduce myself. I am Ayano, though you would know me better as the-” “The blood god.” I finish apprehensively. The woman, Ayano, nods. I hesitate for a second, then grip the knife tighter as I ask, “Why are you here now? Why are you showing yourself to me?” My face goes red with my rising anger. “Why do you torment me like this? Why-” “Torment you? My dear Blade, we make you stronger.” Ayano laughed. “We value strength above all else.” One teen phantom smirked. “We know what we do in our host’s heads.” An adult male chuckled. “Not everyone can host the blood god.” A ten-year-old child muttered. “That reminds me. Why are you called the blood GOD?” I inquire, interrupting the voices/phantoms/people’s little speech. “Well, that’s simple.” Ayano mused, conjuring a throne for herself out of my blood, seeming to triple it in mid-air before perching herself atop the deep red liquid. “You see, my subjects seem to think that ‘blood for the blood god’ is easier to say, and much more catchy than ‘blood for the blood goddess’. And honestly, I think they’re right.” Ayano kicks her legs over the armrest of her throne, and my face gets warm. “Oh, I always just assumed that-” “That you were the blood god?” Ayano finished, smirking. “That isn’t unusual. Many of my male hosts think that. You’re not arrogant.” Ayano pauses. “Of course, I’m not limited to blood. I’m also the goddess of violence, anarchy, withers-” “Why do you need a host if you’re a goddess?” I interject. Ayano tenses a moment in irritation, but quickly relaxes. “That would be a more complex story, you see…” she shifts slightly. “My dear sister decided that I needed a break from the god realm. By break she ment exile. So now, opting not to live in the nether, the end, or the in-between, I’m here. That’s the simplified version. I’m not going to go into the things I did to piss my sister off that badly.” Ayano rolled her eyes before adding, “You’ve probably heard of my sister, death herself?” I don’t answer. “Huh. I figured that he’d tell you. My sister is the goddess of death, Kristen.” My jaw drops. “Phil’s WIFE?!” I demand incredulously. “The very same.” Ayano laughs, taking in my shocked expression. “Don’t fret, I don’t mean to hurt them.” “Then what do you want with me?!” I shout. “I’m getting sick of these games!” Ayano sighs. “Well, dear Blade, after your near execution, you set some very ambitious goals. And if you ever hope to achieve them, you need to understand that we are not your enemies.” “The whole pacifist arc sucked!” A phantom near the back of the room shouted, and the rest snickered. “Don’t deny us Techno!” another called. “Work with us, Technoblade, and every government will fall.” Ayano smirked, tossing her hair. I smirk as well, and hold out my hand. “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a deal, Ayano.” Ayano takes my hand, and there is a blinding flash of light as the voices take up the chant, “ONE OF US! ONE OF US!”

I wake up in bed, the moonlight shining through my window. Holy crap, was that even real? I ask myself, rubbing my face with my right hand and reaching to get my water glass from my nightstand. Then, with a gasp of pain, I drop it, and it shatters to pieces on the floor. I stare at my hand. There is a massive puncture in my skin. LET’S GOOOOOO! The voices yell. I grin. “Who wants to blow up a nation?” I ask. Together as one, the voices scream; TECHNOBLADE NEVER DIES!!!!!

Technoblade and blood god agnst? WOOOO HOOO I'M SO PROUD OF THIS LET'S GOOOO!

The comments are turned off for the page about Techno’s voices...

Why?

I have no idea if this is original, probably isn't, but this morning I was thinking about their similarities and what they would mean if they end up actually being related. They're both pigmen, they're both rich and dress like it, they're both criminals, they both like withers, they have a similar mannerism and sense of humor, The Egg seemingly knows both of them, and they both have a voice/voices in their head demanding blood and death.

It's those last two that got me thinking, so Head Cannon time.

Sir Billiam was very involved with The Egg, and when he had kids, they got involved too, so they all heard The Egg's voice. At some point, they grew away from The Egg, but they kept hearing blood thirsty voices because they were so used to it. Each generation, the voices get larger in number and less like The Egg, so that now in today's world, Techno has a countless number of voices all screaming for blood for no reason that they know of, and are so removed from The Egg that they are now against it.

Thank you for taking time to read my probably unoriginal and wrong theory/head cannon.

Hello! The other day I created this piece of writing based off of Technoblade's canon voices in his head. Very cool :,D. But anyway, I don't really have anywhere to post it other than here... so yeah! Woo! Writing! I kinda gave up at the end though.

Anyway, !! T/W !! There are referrences to S//CIDE and mentions D//TH, so if you're uncomfortable with such topics, I suggest you don't read it lol.

//

Blood. The voices demanded blood.

Every day, the voices cried for blood. Every day, he'd ignore them, blocking out the incessant cries and their yells for the letter E. Every day, he'd suffer silently, questioning his will to live.

He had tried many times, tried to die. Just… die.

Nothing had availed his dead desire. He craved for eternal rest, heart crumbling at the thoughts he had had. The only thing he truly cared for was his closest friend, Phil. His presence gave him ease and comfort, and he seemed to bring genuine feeling… to him.

But nothing lasts forever.

And back to the voices it was. The festering yearning for blood only grew, and all he could do was appease it.

Chaos seemed to be a part of his character. He conformed to the voices, inducing destruction and bringing despair. All he wanted to care for was his ideals, but all he resorted to was violence: the universal language of the lands.

These voices started out as mere whispers, encouraging and praising him for his deeds. The disarray that happened was simply accepted by him. He even began to listen and fulfilled their wishes of blood and disarray. But gradually, they got louder. Louder, louder and louder. There would be a cry for bloodshed, offerings of bloodstained coins, bones, and flesh. Holy swords were offered, the voices even seemed to genuinely care for him, giving him various foods from the world. However, at times, their anger could not be contained — soon enough it came to the point where he could not hold back his violent ways, where he had to search for blood to spill. However, he continued to try to hold back, staying in his cosy cottage, away from all civilisations.

Life was uneventful. As days blended into days, realisations were made. Times were peaceful — the voices even made him offerings of peace instead of their violent blood-stained coins. Suddenly, everything was… surprisingly okay — until that one sorrowful event.

When all fell down, nothing gained or returned.

And the voices retaliated with all their might.

For he was their blood god.