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Vynik21, April 10, 2013 in [Don't Starve] Art, Music & Lore
It appears so
I am happy to be writing in this forum again. I appreciate everyone who continued to check on the progress of this thread, delighted even, and your posts have kept me from joining Wilson in insanity due to work. However, now that it has receded somewhat, I have had time to do a little writing.
In that period of recreational writing, Wilson has managed to scrounge up his journal again. It's been a long time, but even he can't ignore old friends forever. Act 3 of Wilson's adventures will be regularly updated, as long as I am not absolutely swamped, but there shouldn't be a week+ break any more. Thank you all for continuing to check the thread and give me motivation to continue the story.
Now, Wilson's turn to talk.
Day 142 – #1 – Science
I found you today in a pile of my old belongings. Your torn and wrinkled leather cover called out to me from behind a mound of teeth and rock. The baying of the hounds brought back memories of my move from the scorched forest. I can still remember Frederic’s swollen black eyes.
I hear yelps in the distance as my traps end more of the creatures. My wounded leg still needs time to heal and my base defenses seem to be sufficient. The sad whimpering is accompanied by a second snap of a trap closing, a tooth piercing skin, and silence.
It brings some comfort, I think.
Day 142 - #2
As I write, it feels as though I am trying to communicate with an old friend, one I haven’t seen in quite some time. There are awkward pauses and occasional silences lapsing into superficial conversation. Every few moments, I feel as though there is an idea, a reason, aching to be written down, but they disappear as soon as they slip into my head. It’s a maddening feeling.
Many days ago, I heard of the healing properties of spider glands. During a particularly nasty assault, I managed to kill a couple of the arachnid beasts and gather a pinkish, goo-covered organ that I smashed into a healing salve. It cured some minor wounds I sustained, but I have yet to try it on anything more severe.
Unfortunately, I am out of that pink gold. I peered over the walls of my fortress today, the stone serving as a barrier to those who seek me dead, and I see a forest of spiders just beyond.
Their chittering at night keeps me awake.
Day 142 - #3
What else shall I write in you, journal? What knowledge do you hunger for? Do I feed you my hopes for this island? I used to hope that I would escape, appear back in my laboratory, and this would all have been a nightmare. Perhaps I can still hope for that. This might be a nightmare. It is a nightmare, a never-ending one.
What do I hope for now? I hope for some healing salve to tend to my wounded leg. Limping around this land is proving exceptionally detrimental to my chances of surviving. As time progresses, the creatures seem to be getting more aggressive, more… determined. I have survived for so long, journal. I have given so much to this Hell that I cannot imagine failing now.
So what are my current goals? What am I working towards? I don’t know. My previous hope of escape has been supplanted by an aching feeling of despair.
I haven’t seen Willow or read Wolfgang’s ramblings in months, since… the event. I miss them so.
Day 142 - #4 – Dusk
Once again, I have frittered an entire day away in my camp, hoping that I will stumble upon some great scientific discovery that will transport me home.
A wave of depression that is not uncommon, but I am beginning to feel better. I did not understand the important role you played, journal, but I am beginning to again.
Sanity is a fragile thing. Oh, it is ever so fragile. The lumbering shadows in the darkness seem to pray on my sanity, seem to make it flee without so much as a parting goodbye, and I choose to let it. I choose to tremble, shiver, clutching my spear next to a roaring campfire and a nimiety of makeshift tools.
As the night approaches, I can feel the familiar fear returning. I can hear him whispering in my ears. I can hear Maxwell’s exasperation that I am not dead yet.
I write to you, Maxwell. No, I am not dead yet.
Day 142 - #5 – Night
I have decided on a plan of action. One last entry before bed, I think, is doable.
I have been reticent about utilizing this armor I have crafted. I feel somewhat barbaric, but it was crafted using Frederic. I did not want him to completely burn in the forest, reduced to ashes and blown away. My helmet sings to me. A remnant of a friend exists inside of it and pushes me onward. A fragment of a tentacle, spike protruding, leans up against my base’s walls.
I will gather the glands I need to cure my leg tomorrow.
I cannot sit here any longer, hoping for an epiphany that will never come. I must be proactive.
Day 143 - #1 – Gears of Violence
The lack of mobility in my leg has led me to concocting a plan that is greatly tactical. I feel the sharpness beginning to re-emerge as the grisly machinations of my mind, the gears of violence, begin to turn, whir, and hum. The spiders are not out during the day, no, they fear the sunlight. Soon enough, I imagine, that will not be the only thing they fear.
My plan is thus:
I shall disturb the second largest nest within view of my base camp. If all goes well, their anger should cause a chase. My leg may not be one hundred percent but I do believe that I can outrun the spiders long enough to get them to enter my camp.
Upon them entering the camp, they will have to navigate through a small labyrinth of traps, which should thin the numbers, if not completely devastate them, and allow me to mop up the survivors personally.
Yes, I do believe that will suffice.
143 - #2 – Dusk
It has been, approximately, 143 days since I found myself trapped here. In these 143 days, I have had some successes, mostly failures, and every action I committed was wrapped in disappointment. Today, I can objectively say, was a complete success.
The spiders fell one by one as I ran, carefully, through my gauntlet. A snap was followed by a screech or complete silence, as they eradicated themselves. I felt life returning to me. I felt… powerful again. I feel like I’m the strongest man in this God forsaken place.
A straggler made his way through my traps but he cowered in fear when he reached me. The spike split his thorax easily, causing a black liquid to spurt out of his body. He emitted a pitiful gurgling and collapsed. I pierced the important organ, however, and rendered it useless.
Cannot make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, I suppose.
I scavenged four organs from the dead spiders and created a satisfactory amount of healing salve. I administered two full applications and my leg feels almost one hundred percent better. I have no doubt it is time’s job to heal the wounds completely.
I am satisfied in my day’s bounty and feel as though I am capable of exploring again. This is in no small part to me finding this journal again. Its existence has slipped from my mind for so long, a forgotten testament to my previous knowledge, my previous existence.
The last time I remembered it was about sixty days ago. I had stumbled across… clockwork chess pieces. I ran back to camp to record it, read over my last entries, and exploded into tears.
I have not desired to open it since.
Day 143 - #3 – Night
Oh, no. Oh god, not the music again. I was doing so well. I was doing so WELL. I had a grip on my mind. The experience with the spiders. The spiders. They ate me. Not me, they ate me. They ate my mind. Oh god. The music.
Sharp staccato violins and pianos play in the distance, a music box that horrifies me. I can’t listen to it. I was curled up next to the camp fire, my fingers in my ears, and all I could think of was Frederic. His eyes, black burning eyes, stared into me from my mind. He was looking inside of me from inside of me and the music started again.
Tink, tink, tink. A music box. Hands. Darkness.
Please. Not again.
Day 143 - #4 – Night
My insanity deepens. I looked over my stone walls, my stalwart protectors, and I saw something. I saw something, I say, and it’s something that will never go away.
The nest has sprouted. Eyes are burning through the darkness again and I can see her. She’s chittering, screeching, screaming, and calling for my death for the murder of her children. I cannot blame her, of course, as that is what I am. I am a murderer. Frederic’s skin sits atop my head.
I’m sorry Frederic.
She lumbered into the light for only a moment, and her mouth opened up to horrific teeth as spiders spilled from her body. I can hear the laughter in the darkness return, accompanied by the instruments, and my mind begins to wither.
Please, journal, help me like you did before. Help me.
In the distance, there is a fire.
Day 144 - #1 – Long Live the Queen
It has been 144 days, approximately, of me arriving on this island. I have slipped through warring tribes, danced past great forest fires, and skillfully dodged possessed, super human enemies. I have fought many things on this island, including those which were not there.
Some days were failures, some days were successes, but I write in between waves. Today is not a success. The spider queen thirsts for my blood as I cry out my apologies into the daylight. She cares not for the presence of the sun as her children do. I see her rearing up and her legs strike with great force against my cobblestone walls. They shake.
Her children, timid and frightened by the sun, have an unnatural confidence. They swarm around behind me, to the entrance of my camp, and get caught in my traps. One or two may make it in, but they die swiftly.
I cannot hold out if my walls fall. I would no doubt die.
I must reset my traps.
144 - #2
Wolfgang, are you there?
Wolfgang, I need you.
144 - #3
The queen seems to have retreated temporarily. She attacks the same section of wall over and over and it is only a matter of time, not much time, until she breaks through. She would… destroy me. She would destroy everything. She would obliterate me, my journal… Women spurned.
Weeks ago, I managed to create a substance out of nitre. It is a mineral that I found in some of the rocks littered about the landscape. I deduce that it would create quite a powerful explosion were it to be ignited.
144 - #4
I must keep writing to stay sane. I must stay sane to keep writing. I must stay writing to sane keep. Keep sane stay writing must I. There is nothing else I can do. The presence’s queen drives mad me. I write furiously. Angrily and quickly. Two meanings in one word. I like that. Words are fun sometimes.
I put the boom powder around the wall where she has been striking for so long. She will return. I can feel her screeching in my mind, a call that tells me she will return. I am sorry, spider queen, for I am a murderer. That is who I am. I cannot change that. I am a murderer just like I was in my lab.
That is who I am. Accept me.
If you return you shall be murdered as well. Accept it.
144 - #5 – The Queen is Dead, Long Live the Queen
The explosion destroyed much. A fire erupted, burning away a good portion of the forest, and I have a hole in my wall. The explosion tore the Queen asunder, her limbs flying in all directions. A deafening screech, louder than anything I have ever heard, echoed throughout the remainder of the forest.
I sit in the middle of another charred graveyard of trees, destroyed by my own hand, and I am beginning to believe this is my station. I belong here, in the ruins of nature and myself, flames scorching the land around me and holding me prisoner. I have made the Hell analogy before, but…
Her screech, an alarm, woke the beast, I believe. The Devil himself laughs in the night, but the dusk belongs to these women. Gatekeepers of Hell, I think. Three more Spider Queens have erupted, their nests on their backs, children spilling from them like water from a faucet.
They all watch me. They hiss. I am not angry. I am… disappointed. I have been on this island for 144 days, approximately, and I have had a great many successes and failures. Each one, however, was wrapped in disappointment.
The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.
In the distance, barely visible, is another fire. And a door.
Why a door?
Nice to see you back, Vynik.
Welcome back! Act three's good so far! But is that door what I think it is...? If so, I'm curious to see what Wilson will make of it.
Well hey, look who's back!
This is amazing. The don't starve universe seems to leave a great impression on you, as you begin to feel the character yourself... It is quite interesting.
WOOT It's back! :yaypigs:http://forums.kleientertainment.com/images/smilies/happypigsarehappybycrispyjelly.gif
Thank god! I was worried it was over, great job dude keep it up!
i love this story!:kiwi::kiwi::kiwi::kiwi:
Is there any chance/way of this getting turned into an E-Book format? I would love to download this story to read at school Im only at Act 2(?) though I must say I love that first real interaction with Maxwell
Sorry that it's a short one today! I'll put up a longer one tomorrow or early Wednesday. Hopefully there aren't any glaring errors or serious issues with this one, since I wrote it when I was pretty darn tired. I hope you guys like it though!
Day 145 - #1 – The Door
I stay cooped up behind my walls, spider royalty marching on outside, plotting, planning. I have reset my traps, laid more gunpowder, and I am ready.
Queens. Spider Queens. I cannot stop thinking about Frederic. Since I woke up, his words echoed, an earth shaking baritone resounding inside of my head, and I do nothing but wish for his presence. It seems strange to write that I wish for his return, but lately my mind has been preoccupied with him, with the entire tribe.
I can hear the song of the door in the distance. It is silence to the spiders, no doubt, as they continue spinning their webs and marching onwards, plotting my death. It is not silence to me. I can hear it calling me, an orchestra beckoning me closer.
I hear you.
Day 145 - #2
As I stare through the hole in my wall at the enemies outside, my mind runs a marathon, darting in between memories and plans previously laid. If the arachnids decided to attack at this moment, I would no doubt die, as my mind is not situated properly for tactical combat. No, I would flail, my spear piercing the skin of one as I fall onto my back. Her leg would lift and I would lie, paralyzed, as it came down, perhaps crushing me, perhaps splitting me in twain.
Such morbid thoughts are coursing through my mind now. Where there was once optimism, cynicism reigns. Hope has been replaced by violence and those gears of violence are turning, shifting, and working. It seems fitting that I am wearing Frederic's helmet on my head, his skin gracing my own.
We are still comrades in arms, Frederic.
The door is the key. I can feel it. There's something pulling me towards it and I fight it with every fiber of my being. It is not my usual behavior to rush headlong into danger without careful forethought. However, I wish for nothing more than to reach that door and step through, submitting myself before the dangers on the other side.
Maybe I will die.
Day 145 - #3 – They Walk
They walk. They line up in front of my wall, their children flanking them, preparing themselves for a full assault. When I am not writing, I stand at the hole, my face expressionless, and stare them down as their screeches fill the moist spring air. I must show them that I am not afraid, but the truth is... Well...
I demand they stage an assault. This stalemate has not gone on long but it is long enough for me. Hours of sitting, waiting with bated breath, as the web spinners inch closer to my camp, to their death.
It has been approximately 145 days since I arrived in this world. Every day has been fraught peril; failures created from poor planning and successes burgeon out of luck and improvisation. Every day is the same thing and every day I have faced the nightmares, only to repeat. Da capo. Da capo. Da capo.
Whether I experience success or failure, disappointment soon follows, and I have mentioned it before in my writing, certainly, but I feel that sacrifice must be emphasized. Sooner or later, the spiders will tire of waiting. Their wills will break and they will charge, seizing the vulnerability in my fortress.
I am unsure of my death upon their arrival, but I am certain of theirs.
Day 145 - #4 – Dusk
A few spiders had taken it upon themselves to scout out my camp, if you can assign higher level cognitive abilities to arachnids, as big as they may be.
I covered myself in grass and twigs and pressed myself against an intact corner of my stone walls. Their chittering mouths and skittering legs slipped noisily through the hole in my wall and they stopped. They surveyed their surroundings, insects acting as military reconnaissance, and gingerly explored my camp.
As they examined my belongings, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to think of what Wolfgang must have been like. His writings in my journal were nigh incomprehensible, but he touted the importance of strength, one quality I have never truly possessed. He was violence personified. I tried to recall Mozart, as I did in my early days, but I could not remember the notes. They entered my head a jumbled mess, discordant and unorganized. Anger flooded my mind.
When my eyes opened, the three spiders had convened near my hiding spot, their backs turned. Their legs twitched and they skittered back and forth.
I drove the spike into the first one, his thorax crackling, and he died before making a sound. The second met the same fate, as my weapon pierced his eye, but a high pitched screech managed to escape him. The alerted third spider spun around, stared, and cowered. He began to slowly move backwards, retreating back to his queen as a child runs to his mother.
He made no noise when he died. In the distance, I swore I could see a fire, unmoving, but it was there. I blinked to be sure, but each time my eyes opened, I could see the flickering orange light what seemed like miles away.
I fear that my time alone has desensitized me further.
The second thing I noticed were the queens. They had enough waiting and were sleeping, certain I would not make the first move, perhaps.
Chess with arachnids. Eight eyes and they cannot see their queen is exposed.
Day 146 - #1 – Dreams
The Devil is in the details, so the saying goes, and thus it is important that my meeting with him be recorded immediately after waking. It is early and the sun barely peeks over the horizon.
He visited me again in my dreams. I awoke, freezing, sweating, and terrified. I ruined two journal pages, soaked with sweat, before managing to calm myself. I awoke starving, voracious, but I need to record my dream. The spiders sleep still, so as they do, I will write.
His words are burned into me, as though a supernatural fire has imprinted them on my very being. As... horrifying as it is, it makes for fantastic posterity, as I can record it with utmost confidence:
I was surrounded by darkness, as before, tentacles reaching out of the ground, waving in unison. Screams echoed, the dying screams of Pig Men, Tallbirds, the screeching of arachnids, death.
“Hey, pal,” He shook his head at his own words, “Hello Wilson.”
I couldn't speak, I tried, as before, but it was a fruitless endeavor. He could see me attempting and let out a deep, cacophonous laugh. It reminded me of a chorus of eight-year-olds playing sporadic notes on a piano with enough force to crack wood. As his laughter receded, the high-pitched, tinny laughter replaced it. It continued, incessantly, as he spoke.
“You paint me as the bad guy, Wilson. I can see it in your mind,” He tapped his head with long, slender fingers, “It's no secret.”
His teeth flashed for a moment, pearly white teeth turning black.
“You say to yourself, 'Wilson, oh genius of geniuses, you will use that big ole brain of yours and kill that no good Maxwell. He will be soooorrrrrryyyyyy that he ever messed with YOU!', right? That is what you say to yourself, isn't it? It's no use correcting me, really. Your real thoughts are so much more boring,” Maxwell snorted and his coat tails hummed with laughter.
“Well, Wilson. I hate to break it to you but you might not be quite as smart as you think you are,” He hissed between his teeth, pulling his lips back in a grim smile. “Why do you think you're here, Wilson?”
I tried to answer but my mouth was bound by black tendrils. As I looked around, I suddenly realized I was hanging in the air, my hands wrapped above my head by an ebony snake, hissing in my ears.
“But,” He sighed deeply, “I do have to concede that you are a pretty intelligent guy, Willy. Pretty tough too. Didn't think a man of science would be so gosh darn hard to kill, but I guess you were never one for ethics, were you? Tsk, tsk, if your patients could talk.”
Maxwell shrugged and spun around, his coat tails flipping into the air, and snapping at me fiercely. He paused for a moment, as though he forgot something, and turned to face me again. My vision was almost entirely blocked by the thin, black tendrils.
I could see him smile through a small slip in the inky black fingers gripping my head, and he began to talk.
“Although, I suppose I'm somewhat to blame. I take some solace in the fact that you wouldn't be quite so smart without me, right? Wouldn't have all the answers if you didn't... break a few rules? Omelets? Eggs? Am I gettin' through to you here, Wilson?” He flashed his black teeth one more time.
“I'll see you soon. And, say pal, you don't look so good. You better find something to eat.”
Then I woke up.
I see no activity from the queens, so perhaps I will have a chance to eat breakfast.
I will end my entry here, a long one, certainly, but I believe it to be important. I must understand, with certainty, who Maxwell is.
I must be careful cooking my dinner. Walls lined with explosives are quite volatile.
Woo! Yaaay it's back ^_^
I made an account just to tell you that your story is AWESOME! Keep up the good work! The story and the character development have been top notch imo -X
Bump? Yay it's back
Day 146 - #2 – Regicide
In Greek mythology, fire was brought to man by Prometheus. He defied Zeus, securing himself a position of disfavor with the father of the gods, and brought us the gift of flame. In retaliation, Zeus sentenced Prometheus to have his liver pecked away, every day, for eternity.
Fire. It has allowed progress, civilization, warmth, and efficient destruction. Whole cities burned, submitting to the raw power of the inferno.
Part of me clings to this home that I have made, a small fortress in the middle of nowhere, and I loathe to concede it to insects. As I write, I lift my head occasionally to see the crumbling stone walls disappear before my eyes.
My next entry will recount, in detail, my encounter with the spider queens, assuming I survive. An unlit torch lies next to me, waiting to be dipped into the campfire, to burst forth with fire.
Prometheus has allowed me a victory this day and it shall not be wasted.
Day 147 - #1
The piercing screams of the queens, like the highest note on a warped violin, created a moving carpet of spiders along the forest floor. They scampered and scurried towards me as the torch burned their nests, a stinking sulfur aroma filled the air, and screams of royalty replaced ocean waves. For a moment, I thought I could remember Mozart. The notes played in harmony, organized, and I felt happy for a brief moment as I watched them burn.
I retreated to the edges of my camp as the first queen burned to death. Her children invaded, along with the second and third queens. Some had to run through the fire to reach me, which caused them to ignite, screams resounding, and scurry back off into the charcoal forest. I gripped my spike tightly, Frederic's skin atop my head, and waited.
A spider reached me, eventually, but a rapid slice with my weapon rendered him useless. Spurts of black blood covered my base camp and the heat caused their legs to curl up beneath them.
I made my way towards the labyrinthine entrance to my camp, far away from the accidental hole on the other side, and as the two remaining spider queens squeezed through the stone, I dropped the torch upon the gunpowder. I fled.
I felt the heat from the explosion on my back, unbelievably hot, and I was propelled from the camp. I covered my head as falling wood, pebbles, and bits of spider rained down. As I looked towards the scene of the explosion, a flaming spider queen screeched at me, hissing in anger, pain, and frustration. Her legs were destroyed by the eruption, and she sat upon a throne of fire. I watched her burn until there was nothing left.
Poor Willow, I thought. Her experiments into the elemental sciences caused her great pain and sacrifice as well.
The flames reminded me of her, a beautiful girl. They will always remind me of her.
? - ? - Willow
“Hi Wilson. It's Willow! I miss you. I don't like sitting at home and going to school. I wish I could come to your laboratory again. My parents say it is no place for a little girl. I'm not little.
They say that I am too old to have a teddy bear, too, but I think that is absolutely ridiculous! My best friend, Wendy, has stuffed animals! Did you meet Wendy? She's great. She's like me! I think we compliment each other. I burn things and she likes to talk about what they look like after. We burn a lot of things. Sticks, nests, animals, and it's always great fun.
She's really cool and I hope you meet Wendy. Maybe I'll take her to your laboratory! I think she'd love all the work you do over there!
I really want to visit you again, Wilson. We had so much fun last time! I didn't know that I could make such big explosions by combining that yellow stuff and that blue stuff. We probably should have done it further from that tree.
It looked really pretty when it burned, though!
“Wilson! Oh my god! I have to tell you about what Wendy and I did the other day!
So, we were really bored, and we started to mess around with fire and stuff, like normal, right? Well, I found some of that stuff you showed me in your lab! The yellow and blue stuff! I told Wendy about it and she got really excited too.
I tried to mix it together, like you taught me, and then run away really fast. We blew up some trees, some rabbit holes, just a bunch of stuff! Oh! Wendy and I were laughing and having such a good time!
We made it back late, though. I had to lie to papa, but it was for the best. I don't want him thinking I'm crazy or something.
Oh, well, I miss you Wilson. Hopefully I'll see you soon! I need to convince mom that I can see you again. She's afraid you're going to teach me bad habits!
“My mom said I can never see you again. She says that you made me into a little Devil. I don't know why she thinks that because you've never been anything but perfect to me! You've always been so nice and SHE says that you're turning me into a problem child. Ugh! I can't STAND these people anymore!
We heard on the radio that there was a fire where Wendy and I were setting off the explosions. It couldn't have been us, but I think my mom thinks it was. A whole section of the woods burned down, and almost someone's home! That is SO cool! I mean, I hope they got out, of course, but still, I wish I could have been there to see it.
Oh, and my teacher yelled at me today. In front of the whole class! I wasn't paying attention and she just humiliated me right there, in front of Wendy! She didn't think it was funny. She hates her. I told her about the nickname you gave to your teacher when you were young, and we've started to call Mrs. Plimpton it. Wickerbottom sounds better than Mrs. Plimpton anyway.
What a stupid name!
“I have a confession to make, Wilson. I'm sorry and I know even you would yell at me for this, but Wickerbottom got angry at Wendy the other day. She hit Wendy! She told her that Abigail would be lucky not to grow up to be a “morbid, worthless girl like her”. How can she say that? How can she be so cruel?
Anyway... Abigail was just as mad at Mrs. Plimpton as Wendy was, so we all went to her house after school. It was around 9, or so, and she was upstairs reading or something. We can be SUPER quiet when we want to be and the front door was open so I figured it would be funny if we just went in and, you know, I don't know, broke some things.
Just a prank, you know? Just something to get her back for hitting Wendy. I don't know what happened, Wilson. I don't know how it happened. We were inside, and I was starting little fires, you know? I was burning her books, stuff like that, being real quiet. You know me, I'm great at making a controlled fire. I taught you how to do it for that camping trip we went on!
Anyway, we heard her coming down stairs... and I thought I put out the last book, but...
It was like her house was covered in, like, that stuff you showed me at the lab. It just... it went up so fast, Wilson. Wendy and I were screaming for her to get out but she didn't.
Then we realized Abigail was still inside. We tried to get her but it was too hot and...
I'm sorry, Wilson. I just needed to tell someone. Wendy won't speak to me anymore. It wasn't all my fault!
“Please come get me, Wilson. I can't be here any longer. My mama and papa think I'm horrible. They think I'm some sort of demon. I didn't mean to do it! Wendy won't even talk to me! She hates me now! Mrs. Plimpton... she died in her house. So did Abigail.
I didn't mean to do it, please. I know you believe me. Please pick me up, okay? We can live together and I can help you in your lab! I know how to do it! You taught me so well! You even said yourself that I was your “most proficient assistant”! I'll study and learn, just please, let me live with you.
I've been crying all day, I don't know what to do. My parents are asleep and I'm so tired, but I can't go to bed. I've been lighting matches and throwing them away. I don't know what to do, Wilson.
I don't know what to do.
Well that got sad really fast
Wait. Isn't Willow immune to heat?This is such an awesome story
She IS immune to heat, but that may not always have been the case. It will be expanded upon later, I promise. And sorry, buttercup! Take solace in the fact that it is only temporarily sad, and this is certainly not the last we'll see of Willow, Wendy, or Wickerbottom. If I have time, I might throw up another update tonight so it's not paused on something so darn depressing.
And so the plot thickens...intriguing. Intriging indeed!I got a kick out of reading Wilson's war with the Spider Queens, having dealt with several that all decided to grace themselves. It was a play session that ended in many dead spiders and an accidental forest fire.
Day 150 - #1 – The Knocking
It has been three days since my last entry. I've navigated through the spider forests, now devoid of queens, and made my way closer to the door. I can see it now, hanging in the distance, levitating above the ground. It's an odd wooden thing, an image of impossibility, something that would be home in a horror novel. I cannot look away.
Part of me is afraid to approach any closer and I have decided to temporarily keep it at a distance, approximately 100 meters, and try to clear my mind of forcefully recalled memories, brought on by bouts of violence. The thought of the screeching spiders, balls of flame fleeing and rushing, hypnotizes me.
I remember long forgotten letters from a young girl.
I wish I didn't.
Day 150 - #2
I hear whispering now. It's 100 meters away, but I swear I can hear it. I cannot understand the words but I hear the noise, secrets flooding the air, and I feel tempted to walk closer. I mustn't approach, not yet, not until I'm ready. I don't know what it is, but as I write, I feel disconnected from my mind. I feel unusual. I read my words and they read wrong.
I feel like a different person. I do not understand why. I must understand the whispering.
Day 150 - #3
Knock, knock, knock. The hushed whispers couple with rhythmic knocking. Knock, knock, knock. I wish I could understand the whispers. I need to move closer, but I am afraid. Knock, knock, knock. There is something on the other side of the door.
Knock, knock, knock. My thoughts are not my own. Knock, knock, knock. Willow, I miss you. Knock, knock, knock. Please, end this ceaseless whispering! Forgive me and leave me in peace! I write now in desperation, a plea that the whispering stop. Knock, knock, knock.
I cannot write properly. I am not myself.
Day 150 - #4
This is maddening. My mind bends and creaks in the wind, the whispering pushing me to and fro, alarming me to something hidden. The knocking continues, but I have managed to control my pen once again, recording the minimal number of cogent thoughts flickering in and out of my head. I am ashamed to admit but I have moved closer to the door. I would estimate approximately 25 meters away, the supernatural wood in full view. The knocking resonates deep inside of me, and the sound of whispering is driving me mad.
The dancing shadows, I believe, are they key. Perhaps they whisper.
No, the whispering is coming from the door. I can hear the whispering, it is loud, but it is indiscernible. Stop it.
Day 150 - #5 – Approaching Night
Did no one tell you? I ask earnestly, curious about the state of your mind.
No one told me. They couldn't have told me. How was I supposed to know what this place was? I don't remember how I arrived.
Of course you don't! I remember.
Yes, I remember very clearly how I arrived here. I remember the bright white lights, my eyes burning, and then darkness. I woke up here.
That's impossible. Your explanation defies the very laws of nature. The laws of nature are the only things holding my mind to this plane. The realization that what I see to be true, what I have studied to be true, to not be... it would be too much.
You see a floating door, and yet you do not question the possibility of this land defying nature? Do you believe this land to be natural?
Nature is natural. There are immutable laws that cannot be ignored, changed, or manipulated, no matter how powerful my jailor. Someone as undeniably bright as yourself should understand that.
And someone as bright as yourself should realize that there are actions, places, and creatures that defy explanation.
They deny expectations, not explanations.
It is the same.
It is not.
Day 150 - #6 – Night
Why do you remain here with me? Night is a time of solitude.
It is all a time of solitude, Wilson. You do not have a companion with which to converse, so I would expect that you should be grateful of my presence no matter the hour. How far are you from the door, Wilson?
I would expect no further than ten meters. Why?
I'm just curious. Am I not allowed to be curious in my old age? Curiosity is the only thing that piques my interest any more. Knowledge is the only satiating force in my life. Sexuality, physical pleasures, they have left me long ago.
You are never too old for physical pleasures. That is a myth. Your interest may have faded, but it is replaced by new interests, as per usual. You are not too old for exercise. You are not too old for sexuality.
No, Wilson, I never said I was too old.
Then what is it?
Death, Wilson. You should understand the changes that come with death. I feel awfully sluggish.
Death? If you were dead, yes, I would imagine you would be quite sluggish.
Oh, Wilson. One day you will understand. It may be tomorrow or another decade in this place, but you will understand.
Day 150 - #7 – Still Night
Let me sleep! For God's sake, let me sleep! I am tired of our conversation! You risk my mental well being. My acute intellect is the only thing that has kept me alive for this long. I cannot risk it diminishing further.
You are a fool, Wilson! You are a shortsighted and ignorant fool to dismiss me so readily! I am your intellectual superior and you dismiss me as though I was wasting your time? You run me off like I am a common, slack-jawed gawker staring breathless at one of your unnatural experiments?
No, Wilson, you must think. Use that intellect that I have cultivated and cared for so heavily and you think about why I am here. Perhaps I am ravaging your sanity for a purpose. Perhaps you should be more afraid of your dreams than you are?
Dreams are dreams.
Dreams are never simply dreams, Wilson, especially here. I am disappointed in you if you believe that. Fine, I will leave you, as you so desire. May I remind you that there was a time you would have given anything for me? You would have cheated, fought, and killed simply to run your hand slowly up my leg, to feel my breath on your neck, my hand squeezing your shoulder. You remember that, don't you Wilson? Do you remember the looks you gave me while I taught you? The gleam in your eye when I entered the room and the fear you experienced when I withdrew the wicker cane from my desk?
I need my strength.
Fine. Good luck, Wilson, but I hope you understand this is not the last time you will see me. You underestimate Maxwell.
He is someone to be feared and you would do well to fear him. I would know. Do me a favor before I leave, Wilson.
When you close your eyes and fall asleep, I want you to be thinking of me, standing in front of your class, my eyes on you. I want you to recall that feeling, every emotion you've attached to me. Lust, love, fantasies.
There are some things worse than death, Wilson. Ask Willow.
Day 151 - #1 – Morning
I am concerned for my mental well being. I was unable to sleep last night and my mind was shrouded in an impenetrable fog. I could think of nothing, no matter how hard I tried, but I was accosted by feelings of dread and...
There are some things better omitted from my journal, as to preserve any scientific posterity remaining in my research. I remember nothing from last night except staring into the darkness, huddled next to my dwindling campfire. I could not move to rekindle the flame. I could do nothing but stare into darkness and listen to the whispers.
The sun highlights the door, an obelisk of adventure teasing me in the light, and I feel terror when I gaze upon it.
There is the distinct chance that I might die upon entering the door, whether at the hands of a creature, Maxwell, or some other cause. However, the strangest thing continues to reassert itself in my mind as I stare.
Death is fleeting, a moment that begins and ends, and that is its entirety.
There are some things worse than death.
I'm interested to see the reactions to these last few additions to the story. I'm adding a second part tonight, as a companion to the first, because I think delving into the weirdness a little deeper is necessary. This chunk of story is unclear, strange, a little more nebulous in terms of overall meaning (in the current context), but intentionally so. I don't intend to end the story with unanswered questions, non-philosophical in nature anyway.
Anyway, these recent sections, including this one, dips a little deeper into the weird, less literal world of Wilson's mind. Let me know what you guys think. If you hate it, let me know, and I'll try to stick to more easily relatable interpretations in regards to the game world.
Also, the recent posts have been drifting towards a darker tone in order to explore Wilson's past and his relationship with various other playable characters. I apologize if people reading this are turned off by the temporary stint into the darker side of Wilson's life/mind!
Day 151 - #2 – The Adventure Awaits
As I touched the door, familiar black tendrils sprung from the ground, shadowy hands wrapping around my legs and arms. I... stopped myself. The whispering brought me closer but I stopped myself. The tendrils released me, a hissing disappointment echoed, and dropped me back onto the soft soil.
I would like to take a moment and recount my first few days on this island. I would like to mention my previous confidence, my hubris; the certainty that I would escape. This portal has the opportunity to allow me freedom. It is a chance I must take if I want my journal to reach people with power, with standing, or anyone else.
I am so tired.
Day 151 - #2
I can understand the whispering. For the first time, I listen and I can hear the words echoing backwards, reflecting back to me. I can hear the voices reading the words, frightening me more than anything has on this island.
The first whisper beckons me to tame it. The voice, a sultry female at times, and indescribable at others, whispers lascivious desires into my ear. It changes, slowly, to taunting, and then tinny laughter.
The second whisper beckons me closer, to listen and understand. Tinny laughter follows again, the piercing of high pitched violin screeches, an orchestra of discordant instruments. I understand the following words perfectly:
“The sun is high in the air, noon probably, or the equivalent. Mark my words I will be back home in just a couple more hours. My mind has broken more difficult puzzles and crafted much more brilliant solutions. This will no different.
On a side note, and for possible further research, I recall a tall, thin man in a suit. The name Maxwell rings a familiar bell, but I cannot, for the life of me, remember why.”
The familiarity is unmistakable and easily verified.
I must stop writing for now. I believe I am on the verge of a breakdown.
Day 151 - #3 – Dusk
I am going to open the door. Day 151, I think, at Dusk. I am opening the door.
Day ? - #1 – Visitors
Wilson! Oh my god! It's so good to see you! I missed you so much.
I'm sorry, I cannot recognize you.
What do you mean you can't recognize me? It's me! It's ------. Wilson, I've missed you so much.
Your name... is blanked out. I do not know who you are.
Blanked out? Wilson, I am speaking to you. It's me, Wilson. ------! ------! It's ------! For God's sake, Wilson! Why are you doing this to me? You too?!
Speaking to me? I am alone, I think. There is a small light highlighting my journal but that's it. I'm... there's no one here with me. You are not here with me.
In darkness with your journal?
I don't understand.
You won't at this rate, Wilson. For God's sake, I needed you! I needed you and you ignored me! I am here because of you. I am here because of YOU, Wilson.
I don't know who you are.
And you never will.
Day ? - #2 – Visitors Continued
Wilson, you are STRONG, yes?
You are STRONG! You are not weak any more, Wilson. You crushed the Pig Men.
Day ? - #3 – Visitors Continued
I'm sorry, I don't believe we've ever met.
Who are you? I don't understand what's happening to me. Why can't I stop writing?
You're awfully silly, Mr. Wilson. ------ told me a lot about you. She admires you very much.
Who told you about me? I can't read the name.
Read? Mr. Wilson, I don't understand. You seem quite distant, but I suppose that's to be expected. ------ said you had a lot on your mind lately. If you would like, my sister and I can go out and pick flowers for you. I can show you how to make a nice little garland! It'll make you feel so much better, Mr. Wilson! I promise!
I don't know who you are. I don't know who you are. I don't know who you are. I don't know who you are. I cannot speak to you because you are not here. I can only write in my journal.
Mr. Wilson! You are awfully frightening right now. I understand that you are wrapped up in your work, like ------ said you were, but this is ridiculous! Abi and I just wanted to meet you and say hello. Why are you acting like this?
Abi? Abigail? Your sister is Abigail?
Yes... she's standing right in front of you, Mr. Wilson.
Wendy? You're Wendy? Oh, Wendy, please, this is incredible. You have to do me a favor and tell me exactly what you see. I need to know exactly what you're looking at, what I'm doing, and where we are. Wendy?
Wendy? Are you there? Wendy?!
I need to stop writing in this journal. I think something may be wrong with me.
?? - ?? - ??
Wake up, Wilson.
Listen, pal, I know you're having one heck of a time here, but try to keep those fingers wrapped around reality. I admit, this is very entertaining, but I need you to wake up, Wilson. Wilson?
Alright. Maybe you weren't ready for a trans-dimensional journey to a simultaneous world quite yet. Maybe you're missing the adventurous spirit, Wilson. Maybe you ate some bad meat? That hound meat, whew, that's rough stuff. I remember a mix up between me and a few of my creatures one day. I woke up in the middle of some grasslands and had to eat hound meat.
I was delusional for a good ten hours. Me! Delusional!
Still not awake, are you, pal? Fine, I can talk a little more I suppose. That's an important distinction to make, by the way. I'm talking to you. You have quite the magic little book there.
Let's see, what can I say that will make you wake up? I know something that should make you spring right on up, but it doesn't seem to be working like I hoped. ------? Hey, pal, ------ wants to see you! You know ------!
Tricky little book.
Since I have your rapt attention...
I want you to imagine something. In your slumber, peaceful as it may be, I want you to imagine a little boy or a little girl. For the sake of familiarity, let's say a little girl. I want you to imagine that her parents do not mistreat her, no, but they do not pay her any mind either. She is, to them, essentially a ghost in their home, drifting from room to room.
She finds a friend, finally, which is difficult for her, pal, let me tell you. She's kind of a loner with a bit of a psychotic streak deep down, but that doesn't come out until much later. The craziness binds them together. It's all very sweet.
She finds a friend, a sympathetic relationship, a kinship beyond her teddy bear. Someone who pays her mind, someone who mentors her and they get along famously, Wilson.
He develops feelings for her, not... entirely prudent, but he does nonetheless. Her parents don't like this, Wilson. Her parents forbid her from seeing him, you know that? No, let me be more accurate. Her parents forbid him from seeing her. He complies. She doesn't know why he refuses to answer, but she continues to write him anyway. Heartbreaking stuff, isn't it, Wilson?
She meets another person, another girl, and they hit it off. They become fast friends, she wants the boy to meet her because she is positive that all three of them would hit it off. They would be the closest of friends, geniuses in training. Except for the boy, of course. He's already smart enough. He doesn't let things like ethics get in his way, isn't that right? That's how the story goes, doesn't it?
You know the rest of the story, so I won't bore you with the details. You look like you're about to pop up any second now though, I can tell. First timers through these doors are different every time. Sometimes they just up and die, would you believe that? They just die. You would not believe how many Pig Men I've shoved into this stupid door to see which die.
Sorry, pal, I know I'm rambling a little. I'll cut to the chase, alright? I have one more question for you. It's a doozy, though, so I'd chew on it for a little while. It's gonna be on the test, alright Wilson? There's gonna be a test.
Why does the Devil create such good deals? Why does he offer immortality in exchange for the soul of a loved one? Why does he create fiddle contests for people's everlasting essence? Do you want to know why, Wilson?
Boredom. Eternity he sits on his throne, watching his creatures, his land. Eternity, Wilson. Forever.
Do you hear me Wilson? Eternity. Wrapped in cold tendrils, staring into a sea of darkness, surrounded by death until the end of time. What are you worried about? Death? The blink of an eye and you're gone, free to leave, that's it. In your mind, you've been struggling to survive for so long. A blink of an eye, pal.
There are some things worse than the end, Wilson. Eternity is one of them.
Anyway, I suppose now is where you sign your name. Good luck figuring this one out when you wake up.
Day ? - #1
I woke up in a field. I do not know what day it is, what time it is, or where I am, but I am surrounded by rabbits. I have nothing on my person, except for my journal. Everything is different. The land around me has shifted, changed, and I can tell I am on the same island but perhaps a different section? I do not entirely understand where I am, but I need to begin to fashion basic survival tools.
I am feeling a bit peckish, so I believe my first order of business will be to create some rabbit traps for meat. I can see a couple of berry bushes in the distances. Those should hold me until I can find something more substantial.
I wish I knew where all of my belongings went.
I must finish this entry rapidly as it has just begun to rain.
Oh, and there is one more strange occurrence to record. A frog, a massive frog, is sitting in the middle of this field, staring at me. He is easily ten times the size of a normal frog.
Well, I certainly enjoyed it!
I can assure you that I've been enjoying it, weirdness and all.
I love the dark stuff! Please, continue!
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