NightWonder7 Posted January 7, 2017 Author Share Posted January 7, 2017 12 hours ago, Arlesienne said: Don't worry. I admit that in spite of the humourous elements of the post, I worried about you, because experience taught me in every post like that a grain of truth remains. Please be at peace and if there's anything I can do to help, write please. I am just worried about offending someone else or hurting their feelings. I try very hard not to step on anyone's toes, cause it gives off a really bad feeling knowing you did someone wrong ^^; I can see now that it could be mistoken for something else besides a joke. No need to worry about me ^^ I saw an opportunity to make a joke, and it was purely an attempt to make a charity parody. But thank you for your concern and for your support! <3 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fruerte Posted January 31, 2017 Share Posted January 31, 2017 On 1/6/2017 at 5:58 PM, Net Spectre said: And I've got the lovely image of Wilson playing chess with Bumby and being weird stuck in my head at the mere mention of the word "therapy". Wrote a bit about that, then got struck with the fright and decided to not post the horrid thing. Whee, look at me being a tease. So...*fidgets* I wrote a thing. @NightWonder7 liked it, so...*bows* I present it for thee to judge. With author notes and all. No chess though. Sorry. Spoiler I did kinda hint/promise something with my chess remark earlier, and I... don’t like leaving such things hanging like that. So, this story. While I did scrap the initial idea with chess, I still wanted to try and play around. I did plan to write something like this, if you remember my ramblings somewhere at the start of the Swap thread – and while this isn’t the way I percieved the merge of the two universes would go – I would stay within the timeline, for once, and leave the knowledge of game mechanics and such out – but then this scene would never be possible, as Alice is much older than Wilson, and Bumby would’ve been long dead – a long time between 1875 and 1910s-1920s has passed, yes. I figured that Wils would take Alice’s place in the plot. As such, he is supposed to be 19 years old in this thing, and shares some of the... past baggage with her. (Then again, I always percieved him as one stuck in the eternal case of Older Than He Looks. With his 5ft height and thin bony frame, even at 30 years he is forever doomed to be mistaken for a teen. Such is life. But I ramble...) This is written from the point of Mr. Creepy Doctor. He was quite an unpleasant (and obsessive) fellow to have around. Whined more page time out of me. Then again, most of the company I have rattling around in my brain is unpleasant or mentally unstable, or has way too many problems. Heh. I hope you’ll like my little oneshot! Enjoy! ~or not. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Doctor Angus Bumby, a respected therapist and a renown charity figure, sat in his cabinet on the second floor of the Houndstitch Home For Wayward Youth, deep in thought. Wilson Percival Higgsbury was an enigma. Before – a shy little boy with an aversion to crowds and formal parties, sickly and frail, with palor a little too strong than was nessessary for a member of aristocracy, with interest in things a little too gruesome for a lad his age. Loved by his father, hated by his mother, and shrouded in rumours of devilry, after she tried to drag her son into the church for an exorcism, and he had refused to come close to the holy places since. After - a sole survivor of a devastating fire, that had reduced the proud Higgsbury Estate to nothing but a skeleton of charred wood, circled by rubble and long since cooled cinders, a black scar on the beautiful face of the London countryside. The boy emerged out of the flames completely unscathed, only worsening the rumours, so when it was discovered that he was not in his right mind after the ordeal, the high society was all too happy to lock him away, high standing and still existing family fortune be damned. His long stay in the Rutledge Asylum earned him a reputation of the biggest and strangest headcase in the British psychiatric history. There were actually plenty of studies and books written on the matter - Bumby had read them all and found them quite facsinating - enough to visit the boy five years ago, when his hysteria was in full swing, and watch the feeble figure trash around and struggle aganist the restraints, intelligible screams echoing through the hallways. The boy's madness was deep-rooted. Uncurable. They all were sure that he'll spend his whole life inside the loony bin and quietly waste away before reaching adulthood. His condition took a sharp dive during the last two years, turning him into an unmoving doll, locked deep inside a stone-walled cell deep within asylum walls. The staff even started to bid on the day of his death, eager to get the troublesome patient out of their hair... Until, one day, out of the blue, Higgsbury woke up and broke all the theories surrounding his illness into a myriad of little pieces. To say that Bumby became intrigued was an understatement. The asylum released him quietly, without any articles in the papers, confining the news to the medical circles. To the populace of London, the tale of the mad boy who had lost his family and mind to the roaring fires had long become reduced to nothing more than a creepy tale spoken in hushed tones. Wilson returned to the normal world strapped of his status and brought down to the level of a common labourer. Lost and alone, in dire need of somebody to look after him. A perfect target. And Bumby utterly loved when the fate itself played in his hands. When it was known that the infamous patient had finally left his longtime cage, the doctor did everything in his power to steer the youth his way. Using his good standing in the psychiatric circles and a few bribes, Bumby managed to take him in as an assistant. To ease the suspicion, he did admit to a few of his trusted contacts that he wanted to take him in not for actual work, but due to his background - but it's all was to rehabilitate the poor fellow and help him rejoin the world, a good cause, surely. No one knew about his... interesting past, and the lad himself was smart and tight-lipped enough not to tell. He was calm and polite, always staying out of the way and keeping to himself, never speaking unless prompted to. By all accounts, a nice young man well on his way to becoming a respectable member of society. Or so it would seem. His collegaues were livid, when the boy woke up and the following checkups had revealed an intact psyche, excitedly chattering and scribbling in their journals, adjusting the notes in the lieu of the suprising development. Bumby sneered, pressing his fountain pen into the paper. Mind triumphing over insanity. Battle within, miraculously won. And other idealistic trite. The pen spewed ink, painting macabre sights on white surface. Bumby tore the page out, not wishing to mar his notebook. The boy didn't defeat his madness. He had learned to coexist with it. The orphanage was Bumby's kindgom, and the children were his eyes, diligently relaying anything out of the ordinary to the doctor during their therapy sessions. The psychiatrist bided his time, ordering his little puppets to keep an eye on the new arrival. Sooner or later, he believed, Wilson's mask would slip, and the Mad Child of Rutledge would return. Two months passed by in a lazy stream of sameness. His assistant behaved perfectly normal, doing perfectly normal things, like going to the market for groceries (he was allowed to keep the change), help the girls with cleaning, organize Bumby's papers, run for errands and spend time with kids - he wasn't much for games, but he took the time to look at their drawings or read a fairy tale book to them (Bumby was particularly pleased with that last development, as he never liked to waste his precious work time on the little useless anklebiters) - and then retire for the night, into his tiny room just near the boys' dorm. And then, the reports started coming in, kids bringing news like birds bringing twigs for their nest. About Wils staring into the distance, Wils staying up late into the night and doing something in his room, Wils catching rats in the backyard, Wils hiding in the attic, Wils talking to himself quietly... And just an hour ago, Charlie brought him a picture. "Wils actually drew something, doctor!", the boy said, smiling excitedly, a piece of folded paper in his tiny hand, "He never drew together with us before! He forgot to take his drawing with him, though. Can you give it to him later, please?" Bumby sent the child away with a smile and a cube of cheap sugar, and unfolded the drawing with shaking- Hands. Black, monstrous hands, their long, waving forms spiraling out of the centre of the list. The amount of detail in the drawing was surprising, with each bone and tendon and clawed nail meticulously recreated, warped appendages ready to leave their papery confinement and drag some fool into the depths of madness. Bumby stared at the picture, suddenly reminded of the countless drawings that littered the dirty walls of the holding cell... His holding cell. He carefully folded the drawing and tucked it between the pages of his notebook, smiling faintly to himself. Now, where was that assistant of his? He did need to return the drawing... Bumby walked to the window and looked outside, down at the children playing in the backyard, hidden by the endless stalls of the Whitechapel Market. Boys sat in a circle in the center of the yard, waging war on each other with their wooden soldiers, and a few girls huddled near the crickety old wooden fence, fiddling with their dresses and softly talking to their dolls and teddies. Little Lindsay was in her usual place, standing in the corner and facing the wall, repeating the same verse over and over. The doctor let out a frustrated sigh - she was close to being finished, but he went a bit too far during their last session, making her stuck in this no-good, useless state, barely aware of the world around her. A mishap unbefitting of someone his caliber, and an unfortunate waste of material. He would need to try and salvage what he could from this one later. Wilson entered the backyard, slipping through the hole in the fence. "Dinner is ready!", he called out. Bumby watched, amused, as the children raced past his assistant (getting a rather undignified yelp out of him), their games instantly abandoned at the prospect of food. Wilson looked around, making sure that the area was empty, and froze, noticing a girl near the wall. "Lindsay?" Bumby stepped behind a curtain, making sure that he wasn't visible, and listened. "Lindsay, dinner is ready," there was a shuffling noise, and Wilson's voice sounded a bit closer, indicating that he moved to the girl's hiding place. "The Sandman's coming." "You need to eat. I don't want you to starve." "The Sandman's coming, in his train of cars, with moonbeam windows and wheels of stars." "Lindsay, please. Let's go." "So hush, little ones, and have no fear. The man in the moon, he's the engineer." "But-" "The Sandman's coming, in his train of cars, with moonbeam windows and wheels of stars," Lindsay trilled, oblivious to young man's presence. Wilson grew silent. This is useless, Higgsbury, the therapist thought, smirking behind the cover of the curtain. "The railroad track, in a railroad bright, stands empty in the starry night." Wilson's voice was equally monotone, mirroring the girl's tone. "The Sandman's train is running late. It's time you went back home and ate." Bumby stilled, listening intently. "Hush!", she huffed, "Here comes the Sandman!" "In the daylight he won't come. You want to stay here, all alone? Now, dear, run up the stairs! Get your spoon and say your prayers!" "But I want to ride with Sandman..." “And you will, when night comes again.” Bumby carefully peeked outside, just in time to see Wilson moving away from the wall, Lindsay's tiny hand in his. The girl actually followed him, which was most incredible. "We'll see all the wonders of the Wonderland, on the Sandman's train..." Their voices trailed off, the creepy duet drowned by the noisy chattering of the evening market. Back in his cabinet on the second floor, Doctor Angus Bumby, a respected therapist and a renown charity figure, left his hiding spot, sank in his worn armchair, hidden behind a rickety desk and mounds of annoying paperwork, and loudly exhaled, his thoughts split between excitement and bewilderment. His hunch was right, right, right. He smiled, eyes twinkling behind the shiny round glasses. It was time to begin. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Orphan (also the basis for the Mad Child Leader) that sings the song doesn’t have a name in canon, so I gave her one. Why Lindsay? I don’t know. I don’t question the voices. Thanks to her though, I got to do more creepy poetry. And that’s wonderful. Yes. I wanted to compare her repeating one verse over and over to the “broken phonograph” at first, thinking it fitting for the classy **** like Bumby to know about them, but stopped myself in time – phonograph was invented in 1877, and Madness Returns takes place in 1875. But. This also means that Alice would have no idea what a phonograph, and by extension, gramaphone (which was a brand name until 1910, before becoming an actual term for such machines – random trivia, whee!), was. -hint- -hint- So...er, here.*chomps on a bloody cookie* 4 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
NightWonder7 Posted January 31, 2017 Author Share Posted January 31, 2017 5 minutes ago, Net Spectre said: I wrote a thing. YAY!!!!!!!!!!!! : D 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fruerte Posted January 31, 2017 Share Posted January 31, 2017 Just now, NightWonder7 said: YAY!!!!!!!!!!!! : D And I trust you to uphold your end of the bargain. 5 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
NightWonder7 Posted January 31, 2017 Author Share Posted January 31, 2017 3 minutes ago, Net Spectre said: And I trust you to uphold your end of the bargain. Aye! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
NightWonder7 Posted February 22, 2017 Author Share Posted February 22, 2017 On 31.1.2017 at 9:49 PM, Net Spectre said: Reveal hidden contents I did kinda hint/promise something with my chess remark earlier, and I... don’t like leaving such things hanging like that. So, this story. While I did scrap the initial idea with chess, I still wanted to try and play around. I did plan to write something like this, if you remember my ramblings somewhere at the start of the Swap thread – and while this isn’t the way I percieved the merge of the two universes would go – I would stay within the timeline, for once, and leave the knowledge of game mechanics and such out – but then this scene would never be possible, as Alice is much older than Wilson, and Bumby would’ve been long dead – a long time between 1875 and 1910s-1920s has passed, yes. I figured that Wils would take Alice’s place in the plot. As such, he is supposed to be 19 years old in this thing, and shares some of the... past baggage with her. (Then again, I always percieved him as one stuck in the eternal case of Older Than He Looks. With his 5ft height and thin bony frame, even at 30 years he is forever doomed to be mistaken for a teen. Such is life. But I ramble...) This is written from the point of Mr. Creepy Doctor. He was quite an unpleasant (and obsessive) fellow to have around. Whined more page time out of me. Then again, most of the company I have rattling around in my brain is unpleasant or mentally unstable, or has way too many problems. Heh. I hope you’ll like my little oneshot! Enjoy! ~or not. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Doctor Angus Bumby, a respected therapist and a renown charity figure, sat in his cabinet on the second floor of the Houndstitch Home For Wayward Youth, deep in thought. Wilson Percival Higgsbury was an enigma. Before – a shy little boy with an aversion to crowds and formal parties, sickly and frail, with palor a little too strong than was nessessary for a member of aristocracy, with interest in things a little too gruesome for a lad his age. Loved by his father, hated by his mother, and shrouded in rumours of devilry, after she tried to drag her son into the church for an exorcism, and he had refused to come close to the holy places since. After - a sole survivor of a devastating fire, that had reduced the proud Higgsbury Estate to nothing but a skeleton of charred wood, circled by rubble and long since cooled cinders, a black scar on the beautiful face of the London countryside. The boy emerged out of the flames completely unscathed, only worsening the rumours, so when it was discovered that he was not in his right mind after the ordeal, the high society was all too happy to lock him away, high standing and still existing family fortune be damned. His long stay in the Rutledge Asylum earned him a reputation of the biggest and strangest headcase in the British psychiatric history. There were actually plenty of studies and books written on the matter - Bumby had read them all and found them quite facsinating - enough to visit the boy five years ago, when his hysteria was in full swing, and watch the feeble figure trash around and struggle aganist the restraints, intelligible screams echoing through the hallways. The boy's madness was deep-rooted. Uncurable. They all were sure that he'll spend his whole life inside the loony bin and quietly waste away before reaching adulthood. His condition took a sharp dive during the last two years, turning him into an unmoving doll, locked deep inside a stone-walled cell deep within asylum walls. The staff even started to bid on the day of his death, eager to get the troublesome patient out of their hair... Until, one day, out of the blue, Higgsbury woke up and broke all the theories surrounding his illness into a myriad of little pieces. To say that Bumby became intrigued was an understatement. The asylum released him quietly, without any articles in the papers, confining the news to the medical circles. To the populace of London, the tale of the mad boy who had lost his family and mind to the roaring fires had long become reduced to nothing more than a creepy tale spoken in hushed tones. Wilson returned to the normal world strapped of his status and brought down to the level of a common labourer. Lost and alone, in dire need of somebody to look after him. A perfect target. And Bumby utterly loved when the fate itself played in his hands. When it was known that the infamous patient had finally left his longtime cage, the doctor did everything in his power to steer the youth his way. Using his good standing in the psychiatric circles and a few bribes, Bumby managed to take him in as an assistant. To ease the suspicion, he did admit to a few of his trusted contacts that he wanted to take him in not for actual work, but due to his background - but it's all was to rehabilitate the poor fellow and help him rejoin the world, a good cause, surely. No one knew about his... interesting past, and the lad himself was smart and tight-lipped enough not to tell. He was calm and polite, always staying out of the way and keeping to himself, never speaking unless prompted to. By all accounts, a nice young man well on his way to becoming a respectable member of society. Or so it would seem. His collegaues were livid, when the boy woke up and the following checkups had revealed an intact psyche, excitedly chattering and scribbling in their journals, adjusting the notes in the lieu of the suprising development. Bumby sneered, pressing his fountain pen into the paper. Mind triumphing over insanity. Battle within, miraculously won. And other idealistic trite. The pen spewed ink, painting macabre sights on white surface. Bumby tore the page out, not wishing to mar his notebook. The boy didn't defeat his madness. He had learned to coexist with it. The orphanage was Bumby's kindgom, and the children were his eyes, diligently relaying anything out of the ordinary to the doctor during their therapy sessions. The psychiatrist bided his time, ordering his little puppets to keep an eye on the new arrival. Sooner or later, he believed, Wilson's mask would slip, and the Mad Child of Rutledge would return. Two months passed by in a lazy stream of sameness. His assistant behaved perfectly normal, doing perfectly normal things, like going to the market for groceries (he was allowed to keep the change), help the girls with cleaning, organize Bumby's papers, run for errands and spend time with kids - he wasn't much for games, but he took the time to look at their drawings or read a fairy tale book to them (Bumby was particularly pleased with that last development, as he never liked to waste his precious work time on the little useless anklebiters) - and then retire for the night, into his tiny room just near the boys' dorm. And then, the reports started coming in, kids bringing news like birds bringing twigs for their nest. About Wils staring into the distance, Wils staying up late into the night and doing something in his room, Wils catching rats in the backyard, Wils hiding in the attic, Wils talking to himself quietly... And just an hour ago, Charlie brought him a picture. "Wils actually drew something, doctor!", the boy said, smiling excitedly, a piece of folded paper in his tiny hand, "He never drew together with us before! He forgot to take his drawing with him, though. Can you give it to him later, please?" Bumby sent the child away with a smile and a cube of cheap sugar, and unfolded the drawing with shaking- Hands. Black, monstrous hands, their long, waving forms spiraling out of the centre of the list. The amount of detail in the drawing was surprising, with each bone and tendon and clawed nail meticulously recreated, warped appendages ready to leave their papery confinement and drag some fool into the depths of madness. Bumby stared at the picture, suddenly reminded of the countless drawings that littered the dirty walls of the holding cell... His holding cell. He carefully folded the drawing and tucked it between the pages of his notebook, smiling faintly to himself. Now, where was that assistant of his? He did need to return the drawing... Bumby walked to the window and looked outside, down at the children playing in the backyard, hidden by the endless stalls of the Whitechapel Market. Boys sat in a circle in the center of the yard, waging war on each other with their wooden soldiers, and a few girls huddled near the crickety old wooden fence, fiddling with their dresses and softly talking to their dolls and teddies. Little Lindsay was in her usual place, standing in the corner and facing the wall, repeating the same verse over and over. The doctor let out a frustrated sigh - she was close to being finished, but he went a bit too far during their last session, making her stuck in this no-good, useless state, barely aware of the world around her. A mishap unbefitting of someone his caliber, and an unfortunate waste of material. He would need to try and salvage what he could from this one later. Wilson entered the backyard, slipping through the hole in the fence. "Dinner is ready!", he called out. Bumby watched, amused, as the children raced past his assistant (getting a rather undignified yelp out of him), their games instantly abandoned at the prospect of food. Wilson looked around, making sure that the area was empty, and froze, noticing a girl near the wall. "Lindsay?" Bumby stepped behind a curtain, making sure that he wasn't visible, and listened. "Lindsay, dinner is ready," there was a shuffling noise, and Wilson's voice sounded a bit closer, indicating that he moved to the girl's hiding place. "The Sandman's coming." "You need to eat. I don't want you to starve." "The Sandman's coming, in his train of cars, with moonbeam windows and wheels of stars." "Lindsay, please. Let's go." "So hush, little ones, and have no fear. The man in the moon, he's the engineer." "But-" "The Sandman's coming, in his train of cars, with moonbeam windows and wheels of stars," Lindsay trilled, oblivious to young man's presence. Wilson grew silent. This is useless, Higgsbury, the therapist thought, smirking behind the cover of the curtain. "The railroad track, in a railroad bright, stands empty in the starry night." Wilson's voice was equally monotone, mirroring the girl's tone. "The Sandman's train is running late. It's time you went back home and ate." Bumby stilled, listening intently. "Hush!", she huffed, "Here comes the Sandman!" "In the daylight he won't come. You want to stay here, all alone? Now, dear, run up the stairs! Get your spoon and say your prayers!" "But I want to ride with Sandman..." “And you will, when night comes again.” Bumby carefully peeked outside, just in time to see Wilson moving away from the wall, Lindsay's tiny hand in his. The girl actually followed him, which was most incredible. "We'll see all the wonders of the Wonderland, on the Sandman's train..." Their voices trailed off, the creepy duet drowned by the noisy chattering of the evening market. Back in his cabinet on the second floor, Doctor Angus Bumby, a respected therapist and a renown charity figure, left his hiding spot, sank in his worn armchair, hidden behind a rickety desk and mounds of annoying paperwork, and loudly exhaled, his thoughts split between excitement and bewilderment. His hunch was right, right, right. He smiled, eyes twinkling behind the shiny round glasses. It was time to begin. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Orphan (also the basis for the Mad Child Leader) that sings the song doesn’t have a name in canon, so I gave her one. Why Lindsay? I don’t know. I don’t question the voices. Thanks to her though, I got to do more creepy poetry. And that’s wonderful. Yes. I wanted to compare her repeating one verse over and over to the “broken phonograph” at first, thinking it fitting for the classy **** like Bumby to know about them, but stopped myself in time – phonograph was invented in 1877, and Madness Returns takes place in 1875. But. This also means that Alice would have no idea what a phonograph, and by extension, gramaphone (which was a brand name until 1910, before becoming an actual term for such machines – random trivia, whee!), was. -hint- -hint- I made a little illustration for the thing Net Spectre wrote :3 Do go and read it if you have not. I drew Wilson in what I envision him wearing in London btw ^^ 6 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Arlesienne Posted February 22, 2017 Share Posted February 22, 2017 @Net Spectre, @NightWonder7... chapeau bas for the collaboration. 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fruerte Posted February 22, 2017 Share Posted February 22, 2017 Just now, NightWonder7 said: I made a little illustration for the thing Net Spectre wrote :3 Do go and read it if you have not. A... a... a fanart for something I w...wrote?! A... a... -thump-*Net_Spectre.exe stopped responding. Please restart the consciousness.* 4 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
NightWonder7 Posted February 22, 2017 Author Share Posted February 22, 2017 4 minutes ago, Net Spectre said: A... a... a fanart for something I w...wrote?! A... a... -thump-*Net_Spectre.exe stopped responding. Please restart the consciousness.* Rise! \(oAo)/ It was fun to make ^^ ((I haven't forgotten about the other thing; I will get started on it after my test in the beginning of March ; ) )) 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fruerte Posted February 22, 2017 Share Posted February 22, 2017 (edited) Just now, NightWonder7 said: Rise! \(oAo)/ It was fun to make ^^ ((I haven't forgotten about the other thing; I will get started on it after my test in the beginning of March ; ) )) I didn't expect that my scribbles would actually inspire you to do a pic. I'm literally floored *rises* and even honoured. ((Great, then I at least will have something to look forward to during the Horrible Spring Exams.)) Edited February 22, 2017 by Net Spectre 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
DragonMage156 Posted February 22, 2017 Share Posted February 22, 2017 5 hours ago, NightWonder7 said: Do go and read it if you have not. But... there's so much ._. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
minespatch Posted February 23, 2017 Share Posted February 23, 2017 Wilson borrows Wes's fashion sense. 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Donke60 Posted February 23, 2017 Share Posted February 23, 2017 4 hours ago, minespatch said: Wilson borrows Wes's fashion sense. all he's missing is thigh high pants 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
NightWonder7 Posted February 23, 2017 Author Share Posted February 23, 2017 9 hours ago, DragonMage156 said: But... there's so much ._. Optional of course ^^ Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
NightWonder7 Posted February 23, 2017 Author Share Posted February 23, 2017 3 hours ago, minespatch said: Wilson borrows Wes's fashion sense. Or the Tweedles from Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland XD 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
minespatch Posted March 13, 2017 Share Posted March 13, 2017 On 1/31/2017 at 3:49 PM, Net Spectre said: I wrote a thing. @NightWonder7 liked it, so... And just an hour ago, Charlie brought him a picture. "The Sandman's coming."You need to eat. I don't want you to starve.""The Sandman's coming, in his train of cars, with moonbeam windows and wheels of stars.""Lindsay, please. Let's go."So hush, little ones, and have no fear. The man in the moon, he's the engineer." Finally got to reading this. Sorry for the wait. I was confused for a sec. Thought this was the other Charlie. Coppelius? The eye taker? 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fruerte Posted March 14, 2017 Share Posted March 14, 2017 (edited) 15 hours ago, minespatch said: Finally got to reading this. Sorry for the wait. I was confused for a sec. Thought this was the other Charlie. Coppelius? The eye taker? 1. No worries, this story isn't going anywhere. Late response is always better than none at all! 2. Yes, quite an amusing coincidence. The canon name of one of the kids is Charlie. I've decided to ask him to fetch the page for the additional irony points. 3. As if the old English folk song about The Sandman (the benevolent kind, the bringer of dreams). The story you are thinking about is a seminal work based on the same mythos. Edited March 14, 2017 by Net Spectre 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
NightWonder7 Posted April 19, 2017 Author Share Posted April 19, 2017 I stumbled upon some old sketches of Swap Challenge and found this particular thing and I'm still laughing XD Spoiler I haven't given up yet! I'm just very very very slow on updates ( ._.) Hopefully I will get a proper something up when finals and one particular project is done :3 4 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Aileen-Rose Posted April 19, 2017 Share Posted April 19, 2017 Wilson is displeased with you. 8T *shot* Pffft I love faces like this. They always make me crack up. 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
NightWonder7 Posted April 19, 2017 Author Share Posted April 19, 2017 3 minutes ago, Aileen-Rose said: Wilson is displeased with you. 8T *shot* Pffft I love faces like this. They always make me crack up. Same, same XD Can't believe I forgot about this one X'D 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
minespatch Posted April 19, 2017 Share Posted April 19, 2017 Return of the coffee cup glare. 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
DragonMage156 Posted April 19, 2017 Share Posted April 19, 2017 Dafug is he looking at? XD 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
NightWonder7 Posted April 20, 2017 Author Share Posted April 20, 2017 9 hours ago, DragonMage156 said: Dafug is he looking at? XD All will be revealed in time ewe 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fruerte Posted April 20, 2017 Share Posted April 20, 2017 (edited) 10 hours ago, minespatch said: Return of the coffee cup glare. Spoiler Edited April 20, 2017 by Net Spectre 4 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
NightWonder7 Posted June 13, 2017 Author Share Posted June 13, 2017 I assume Alice can't grow a magnificent beard, so she probably grows a magnificent hair instead XD to make the competition a little more fair :B 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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