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(Literature and some Art) Wilson's Journal

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Warden    125

 

Hound_zps66435276.png

DAY 6

 

Forgive me, journal, if my writing happens to be a bit sloppy. I have underestimated nature once again, and now I pay dearly for it. I'm bitter and sore from the regrets...why didn't I think of this sooner?! Why didn't I plan for this at all! The mere thought is...is terrifying. Am I losing my sharp intellect due to the violent and primal passing of time? I can feel it, me, I'm changing. Whenever I wipe my nose on the back of my glove, I can feel the bristles on my face snatching the filthy cloth, and dragging through the threads. Whenever I run my hand through my hair it's thick and laden with dirt and grime. And now, more recently, whenever I pat my thigh, my pale fingertips come back streaked red with blood.

 

I was a fool, such a silly fool, to believe that science would save me. And this is how I die? Barely a week into this hellish survival, only to find that again, nature has won over science. My attempts to cheat death caused the inevitable. I am bleeding, journal, and I have nothing to stop it with. I suppose if I only have a limited amount of time to speak, or well, write, I might as well spend it describing what has occurred here, what has gone wrong, in the hopes that whoever sent me in here feels remorse.

 

It was early evening, and the stars hung high in the sky as they usually do. Tonight was the end of the lunar cycle, and the full moon shone down on the land, brightening it and casting away the darkness that I have grown to...to fear, with an irrational childishness. Perhaps if it was dark, I would've been warier. Perhaps if I couldn't see further than the end of my arm, I would've taken notice to the long shadows in the moonlight, and perhaps I would've been able to prepare. But as a scientist, I focus on what was, and not what could've been.

 

I still took the time and effort to chop down a tree with my primitive axe, purely out of habit. The process was becoming almost routine, and less of a back-breaking monumental task with each hour that slipped by. It might have been my confidence fuelling my arms, for I finished faster than I usually do, methodically dissecting the tree into log-sized components. As I started up a fire on the plains, I listened to the crackling and could've sworn I heard some sort of animal noise.

 

This doesn't surprise me as much as it should have; I have been hearing noises in the night ever since I came here. But it was a different noise, and I glanced up to see where it might have come from. However, since I saw nothing, and the warmth of the fire granted me courage...I dismissed it. I dismissed my only warning, my only prelude to the horror that would follow.

 

Around ten minutes later, three dark blotches came stampeding down the plains, their breath steaming through their nostrils like demented steam engines. Their legs were short, but thick with sinew, and they were covered in thick, wiry black hair. Three pairs of maddened, opaque eyes set upon their target whilst their jaws, impossibly long and scattered with mismatching teeth, snapped and snarled and salivated. The beasts were headed straight for me!

 

​I barely managed to grasp my axe before the first one leapt through the flames of my camp-fire and latched those terrible jaws onto my left thigh, beginning the process of trying to rip the leg clean off. The pain shot through my leg and I roared almost as loud as those hellhounds did, bringing my axe down onto the creature's exposed neck.

rsz_blood1_zps3f8d4b3c.png

 

​Oh God, journal, the amount of blood that issued forth from both myself and this beast...it mixed and wrapped around each other, deep black splatters of oily fluid smearing the grass and smearing me and smearing it. I brought the axe down again, and again, and again with a wild, reckless abandon, exhilarated by the spray of the blood, the feel I seem to get whenever I destroy a tree - that feeling of ending a life so simply and cleanly - was emphasised and magnified to almost delirious levels of ecstasy. I killed it, Journal, and I killed it very quickly and very violently.

 

Then the second one came, with the third tailing close behind. The second one floored me in moments, and I could feel its hot breath on my neck as it threatened to do exactly what I did to its kin...but it wasn't expecting me to have a spare piece of flint in my pocket. Right into the eye I plunged it, watching as more of that black blood and grey ooze issued forth from the wound as I pressed deeper, into the skull, into the brain. The third one brought its claws down on my chest as I rolled out of the way, splitting open my shirt and waistcoat like it was spider silk, leaving a shallow and bloody gash from my chest across to my right pectoral muscle. I couldn't move my arm due to the blinding pain, I could barely see now despite the brightness of the fire and the moon.

 

The third beast lunged at my stomach and I brought the axe down onto its back, expecting a clean sever right through the middle. The screams and squeals of pain and terror from it mixed with mine as I realised that I just tortured this beast, put it through immeasurable amounts of agony before its death. But one set of screams silenced; I realised in my terror that it was about to kill me. And I repeated the process of chopping down a particularly small, hairy and tortured tree, again I brought the axe down, and kept going and going even after it stopped moving and stopped breathing. 

 

rsz_blood3_zps7ea7682a.png

And now...and now...

 

Oh God. And now I feel remorse. I killed something, and felt good about it. I don't know who I am anymore, but I am no longer Wilson Percival Higgsbury. That was not science, that was murder. Oh God. Oh God. I've sinned, this isn't good...

 

I might have to end this entry soon. I can't see anymore, and it's getting so very dark. The fire's gone out but I feel nothing except a dull pain, an e c h o of my previous terror, and the slip of the congealing blood on my c lothes and my f eet and hands...

 

This is where it'll end, I think. It's been hell but I might be able to sleep, for the first time since I came here. Please, if anyone finds this, could you tell my li--

 

.............

 

 

Hmm, Wilson seems to have done alot better than I did when I first started out, I was already completely insane from messing with spiders and tentacles constantly and the hounds just killed me right off when they came XD

 

Did Wilson just pass out from blood loss or did he die and wakes up again in another world then proceeds to contemplate what happened? If so will he treat it as if it was a bad dream?

 

Anyway, I again look forward to his next entry, provided Wilson is still alive and keeps the journal with him if he dies and goes to another new world.  ;)

Edited by Warden
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FieldNotes    61

You'll have to wait and see, Warden, but things are gonna get really interesting really quickly now that I got the hound attack out of the way.

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Warden    125

You'll have to wait and see, Warden, but things are gonna get really interesting really quickly now that I got the hound attack out of the way.

Good to hear. Sorry if I over-speculated there, I'm just anxious to see what you come up up with next :)

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FieldNotes    61

Oh, I'm UBER excited for the ending. There will be so much crazy that it'll make your speculations look like bland porridge.

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FieldNotes    61

Hm, you'll just have to wait and see! +1 to you for finding the secrets. There's more in there though. More in the old entries too.

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osmRhodey    1,461

I haven't been able to read up on all of this since I've been busy but ooooooooh boy I am excited for more.

Love the writing. Love the descriptions.

Can't wait!

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FieldNotes    61

I haven't been able to read up on all of this since I've been busy but ooooooooh boy I am excited for more.

Love the writing. Love the descriptions.

Can't wait!

 

I'm as in awe with your artwork as you are with my writing. I'm usually a 'silent sneak onto forum thread and fangirl about people's work' kind of person. 

 

Day 7 is in the works!

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EpicSlice    3

It's getting even better! I think I understand how it's all fitting together, yet I have no idea at all.

Keep it coming!

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Warden    125

Interesting... I wonder who this mystery character is that saved Wilson's life.

 

Just my speculation, feel free to ignore if you wish ;) :

 

 

It could be anyone really, since all the character's names start with W. Wolfgang may be ruled out since his handwriting with be a bit more primitive and perhaps Wickerbottom, Wes, WX-78, Wigfrid, and Maxwell as well. Wickerbottom would be overly complex in her writing, Wes would write nothing, WX doesn't care for human life, Wigfrid's nöte wöuld be in all caps with excessive umlauts Ã¶ver the Ã¶'s, and Max is still on the throne.

 

At this point I can see it as either Willow, Wendy, Woodie, or maybe even Webber, though that's just my speculation based on the observations of the note and the natures of each character.

 

Anyway, I look forward to the next entry. Good writing as usual :-)

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FieldNotes    61

All these lovely comments. I especially like the fact you're trying to piece together the story; in my mind, that's the work of a good literature writer. Thank you again for all the positive feedback, it's really inspiring!

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Parrotoss    214

I come back again to a great surprise! I read each chapter eagerly and the amount of solid (not excessive) detail is very impressive.

In chapter 6 when things really started setting off, the following:

 

"But one set of screams silenced; I realized in my terror that it was about to kill me. And I repeated the process of chopping down a particularly small, hairy and tortured tree, again I brought the axe down, and kept going and going even after it stopped moving and stopped breathing. "

 

is just genius and serves as a great example of the power of imaginative imagery. You could have just made Wilson say that he killed the hound and be done with it, but no, you made the thing a tree--suddenly the detailed and horrible reality of the actions/meanings shine through.

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FieldNotes    61

I come back again to a great surprise! I read each chapter eagerly and the amount of solid (not excessive) detail is very impressive.

In chapter 6 when things really started setting off, the following:

 

"But one set of screams silenced; I realized in my terror that it was about to kill me. And I repeated the process of chopping down a particularly small, hairy and tortured tree, again I brought the axe down, and kept going and going even after it stopped moving and stopped breathing. "

 

is just genius and serves as a great example of the power of imaginative imagery. You could have just made Wilson say that he killed the hound and be done with it, but no, you made the thing a tree--suddenly the detailed and horrible reality of the actions/meanings shine through.

 

Why isn't there a "Love this" button.

 

This makes me feel happier than a thousand bunnymen on cocaine. Thank you for the kind words.

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FieldNotes    61

spiderwoods_by_ythania-d7n0eat.png

DAYS OF PROMETHEUS

 

Prometheus gave the gift of knowledge, of fire, to man. His punishment was to be pecked by birds, whilst chained to a rock.

 

I gave the gift of knowledge, of fire, to her. Is this my punishment? Is this land my rock, are these thoughts and trials my birds?

 

Progress has abandoned me. I have been complacent, working in almost a vegetative state, like a mindless being I have confined myself to the coarse grass of what may very well be my new home forever. It has taken me several days to shake myself free of these chains of guilt. I don't even know the time of day anymore, let alone the date, the month; my world is that of light, and darkness. The time of work, and the time of fitful, restless slumber. But slowly I have returned to my senses and, whilst that axe of mine hacked away a part of my soul - my innocence - in that god-forsaken clearing, I must move on.

 

W said I had 28 days. How long ago was that now? In order to try and grasp the sense of time, I flicked back through the pages of my journal. It felt so long ago when I thought that Science was more important than survival, even longer still when I think about that one, fateful day when I woke up and all I did was poke a small berry with my tongue. I was so scared back then and I hid it in disbelief. Shrouded it with scientific logic, and concealed it with common sense.

 

I have less than 28 days. There has to be something I missed, something to pull me out of this repetition, something-...Aha, I have discovered it!

"a dilapidated backdrop of grey-green grass, scattered with the odd flower and coniferous tree. In the distance, a dark forest left a corrupted bulge on the horizon, dragging shadows across the plains ominously."

 

Journal, I have nothing left to lose. There's nothing waiting for me back home except memories in picture frames. It's time I took a deep breath, made some preparations, and entered this foreboding forest with the dignity of a scientist and a man, because I can't return to these days of Prometheus-inspired thoughts. I have to remain vigilant, and focused on the task before me, whatever that may be.

 

~~~

A page appears to be missing here, but from what you can tell, filthy and bloodstained fingers tore it out in frustration. A few words can be visible from the corner, where it was inexpertly torn:

 

besides, I had to focus on th                

armour will be vital to my succe             

I glanced down at my bare chest, frowni

okay though, because scars tend to be som

 

I couldn't wait any longer, so I cautiously headed into

 

~~~

DAY OF THE SPIDERS

 

I didn't think this through, again. But for some reason, I'm not as upset about it - The pain is dulled by a new fire burning in my chest, under the claw marks where that hound got me. All I knew was that I had to think fast, that I have to think fast now. W will not save me this time...

 

Spiders, Journal. Not one, but four of them, around as large as myself and they reached up to my waist, their horrific carapaces clicking in the darkness of these woods, a wet hissing noise accompanying their chase across the pine-needles to find me, web me, and devour me. I ran as fast as I could, covered as much distance as I could. My feet pounded the pine needles, my muscles were alight with exhilaration; it was beautiful. I felt like a hound - I was the hound - as I twisted and waved through trees. The sound of my heartbeat was my wardrum.

 

The hilt of my axe caught on a twisted and gnarled root and I span with the momentum, the shoddily crafted wooden armour I wore scratching against the scraps of cloth that were once a waistcoat. my breath came out on ragged, regular snarls at the hissing insects before me. I rubbed one hand across my nose, feeling the filthy and greasy beard I was sporting, whilst the other clutched the axe loosely. I could see them hesitating. Did I not look scared enough? Were they perplexed on why I wasn't running? Or was it, perhaps...

 

"Cowardice?!" I roared, leaping onto the first spider. I brought the axe-hand high into the air so the flint gleamed in the shafts of sunlight whilst the other snatched on wiry hairs, listening in delight as the spider screeched and then silenced with a sickening splatting sound. Laughing, I twisted my head to glare at the other three. One of them launched its filthy belly towards me, trying to crush me between itself and the corpse of its dead kin. My body worked for me, hugging the flint blade close to my chest as the hilt stuck outwards and into the air like a horn, or a spike...the second spider landed on it, legs twitching madly, all eight eyes rolling around in its skull in sheer terror. The wooden armour stopped my chest from being compressed into nothingness, and I pushed with all my might against the gibbering monster, using my legs to kick it off my precious axe. Dark green fluid lubricated the hilt and made it far too slippery to properly wield.

 

So I threw it at the third spider, the blade twirling in the daylight and embedding itself fully into the spider's skull like some kind of demented butterfly, resting on the head of its killer, its predator. My eyes danced across the landscape, trying to figure out where the last spider had gone. The fine, gossamer threads sparkled with each twist of my neck, as the once-ominous darkness opened up to a beautiful daylight. Colours were sharper, sounds were clearer, and I should've focused on the spider rather than how pretty everything became during a fight to the death.

 

Pain rushed up my leg like wildfire. I screamed, the darkness rushing in and lights popping and twisting behind my eyes as I fell to the floor, kicking wildly at whatever bit me. Eventually, I managed to beat the final spider into submission, but I didn't stop kicking until the jaws loosened and I couldn't kick anymore. Then I lay there, grinning at the sky. Who knew that under a bed of pine needles, and a canopy of pine trees, the shafts of sunlight would make a million different shapes and stars to gaze into? It was deliriously peaceful and breathtakingly beautiful.

 

The moment passed slowly as I realised the situation again. Another wound, this time most likely with some form of venom, I needed to staunch these two bullet-sized wounds on my calf if I had any hope in continuing to move. I needed something absorbent, which would take in some of the poisoned blood, something like, something like...a piece of paper...

 

I took the last page and ripped it in half, placing one half over the bite. That was an entire day, that I will never be able to get back again. My memory may fail in this place, and I'll never remember what I did yesterday - I needed the book merely to figure out what I did no more than a week ago. But I couldn't ponder over this loss - I may have no more time to remember these days by if I didn't act quickly.

 

And now I have brought myself in a full circle; after some experimentation, I managed to find what I had hypothesised to be the poison-secreting gland in the hopes of making an anti venom - if only I had a horse, or something similar - when some of the liquid dripped onto my cut. I expected searing pain, but instead a large amount of darkened blood and pus spouted from the wound, cleaning it. So, I doused the two puncture wounds with these secretion and groaned in agony as all manner of fluids escaped the cuts. My vision grew dim and blurry, but I had to keep walking. I abandoned my axe - it was of no use to me - and kept crawling to the best of my abilities.

 

The forest was beautiful, without the webs and the spiders haunting it. Colours I never saw before melted into each other in a kaleidoscope, but something in the back of my head suggested that it may be the secretion from the spider gland I had clenched in my fist. The ground rippled every time I placed a hand or foot on it and giddy laughter escaped from my lips like fluttering birds. I continued crawling as my body became numb, until my palms felt water and I slid through the mud and into the dark, still surface of liquid, abandoning my Journal at the edge, along with the spider gland.

 

The cold was a slap to the face. I glanced down, realising I was hunched, underwater, in a small pond of some sort, and the infection and venom from my leg tainted the entire thing - in my haze of chemically-induced delirium, I had tainted what may be my only water source for a long time.

 

Reluctantly, I pushed myself to the surface and took a well-deserved bath. After all, I was starting to look a bit grimy. The wooden armour was removed, and hung to dry. I could stand in the pond as I didn't need to force weight on my leg, but on land I struggled to stand even for a moment. No food, no water, and only enough wood from my makeshift armour for one night. I knew I had to rest up and get moving, else I would die here. If I die here, I will never see W for myself, and I can't let that happen. I'm a scientist. I focus on what is and what is not, what may or may not be.

 

~~~

 

DIARY SPAM. I wanted to get these bits out of the way, because we're getting closer and closer to another plot post! Who here can spot all of the references?

 

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Warden    125

 

spiderwoods_by_ythania-d7n0eat.png

DAYS OF PROMETHEUS

 

Prometheus gave the gift of knowledge, of fire, to man. His punishment was to be pecked by birds, whilst chained to a rock.

 

I gave the gift of knowledge, of fire, to her. Is this my punishment? Is this land my rock, are these thoughts and trials my birds?

 

Progress has abandoned me. I have been complacent, working in almost a vegetative state, like a mindless being I have confined myself to the coarse grass of what may very well be my new home forever. It has taken me several days to shake myself free of these chains of guilt. I don't even know the time of day anymore, let alone the date, the month; my world is that of light, and darkness. The time of work, and the time of fitful, restless slumber. But slowly I have returned to my senses and, whilst that axe of mine hacked away a part of my soul - my innocence - in that god-forsaken clearing, I must move on.

 

W said I had 28 days. How long ago was that now? In order to try and grasp the sense of time, I flicked back through the pages of my journal. It felt so long ago when I thought that Science was more important than survival, even longer still when I think about that one, fateful day when I woke up and all I did was poke a small berry with my tongue. I was so scared back then and I hid it in disbelief. Shrouded it with scientific logic, and concealed it with common sense.

 

I have less than 28 days. There has to be something I missed, something to pull me out of this repetition, something-...Aha, I have discovered it!

"a dilapidated backdrop of grey-green grass, scattered with the odd flower and coniferous tree. In the distance, a dark forest left a corrupted bulge on the horizon, dragging shadows across the plains ominously."

 

Journal, I have nothing left to lose. There's nothing waiting for me back home except memories in picture frames. It's time I took a deep breath, made some preparations, and entered this foreboding forest with the dignity of a scientist and a man, because I can't return to these days of Prometheus-inspired thoughts. I have to remain vigilant, and focused on the task before me, whatever that may be.

 

~~~

A page appears to be missing here, but from what you can tell, filthy and bloodstained fingers tore it out in frustration. A few words can be visible from the corner, where it was inexpertly torn:

 

besides, I had to focus on th                

armour will be vital to my succe             

I glanced down at my bare chest, frowni

okay though, because scars tend to be som

 

I couldn't wait any longer, so I cautiously headed into

 

~~~

DAY OF THE SPIDERS

 

I didn't think this through, again. But for some reason, I'm not as upset about it - The pain is dulled by a new fire burning in my chest, under the claw marks where that hound got me. All I knew was that I had to think fast, that I have to think fast now. W will not save me this time...

 

Spiders, Journal. Not one, but four of them, around as large as myself and they reached up to my waist, their horrific carapaces clicking in the darkness of these woods, a wet hissing noise accompanying their chase across the pine-needles to find me, web me, and devour me. I ran as fast as I could, covered as much distance as I could. My feet pounded the pine needles, my muscles were alight with exhilaration; it was beautiful. I felt like a hound - I was the hound - as I twisted and waved through trees. The sound of my heartbeat was my wardrum.

 

The hilt of my axe caught on a twisted and gnarled root and I span with the momentum, the shoddily crafted wooden armour I wore scratching against the scraps of cloth that were once a waistcoat. my breath came out on ragged, regular snarls at the hissing insects before me. I rubbed one hand across my nose, feeling the filthy and greasy beard I was sporting, whilst the other clutched the axe loosely. I could see them hesitating. Did I not look scared enough? Were they perplexed on why I wasn't running? Or was it, perhaps...

 

"Cowardice?!" I roared, leaping onto the first spider. I brought the axe-hand high into the air so the flint gleamed in the shafts of sunlight whilst the other snatched on wiry hairs, listening in delight as the spider screeched and then silenced with a sickening splatting sound. Laughing, I twisted my head to glare at the other three. One of them launched its filthy belly towards me, trying to crush me between itself and the corpse of its dead kin. My body worked for me, hugging the flint blade close to my chest as the hilt stuck outwards and into the air like a horn, or a spike...the second spider landed on it, legs twitching madly, all eight eyes rolling around in its skull in sheer terror. The wooden armour stopped my chest from being compressed into nothingness, and I pushed with all my might against the gibbering monster, using my legs to kick it off my precious axe. Dark green fluid lubricated the hilt and made it far too slippery to properly wield.

 

So I threw it at the third spider, the blade twirling in the daylight and embedding itself fully into the spider's skull like some kind of demented butterfly, resting on the head of its killer, its predator. My eyes danced across the landscape, trying to figure out where the last spider had gone. The fine, gossamer threads sparkled with each twist of my neck, as the once-ominous darkness opened up to a beautiful daylight. Colours were sharper, sounds were clearer, and I should've focused on the spider rather than how pretty everything became during a fight to the death.

 

Pain rushed up my leg like wildfire. I screamed, the darkness rushing in and lights popping and twisting behind my eyes as I fell to the floor, kicking wildly at whatever bit me. Eventually, I managed to beat the final spider into submission, but I didn't stop kicking until the jaws loosened and I couldn't kick anymore. Then I lay there, grinning at the sky. Who knew that under a bed of pine needles, and a canopy of pine trees, the shafts of sunlight would make a million different shapes and stars to gaze into? It was deliriously peaceful and breathtakingly beautiful.

 

The moment passed slowly as I realised the situation again. Another wound, this time most likely with some form of venom, I needed to staunch these two bullet-sized wounds on my calf if I had any hope in continuing to move. I needed something absorbent, which would take in some of the poisoned blood, something like, something like...a piece of paper...

 

I took the last page and ripped it in half, placing one half over the bite. That was an entire day, that I will never be able to get back again. My memory may fail in this place, and I'll never remember what I did yesterday - I needed the book merely to figure out what I did no more than a week ago. But I couldn't ponder over this loss - I may have no more time to remember these days by if I didn't act quickly.

 

And now I have brought myself in a full circle; after some experimentation, I managed to find what I had hypothesised to be the poison-secreting gland in the hopes of making an anti venom - if only I had a horse, or something similar - when some of the liquid dripped onto my cut. I expected searing pain, but instead a large amount of darkened blood and pus spouted from the wound, cleaning it. So, I doused the two puncture wounds with these secretion and groaned in agony as all manner of fluids escaped the cuts. My vision grew dim and blurry, but I had to keep walking. I abandoned my axe - it was of no use to me - and kept crawling to the best of my abilities.

 

The forest was beautiful, without the webs and the spiders haunting it. Colours I never saw before melted into each other in a kaleidoscope, but something in the back of my head suggested that it may be the secretion from the spider gland I had clenched in my fist. The ground rippled every time I placed a hand or foot on it and giddy laughter escaped from my lips like fluttering birds. I continued crawling as my body became numb, until my palms felt water and I slid through the mud and into the dark, still surface of liquid, abandoning my Journal at the edge, along with the spider gland.

 

The cold was a slap to the face. I glanced down, realising I was hunched, underwater, in a small pond of some sort, and the infection and venom from my leg tainted the entire thing - in my haze of chemically-induced delirium, I had tainted what may be my only water source for a long time.

 

Reluctantly, I pushed myself to the surface and took a well-deserved bath. After all, I was starting to look a bit grimy. The wooden armour was removed, and hung to dry. I could stand in the pond as I didn't need to force weight on my leg, but on land I struggled to stand even for a moment. No food, no water, and only enough wood from my makeshift armour for one night. I knew I had to rest up and get moving, else I would die here. If I die here, I will never see W for myself, and I can't let that happen. I'm a scientist. I focus on what is and what is not, what may or may not be.

 

~~~

 

DIARY SPAM. I wanted to get these bits out of the way, because we're getting closer and closer to another plot post! Who here can spot all of the references?

 

Good to see your newest additions. Wilson seems to be adjusting to the world of Don't Starve nicely with a new thirst for blood to boot. It seems he was able to easily transition from freaking out that he killed a few hounds because he took their lives to save his own to going berserk on a bunch of spiders for the thrill of it.

 

Anyway, I look forward to the next addition as usual, with "her" in it too hopefully. :)

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FieldNotes    61

Good to see your newest additions. Wilson seems to be adjusting to the world of Don't Starve nicely with a new thirst for blood to boot. It seems he was able to easily transition from freaking out that he killed a few hounds because he took their lives to save his own to going berserk on a bunch of spiders for the thrill of it.

 

Anyway, I look forward to the next addition as usual, with "her" in it too hopefully. :-)

 

Eeeeh, he just stopped giving damns when he realised that there was somebody out there who could've helped him at any point. Clearly, whatever gender it is, they were watching him else they wouldn't have had the honey/parchment ready for him.

 

And "she" is due to enter very, very soon. Real soon. I'm really looking forward to it.

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The Letter W    5,435

In before Wilson develops a substance addiction to spider venom and blue mushrooms. 

Seriously though, I'm still loving every page of this! 

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FieldNotes    61

In before Wilson develops a substance addiction to spider venom and blue mushrooms. 

Seriously though, I'm still loving every page of this! 

 

Irony: The letter W is playing a large role in the story right now. (The actual letter, not the person) And now, The Letter W takes a hearty interest.

 

Also, I'd pay for hopelessly addicted Wilson, I'd pay with all of my money...but the plot has no room for 'shrooms.

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FieldNotes    61

Willow_zps4faca7d0.png

DAY OF AMBUSH

 

He sat in a pond and waited to bleed out.

 

His fingers were numb with cold, and his wounds bled rubies into the water.

 

He reached, in vain, for the tattered journal but could not move enough to get there, to open its pages and read, once more, how his life has been in the New Land once more; but there was to be no comfort for him in his dying moments.

 

His blurry vision rose to the sky and he looked upon me, blocking out the sun. 

 

I pointed my spear, and I thrust.

 

 

DAY OF REALISATION

 

For the second time in a row, W had saved my life. I awoke, dimly, to an oddly comfortable bed created out of a bundle of thick, furry hides. My leg had been properly cleaned out, again plastered with something sticky and pieces of hand-made parchment stuck haphazardly around the wound, using the strange substance on it as the glue to bind it together. My vision was fuzzy, and there was a ringing in my ears, and a dull pain in my temple. Gingerly, I touched the bruise that had formed there; something...no, someone...had struck me with the butt of a spear.

 

Looking back, I kind of wish I stayed asleep. W was not, as I believed, a strong warrior. It wasn't some sort of tribesman, a native, which I had previously believed; after all, anything speaks English these days, right? All of those dark-skinned beasts from the plains trying to read and write the monarch's tongue...it wasn't even a man.

 

Sitting by the campfire (admittedly, more of a bonfire compared to my campfires) was a youth, a girl no more of 20 years. Her skin was slightly tanned and weather-worn, calloused hands and bare feet with grimy, long toenails and fingernails, her features gaunt and sunken, ribs protruding from the scrap of fur she wore around her chest. She wore a black loincloth, made distinctly out of hound hide, the fur of it all singed off. Across her practically naked body were elaborate war-paint styled markings, to which I am certain were made out of blood. Her hair was thick, and filthy, and dark as the night, pulled into two ponytails.

 

Journal, I am a decent man. The thought of seeing a lady who was clearly much younger than me show anything more than her knees was enough to make me blush; I quickly turned away to help keep this girl's pride intact. The blaze on the bonfire had blinded her, and luckily she did not notice my movement. Idly, she tapped out a beat on the dirt with her feet, humming some sort of disgusting, satanic ritual-song, most likely. I think of the Lord more often in this place - as a scientist of my kind, it's difficult to obey Him whilst trying to unlock the puzzles he left for man to unwind.

 

There was no puzzle here. I know a sinful demon when I see one.

 

"Are you going to feign unconsciousness for a little while longer, Wilson?" sighed the sinner. Her voice was so heavy with guilt and burdens. Reluctantly, I rolled onto my side so I could stare, coldly, at her face only - I refuse to be tempted by dark desires. A rush of cold trickled down me as I observed the girl more closely, feeling a sudden wave of familiarity with those features  - younger features, and younger still, from a time long ago...but surely not.

 

Surely not, she's dead, no.

 

She can't be.

 

"GET UP, Wilson. C'mon, you look at me like a monster. I  think you're the monster. Let's find out together, shall we?" snarled the sinner, standing up. She was almost as tall as me, and I screwed my eyes up tight as she leant over me and tugged my hair, so I was forced to sit and stare at those brilliant silver, almost white eyes...surely not, surely not, she's dead.

 

"How...how long have you been here?" I asked, dreading the answer that I hypothesised would be spoken from those scarred lips of hers. My heart was pounding against my rib-cage, affecting my lungs, causing my breaths to be too shallow for my liking. My palms excreted a cold sweat.

 

"Eight years, but you already knew that, didn't you?" came the reply I feared so much. My ears started ringing as my head became heavy with the outburst of thoughts, theories, and above all, the disbelief. It's impossible, she was dead! They both were!

 

But it all made sense..."W", the fact they saved me with the sticky substance - something I think happens to be honey after this sudden realisation - those eyes, those features that I loved so dearly, the disappearance, the fire...I felt like I was going to be sick, but I knew there was nothing in my stomach to expell. Perhaps she saw that I was falling, slipping back into the dark.

 

"But-...Wuh..." I stammered, forcing the name I haven't said for eight long years out of my mouth once more, "But Wendy, I-...I'm your stepfather, why didn't you-"

 

"No!" shrieked Wendy, tossing my head back down violently onto the fur. Whilst it was barely a bump compared to my previous experiences, I felt winded, tears stung my eyes threateningly. "I'm not Wendy, not anymore. Wendy DIED eight years ago! I-...I'm Willow now. There isn't a Wendy. Just Willow." moaned Willow and/or Wendy. Her eyes were opaque with madness, and torment as she dragged her talons down the side of her face, and I felt her angry and guilt and pain pressing on my lungs. If she keeps this up, I thought, I'm going to end up fainting again...

 

"Please, Wendy, let me help you, as a father, I...." I pleaded to my stepdaughter. It was more of a choked gasp. I was fairly certain that my heart was beating so quickly that my ribs were compressing in on it, trying to pin it down.

 

Her gaunt face leaned in so close to mine that I could smell the rotten meat on her breath, I could see every pore and each scar lit up and ruined her features. I could hear her breath snorting out of her nostrils like a horse. "You were Wendy's father. Not mine."

 

"Get some rest, I'm going hunting at dawn...and if you try anything stupid, I'll shove a spear between your eyes."

 

~~~

 

\o/ FINALLY.

 

Disclaimer - Wilson's view is as a British scientist in the early 19th century. Racism was, therefore, still very prominent - as was Christianity. Scientists were shunned for defying God's rules, but that didn't mean they'd put themselves on par with what they thought were "inferior" black people. Under no circumstances are Wilson's words intentionally promoting racism, or Christianity, and they his opinion is NOT my own.

 

ENTER: WILLOW.

 

 

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